tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-329271052024-03-13T10:01:58.432-05:00Tales from the Middle EastLaurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633081871324254970noreply@blogger.comBlogger104125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32927105.post-80269401153616255092011-09-27T10:59:00.004-05:002011-09-29T01:38:12.897-05:00Figuring it out<style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { margin: 2cm } P { margin-bottom: 0</style>So, hello again from Iraq. I am sitting on my balcony, looking out over the fountain in the courtyard of our complex, the buildings of Suli shining brazenly in the night and the darker shadow of a mountain rising against a deep cobalt sky. <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Today, for the second time this week, I trekked to the bazaar, nestled at the heart of the city, a somewhat pleasant hour's walk from my apartment. It's strange, you know. Suli is both like and unlike any other city in the developing world- holes in the sidewalk yawn intermittently, hoping to ensnare the unwary walker; neon signs in English and the local tongue advertising brands no one can afford; sputtering buses spewing exhaust as the careen alarmingly close to the sidewalks; young men ogling (though not harassing) the foreign women dressed in jeans and tee-shirts. But Suli has its distin<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lUnlIKziYO8/ToH39mdyMOI/AAAAAAAAAZ8/Onw4bjmWh6U/s1600/P9260965.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lUnlIKziYO8/ToH39mdyMOI/AAAAAAAAAZ8/Onw4bjmWh6U/s320/P9260965.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657075244623605986" border="0" /></a>ctions, too. Murals of Kurdish independence lining the sidewalk, stern-faced soldiers standing idly on the sidewalk, supposedly serving some purpose, scrawling Kurdish script across the storefronts, tantalizing close to Arabic, yet distinctive enough only reveal half of their meaning; many women tottering around in high heels and tight clothes...without veils. I find the elements of familiarity oddly comforting but the strangeness oddly enticing, opening up yet another world to explore. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Little things about this place get me. The fact that cars pull over for ambulances, for instance. That some drivers use turn signals. That my commute to work is only 15 minutes, with traffic. That the “international” airport is also 15 minutes. That the road to Kirkuk lies on my doorstep. That I have more closet space than I do clothes. That the soldier in front of our apartment, one sunny morning, sat in the kids' playground, machine gun in hand, to escape the heat. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The bazaar is typically Arab- chaotic, twisting, striped awnings stretching over narrow alleyways, side streets offering rhinestone-infused sheets and curtains, slabs of beef hanging in windows, poultry squwaking in cages, shiny cell phones beckoning from shop front windows, baked sweets heaped on carts, succulent produce overflowing from stands...you get the idea. My friends, who walked with me, and I st<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-77236hj8xIM/ToH0juX7nOI/AAAAAAAAAZk/PW8b4t-a5Bg/s1600/P9260998.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-77236hj8xIM/ToH0juX7nOI/AAAAAAAAAZk/PW8b4t-a5Bg/s320/P9260998.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657071501535059170" border="0" /></a>opped for a short rest in a cafe entitled Pasha, a </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">shadowy recess filled with sheesha smoke, men's chatter, lingering stares, Bedouin rugs, and an incongruous copy of the Mona Lisa. After some time, a table was produced and we behind it. Gradually, the darting black eyes turned away from us and back to the football match on television. The man sitting next to us, hearing us jabbering away in English, introduced himself, a Kurdish born fellow who had fled the region during the height of the fighting between rebel groups and Saddam's tyranny to Britain and was back for a holiday. His story, I've found, is not entirely unique. Many of the Kurds I've met who speak a modicum of <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FpYw5_NADCA/ToH39bokZjI/AAAAAAAAAZ0/m6e4H0j_9Es/s1600/P9230884.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FpYw5_NADCA/ToH39bokZjI/AAAAAAAAAZ0/m6e4H0j_9Es/s320/P9230884.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657075241716049458" border="0" /></a>English have spent time abroad, many as refugees fleeing a warn-torn Iraq. </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">I visited an almond orchard last weekend. At least, I think that is the proper term for it. Perhaps almond grove? I, in my ignorance, was unaware of the fact that almonds actually come from trees- I suppose I thought the almond fairy just delivered them to the nut dealers in the bazaar, magically depositing burlap bags heaping with almonds every night underneath a cloak of darkness. I can now report that almond harvesting is a laborious process (I only lasted a few hours)- the only fairies involved are sunburned farmers tirelessly moving from tree to tree, shaking the trunk and branches as a cascade of nuts patters on the ground, collected by hand and individually shelled, dried, and shelled again. Then they are finally ready for consumption. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The area we visited, about half an hour from Suli, required the traversal of a mountain range (expedited by the recent construction </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IvbUTWL5GPI/ToH0h_s31KI/AAAAAAAAAZU/Bo-sNV6zreQ/s1600/P9230906.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IvbUTWL5GPI/ToH0h_s31KI/AAAAAAAAAZU/Bo-sNV6zreQ/s320/P9230906.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657071471826556066" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">of a tunnel through the heart of it). As we emerged, eventually, into the afternoon sunlight on the other side, a beautiful valley, crisscrossed by farms, orchards, and dusty., serpentine roads, unfolded before me. It was breathtakingly beautiful, hillsides covered with forests, fields of golden grass rippling in a slight breeze, brightly painted villas crowding the view. The trees, in particular, many of them looked young...so I asked why. The entire region was deforested, partly out of spite, partly because it eliminated cover for rebel groups fighting. Now, the government is planting hundreds of thousands of trees a year, attempting to reinvigorate a region scarred by decades of war. I even heard tales that wild boars roam the region (and make tasty barbecues, though I was not, perhaps fortuitously, privy to meeting one). </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GXHngnxzyao/ToH0iSdrR2I/AAAAAAAAAZc/gYWlRqPkcnA/s1600/P9230939.