My 5-year-old son spent the entire hot-air balloon ride over Luxor crouched in the bottom of the basket, terrified of the flames that kept shooting into the balloon—the flames that produced the hot air that kept us afloat. He missed the glorious views: of the ancient ruins and the quilts of green grass, of the magnificent sunrise and the dancing shadows it created out of the dozens of other hot-air balloons with which we shared the early-morning sky.
We had hardly thought about danger when we booked the ride, a staple of Luxor vacations, worrying only about whether it would be worth the $240 pricetag for our family of four—and the 4:40 a.m. wake-up call. Less than two months later, with Tuesday’s horrific headlines about a crash on one of those very balloons that killed at least 18, it seems my son may have been on to something.
This is not my first there-but-for-the-grace experience. Days after I went skydiving in the Chicago suburbs to celebrate a friend’s 40th birthday, I read that a skydiver who crash-landed into a lake we had flown over had drowned. While covering the small-plane crash that killed Senator Paul Wellstone of Minnesota in 2002, I discovered that the day I had spent with him three weeks earlier was on the very same King Air A-100.
Skydiving and small-plane rides in rural areas are known risks. But a fatal hot-air balloon ride? Did not occur to me. (Maybe it’s that tourist mentality: I never inquired about whether the camels we rode through back roads and villages were insured, either.)
Before this morning, the balloon ride was easily one of the best memories of our weeklong adventure in Luxor and Cairo over New Year’s.
It did not begin well: The hotel failed to make that 4:40 a.m. wake-up call, and we were hopelessly late. That meant we kept a literal boatload of Chinese tourists waiting to cross the Nile. Aboard the rickety wooden boat there was instant coffee, tea, and, oddly, Twinkies. On the other side, we were shuttled in vans to the open field where these huge, colorful balloons were in various stages of life—some lying limp on the ground, others half-filled, some taking flight.
My twins hoped for one of the multicolored balloons, but we ended up in red. Some 20 strangers joined us in the basket, where the kids were just the right height to peer out of the footholds we had used to climb in. My daughter peeked; my son cowered. The blue flames roared, and we were
airborne.
The ride lasted perhaps a half-hour, each minute offering a landscape transformed by the relative height of our balloon, the others, and the emerging sun. It was remarkable, if was not quite peaceful — there were those loud, hot flames shooting up a few feet away every few seconds. It was flames like those that, for the doomed balloon, ignited the stream from a ripped gas hose at landing, sending it bouncing back into the air to explode.
For us, on Dec. 31, the landing was smooth. Once on the ground, each rider was given a signed certificate commemorating the flight. (We passed on the offers to purchase
photographs or video.)
My daughter excitedly pasted her certificate into the vacation journal she was keeping for kindergarten. Now that seems like a macabre piece of memorabilia. We will be waiting a long time to tell our children the postscript to our adventure.
