Seeing Dessicated Withered Corpses At The British Museum (And Also Some Mummies).

As I walked towards the British Museum, I saw a huge teddy bear. It was wearing a Beefeaters’ uniform and was stationed outside one of the many naff souvenir shops that ply their trade in central London. No doubt you could buy one inside, but how do you get a giant cuddly toy through customs? The bear looked depressed. It was sagging and leaning against the shop’s windowsill. The stitching in its groin had come apart and the stuffing was poking through. It seemed to say something, but I chose not to ponder it too deeply.

The British Museum is a sight to behold. It’s a huge building that pulls in huge crowds and one day is just not enough to see everything. I started with a look at the Gamelan. This is a Javanese assembly of musical instruments, which produces those ethereal chimes that most of us associate with Indonesia. They piped in sampled music that was clear and soothing. There were few visitors there though. They all seemed to be in the main atrium outside, talking loudly and photographing themselves.

This was in fact a major annoyance. It wasn’t that they took a single photo. No, they kept taking pictures of themselves and each other, non-stop, with camera phones, digital cameras, video cameras… It wasn’t so much a trip to the museum as an exercise in vanity. ‘LOOK AT ME! I’M STANDING IN THE WAY OF THE ASSYRIAN WALL CARVINGS!!!’, they all seemed to be saying. They kept doing this, the museum just a setting for the ongoing adventures of people who needed to be photographed to prove they still exist.

A hawk-headed, four-winged door guardian grinned down from the walls, like it was in on the joke.

I mainly focussed on Egyptian artefacts. I just didn't feel like looking at the Greek gallery for some reason, and I had barely enough time for the Indian collection either. I soaked up Egyptian knowledge like a sponge, troubled by the nagging thought that I was still only having a second hand experience. The real thing had passed a long time ago. I also had to stop myself humming Nile's back catalogue. That would have been embarrassing.

Suddenly, I felt a strange urge to smack a young American tourist. ‘MMMMM-OOOOOOOHHHH-M!!!’ he droned, with ugly broad vowels. ‘There were ROMAN mummies too!’ In fact, they were still Egyptian mummies. It was just that the Romans who lived there styled theirs in a Latin fashion, much like the Greek Diaspora had Hellenic stylings on their own mummies. They’d gone native, integrated if not assimilated. There were no Roman mummies, just Egyptian mummies with a Roman theme.

Then again, maybe it wasn’t the kid’s fault. No one had bothered to explain the truth to him, and tourism is hardly a good way to find out anything. And besides, American children aren’t half as slappable as their Italian or British counterparts as I was only too painfully aware of.

I wandered into the Chinese ceramics gallery. The only pictures being taken were of the ceramics themselves. It wasn’t the place for screaming tourists to regard themselves via a camera lense. It was serene and beautiful, the visitors moving through it with grace and quiet admiration. I had one last look at the Gamelan on my way out. It was still a wonderful sight but also still curiously ignored. Then I turned back and headed into the loud, swelling, sweating crowd outside.