Okay, let's briefly review what the month of April is going to look like for me.
29 March: fly to Barcelona
02 April: fly to Rome
04 April: fly to Marseilles
07 April: fly back to Rome
08 April: fly back to Barcelona
09 April: return to Cairo; parents arrive in Cairo
12 April: Depart Cairo for Sharm el Sheik
15 April: return to Cairo
24 April: Depart Cairo for Nuweiba by bus (near Dahab)
25 April: ferry to Aqaba, Jordan; bus to Amman, Jordan
26 April: taxi to Deir Debawan, Palestine; Ramallah, Palestine
27 April: cross the checkpoints into Jerusalem
28 April: back to Amman, Jordan; bus to Aqaba, Jordan
29 April: ferry to Nuweiba, Egypt; return to Cairo by bus.
So um...I'm here for school, right?
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Tonight I went to my first open water certification course.Yeah, that means I'm learning to scuba dive.
Two days in the classroom, some time in a pool, and then we're off to dive the Red Sea this weekend.
We're renting a private 4-level safari boat for as much as a cheap hotel would cost, and spending the night on the sea, diving for two days straight.
We're hitting Hurghada, Sharm (pictured below), and anywhere in between.
I'm getting certified for life.
And the entire thing is going to be about US$300.
Contain yourself.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Khan el-Khalili Revisited
An (almost) all-picture post in honor of Chris & Kim Obranovich. Hi guys. Miss you.
I went back to Khan el-Khalili for a second try, and a better attempt at photography.
Went back to the al-Azhar Mosque (didn't get ripped off this time).
This time they were cleaning.
Still pretty, but kind of overcast. The light could have been better.
The streets around the mosque are pretty quiet.
This man had the attention of every neighborhood cat. All 13,000 of them.
Tourism and Antiquities Police. Protecting the world from fake magic lamps.
No buy just look.
This is a happy cat.
This is not a happy cat. It couldn't move. I diagnose distemper.
Ben found this. Eskimo blanket? It's a little far from home.
Mad skill.
Scandal.
Please read the Engrish. Also, it came with a badass scimitar.
Hijabi Barbie. Not kidding.
Probably a good place/time to excavate the sewer.
FIN.
I went back to Khan el-Khalili for a second try, and a better attempt at photography.
Went back to the al-Azhar Mosque (didn't get ripped off this time).
This time they were cleaning.
Still pretty, but kind of overcast. The light could have been better.
The streets around the mosque are pretty quiet.
This man had the attention of every neighborhood cat. All 13,000 of them.
Tourism and Antiquities Police. Protecting the world from fake magic lamps.
No buy just look.
This is a happy cat.
This is not a happy cat. It couldn't move. I diagnose distemper.
Ben found this. Eskimo blanket? It's a little far from home.
Spices I get. Dried sea stars? Huh.
Indigo.
Blowfish.
Hussein mosque.
Indigo.
Blowfish.
Hussein mosque.
Mad skill.
Scandal.
Please read the Engrish. Also, it came with a badass scimitar.
Hijabi Barbie. Not kidding.
Probably a good place/time to excavate the sewer.
FIN.Friday, February 23, 2007
Insult to Injury
To whoever stole my purse last night at Club Malibu,
I can understand you taking the freshly-withdrawn 300LE from my ID holder. That's about $50, but it can go a long way in Egypt.
300LE is coincidentally the value of the phone you also stole. And I can understand that, too. You could switch out the sim card and sell it. That makes sense.
But did you really have to put it in the trashcan in the bathroom when you were done? They don't sell Lysol wipes here.
Love,
Kari
I can understand you taking the freshly-withdrawn 300LE from my ID holder. That's about $50, but it can go a long way in Egypt.
300LE is coincidentally the value of the phone you also stole. And I can understand that, too. You could switch out the sim card and sell it. That makes sense.
But did you really have to put it in the trashcan in the bathroom when you were done? They don't sell Lysol wipes here.
Love,
Kari
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Dis-chord
A few days before my iPod broke, I was wandering back to the dorms from the local market, listening to my 4,098 songs on shuffle. On came a song I hadn't heard in a long, long time: 'Tis of Thee, by Ani Difranco. For those of you who don't know her, she's an indie songstress with a haunting voice that calls for social change.
I don't know how I quite ended up with it in my library, as the last time I remember hearing it was the also the first. Listening to 'Tis of Thee was an assignment, actually; it was part of a unit in my English class that focused on music and "lyrics as literature." I was part of a 5-person group given Difranco's song for an impromptu analysis, and after ten minutes in the hall, we had our very by-the-book explanation of what the song meant. But while the song appealed to me musically, something about it felt wrong.
In it she sings:
My country 'tis of thee
To take swings at each other on the talkshow tv
Why don't you just go ahead and turn off the sun
'Cause we'll never live long enough
To undo everything they've done to you
It's a song about American society, poverty, and race relations. During our presentation, I reached for what I thought was wrong. I remember saying that she was couching her plea for unity in terms of 'they' and 'you,' thereby perpetuating the problem and widening the divide.
It was a rushed and hurried assessment, and I wouldn't even remember it today if it weren't for the fact that I carry every day of that class with me. It was a remarkable time in my life: I thought hard, I loved deep, I was filled with excitement and passion for things as simple as the sun, and I wrote creatively for the last time in my life. I was 15. I don't know if that teacher reads this. I hope he does. I made him a promise, once--nulla dies sine linea--and it's damn past time I started keeping it.
I think of Ani Difranco sometimes when I think about that class. Sometimes I even sing her songs idly in the shower. But I hadn't listened to it since past remembrance until last week walking home from the market. I tried to think, what was it that I exactly didn't like about this song? It wasn't the pronoun usage that bothered me anymore. And then I got it:
Fatalism.
She sings about the ills of the inequalities of American society ("they put everyone in jail / except the Cleavers and the Bradys"), racism, smallpox blankets and poverty, and her grand lyrical suggestion is to "turn off the sun" because the situation is past hope.
And that's what really gets me. Nothing grand was ever accomplished through fatalism. No struggle was ever won under white flags. She's given up on not just the manifestation but the idea of
Tonight a group of us went to a panel lecture discussing the recently proposed constitutional amendments here in
It's difficult to really ascertain what all is included in the amendment package pushed by the government. The local media is unreliable, often censored or just plain wrong, and the Internet is almost just as bad. Online, the discussion of the amendments focuses on removing socialist elements of the constitution, and expanding some fiscal powers of the assembly. At the panel tonight, the amendments were described in very different terms: the elimination of political parties with religious affiliation; a statute on who can run for office, limiting it to party leaders, in effect prohibiting independent candidates (the Muslim Brotherhood, banned from participating in Egyptian politics, routinely runs their candidates as independents), and an abolition of presidential term limits.
Unfortunately, the discussion was in Arabic and way over my level of comprehension. I stuck around long enough to listen to a long speech by the representative from the Brotherhood, and the English summary. In between jokes that I didn't understand but left the crowd laughing (I did understand, however: "The world is dominated by two men who think God speaks to them: Bush and Bin Laden."), he argued that banning religion from politics is impossible in Egypt, and pointed to Article 2 of the Egyptian constitution:
"Islam is the Religion of the State. Arabic is its official language, and the principal source of legislation is Islamic Jurisprudence (Sharia)."
He went on to say that the Brotherhood did not advocate a religious state, but a civil state with a religion. There are only two theocracies left in the world, he said:
It was good to hear his opinion, and it is going to be very interesting to be living in
Within the last few days, the Egyptian government has done a wide sweep of arrests focused on Brotherhood members; in total they have detained over 300:
"...the Brotherhood charges that Mubarak — who has held autocratic power for a quarter century — wants to eliminate the sole opposition movement that could challenge his regime if a fair vote were held. The Brotherhood and secular opposition groups accuse the 78-year-old president of trying to ensure his son, Gamal, succeeds him.
The Brotherhood, which has been banned since 1954 banned but runs candidates as independents, made dramatic gains in parliament elections in late 2005, winning a fifth of the legislature's seats."
Read more about it here.
I have a lot to say about these recent developments in
From The Washington Post, The 'Crime' of Blogging in Egypt.
I'll leave it at that. One of my friends here is in a class taught by a professor who enjoyed a similar experience due to his or her published opinion of Egyptian governance. It's not frequent, but it does happen.
Which brings me back to Ani Difranco. The opinions voiced in the song that I found so abhorrent in the United States seem sweet to me here, simply because I know that she, unlike the characters of her music, will never see the inside of a jail for simply adding her voice to the fray. It's what makes baroque music so beautiful: the addition of the atonal makes whole the melody.
We all know this famous phrase, which is often attributed to Voltaire but was actually coined by Beatrice Hall in an attempt to capture Voltaire's spirit, but I'll repeat it anyway:
Je désapprouve ce que vous dites, mais je défendrai à la mort votre droit à le dire.
And never would it mean so much, a French phrase to an American girl in the streets of
'Tis of thee, indeed.
UPDATE: Abdel Kareem Nabil sentenced to four years in prison for his blog.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
How to Spend your Down Time
If there's one thing I think I'm going to get out of my five months in Egypt, it's how to take it slow.
Egyptians have mastered the art of hanging out: meandering on the sidewalks, lazily engaged in conversation, or slumped in a chair in the sun surrounded by friends between classes. While the traffic is horrendous, no one seems to be in much of a rush; you get there when you get there. Class begins more or less around the same time, after you run into your professor in line for coffee and wander back together.
But given the pace of American life, and my typical schedule at Georgetown, it's weird not to be busy all the time. I don't have a meeting to go to, and there's no GERMS practical on Saturday morning. Just a lot of hanging out.
AUC is a huge high school flashback for me: not only are the courses reminiscent of my adolescence (think reading out of the newspaper, creative writing prompts in class, using course readers with the "difficult words" defined), but the culture of the school is vaguely high school-ish. There are cool kids who gather in cliques based around what label they wear (Prada, Gucci, Fendi, etc.), with specific locations where they sit in between classes. People arrive in the morning and don't go home until late at night. The halls and stairwells are glorified benches. And I really should have a locker for all my books.
And since high school itself wasn't too challenging for me, I filled my time elsewhere. Mostly with Search and Rescue, but I did some other school clubs and volunteer work. So here in Cairo, I knew that if I didn't sign up for something, I'd spend all my time on Facebook and What Would Tyler Durden Do?, and while chronicling Britney Spears' cyclonic descent into madness is all well and good (what's next, Scientology?), I needed to do something worthwhile. Idle hands and whatnot.
So, for the past two weeks I've been tutoring Sudanese refugees at St. Andrew's Church and refugee ministry in Cairo. It serves as a primary school for refugee children during the day, and a learning center for adults in the evenings. I spend Monday nights chatting with adults in English or helping them correct their homework, and Tuesday mornings in a classroom of 8-12 year olds.
So far it's been a lot of fun, and pretty educational for me. The adults all seem to have left Sudan around 2004, and by the grace of the UN, were relocated in Egypt. They are refugees from either southern Sudan (where the Second Sudanese Civil War between the southern Christian/Animists and the northern Muslims killed 1.9 million civilians, the most since World War II) or the Darfur region of western Sudan (where a regional conflict has degenerated into tacitly-sanctioned genocide).
