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That Time I Played the Long-Shot and Ended Up at the Great Pyramids | Field Notes from Cairo
“When the gigs dried up and the city froze over, I did what any half-broke creative with a passport and a questionable sense of self-preservation would do: I took a job in Cairo. Here’s how that went.”
Part One.
For any up-and-coming creative freelancer in New York, a "brutal winter" isn’t always about subzero temps. It’s a countdown: how many calendar squares you have to X out before shoots resume, the phone rings again, and you remember what it felt like to matter.
The winter of 2013 was particularly cruel. My bike was still in L.A., and I’d been summoned to New York for a run of gigs that—miracle of miracles—actually kept me working through November. Maybe even December. I didn’t mind the cold; I was grateful for the bookings. That is, until it all went sideways, one script and one phone call later.
It was well past midnight. I’d just finished reading the script for some ambitious indie film and was halfway through budgeting when Marcus, my friend and director, called. He sounded like someone had just told him Santa isn’t real. He apologized—soft, hesitant, mid-sentence—as if his voice might shatter if he said the words too clearly. He was suddenly off the project. I knew exactly what that meant.
When a director gets the axe mid-production, the new blood tends to bring their own tribe. The crew gets reshuffled like a bad poker hand. My heart dropped. I could hear Marcus’s disappointment, but my brain had already shifted into crisis calculus—recoup, regroup, reroute to California, lick wounds.
I asked him what happened. He hesitated. Then said something about picking up [REDACTED] from the airport, a bar detour, a strip club, and the word "cocaine." That’s when I mentally ejected. I stopped listening. Not out of judgment—just sheer bandwidth depletion. My focus had snapped to how long it would take to get back to L.A. and how many zeros were being surgically removed from my winter survival fund.
Goddamned Hollywood.
The Great Sphinx and the Pyramid of Khafre
By mid-January, the cold, gray days began gnawing away at whatever conviction I had left. The liquid courage stopped working. I’d wake up some mornings and find my resolve had gone AWOL, replaced by a quivering mass of nerves and self-loathing. My shoulders, once proud wings of fire, now felt like cracked porcelain.
I began cursing every decision that led me here. If only I’d had a head for spreadsheets, a tolerance for business-casual, a passion for cubicle décor—hell, I could’ve been just another happy drone collecting paychecks at the U.N.
Wait... the U.N.?
I was in a cab one day, staring listlessly out the window as we rattled down 1st Avenue. My cabbie, chatty and convinced of Manhattan’s winter desolation, pointed out the one place still buzzing: the United Nations. Lines of people. Badges flashing. Security checks. Business as usual in the realm of world affairs.
If the bureaucratic behemoth still churned through January, maybe—just maybe—so did the nonprofits under its banner. Organizations with media needs. Propaganda budgets. Internal video briefings, donor campaigns... the kind of scrappy little productions that someone like me could do in his sleep—hungover.
Arned guard on a camel at the Great Pyramid of Giza
The best Cairo fixer ever
THE LONG SHOT
It took an entire afternoon, but by nightfall I’d curated a hit list. One hundred and twenty-three nonprofits operating under the U.N. umbrella. Fifty-three with a physical address in NYC. Thirty-seven had updated websites. Twenty-one answered their phone at 9 a.m. the next day.
A little tequila and a well-rehearsed pitch later, I transformed into the character: an in-demand, salt-of-the-earth Director/DP who just *happened* to be in town between projects and, out of a selfless desire to give back, was offering to donate my world-class services to the right cause.
Your __________ project just spoke to me. Yes, of course you can have my email.
By 11 a.m., I’d landed 21 interested parties. Two needed real security clearance. Eleven weren’t ready to roll until next month. Of the remaining eight, three offered to cover travel and a modest kit fee. Of those three, one was sending a crew...
...to Cairo.
Within 72 hours, I was updating my passport, getting jabbed with needles to prevent exotic biological meltdowns, and being fingerprinted at the Egyptian consulate. The adrenaline alone made me feel invincible. That, and the thick envelope of per diem cash in my jacket. (And yes, I *was* still happy to see you.)
I was back. Back in the game. For about 36 hours.
Then came the letter.
---
U.S. DEPARTMENT OF STATE
18 JAN 2014
RE: Egypt Travel Alert
[INSERT: TRAVEL WARNING TEXT, CONDENSED]
Protests. Violence. Possible death. Don’t take pictures. Don’t breathe too loud. Don’t look American.
---
The reality of it all sank in fast. I’d be flying into political unrest with a crew I barely knew, wondering if anyone would have my back—or even know I *had* one.
I kept replaying that story about Lara Logan. She survived, but barely. I poured myself a drink. Didn’t share the bottle.
The next morning, I woke to soft light and a single, steady thought:
*The people of Egypt live with this reality every day. They don’t get to opt out. But I do—and I won’t. Not this time.*
If I say no today because it’s dangerous, I’ll say no tomorrow for the same reason. And then I’ll never go.
So I packed.
Fear be damned.
TO BE CONTINUED.
Sun-Kissed Pyramid and Camel Guide
That Time I Played the Numbers and Ended Up in Casablanca
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