Their English skills vary. Last night, I worked with two young men: one, a 27 year old from Darfur who asked me to speak to him in French, but didn't know French, nor English, so after I tried both we resorted to Arabic; and the other, a very young looking 23 year old from southern Sudan to whom I taught the words "dude" and "bro," as he was well on his way to mastering conversational English. I've tried to talk to them about Sudan, but in all cases their vocabulary is pretty limited. Words like genocide, refugee status, and ethnic cleansing are all pretty foreign, even though they witnessed it first hand. When I ask them why they want to learn English, their answers vary: To get a job, to tell people about my country, to make money, to be educated.
Mussa, a thirtysomething sliver of a man from Darfur, wanted to learn English so that he can go back to his village and make things better for his family and the town. He tried to explain to me what he had seen there, but his accent was so thick and he spoke so quickly in Arabish (that's Arabic + English) that I had a hard time making out what he was saying. I asked him if anyone in his family had been killed. He shrugged and said, "Of course." Had he seen anyone killed? "What do you think? Of course. In the streets." They all have a pretty cavillier attitude towards it, but I think that's the attitude you have to adopt if you're faced head on with the evils of humanity on a daily basis. Suffice to say it breaks my heart, though, to see people--kids, really--my age discuss genocide with a wave of their hand, as if they were talking about the lunch they ate yesterday.
I usually try to stay away from unhappy topics like that. They want to hear all about the US: where I live, what my hobbies are, what music I like, what it's like to live in the United States. I tell them about my weekend, and ask them if they like living in Cairo. The answer is unequivocally no. It's dirty, it's too small, they don't like the food or the people, and when I ask them where they want to go next, the answer is always the same: America.
The children are fun, and they're teaching me more Arabic than I think I'm teaching them English. My friend Jordan and I help out in a classroom taught by a take-no-prisoners woman named Fatima, whose English is really very good. While English is supposed to be the only language spoken in the classroom (which is really just part of a gymnasium divided into sections by screens), most things are clarified by Fatima in Arabic. Amongst themselves, the children speak Arabic without fail. While they dutifully write down everything on the board in English (e.g. "Birds eat nuts and seeds."), their mastery of it is limited to "okay," "teacher!!!," and "excellent," the latter of which when written on a page of homework sends them into convulsions of glee.
I bring a highlighter with me, and draw big colorful stars on their papers. Today they were learning multiplication. I remember back in third grade learning times tables, and I can't imagine doing it in a language not my own. Two times eight can be tricky, but thamania wa thamania usually elicits the correct answer in Arabic: sitta-ashar. Arabic numbers were something I always had trouble with for some reason, and I think today marked the first time that I used them without having to think in English first.
After about an hour of school, it's time for "sport," oft-lamented by Fatima as the only thing they care about. The class gets rowdy around 11:30, with only 1/3 of the students in their seats. The rest are running around begging for recess. Jordan and I like it too, because we get to play soccer with the kids for an hour. Some of them are really quite good, but it reminds me of refereeing 3rd grade soccer where bunch ball was still the name of the game. We definitely have fun running around with the kids, and do our best not to kill any of them with a shot to the head.
I don't know much about the children...where they come from, where they live, what they've seen. They're all amazingly friendly, though, and very polite, and most of them seem to actually enjoy school. I hope they enjoy hanging out and playing with us awkward, big American kids. It sure seems like they do.
In any case, I'm loving my time at St. Andrew's so far. It's rewarding for me, as I've never done any real volunteer work with things that talk back (previously limited to cats, sea life and dead people), and even though we're all limited in what we can say, a round of high fives after I scored my first goal (!) really does go a long way.
And at least it keeps me out of trouble. :)
See the wikipedia entry about St. Andrew's United Church here.
Egyptians have mastered the art of hanging out: meandering on the sidewalks, lazily engaged in conversation, or slumped in a chair in the sun surrounded by friends between classes. While the traffic is horrendous, no one seems to be in much of a rush; you get there when you get there. Class begins more or less around the same time, after you run into your professor in line for coffee and wander back together.
But given the pace of American life, and my typical schedule at Georgetown, it's weird not to be busy all the time. I don't have a meeting to go to, and there's no GERMS practical on Saturday morning. Just a lot of hanging out.
AUC is a huge high school flashback for me: not only are the courses reminiscent of my adolescence (think reading out of the newspaper, creative writing prompts in class, using course readers with the "difficult words" defined), but the culture of the school is vaguely high school-ish. There are cool kids who gather in cliques based around what label they wear (Prada, Gucci, Fendi, etc.), with specific locations where they sit in between classes. People arrive in the morning and don't go home until late at night. The halls and stairwells are glorified benches. And I really should have a locker for all my books.
And since high school itself wasn't too challenging for me, I filled my time elsewhere. Mostly with Search and Rescue, but I did some other school clubs and volunteer work. So here in Cairo, I knew that if I didn't sign up for something, I'd spend all my time on Facebook and What Would Tyler Durden Do?, and while chronicling Britney Spears' cyclonic descent into madness is all well and good (what's next, Scientology?), I needed to do something worthwhile. Idle hands and whatnot.
So, for the past two weeks I've been tutoring Sudanese refugees at St. Andrew's Church and refugee ministry in Cairo. It serves as a primary school for refugee children during the day, and a learning center for adults in the evenings. I spend Monday nights chatting with adults in English or helping them correct their homework, and Tuesday mornings in a classroom of 8-12 year olds.
So far it's been a lot of fun, and pretty educational for me. The adults all seem to have left Sudan around 2004, and by the grace of the UN, were relocated in Egypt. They are refugees from either southern Sudan (where the Second Sudanese Civil War between the southern Christian/Animists and the northern Muslims killed 1.9 million civilians, the most since World War II) or the Darfur region of western Sudan (where a regional conflict has degenerated into tacitly-sanctioned genocide).
Their English skills vary. Last night, I worked with two young men: one, a 27 year old from Darfur who asked me to speak to him in French, but didn't know French, nor English, so after I tried both we resorted to Arabic; and the other, a very young looking 23 year old from southern Sudan to whom I taught the words "dude" and "bro," as he was well on his way to mastering conversational English. I've tried to talk to them about Sudan, but in all cases their vocabulary is pretty limited. Words like genocide, refugee status, and ethnic cleansing are all pretty foreign, even though they witnessed it first hand. When I ask them why they want to learn English, their answers vary: To get a job, to tell people about my country, to make money, to be educated.
Mussa, a thirtysomething sliver of a man from Darfur, wanted to learn English so that he can go back to his village and make things better for his family and the town. He tried to explain to me what he had seen there, but his accent was so thick and he spoke so quickly in Arabish (that's Arabic + English) that I had a hard time making out what he was saying. I asked him if anyone in his family had been killed. He shrugged and said, "Of course." Had he seen anyone killed? "What do you think? Of course. In the streets." They all have a pretty cavillier attitude towards it, but I think that's the attitude you have to adopt if you're faced head on with the evils of humanity on a daily basis. Suffice to say it breaks my heart, though, to see people--kids, really--my age discuss genocide with a wave of their hand, as if they were talking about the lunch they ate yesterday.
I usually try to stay away from unhappy topics like that. They want to hear all about the US: where I live, what my hobbies are, what music I like, what it's like to live in the United States. I tell them about my weekend, and ask them if they like living in Cairo. The answer is unequivocally no. It's dirty, it's too small, they don't like the food or the people, and when I ask them where they want to go next, the answer is always the same: America.
The children are fun, and they're teaching me more Arabic than I think I'm teaching them English. My friend Jordan and I help out in a classroom taught by a take-no-prisoners woman named Fatima, whose English is really very good. While English is supposed to be the only language spoken in the classroom (which is really just part of a gymnasium divided into sections by screens), most things are clarified by Fatima in Arabic. Amongst themselves, the children speak Arabic without fail. While they dutifully write down everything on the board in English (e.g. "Birds eat nuts and seeds."), their mastery of it is limited to "okay," "teacher!!!," and "excellent," the latter of which when written on a page of homework sends them into convulsions of glee.
I bring a highlighter with me, and draw big colorful stars on their papers. Today they were learning multiplication. I remember back in third grade learning times tables, and I can't imagine doing it in a language not my own. Two times eight can be tricky, but thamania wa thamania usually elicits the correct answer in Arabic: sitta-ashar. Arabic numbers were something I always had trouble with for some reason, and I think today marked the first time that I used them without having to think in English first.
After about an hour of school, it's time for "sport," oft-lamented by Fatima as the only thing they care about. The class gets rowdy around 11:30, with only 1/3 of the students in their seats. The rest are running around begging for recess. Jordan and I like it too, because we get to play soccer with the kids for an hour. Some of them are really quite good, but it reminds me of refereeing 3rd grade soccer where bunch ball was still the name of the game. We definitely have fun running around with the kids, and do our best not to kill any of them with a shot to the head.
I don't know much about the children...where they come from, where they live, what they've seen. They're all amazingly friendly, though, and very polite, and most of them seem to actually enjoy school. I hope they enjoy hanging out and playing with us awkward, big American kids. It sure seems like they do.
In any case, I'm loving my time at St. Andrew's so far. It's rewarding for me, as I've never done any real volunteer work with things that talk back (previously limited to cats, sea life and dead people), and even though we're all limited in what we can say, a round of high fives after I scored my first goal (!) really does go a long way.
And at least it keeps me out of trouble. :)
See the wikipedia entry about St. Andrew's United Church here.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Sunday, February 18, 2007
The 10 Commandments of Sinai Travel
Another weekend, another adventure.
This time, we would travel across one of the most hotly contested waterways in the world, through territory that has been occupied in war after war, only to end up at a wisp of a town known most recently for its triple suicide bombings. We were headed to the Sinai peninsula.
Our group made eight: Me, Sarah, Jacob, Hafsa, Hafsa's two roommates Alyiah and Laura, and two new additions, Kiana and Daniel. Hammad was playing translator to Georgetown's president at our Qatar campus, so he was AWOL for this one.
Dusk on Thursday found us piling into our bus outside the AUC gates. We had made reservations online at a hotel/hostel called the Penguin Palace (the name alone was enough to convince us), which had offered to charter a minibus and avoid the hassle of the East Delta Bus Company. The prices were relatively comparable, but the route went straight to Dahab instead of through Sharm el Sheik, shaving at least 3 hours off our journey. Like everything we've done so far, it was a little sketchy--we'd all seen the "minibuses" that flit around Cairo, with men standing where doors should be and blue LEDs instead of headlights--but the owner of the hotel sounded reliable, and...it was Egypt. Just go.
We met our driver, Waghdi, and surveyed the bus. It was pretty roomy, with enough space for our gear and leg room, and looked very new and clean. Remembering our 10 hour plus trip to Siwa, we were immediately glad that we had gone with the private bus. We piled in, and then Waghdi took off. He then pretty much guaranteed himself a tip when he asked in half Arabic, half English if we had some music to play.
Commandment 1: Always know where thy iPod is, and bring it with thee. Every single one of us busted out our respective iPods, and started discussing whose playlist to use. For some reason, mine decided it was a great day to delete all my playlists...and then freeze. Over. And. Over. Which is too bad, because I had some great stuff to play. (e.g. Jesus Walks by Kanye West...appropriate, no?) We ended up using Sarah's for the bulk of our bus-time around the Sinai. There's something pretty baller about bumpin to "Stuntin Like My Daddy" while rolling through downtown Cairo. My iPod would continue to be fussy throughout the trip, a harbinger of technological woes to come.
We had planned on playing some suras off Hafsa's iPod, and a track with the 10 Commandments on it from Laura's, but somehow that never happened. About two hours into the journey and one rest stop later, we reached the Suez Canal and our first checkpoint.
Quasi-brief historical note: The Suez Canal is a 100 mile long waterway that connects the Mediterranean Sea and the Red Sea, and has been officially open since 1869. While evidence suggests that there was some kind of maritime pathway at its location as early as the 12th Dynasty (approximately 1850 BCE), the canal as we know it was created and repaired in 1858. The British-owned Suez Canal Company received one of those infamous "concessions" from an Egyptian Pasha, and employed native slave labor to do the brunt of the work.
The canal was opened to traffic in 1869 and became an essential trade route for the British Empire. Due to incredible fiscal largess, the viceroy of Egypt was forced to sell all national shares of the canal to the British, leaving France and England in control of the valuable waterway. The canal went through several periods of being "protected" or occupied by British forces until their withdrawal in 1954.
The Suez Crisis of 1956 erupted when Egyptian president Gamal Abdel Nasser nationalized the Aswan Dam. As a result, Israel, France and the UK invaded the Sinai, and the resulting week long war left victor Israel in possession of the canal zone. While Israel withdrew by 1957 (a major political victory for Egypt) UN forces continued to occupy the area. Egypt began to remilitarize, and under pressure the UNEF forces evacuated. Soon after, Egypt blocked the Straits of Tiran to all Israeli ships. Throw in some Syrian-backed border skirmishes with Israel and you have yourselves the Six Day War of 1967.
Isreal destroyed almost all of the Egyptian Air Force while it was still on the ground, and managed to occupy the Sinai Peninsula in a few short days. Israel took control of the Suez Canal, and it was closed until 1975. The canal was the major crossing point of Egyptian troops during the 1973 Yom Kippur war into Israel-controlled Sinai. After an Egyptian-Israeli peace treaty and an expired UN mandate, the Suez Canal came under the control of a multinational force in 1981. In 2006, we drove under it in a minibus. But not after being stopped at our first checkpoint.
Commandment 2: Thou shalt be Canadian. After a pleasant cruising speed of 145 kph, Waghdi slowed to a crawl and turned down our music. As we approached the barricades, he craned his neck back: "Where are you from?" Jacob, sitting closest to him, answered that we were all min Amreeka, from America. "You are from Canada," Waghdi replied, and suddenly we became 8 expats from the great land of hockey and maple leaves. As our driver began an exchange with the armed guard, we all looked at each other. We had heard that there were some issues with Americans traveling through the Sinai (e.g. large groups required a police escort), but we didn't know if we were forbidden or not.
We all listened to the conversation passionately, but could only make out a few words. One of them was Kanada. We had just officially lied to the police. What did we do if they asked us for our passports? The guard and our driver went back and forth for awhile in breakneck Arabic, and then slowly the bus rolled forward. We went under the Suez Canal and continued our journey across the peninsula with little regard to speed limits, lane divisions, or headlights.
In Egypt, drivers use their headlights primarily to communicate at night and leave navigation to the equivalent of daytime running lamps. If you see an oncoming car, you flash your lights at them a few times, and they respond in turn. Kind of an, "I see you, do you see me?" type of thing, the daytime equivalent of the ubiquitous horn. While it scared us Americans to see our driver using his lights so cavalierly, it was an absolute must on a road where cars routinely drive on the wrong side of the road to pass or, apparently, just for the view.
Fatigue took us all, some now, some then. But sleep wasn't easy on the bumpy road at such a pace, and the frequency of the checkpoints made sure we didn't get too comfortable. At each checkpoint, our nationality and number changed. First we were 8 from Canada, then 9 from Canada and England, then 8 from England, and then 8 from Canada again. Each time was a bit nerve racking, and each time we made it through.
We rolled into Dahab a little after midnight.
Some of us decided to explore the town, while Laura and Alyiah went straight to sleep. We walked through downtown Dahab, finding most of the stores closed, but the discotheque in the shape of a pirate ship still quite open. DJ "Kentucy" [sic] was spinning some 50 Cent as we
passed by. The ubiquitous use of English in Egypt results in some interesting titles and slogans here. Some of the store names were interesting, like "Why Not? Hair Salon" (maybe Britney Spears should have come here) and the pictured "Mosquito Coast" (I took this picture for you and your office, Dad). There were also some poor choices, like Shark Dive Shop, Camel Restaurant and Squid Tours.
I remember noticing Al Capone restaurant on the boardwalk and thinking that it was a pretty funny name for an eatery in Egypt. Only later when I got home and Wikipedia'd the 2006 Dahab attacks did I find out that this was one of the restaurants that was bombed in April of last year. I expected the restaurants to be gone, if not from structural damange then out of superstition, but both remained. The third suicide bomber detonated in the market square outside a store we frequented quite a bit in Dahab, the Ghazala Market. You can read more about that here if you'd like.
Commandment 3: Thou shalt haggle. After some quick food, we all collapsed in our respective hotel rooms with the grand plan of "sleeping in."
We all woke up at about the same time, and found ourselves staring at the incredibly blue Red Sea and the hazy cliffs of Saudi Arabia. We decided to grab breakfast at the hotel's affiliated restaurant, where Hafsa revelled in what was perhaps her first real haggling experience.
On principle, I don't like to haggle. I think a vendor should set a fair market price, and if I believe it to be fair, I will accept it. No deals about it. But in Egypt, bartering is a way of life. Shopkeepers will set the price at 10 times what it should be, and it's your job to work it down to something reasonable. Hafsa got our pretty substantial breakfast fare down to 11LE per person. I would later argue my way to one size bigger and 10LE cheaper in a trinket shop; Laura would get her ring resized for free.
Commandment 4: Thou shalt travel by Jeep. We had decided on a day trip to Blue Hole, a world-famous dive spot, and a night trek up Mt Sinai. While none of us had our SCUBA certification, most of us wanted to snorkel at the reef. Our hotel offered to drive us there and back, and rent us snorkeling equipment, for 25LE a person. (Just to make sure you're doing the math, that's about a US$4.75 trip.) We were down.
We had a different driver, this time piled in the back of an old, rusted out Jeep that channeled Siwa. At 6'6", Daniel took the passenger seat; Jacob sat on the floor, while the girls squished
onto the benches. Like Ali, our driver delighted in taking the Jeep up and down sidewinding embankments that looked to have been modeled after a motocross track. We passed several other similarly styled Jeeps, all coming from or headed to the same place we were. We sped north along the edge of the Red Sea and marveled at the incredible terrain: an intense, mountainous shoreline to our left and the stunning clarity of the water to our right.
Commandment 5: Thou shalt lie to the authorities when questioned. It was only 6km from Dahab to Blue Hole, but there was yet another checkpoint. As we slowed for it, the driver turned around and asked Kiana that piercing question: "Where are you from?" She told him that we were American, but that was quickly corrected by the group to Canadian. Canadian. We were Canadian. In hushed tones we discussed our back stories. From the front, Daniel proudly proclaimed that he was from Vancouver. "Some crazy shit goes on up there, let me tell you. I'll be from Vancouver."
We stopped, and the driver went through the now familiar motions of telling the guards that we were from Canada. One of the officers leaned in the driver's side window and talked over our driver. He asked Daniel, in Arabic, where he was from. Daniel played dumb. "Do you speak Arabic?" the man asked. No. "Do you speak English?" Yes. For some reason, the guard didn't quite buy it, and came around to the back of the open-air Jeep.
He looked at Sarah: "Where are you from?" After a bit of mumbling about in Arabic, she answered, "Canada." The guard turned his head to me. "And you? Canada?" I nodded. Next to me, Kiana nodded. In Arabic, he asked if we were all from Canada. Everyone nodded with just the right amount of we-do-this-everyday-because-we're-really-from-Canada. The guard stepped back.
"Welcome to Dahab."
Commandment 5: Thou shalt dive the Red Sea. We made it to Blue Hole without injury or incident. Our driver guided us to a Bedouin-run restaurant in a strip of similar operations, all offering dive or snorkel equipment. The beachfront was littered with sunbathers, scuba divers and tourists. After sitting on pillows on the roof for a bit, we were fitted for our masks and flippers, and got in the water.
It wasn't all too cold, and after a few brief moments of panic--I can't swim in flippers, I CANNOT breathe through my mask--we all adjusted to our equipment and set out to explore the reef. Unfortunately, my snorkel was faulty; every second breath would sound like wet rales, and every third breath would find me inhaling a mouth full of salt water. This forced me to come up for legitimate air every 20 seconds or so, which was annoying, but I didn't let it ruin my reef experience. The coral was teeming with life, with lots of parrot fish, clown fish wannabes, butterfly fish and the odd barracuda. I learned why they called it Blue Hole, too: about 15m from the shore the shelf absolutely disappears, and you're left with a seemingly endless reef that plummets into the core of the earth. On my return to shore, I was surprised by a few scuba divers emerging from this gaping maw directly below me.
Commandment 7: Thou shalt not shower. We spent the next hour or so chilling up on the roof in the sun, and after seeing the prices on the menu, decided to drag our salty selves back to Dahab. We returned by the same path we had taken, and in much the same fashion.
We got back to the Penguin Palace a little dirtier and a little bronzer. We had enjoyed the sun, but the intense salt of the Red Sea had started to crust on our hair and faces. But we would continue in our current state: the water that ran through the pipes in the hotel smelled almost as salty, and the shower was simply a spigot in the ceiling of the bathroom and a hint at a drain next to the sink. We would have to wait until we got back to Cairo to get clean.
After finding a place to eat dinner, having them forget Daniel's meal, and going to another restaurant to get him some food, we wandered the shops of downtown Dahab. Most of the girls got henna on our hands, and some people bought some commemorative trinkets. We were slated to leave for Mt Sinai at midnight, so at about 10:30 (a little later than planned), we headed back to the hotel to sleep.
Commandment 8: Thou shalt not sleep. Enter a kitten. The town, like Cairo, was teeming with cats, but very few young ones. As Sarah and I opened our door, a little wisp of a dark tabby slipped in behind us, and proceeded to meow for attention. Sarah named her Checkpoint, in honor of our trip thus far, and she proceeded to hold our attention for the next hour by doing really cute things, like sleeping, jumping, chewing and breathing. Brief flashback:
Kaiser Travel Clinic: "Will you be dealing with or touching any wild or feral animals in Egypt?"
Me: "Oh god, of course not. Why?"
Kasier: "Then you don't have to get the rabies pre-exposure vaccine."
Huh.
But Checkpoint was a good little kitten, and did not scratch or bite one bit, even when provoked by me. Sarah was and still is considering bringing her back to Cairo.
At 11:30, we got up and got dressed for Mt Sinai. Everything we heard had told us that it would be ridiculously cold at the summit, so we wore almost all the layers we could. We piled again into the van, and this time--no idea why--we had a police escort. He wore an olive suit jacket, blue suit pants, a stunted tie, and a sidearm at his hip.
The trip to Mt Sinai from Dahab was two hours, and we spent most of it trying and failing to sleep in awkward positions, or marvelling at the amazing scenery barely visible outside.
Some quick geography and history: Mt Sinai (also known as Mt Moses) is 2,285 m high, and the summit, of course, is where Moses is said to have received the (real!) 10 Commandments from God. St. Catherine's Monastery, where we began our trek, sits at about 1,200 m. There are two paths to the top: the 3,750 Steps of Penitence, hewed out of the mountain by monks, or the less direct Camel Path. Only the Camel Path is open at night.
We arrived at about 2am, and after a quick purchase
of a flashlight, met our guide Mohammad, a skinny, chain smoking young man who would never seem out of breath. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't this: dozens of massive tour buses, hundreds if not thousands of tourists milling in the dark, and shouting vendors selling blankets and gloves. I guess I thought we'd be alone up there, climbing in silence and solitude, meditating at the top.
No such luck.
There was another checkpoint, where our bags were searched and our nationality questioned. As someone was digging through Daniel's bag, I heard that infamous question, to which Daniel replied, "Canada." The man looking through mine asked me the same, but in Arabic, to which I just tried to look cute. "Canada?" he asked me. I tried to look bewildered, and then he made up my mind for me: "You are from Canada." I nodded and smiled, and was let through the gates of Mt Sinai, a proud Canadian citizen.
Mohammad set out at a fast clip, and we quickly passed the throngs of foreign voices bellowing in the dark. The path started out at a gentle slope, but continued to climb upwards. There wasn't a flat point on the entire trail, which proved a little challenging for some of our group who hadn't ever hiked before. But they never once complained like I did when I started hiking (sorry Mom and Dad), and we all made it up together.
Commandment 9: Thou shalt not climb Mt Sinai by camel. As we ascended into the dark, we could just barely make out the outlines of the rough and jagged cliffs of the range containing Mt Sinai. It was unlike anything I've seen in the States; while none of the peaks were anywhere as tall as a mountain like Hood, there were thousands of them, all barren and wind-shorn. Although rocky, their lines were smooth, like a pebble worn round by the ocean. All I can say about them is that they looked old.
The stars were brilliant, and many.
And every time I got my night vision, it would be killed by some idiot shining their flashlight in my face. It made deciphering the shadows of the rocky trail difficult. I was hiking half-blind.
Suddenly, a lumbering figure emerged from the night, and whispered at me: You want ride camel? In the shadows off the trail lurked massive camels on their knees, with their owners hissing at every passing hiker. Sometimes the camels would be standing; other times they were being led down the mountain. It was my job to get out of their way, so I had to alternate my
eyes from the path to the sky. Only once did a camel bump into me, but I blame that on a mass of Russian tourists who cut me off from the group. But suffice to say, I can't imagine climbing Mt Sinai on the back of a swaying, spitting camel. Not only is it weak, but I'd bet it's ridiculously uncomfortalbe. Almost all the way to the summit I was offered a camel ride, sometimes in English, somtimes in Russian.
Sometimes it could get disorienting. People were pushing past you in some desperate urge to be the first to the top. I'm a big believer in trail ettiquette, and there was absolutely none on the way up Sinai. People littered. People cursed. People grabbed onto your backpack and used your body as an anchor for their imaginary summit push. Our group got separated a few times, but always managed to find each other again.
As we climbed, we looked up. The slow vein of pilgrims with their flashlights pulsed its way across the mountain. It looked as if a swag of rope lights had been draped across the summit.
We stopped once in a small hut on the way up for Mohammad to get some tea, and for us to rest. It was about 5:00am when we reached the "steps." There were 750 of them, ostensibly, but what constituted a step and what didn't was anyone's guess. It was more bouldering than anything else, straight up to the summit. At this point, the trail had backed up, and the going was slow. After about 3 hours of continuous ascent, our legs were getting sore, and the heat that our constant movement had provided started to dissappate. We acutely realized how sweaty we were, and how cold we were going to get.
At about 5:45, we reached the last hut before the summit, where we sat for a bit before our final ascent. The idea was to not spend much time in the cold. The trail, the hut, and the surrounding areas were absolutely clogged with people. People were shouting in every language, selling Snickers bars for outrageous prices to the ravenous travelers. We ate the last of our granola bars, and right before the sunrise, found our places on a rocky outcropping to wait.
I'll let the pictures speak for themselves.
As soon as the sun rose, we were ready to go back down. Our fingers were numb from camera-necessitated exposure, and we were exhausted. We found Mohammad, and began to take the Stairs of Penitence down to St. Catherines.
We were only a few hundred steps down when the trail flattened out into a small canyon. I was
on my own, inbetween two halves of our group. I had been pushed past rather abruptly by a group of tourists who apparently lacked vocal chords. I decided to catch up to the head of the group, which meant I had to pass these people. After a quick "excuse me," I went up on the side of the trail and sped up to circumvent the group. As I was returning to the path, the lead woman sped up and cut me off right as I was hopping back down onto the main trail.
I came down on some large, round scree and basically just ate it. I felt my ankle pop, and then I was on the ground. The woman stopped and looked at me, but I couldn't even speak...I couldn't move my ankle at all. It didn't really hurt so much as it wouldn't move. I immediately started to think of the logistics of a litter carry down the Steps of Pentitence, and promptly freaked out.
My friends caught up to me--they hadn't seen me go down--and immediately set to work. I'm really bad at receiving medical aid (not too bad at giving it, though), but despite my best efforts, Jacob gave me a gram of ibprofen, Kiana took my pack
, and I started to get some feeling back in my ankle. Of course, that feeling was pain, but that was better than just immense weakness. After sitting for a bit, I found that it could bear weight, and proceeded to get the heck out of there.
I half-limped, half-jumped down the Stairs of Pentitence. There's a good reason why they're closed at night, as once again the term "stairs" is really just more of a suggestion. Stand on one boulder, step down to the next, jump a little bit, and repeat 3,500 times. The view was amazing, and we came out at the base of St Catherine's. The pain and the exertion had done me in, and as we waited for the monestary to open at 9am, I passed out at the well where Moses met his wife Zipporah for the first time.
When I woke up only 15 minutes later, the mild chest irritation I had brought from Cairo had materialized into a full blown cough, and I had lost my voice. I cut a pretty miserable picture as we made our way to the only entrance. It was clogged with people, and I opted to just sit down rather than mill about with the group.
I did my best to convince myself that I didn't really need to see St Catherine's, and put my head down to sleep through the pain again, but kept getting hasseled by men selling alabaster eggs or books about the monestary. I looked up once more and saw that the crowd around the door was gone, so I decided to stop feeling sorry for myself and go in.
Surprisingly, I found my friends pretty quickly, and we looked at the only living relative of the Burning Bush. After this, we found our driver and our security detail (again, why?!) and drove back to Dahab. I slept fitfully, and woke to a swollen ankle.
We got back to the hotel, and decided to go out and get some snacks for the ride back. I was low on cash, and had a pleasant surprise when the ATMs in Dahab rejected my card. Apparently a lightning strike in the US had rendered all Washington Mutual cards out of service for a few hours, but I didn't know this. Of course, visions of my life savings being wiped out flashed through my head. I tried to recall all the places I had used my card--which ones had been more shady than the others? Attempting to put my nervousness aside, I relied on the kindness of others to cover the rest of my hotel bill and buy some candy for the ride home.
Commandment 10: Thou shalt be American. For yet another unknown reason, on this drive home we were American. Our security officer came with us, and at the first checkpoint they asked for all of our passports. The only small hitch came when Jacob's passport didn't have an entry stamp in it. "Shit shit shit shit," he whispered from the back of the bus. "I didn't even think about it." Jacob had two passports: one for general travel, and another he had gotten just to go to Israel. He had, like a few of us, already submitted his main passport for a student visa; unlike the rest of us, he elected to use his secondary visa instead of a photocopy. That one didn't have a stamp or visa on it anywhere, so it looked like Jacob had materialized in Egypt. After some very convoluted conversation in Arabish, we were allowed to continue our drive home.
Again we tried my iPod. Wouldn't even turn on. Distraught about my debit card, I went for my phone to call my father. No reception. Technologly failing me, I tried to sleep. Not much luck there, but some.
We arrived back at the dorms late last night, and after a very, very well met shower, I collapsed into a dreamless sleep and did NOT read any Gertrude Stein, as I find her pretty difficult even when I'm coherent.
Not as exciting as Siwa, perhaps, but equally as beautiful and definitely a unique experience. Being able to say that you've summitted Mt Sinai is a pretty cool thing. Like most things in life, the view is worth the climb.
See my album here.
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Post script: Some friends of ours went to Siwa this weekend and did a lot of the same things we did, including the hot springs and the crazy dune driving.
Except that their Jeep actually did flip. And roll.
Luckily they were all inside, and none of them were hurt, but it's really just convinced us in either the power of intense prayer, damn good luck, or both.
Post post script: Thanks to Hafsa and Sarah for some of the descent pictures.
This time, we would travel across one of the most hotly contested waterways in the world, through territory that has been occupied in war after war, only to end up at a wisp of a town known most recently for its triple suicide bombings. We were headed to the Sinai peninsula.
Our group made eight: Me, Sarah, Jacob, Hafsa, Hafsa's two roommates Alyiah and Laura, and two new additions, Kiana and Daniel. Hammad was playing translator to Georgetown's president at our Qatar campus, so he was AWOL for this one.
Dusk on Thursday found us piling into our bus outside the AUC gates. We had made reservations online at a hotel/hostel called the Penguin Palace (the name alone was enough to convince us), which had offered to charter a minibus and avoid the hassle of the East Delta Bus Company. The prices were relatively comparable, but the route went straight to Dahab instead of through Sharm el Sheik, shaving at least 3 hours off our journey. Like everything we've done so far, it was a little sketchy--we'd all seen the "minibuses" that flit around Cairo, with men standing where doors should be and blue LEDs instead of headlights--but the owner of the hotel sounded reliable, and...it was Egypt. Just go.
We met our driver, Waghdi, and surveyed the bus. It was pretty roomy, with enough space for our gear and leg room, and looked very new and clean. Remembering our 10 hour plus trip to Siwa, we were immediately glad that we had gone with the private bus. We piled in, and then Waghdi took off. He then pretty much guaranteed himself a tip when he asked in half Arabic, half English if we had some music to play.
Commandment 1: Always know where thy iPod is, and bring it with thee. Every single one of us busted out our respective iPods, and started discussing whose playlist to use. For some reason, mine decided it was a great day to delete all my playlists...and then freeze. Over. And. Over. Which is too bad, because I had some great stuff to play. (e.g. Jesus Walks by Kanye West...appropriate, no?) We ended up using Sarah's for the bulk of our bus-time around the Sinai. There's something pretty baller about bumpin to "Stuntin Like My Daddy" while rolling through downtown Cairo. My iPod would continue to be fussy throughout the trip, a harbinger of technological woes to come.
We had planned on playing some suras off Hafsa's iPod, and a track with the 10 Commandments on it from Laura's, but somehow that never happened. About two hours into the journey and one rest stop later, we reached the Suez Canal and our first checkpoint.
Quasi-brief historical note: The Suez Canal is a 100 mile long waterway that connects the Mediterranean Sea and the Red Sea, and has been officially open since 1869. While evidence suggests that there was some kind of maritime pathway at its location as early as the 12th Dynasty (approximately 1850 BCE), the canal as we know it was created and repaired in 1858. The British-owned Suez Canal Company received one of those infamous "concessions" from an Egyptian Pasha, and employed native slave labor to do the brunt of the work.
The canal was opened to traffic in 1869 and became an essential trade route for the British Empire. Due to incredible fiscal largess, the viceroy of Egypt was forced to sell all national shares of the canal to the British, leaving France and England in control of the valuable waterway. The canal went through several periods of being "protected" or occupied by British forces until their withdrawal in 1954.
The Suez Crisis of 1956 erupted when Egyptian president Gamal Abdel Nasser nationalized the Aswan Dam. As a result, Israel, France and the UK invaded the Sinai, and the resulting week long war left victor Israel in possession of the canal zone. While Israel withdrew by 1957 (a major political victory for Egypt) UN forces continued to occupy the area. Egypt began to remilitarize, and under pressure the UNEF forces evacuated. Soon after, Egypt blocked the Straits of Tiran to all Israeli ships. Throw in some Syrian-backed border skirmishes with Israel and you have yourselves the Six Day War of 1967.
Isreal destroyed almost all of the Egyptian Air Force while it was still on the ground, and managed to occupy the Sinai Peninsula in a few short days. Israel took control of the Suez Canal, and it was closed until 1975. The canal was the major crossing point of Egyptian troops during the 1973 Yom Kippur war into Israel-controlled Sinai. After an Egyptian-Israeli peace treaty and an expired UN mandate, the Suez Canal came under the control of a multinational force in 1981. In 2006, we drove under it in a minibus. But not after being stopped at our first checkpoint.
Commandment 2: Thou shalt be Canadian. After a pleasant cruising speed of 145 kph, Waghdi slowed to a crawl and turned down our music. As we approached the barricades, he craned his neck back: "Where are you from?" Jacob, sitting closest to him, answered that we were all min Amreeka, from America. "You are from Canada," Waghdi replied, and suddenly we became 8 expats from the great land of hockey and maple leaves. As our driver began an exchange with the armed guard, we all looked at each other. We had heard that there were some issues with Americans traveling through the Sinai (e.g. large groups required a police escort), but we didn't know if we were forbidden or not.
We all listened to the conversation passionately, but could only make out a few words. One of them was Kanada. We had just officially lied to the police. What did we do if they asked us for our passports? The guard and our driver went back and forth for awhile in breakneck Arabic, and then slowly the bus rolled forward. We went under the Suez Canal and continued our journey across the peninsula with little regard to speed limits, lane divisions, or headlights.
In Egypt, drivers use their headlights primarily to communicate at night and leave navigation to the equivalent of daytime running lamps. If you see an oncoming car, you flash your lights at them a few times, and they respond in turn. Kind of an, "I see you, do you see me?" type of thing, the daytime equivalent of the ubiquitous horn. While it scared us Americans to see our driver using his lights so cavalierly, it was an absolute must on a road where cars routinely drive on the wrong side of the road to pass or, apparently, just for the view.
Fatigue took us all, some now, some then. But sleep wasn't easy on the bumpy road at such a pace, and the frequency of the checkpoints made sure we didn't get too comfortable. At each checkpoint, our nationality and number changed. First we were 8 from Canada, then 9 from Canada and England, then 8 from England, and then 8 from Canada again. Each time was a bit nerve racking, and each time we made it through.
We rolled into Dahab a little after midnight.
Some of us decided to explore the town, while Laura and Alyiah went straight to sleep. We walked through downtown Dahab, finding most of the stores closed, but the discotheque in the shape of a pirate ship still quite open. DJ "Kentucy" [sic] was spinning some 50 Cent as we
passed by. The ubiquitous use of English in Egypt results in some interesting titles and slogans here. Some of the store names were interesting, like "Why Not? Hair Salon" (maybe Britney Spears should have come here) and the pictured "Mosquito Coast" (I took this picture for you and your office, Dad). There were also some poor choices, like Shark Dive Shop, Camel Restaurant and Squid Tours.I remember noticing Al Capone restaurant on the boardwalk and thinking that it was a pretty funny name for an eatery in Egypt. Only later when I got home and Wikipedia'd the 2006 Dahab attacks did I find out that this was one of the restaurants that was bombed in April of last year. I expected the restaurants to be gone, if not from structural damange then out of superstition, but both remained. The third suicide bomber detonated in the market square outside a store we frequented quite a bit in Dahab, the Ghazala Market. You can read more about that here if you'd like.
Commandment 3: Thou shalt haggle. After some quick food, we all collapsed in our respective hotel rooms with the grand plan of "sleeping in."
We all woke up at about the same time, and found ourselves staring at the incredibly blue Red Sea and the hazy cliffs of Saudi Arabia. We decided to grab breakfast at the hotel's affiliated restaurant, where Hafsa revelled in what was perhaps her first real haggling experience.On principle, I don't like to haggle. I think a vendor should set a fair market price, and if I believe it to be fair, I will accept it. No deals about it. But in Egypt, bartering is a way of life. Shopkeepers will set the price at 10 times what it should be, and it's your job to work it down to something reasonable. Hafsa got our pretty substantial breakfast fare down to 11LE per person. I would later argue my way to one size bigger and 10LE cheaper in a trinket shop; Laura would get her ring resized for free.
Commandment 4: Thou shalt travel by Jeep. We had decided on a day trip to Blue Hole, a world-famous dive spot, and a night trek up Mt Sinai. While none of us had our SCUBA certification, most of us wanted to snorkel at the reef. Our hotel offered to drive us there and back, and rent us snorkeling equipment, for 25LE a person. (Just to make sure you're doing the math, that's about a US$4.75 trip.) We were down.
We had a different driver, this time piled in the back of an old, rusted out Jeep that channeled Siwa. At 6'6", Daniel took the passenger seat; Jacob sat on the floor, while the girls squished
onto the benches. Like Ali, our driver delighted in taking the Jeep up and down sidewinding embankments that looked to have been modeled after a motocross track. We passed several other similarly styled Jeeps, all coming from or headed to the same place we were. We sped north along the edge of the Red Sea and marveled at the incredible terrain: an intense, mountainous shoreline to our left and the stunning clarity of the water to our right.Commandment 5: Thou shalt lie to the authorities when questioned. It was only 6km from Dahab to Blue Hole, but there was yet another checkpoint. As we slowed for it, the driver turned around and asked Kiana that piercing question: "Where are you from?" She told him that we were American, but that was quickly corrected by the group to Canadian. Canadian. We were Canadian. In hushed tones we discussed our back stories. From the front, Daniel proudly proclaimed that he was from Vancouver. "Some crazy shit goes on up there, let me tell you. I'll be from Vancouver."
We stopped, and the driver went through the now familiar motions of telling the guards that we were from Canada. One of the officers leaned in the driver's side window and talked over our driver. He asked Daniel, in Arabic, where he was from. Daniel played dumb. "Do you speak Arabic?" the man asked. No. "Do you speak English?" Yes. For some reason, the guard didn't quite buy it, and came around to the back of the open-air Jeep.
He looked at Sarah: "Where are you from?" After a bit of mumbling about in Arabic, she answered, "Canada." The guard turned his head to me. "And you? Canada?" I nodded. Next to me, Kiana nodded. In Arabic, he asked if we were all from Canada. Everyone nodded with just the right amount of we-do-this-everyday-because-we're-really-from-Canada. The guard stepped back.
"Welcome to Dahab."
Commandment 5: Thou shalt dive the Red Sea. We made it to Blue Hole without injury or incident. Our driver guided us to a Bedouin-run restaurant in a strip of similar operations, all offering dive or snorkel equipment. The beachfront was littered with sunbathers, scuba divers and tourists. After sitting on pillows on the roof for a bit, we were fitted for our masks and flippers, and got in the water.
It wasn't all too cold, and after a few brief moments of panic--I can't swim in flippers, I CANNOT breathe through my mask--we all adjusted to our equipment and set out to explore the reef. Unfortunately, my snorkel was faulty; every second breath would sound like wet rales, and every third breath would find me inhaling a mouth full of salt water. This forced me to come up for legitimate air every 20 seconds or so, which was annoying, but I didn't let it ruin my reef experience. The coral was teeming with life, with lots of parrot fish, clown fish wannabes, butterfly fish and the odd barracuda. I learned why they called it Blue Hole, too: about 15m from the shore the shelf absolutely disappears, and you're left with a seemingly endless reef that plummets into the core of the earth. On my return to shore, I was surprised by a few scuba divers emerging from this gaping maw directly below me.Commandment 7: Thou shalt not shower. We spent the next hour or so chilling up on the roof in the sun, and after seeing the prices on the menu, decided to drag our salty selves back to Dahab. We returned by the same path we had taken, and in much the same fashion.
We got back to the Penguin Palace a little dirtier and a little bronzer. We had enjoyed the sun, but the intense salt of the Red Sea had started to crust on our hair and faces. But we would continue in our current state: the water that ran through the pipes in the hotel smelled almost as salty, and the shower was simply a spigot in the ceiling of the bathroom and a hint at a drain next to the sink. We would have to wait until we got back to Cairo to get clean.
After finding a place to eat dinner, having them forget Daniel's meal, and going to another restaurant to get him some food, we wandered the shops of downtown Dahab. Most of the girls got henna on our hands, and some people bought some commemorative trinkets. We were slated to leave for Mt Sinai at midnight, so at about 10:30 (a little later than planned), we headed back to the hotel to sleep.
Commandment 8: Thou shalt not sleep. Enter a kitten. The town, like Cairo, was teeming with cats, but very few young ones. As Sarah and I opened our door, a little wisp of a dark tabby slipped in behind us, and proceeded to meow for attention. Sarah named her Checkpoint, in honor of our trip thus far, and she proceeded to hold our attention for the next hour by doing really cute things, like sleeping, jumping, chewing and breathing. Brief flashback:
Kaiser Travel Clinic: "Will you be dealing with or touching any wild or feral animals in Egypt?"
Me: "Oh god, of course not. Why?"
Kasier: "Then you don't have to get the rabies pre-exposure vaccine."
Huh.
But Checkpoint was a good little kitten, and did not scratch or bite one bit, even when provoked by me. Sarah was and still is considering bringing her back to Cairo.At 11:30, we got up and got dressed for Mt Sinai. Everything we heard had told us that it would be ridiculously cold at the summit, so we wore almost all the layers we could. We piled again into the van, and this time--no idea why--we had a police escort. He wore an olive suit jacket, blue suit pants, a stunted tie, and a sidearm at his hip.
The trip to Mt Sinai from Dahab was two hours, and we spent most of it trying and failing to sleep in awkward positions, or marvelling at the amazing scenery barely visible outside.
Some quick geography and history: Mt Sinai (also known as Mt Moses) is 2,285 m high, and the summit, of course, is where Moses is said to have received the (real!) 10 Commandments from God. St. Catherine's Monastery, where we began our trek, sits at about 1,200 m. There are two paths to the top: the 3,750 Steps of Penitence, hewed out of the mountain by monks, or the less direct Camel Path. Only the Camel Path is open at night.
We arrived at about 2am, and after a quick purchase
of a flashlight, met our guide Mohammad, a skinny, chain smoking young man who would never seem out of breath. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't this: dozens of massive tour buses, hundreds if not thousands of tourists milling in the dark, and shouting vendors selling blankets and gloves. I guess I thought we'd be alone up there, climbing in silence and solitude, meditating at the top.No such luck.
There was another checkpoint, where our bags were searched and our nationality questioned. As someone was digging through Daniel's bag, I heard that infamous question, to which Daniel replied, "Canada." The man looking through mine asked me the same, but in Arabic, to which I just tried to look cute. "Canada?" he asked me. I tried to look bewildered, and then he made up my mind for me: "You are from Canada." I nodded and smiled, and was let through the gates of Mt Sinai, a proud Canadian citizen.
Mohammad set out at a fast clip, and we quickly passed the throngs of foreign voices bellowing in the dark. The path started out at a gentle slope, but continued to climb upwards. There wasn't a flat point on the entire trail, which proved a little challenging for some of our group who hadn't ever hiked before. But they never once complained like I did when I started hiking (sorry Mom and Dad), and we all made it up together.
Commandment 9: Thou shalt not climb Mt Sinai by camel. As we ascended into the dark, we could just barely make out the outlines of the rough and jagged cliffs of the range containing Mt Sinai. It was unlike anything I've seen in the States; while none of the peaks were anywhere as tall as a mountain like Hood, there were thousands of them, all barren and wind-shorn. Although rocky, their lines were smooth, like a pebble worn round by the ocean. All I can say about them is that they looked old.
The stars were brilliant, and many.
And every time I got my night vision, it would be killed by some idiot shining their flashlight in my face. It made deciphering the shadows of the rocky trail difficult. I was hiking half-blind.
Suddenly, a lumbering figure emerged from the night, and whispered at me: You want ride camel? In the shadows off the trail lurked massive camels on their knees, with their owners hissing at every passing hiker. Sometimes the camels would be standing; other times they were being led down the mountain. It was my job to get out of their way, so I had to alternate my
eyes from the path to the sky. Only once did a camel bump into me, but I blame that on a mass of Russian tourists who cut me off from the group. But suffice to say, I can't imagine climbing Mt Sinai on the back of a swaying, spitting camel. Not only is it weak, but I'd bet it's ridiculously uncomfortalbe. Almost all the way to the summit I was offered a camel ride, sometimes in English, somtimes in Russian.Sometimes it could get disorienting. People were pushing past you in some desperate urge to be the first to the top. I'm a big believer in trail ettiquette, and there was absolutely none on the way up Sinai. People littered. People cursed. People grabbed onto your backpack and used your body as an anchor for their imaginary summit push. Our group got separated a few times, but always managed to find each other again.
As we climbed, we looked up. The slow vein of pilgrims with their flashlights pulsed its way across the mountain. It looked as if a swag of rope lights had been draped across the summit.
We stopped once in a small hut on the way up for Mohammad to get some tea, and for us to rest. It was about 5:00am when we reached the "steps." There were 750 of them, ostensibly, but what constituted a step and what didn't was anyone's guess. It was more bouldering than anything else, straight up to the summit. At this point, the trail had backed up, and the going was slow. After about 3 hours of continuous ascent, our legs were getting sore, and the heat that our constant movement had provided started to dissappate. We acutely realized how sweaty we were, and how cold we were going to get.
At about 5:45, we reached the last hut before the summit, where we sat for a bit before our final ascent. The idea was to not spend much time in the cold. The trail, the hut, and the surrounding areas were absolutely clogged with people. People were shouting in every language, selling Snickers bars for outrageous prices to the ravenous travelers. We ate the last of our granola bars, and right before the sunrise, found our places on a rocky outcropping to wait.
I'll let the pictures speak for themselves.
As soon as the sun rose, we were ready to go back down. Our fingers were numb from camera-necessitated exposure, and we were exhausted. We found Mohammad, and began to take the Stairs of Penitence down to St. Catherines.
We were only a few hundred steps down when the trail flattened out into a small canyon. I was
on my own, inbetween two halves of our group. I had been pushed past rather abruptly by a group of tourists who apparently lacked vocal chords. I decided to catch up to the head of the group, which meant I had to pass these people. After a quick "excuse me," I went up on the side of the trail and sped up to circumvent the group. As I was returning to the path, the lead woman sped up and cut me off right as I was hopping back down onto the main trail.I came down on some large, round scree and basically just ate it. I felt my ankle pop, and then I was on the ground. The woman stopped and looked at me, but I couldn't even speak...I couldn't move my ankle at all. It didn't really hurt so much as it wouldn't move. I immediately started to think of the logistics of a litter carry down the Steps of Pentitence, and promptly freaked out.
My friends caught up to me--they hadn't seen me go down--and immediately set to work. I'm really bad at receiving medical aid (not too bad at giving it, though), but despite my best efforts, Jacob gave me a gram of ibprofen, Kiana took my pack
, and I started to get some feeling back in my ankle. Of course, that feeling was pain, but that was better than just immense weakness. After sitting for a bit, I found that it could bear weight, and proceeded to get the heck out of there.I half-limped, half-jumped down the Stairs of Pentitence. There's a good reason why they're closed at night, as once again the term "stairs" is really just more of a suggestion. Stand on one boulder, step down to the next, jump a little bit, and repeat 3,500 times. The view was amazing, and we came out at the base of St Catherine's. The pain and the exertion had done me in, and as we waited for the monestary to open at 9am, I passed out at the well where Moses met his wife Zipporah for the first time.
When I woke up only 15 minutes later, the mild chest irritation I had brought from Cairo had materialized into a full blown cough, and I had lost my voice. I cut a pretty miserable picture as we made our way to the only entrance. It was clogged with people, and I opted to just sit down rather than mill about with the group.I did my best to convince myself that I didn't really need to see St Catherine's, and put my head down to sleep through the pain again, but kept getting hasseled by men selling alabaster eggs or books about the monestary. I looked up once more and saw that the crowd around the door was gone, so I decided to stop feeling sorry for myself and go in.
Surprisingly, I found my friends pretty quickly, and we looked at the only living relative of the Burning Bush. After this, we found our driver and our security detail (again, why?!) and drove back to Dahab. I slept fitfully, and woke to a swollen ankle.
We got back to the hotel, and decided to go out and get some snacks for the ride back. I was low on cash, and had a pleasant surprise when the ATMs in Dahab rejected my card. Apparently a lightning strike in the US had rendered all Washington Mutual cards out of service for a few hours, but I didn't know this. Of course, visions of my life savings being wiped out flashed through my head. I tried to recall all the places I had used my card--which ones had been more shady than the others? Attempting to put my nervousness aside, I relied on the kindness of others to cover the rest of my hotel bill and buy some candy for the ride home.
Commandment 10: Thou shalt be American. For yet another unknown reason, on this drive home we were American. Our security officer came with us, and at the first checkpoint they asked for all of our passports. The only small hitch came when Jacob's passport didn't have an entry stamp in it. "Shit shit shit shit," he whispered from the back of the bus. "I didn't even think about it." Jacob had two passports: one for general travel, and another he had gotten just to go to Israel. He had, like a few of us, already submitted his main passport for a student visa; unlike the rest of us, he elected to use his secondary visa instead of a photocopy. That one didn't have a stamp or visa on it anywhere, so it looked like Jacob had materialized in Egypt. After some very convoluted conversation in Arabish, we were allowed to continue our drive home.
Again we tried my iPod. Wouldn't even turn on. Distraught about my debit card, I went for my phone to call my father. No reception. Technologly failing me, I tried to sleep. Not much luck there, but some.
We arrived back at the dorms late last night, and after a very, very well met shower, I collapsed into a dreamless sleep and did NOT read any Gertrude Stein, as I find her pretty difficult even when I'm coherent.
Not as exciting as Siwa, perhaps, but equally as beautiful and definitely a unique experience. Being able to say that you've summitted Mt Sinai is a pretty cool thing. Like most things in life, the view is worth the climb.
See my album here.
------
Post script: Some friends of ours went to Siwa this weekend and did a lot of the same things we did, including the hot springs and the crazy dune driving.
Except that their Jeep actually did flip. And roll.
Luckily they were all inside, and none of them were hurt, but it's really just convinced us in either the power of intense prayer, damn good luck, or both.
Post post script: Thanks to Hafsa and Sarah for some of the descent pictures.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Returned from Dahab. It was a lot of this:
Plus: technology failing me, ballin' bus rides, cats, camels and checkpoints. Oh yeah, and lying to the authorities.
Stories forthcoming, as soon as I do one or more of the following: do the reading for my 840am class (highly unlikely), eat (likely), shower (highly likely) and sleep (pretty much a must at this point).
Plus: technology failing me, ballin' bus rides, cats, camels and checkpoints. Oh yeah, and lying to the authorities.Stories forthcoming, as soon as I do one or more of the following: do the reading for my 840am class (highly unlikely), eat (likely), shower (highly likely) and sleep (pretty much a must at this point).
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Excommunicato
Things have been relatively calm here on the blog, and you know what that means.
It's time for a storm.
So, with my dear readers in mind, I am going to Asia for the weekend.
A large group of us (8,9,10?) are headed out for a brief excursion into the Sinai Peninsula, which is technically on the Asian continent. We're going to the Red Sea town of Dahab, which you can read more about here. (Ignore the link about the 2006 bombings, Mom.)
We were planning on taking the East Delta Bus Company (its sister company had worked well for us in Siwa), but the hotel we're staying at offered to charter a bus for us that would go directly to Dahab and not through Sharm el Sheik. It's a little more expensive, but it shaves four hours off our journey. And it's going to be just us on the minibus, which means it's going to be a party. Sketchy? Maybe. Exciting? Sure.
Friday is our day of fun, and hopefully the weather will allow us to get some swimming in. No one is SCUBA certified--yet! Hammad and I have plans in the works--so only snorkeling and sunbathing for us. Friday night we go to Mt. Moses (aka Mt. Sinai), where we plan on climbing it at dawn to watch the sun rise. Saturday is for more exploration, and then back to Cairo by nightfall.
If it's anything like our last great escape, I'll have incredible, unbelievable, you-had-to-be-there stories to tell upon my return. The student visa office has my passport and won't let go, so I'm hoping that a photocopy will be enough to persuade the guards at the several police checkpoints along the way. We'll see!
I'll wave to Saudi Arabia for you all. Much love!!
It's time for a storm.
So, with my dear readers in mind, I am going to Asia for the weekend.
A large group of us (8,9,10?) are headed out for a brief excursion into the Sinai Peninsula, which is technically on the Asian continent. We're going to the Red Sea town of Dahab, which you can read more about here. (Ignore the link about the 2006 bombings, Mom.)
We were planning on taking the East Delta Bus Company (its sister company had worked well for us in Siwa), but the hotel we're staying at offered to charter a bus for us that would go directly to Dahab and not through Sharm el Sheik. It's a little more expensive, but it shaves four hours off our journey. And it's going to be just us on the minibus, which means it's going to be a party. Sketchy? Maybe. Exciting? Sure.
Friday is our day of fun, and hopefully the weather will allow us to get some swimming in. No one is SCUBA certified--yet! Hammad and I have plans in the works--so only snorkeling and sunbathing for us. Friday night we go to Mt. Moses (aka Mt. Sinai), where we plan on climbing it at dawn to watch the sun rise. Saturday is for more exploration, and then back to Cairo by nightfall.
If it's anything like our last great escape, I'll have incredible, unbelievable, you-had-to-be-there stories to tell upon my return. The student visa office has my passport and won't let go, so I'm hoping that a photocopy will be enough to persuade the guards at the several police checkpoints along the way. We'll see!
I'll wave to Saudi Arabia for you all. Much love!!
To Islamic Cairo and Back
Sometimes it gets to you more than others.
Sometimes it's fine; it rolls right over you, through you, past you, and you don't even notice it. Some days I don't mind it. But other times, it picks at me, wears me down. Sometimes I just can't take it.
But let's back up.
Last weekend we decided to head out to the area known Islamic Cairo, the center of historic Cairo. It's home to the (in)famous Khan el-Khalili market, and the world's oldest university at al-Azhar mosque. Islamic Cairo is known for being
radically different than its big-city surroundings. It's a veritable labyrinth of dirt streets chocked full of bazaars and specialty shops, interrupted by the vast expanses of several famous mosques such as al-Azhar and Sayyidna al-Hussein (where Ibn al-Hussein, the grandson of the prophet Muhammad, is believed to be buried, making it one of Islam's holiest sites). It's a more conservative and untouched version of downtown Cairo.
I was told that Khan el-Khalili, and Islamic Cairo in general, would be an adventure. I guess in a certain way that was right.
It was Friday, jumaat, the day of prayer, so Hafsa and Hammad headed down to pray.
Sarah, Jacob and I left a little after they did, with plans to meet up after prayer. That was really all we were going on.
None of us really knew the area. Jacob had walked through it once. We got out of our taxi, per Hammad's directions, we looked around. There was no mosque, just a very busy roundabout lined with shops selling bolts of fabric and odd-looking tubing. We called Hammad, who told us to "walk towards the mosque." I craned my neck and could see the minarets of at least four separate mosques. Huh. Jacob set off towards where he thought al-Azhar was, and Sarah and I followed. I was totally unconvinced of our direction, and as we dodged minibuses across a four lane highway, I was not really pleased.
An auspicious start. I have to admit that I've been getting frustrated--probably unduly--with following people through Cairo. It's really my own damn fault for not busting out a map and figuring out where we really should be going. But in the last four weeks here, I've spent a lot of time following people who may or may not know where they're going but say that they do. It's a guy thing, I know. And I really do appreciate them stepping up to get us to our final destination. Thanks, boys. I don't give you the credit you deserve.
But sometimes, when I'm picking my way delicately through the refuse-filled gutters of the streets, keeping my eyes on the ground to avoid oh-so-lascivious eye contact, only to look up and see my headstrong guide with a very bemused look on his face, I get frustrated. Today was one of those days.
But let's back up.
As soon as I got out of the cab, I realized that I wasn't in the best mood. Cairo is a loud city, far noisier than anything I'd expected, and Islamic Cairo was no different. The clogged streets run thick with cars using their horns to communicate for any possible situation. Traffic jam? Use your horn. Car ahead of you going a little too slow? Horn. You see someone you know three rows over? Horn time. You pass a pedestrian on the street with about 6 inches of clearance? Horn again.
So it was loud. And I had a headache. And as soon as I stepped onto the street, it began.
It started as we were crossing the street. I was trying to dodge a minibus when a group of Egyptian men approached me from behind. I had gotten separated from Sarah and Jacob, who had safely made their passage, and was stuck in the middle of the street thinking skinny as cars whizzed past me on both sides. The men were standing next to me in a similarly precarious position, but they seemed to be focused on different things, namely me. Calling out to me, slinging various "terms of endearment" at me, and--I kid you not, straight out of Borat--"very nice, how much?"
This is pretty common. Men unabashedly stare at even the most modestly-dressed American girl, look her up and down with bedroom eyes, and call out names like "honey" or "cream." Some girls have had their butts grabbed, some have been pinched; others have been subjected to even worse treatment that doesn't allow for mention. I'm lucky in that I've only been subject to verbal harassment, and that usually I can let it slide. A perpetual iPod helps.
The most common perpetrators of harassment in Egypt--and, I would argue, in most countries--are lower-class or impoverished unmarried males. The reasoning for this attitude varies, but a common argument is that the price of a dowry in Egypt is so high that many men remain unmarried into their 40s. Reading a discussion board in the "Stop Sexual Harassment in Egypt!" Facebook group finds suggestions on how to cure this social ill, many including facilitating marriages in impoverished areas. Some argue that if we raise living standards or alleviate poverty, harassment will cease.
I'm not sure that I buy this argument altogether; I think a change in attitude is necessary, as poverty in and of itself does not beget discourteous behavior. It's a socially ingrained attitude, and there's no clear-cut way to change it. While by no means do all or even most Egyptians condone sexual harassment as acceptable, there seems to be a sort of ennui about ending it. It's frustrating as a target of harassment not to be able to do anything about it. I've been told several times that I am a guest in Egypt, and must abide by their social mores and cultural habits. I generally have no problem with this, as it's not all that different from my own practices. But by ignoring the catcalls, degenerate stares and wayward touches, I feel like I am both condoning their behavior and encouraging the stereotypes of foreign women.
I've heard that even hijabi girls are not free from harass
ment, and I believe it. There are several AUC groups dedicated to women's issues like this one. I've never seen an Egyptian girl receive harassment, however, and in Islamic Cairo that day, it was very clear that the shopkeepers and customers alike were blind to anyone but me. It is impossible to be anonymous in Cairo. Every move I make is watched. Eyes track me. And usually, it doesn't bother me. Usually I smile graciously at a compliment, or keep my eyes straight ahead when walking through crowds.
But like I said: this day, it got to me.
I was vaguely annoyed that these men were ogling me as I was trying to navigate the street, but then one of them jostled me, bumping me into the path of an oncoming tour bus (which summarily honked at me). I stepped back, running into one of the men, who proceeded to scream "FUCK YOU!". He then set off on his own into traffic, but not without stomping on my leg in his rush to rid himself of me. Once traffic had satisfactorily cleared, I made it to the other side. I rolled up my pants leg, and saw that I was bleeding where he had run into me. I almost lost it right there.
And we still had a far ways to go, and we didn't know where we were going. As we tried to walk on the busy sidewalks, avoid stepping in bio-hazards and follow Jacob, a barrage of praises ("Nice ass!"), sweet talking ("So pretty!") and inquiries ("Marry me?") assaulted my right side. I did my best to keep my head up, or down, whatever the situation required at the time.
I didn't believe the girls who had told me that eventually you would reach your breaking point; I thought I was impermeable to any words thrown at me. But they were right: it wears on you like water on a stone and eventually, you cave.
And several times I almost did. The shopkeeper who traced an outline of my curves in the air with his palms? The two boys on the street who turned around and stopped when I passed? The man who followed me for three streets calling out to me? I almost lost it. Probably a good thing I didn't, though, because I'm not so interested in going to jail here. But after our 20 minute walk to Khan el-Khalili, I was in poor spirits, and not in the right frame of mind to accept and embrace the bustle that embodies that famous open-air market. I think I snapped at Jacob (sorry, Jacob). I was almost ready to hail a taxi and come back later, but I pressed on.
We wandered through the narrow streets filled with perfume shops, wholesalers and knockoff vendors. I bought two scarves; Sarah bought a fake Chanel handbag. The shopkeepers were
aggressive, but usually backed off when we gave our standard answer: "La, shukrun," meaning no thank you, we don't want to see what you have upstairs or test the quality of your scarves.
After awhile in the dark alleys of Khan el-Khalili, we tried to meet up with Hammad and Hafsa, who by this point were in Sayyidna al-Hussein, where non-Muslims are not allowed. We were
wary to go to into al-Azhar on our own (which entrance did we use? were there areas we shouldn't go into?), but we eventually went in, only to be immediately greeted by a man whose job appears to be to divert foreign tourists, take them on a quick and dirty tour of the mosque, and then ask for money. We knew what was happening, but we pretty much had to go along with it. He showed us a few prayer rooms, a school room, gave us some literature on Islam, and then patiently waited for his baksheesh.
We had left our shoes in cubbies at the door, as you must walk barefoot in a mosque. Upon reclaiming them, upward palms were shoved in our faces from the men lounging in chairs nearby. We walked around a bit, and then left. Almost immediately Hafsa and Hammad called; they had just entered al-Azhar through a different door. We walked around the building and found them, sat in the mosque for awhile and took some pictures in the marble-lined courtyard. The sun was setting, and we decided to find some food.
On the way out, our "tour guide" was trying to hustle a nice German couple who was insisting that they didn't want a tour--but ended up with one anyway. Again, it's tough to be anonymous in Cairo; due to my mood, this hustling was irritating me more so than usual. I tried to recognize it for what it was and move on, but it was hard to do.
We went to el Fishawy, a 24/7 coffee shop in the heart of Kahn el-Khalili. It's been in the same location since the year 970. We ordered an interesting drink called sahlab, a hot and creamy milk and cornstarch based drink seasoned with rose water, pistachios, raisins and coconut. It was basically a meal in and of itself. It was too sweet to finish, but it definitely helped calm me down.
After negotiating some major crowds around the mosque again (Hafsa and Hammad went back to pray), meeting some Egyptian kids who were very interested in us, watching Hafsa have to fight her way through a throng of women at the female entrance to the mosque, and haggling (and losing) with a taxi driver for the fare back to our dorms, we returned.
I don't even remember what we did that night; I think
I might have passed out. After being around so many people, I needed some time to myself. I'm nostalgic now for the time I used to spend by myself in Oregon. The long car drives out to Gresham, Tanasbourne or the Sheriff's Office now seem divine: nothing but me, my faithful Focus and my iTrip. My house at night, when everything sleeps. Taking the long way home and driving through the wheat-tinted countryside of Scholls and Kinton are just a memory. I miss solitude and quiet.
In the subsequent days I've found myself still a little on edge, tolerance-wise, but I'm trying to work through it. I don't know if my comrades here are having the same experience. The word of the week is frustration, but it's slowly started to dissipate.
I'm not trying to paint a negative picture of Egypt; I'm definitely enjoying my time here. But let me reiterate: in this blog I'm simply describing the things that have happened to me, and how they make me feel. Some days are more difficult than others for me, but most of them are an easy breeze (metaphorically, not literally, although that would be nice given the upper respiratory infection I seem to have developed from the pollution!).
And when I feel so frustrated, when I feel like I want to give in, give up and get out, I simply remember:
Sometimes it's fine; it rolls right over you, through you, past you, and you don't even notice it. Some days I don't mind it. But other times, it picks at me, wears me down. Sometimes I just can't take it.
But let's back up.
Last weekend we decided to head out to the area known Islamic Cairo, the center of historic Cairo. It's home to the (in)famous Khan el-Khalili market, and the world's oldest university at al-Azhar mosque. Islamic Cairo is known for being
radically different than its big-city surroundings. It's a veritable labyrinth of dirt streets chocked full of bazaars and specialty shops, interrupted by the vast expanses of several famous mosques such as al-Azhar and Sayyidna al-Hussein (where Ibn al-Hussein, the grandson of the prophet Muhammad, is believed to be buried, making it one of Islam's holiest sites). It's a more conservative and untouched version of downtown Cairo.I was told that Khan el-Khalili, and Islamic Cairo in general, would be an adventure. I guess in a certain way that was right.
It was Friday, jumaat, the day of prayer, so Hafsa and Hammad headed down to pray.Sarah, Jacob and I left a little after they did, with plans to meet up after prayer. That was really all we were going on.
None of us really knew the area. Jacob had walked through it once. We got out of our taxi, per Hammad's directions, we looked around. There was no mosque, just a very busy roundabout lined with shops selling bolts of fabric and odd-looking tubing. We called Hammad, who told us to "walk towards the mosque." I craned my neck and could see the minarets of at least four separate mosques. Huh. Jacob set off towards where he thought al-Azhar was, and Sarah and I followed. I was totally unconvinced of our direction, and as we dodged minibuses across a four lane highway, I was not really pleased.
An auspicious start. I have to admit that I've been getting frustrated--probably unduly--with following people through Cairo. It's really my own damn fault for not busting out a map and figuring out where we really should be going. But in the last four weeks here, I've spent a lot of time following people who may or may not know where they're going but say that they do. It's a guy thing, I know. And I really do appreciate them stepping up to get us to our final destination. Thanks, boys. I don't give you the credit you deserve.
But sometimes, when I'm picking my way delicately through the refuse-filled gutters of the streets, keeping my eyes on the ground to avoid oh-so-lascivious eye contact, only to look up and see my headstrong guide with a very bemused look on his face, I get frustrated. Today was one of those days.
But let's back up.
As soon as I got out of the cab, I realized that I wasn't in the best mood. Cairo is a loud city, far noisier than anything I'd expected, and Islamic Cairo was no different. The clogged streets run thick with cars using their horns to communicate for any possible situation. Traffic jam? Use your horn. Car ahead of you going a little too slow? Horn. You see someone you know three rows over? Horn time. You pass a pedestrian on the street with about 6 inches of clearance? Horn again.So it was loud. And I had a headache. And as soon as I stepped onto the street, it began.
It started as we were crossing the street. I was trying to dodge a minibus when a group of Egyptian men approached me from behind. I had gotten separated from Sarah and Jacob, who had safely made their passage, and was stuck in the middle of the street thinking skinny as cars whizzed past me on both sides. The men were standing next to me in a similarly precarious position, but they seemed to be focused on different things, namely me. Calling out to me, slinging various "terms of endearment" at me, and--I kid you not, straight out of Borat--"very nice, how much?"
This is pretty common. Men unabashedly stare at even the most modestly-dressed American girl, look her up and down with bedroom eyes, and call out names like "honey" or "cream." Some girls have had their butts grabbed, some have been pinched; others have been subjected to even worse treatment that doesn't allow for mention. I'm lucky in that I've only been subject to verbal harassment, and that usually I can let it slide. A perpetual iPod helps.The most common perpetrators of harassment in Egypt--and, I would argue, in most countries--are lower-class or impoverished unmarried males. The reasoning for this attitude varies, but a common argument is that the price of a dowry in Egypt is so high that many men remain unmarried into their 40s. Reading a discussion board in the "Stop Sexual Harassment in Egypt!" Facebook group finds suggestions on how to cure this social ill, many including facilitating marriages in impoverished areas. Some argue that if we raise living standards or alleviate poverty, harassment will cease.
I'm not sure that I buy this argument altogether; I think a change in attitude is necessary, as poverty in and of itself does not beget discourteous behavior. It's a socially ingrained attitude, and there's no clear-cut way to change it. While by no means do all or even most Egyptians condone sexual harassment as acceptable, there seems to be a sort of ennui about ending it. It's frustrating as a target of harassment not to be able to do anything about it. I've been told several times that I am a guest in Egypt, and must abide by their social mores and cultural habits. I generally have no problem with this, as it's not all that different from my own practices. But by ignoring the catcalls, degenerate stares and wayward touches, I feel like I am both condoning their behavior and encouraging the stereotypes of foreign women.
I've heard that even hijabi girls are not free from harass
ment, and I believe it. There are several AUC groups dedicated to women's issues like this one. I've never seen an Egyptian girl receive harassment, however, and in Islamic Cairo that day, it was very clear that the shopkeepers and customers alike were blind to anyone but me. It is impossible to be anonymous in Cairo. Every move I make is watched. Eyes track me. And usually, it doesn't bother me. Usually I smile graciously at a compliment, or keep my eyes straight ahead when walking through crowds.But like I said: this day, it got to me.
I was vaguely annoyed that these men were ogling me as I was trying to navigate the street, but then one of them jostled me, bumping me into the path of an oncoming tour bus (which summarily honked at me). I stepped back, running into one of the men, who proceeded to scream "FUCK YOU!". He then set off on his own into traffic, but not without stomping on my leg in his rush to rid himself of me. Once traffic had satisfactorily cleared, I made it to the other side. I rolled up my pants leg, and saw that I was bleeding where he had run into me. I almost lost it right there.
And we still had a far ways to go, and we didn't know where we were going. As we tried to walk on the busy sidewalks, avoid stepping in bio-hazards and follow Jacob, a barrage of praises ("Nice ass!"), sweet talking ("So pretty!") and inquiries ("Marry me?") assaulted my right side. I did my best to keep my head up, or down, whatever the situation required at the time.
I didn't believe the girls who had told me that eventually you would reach your breaking point; I thought I was impermeable to any words thrown at me. But they were right: it wears on you like water on a stone and eventually, you cave.
And several times I almost did. The shopkeeper who traced an outline of my curves in the air with his palms? The two boys on the street who turned around and stopped when I passed? The man who followed me for three streets calling out to me? I almost lost it. Probably a good thing I didn't, though, because I'm not so interested in going to jail here. But after our 20 minute walk to Khan el-Khalili, I was in poor spirits, and not in the right frame of mind to accept and embrace the bustle that embodies that famous open-air market. I think I snapped at Jacob (sorry, Jacob). I was almost ready to hail a taxi and come back later, but I pressed on.
We wandered through the narrow streets filled with perfume shops, wholesalers and knockoff vendors. I bought two scarves; Sarah bought a fake Chanel handbag. The shopkeepers were
aggressive, but usually backed off when we gave our standard answer: "La, shukrun," meaning no thank you, we don't want to see what you have upstairs or test the quality of your scarves.After awhile in the dark alleys of Khan el-Khalili, we tried to meet up with Hammad and Hafsa, who by this point were in Sayyidna al-Hussein, where non-Muslims are not allowed. We were
wary to go to into al-Azhar on our own (which entrance did we use? were there areas we shouldn't go into?), but we eventually went in, only to be immediately greeted by a man whose job appears to be to divert foreign tourists, take them on a quick and dirty tour of the mosque, and then ask for money. We knew what was happening, but we pretty much had to go along with it. He showed us a few prayer rooms, a school room, gave us some literature on Islam, and then patiently waited for his baksheesh. We had left our shoes in cubbies at the door, as you must walk barefoot in a mosque. Upon reclaiming them, upward palms were shoved in our faces from the men lounging in chairs nearby. We walked around a bit, and then left. Almost immediately Hafsa and Hammad called; they had just entered al-Azhar through a different door. We walked around the building and found them, sat in the mosque for awhile and took some pictures in the marble-lined courtyard. The sun was setting, and we decided to find some food.
On the way out, our "tour guide" was trying to hustle a nice German couple who was insisting that they didn't want a tour--but ended up with one anyway. Again, it's tough to be anonymous in Cairo; due to my mood, this hustling was irritating me more so than usual. I tried to recognize it for what it was and move on, but it was hard to do.
We went to el Fishawy, a 24/7 coffee shop in the heart of Kahn el-Khalili. It's been in the same location since the year 970. We ordered an interesting drink called sahlab, a hot and creamy milk and cornstarch based drink seasoned with rose water, pistachios, raisins and coconut. It was basically a meal in and of itself. It was too sweet to finish, but it definitely helped calm me down.After negotiating some major crowds around the mosque again (Hafsa and Hammad went back to pray), meeting some Egyptian kids who were very interested in us, watching Hafsa have to fight her way through a throng of women at the female entrance to the mosque, and haggling (and losing) with a taxi driver for the fare back to our dorms, we returned.
I don't even remember what we did that night; I think
I might have passed out. After being around so many people, I needed some time to myself. I'm nostalgic now for the time I used to spend by myself in Oregon. The long car drives out to Gresham, Tanasbourne or the Sheriff's Office now seem divine: nothing but me, my faithful Focus and my iTrip. My house at night, when everything sleeps. Taking the long way home and driving through the wheat-tinted countryside of Scholls and Kinton are just a memory. I miss solitude and quiet.In the subsequent days I've found myself still a little on edge, tolerance-wise, but I'm trying to work through it. I don't know if my comrades here are having the same experience. The word of the week is frustration, but it's slowly started to dissipate.
I'm not trying to paint a negative picture of Egypt; I'm definitely enjoying my time here. But let me reiterate: in this blog I'm simply describing the things that have happened to me, and how they make me feel. Some days are more difficult than others for me, but most of them are an easy breeze (metaphorically, not literally, although that would be nice given the upper respiratory infection I seem to have developed from the pollution!).
And when I feel so frustrated, when I feel like I want to give in, give up and get out, I simply remember:
To strive, to seek, to find and not to yield.
Friday, February 9, 2007
How to Return a Book in Egypt
A Cautionary Tale:
Monday. It was raining.
Monday. It was raining.
I went to the bookstore to, you know, get the books I needed for class. My IPol course had three books assigned. While I was hesitant to drop 600LE in a country where everything is subject to change, they only had a few copies left. In a class three sections, they could go fast. Besides, I could always return the books later if for some reason the professor wasn't using them.
On Tuesday I went to buy the eight books for my literature class. I inquired as to the return policy, and found out that it was two days. Two? Like, 2? Two. Huh. Can we sell the books back at the end of the semester? No.
Wednesday: my IPol course meets for the first time. After an hour and a half explaining the two ways the course could be taught, the professor remarks that he's never heard of those three books and definitely won't be using them; that must have been the other professor.
Do the subtraction, and Wednesday is my last day to return the books. Of course I don't have them with me, but maybe I could talk to the manager and ask for a one-day extension. The bookstore closes at 6:00. It's 5:55, and I'm on the other campus.
I run.
I get to the bookstore by 5:58, and the doors are closed. I sweet-talked my way through the doors (the guard and I are BFF), and pleaded with the manager. After much debating and suspicion, he told me to bring the books back first thing in the morning, and I just about kissed him. 600LE goes a long way in
In
When I returned Thursday morning with my books in tow, I encountered a series of litmus tests from the manager, a young man from Miami of Cuban descent, who somehow ended up running the AUC bookstore. He seemed like a laid back guy, with a hint of a Spanish accent, but when it came down to it, he was all business.
First, he examined my receipt. Next, he looked at the books, fondled their spines, and stood them each upright, ostensibly to see if they had been subjected to massive photocopying. Then, he called in "his expert," one of the cashiers I knew well, to take a look. "This man will know if you are lying," the manager said, and winked at me. They decided to do the return.
The cashier was running my card, and asked if I just didn't want the books. No, I explained, the teacher wasn't using them for his course. The manager, doing his best James Dean behind the counter, flipped up the collar on his leather jacket: "You know we're going to talk to the professor, right?"
Sigh.
Pictured: Hafsa and I lament a world where an honest girl can't return merchandise to a store without judgment.
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