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GXHngnxzyao/ToH0iSdrR2I/AAAAAAAAAZc/gYWlRqPkcnA/s320/P9230939.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657071476863092578" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">After spending several hours bending and scrabbling on the ground for almonds, our group took a short hike up a nearby hill to catch the lay of the land and stretch our legs. An arduous trek later, we crested the final rise and gazed out over a sight I never expected to find in Iraq- mountains and valleys gilded with the soft glow of the setting sun, children running barefoot behind a stubborn flock of sheep, rumbling pick-ups crawling up hillsides. In short, it was not the Iraq I have seen and heard about on the news for years. Surely, that Iraq exists, south of the border. But it was startling, almost, to see life languorously lived. </p>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633081871324254970noreply@blogger.com46tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32927105.post-61891680023970111672011-09-21T02:12:00.001-05:002011-09-21T02:47:13.150-05:00Welcome to Iraq<style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { margin: 2cm } P { margin-bottom: 0.21cm } --> </style> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">From the air it looked like a world of dirt and sand, an endless, undulating, at times mountainous, land devoid of anything save this monotonous, incessant spectrum of brown. What struck me, then, on the ground, was the grass, rippling fields of sun-scorched gold stretching on both sides of the narrow runway. I noticed the trees next, scruffy, scrubby, only moderately dusty, growing here and there and clustering around water sources- of which, it being the desert, there were, understandably, few. Low villas and short buildings climbed up the slopes of the city. Someone from a seat behind me leaned forward, “That's Pak City, where we're living,” gesturing to the aberrance of a high rise block of apartment buildings that rose above the skyline, blocky behemoths thrusting up from the rocky soil, surrounded by play grounds and armed soldiers smoking cigarettes. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">The airport, though international in name, was more like a small-scale model of other airports I've visited, boasting a handful of gates, a single baggage claim, a short line for passport control, and a tiny waiting area. Customs was a breeze, no visa was required, the bags arrived within minutes, and soon we stepped out of the airport into the still, sun-baked heat of Sulaimaniyah. Ever wary of being approached at the airport by sketchy, avaricious men, I hesitated when several approached my roommate, Z, and me, gesturing that the American University bus for faculty was over there, and our luggage could be put on that truck. Then I realized swindling was more impossible at an airport where, like the Cheers bar, everyone knows your name.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">It took me awhile to get to this point- multiple flight delays in Minneapolis, 50 minutes to make my connection in Chicago, finding my luggage did not arrive with my in Istanbul, waiting for hours for passport control, laboriously filing a lost luggage claim with Turkish Air, concerned over the fact that my two giant bags were not registered in the system, tracking down the shuttle to finally arrive, exhausted, at my hotel in an unknown district of the city. Though the Chicago flight was full of fellow AUI-Sers, none were yet known to me and all had proceeded me out of the airport and, apparently, on a different shuttle, leaving me friendless hungry, and rather ornery. Walking around the area I was in, I found numerous little sidewalk restaurants, all brimming with laughter and crowded tables- I passed them quickly by, feeling more than a little lonely and unwilling to take a table for one. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">The next morning, I felt slightly mollified. The man who was supposed to meet me at the airport, a perpetual look of resignation etched into his face from the previous day's mishaps, apologized profusely. My fellow faculty at AUI-S were, as you might expect, a diverse bunch, married and single, young and well past middle age, childless or with several in tow, though all, I thought somewhat enviously, with their luggage. Mine still floated somewhere in the netherworld of airport abandonment, as yet unfound and certainly not meeting me for my flight to Iraq at 10 am. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Pak City appeared less daunting as we passed through its gates. “It's really nice,” the chatty woman behind us enthused. “Unlike the rest of the city, we have power 24/7 and never have outages. It's a very desirable place to live, within walking distance to the bazaar, shops, restaurants, everywhere, really. AUI only has one building. The rest are locals, of course. And you can come and go as you like.” Somehow, that reassured me. Though I could not have prevented housing in a walled-off, expats-only compound, I was deeply grateful that Pak City, though upscale, was none of these things. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">Z and I squealed as we walked into the apartment. I don't squeal often. It is shameful, really, how much space there is for the two of us. Two bedrooms, two full bathrooms, a large kitchen, a large dining room/living room, an office, a laundry room, an ironing room, and a wide entrance hall into the place, all tastefully decorated in dark wood furniture, wooden floors, new appliances, a large flat screen TV. Toto, we are definitely not in Kansas anymore. And that's ok. This is much better than Kansas.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">AUI provided us with brand-new, still-in-the-package bedding and kitchen supplies. There are walls of storage cabinets that match the same, dark wood color scheme as the rest of the house, including the door frames. My bedroom, for once, has a surfeit of closet and drawer space. When later queried as to whether the apartment was acceptable, I have to confess I laughed. “It's amazing.” Unlike Egypt, where things rarely worked and frequently fell apart, this apartment, at least, is a mockery of even the faculty apartments at AUC. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">I dragged Z away from her unpacking (mine consisted of emptying my carry-on and angrily kicking it to the side; still no luggage) and we went to explore the city. Cairo was block upon block of smog-smeared brown high rises, indistinguishable from the next. Here reminds me more of Amman, or Palestine- individual villas or low rise apartments, all crafted primarily of stone and appearing more sturdy than the questionable building materials of Egypt. Cairo, too, was flat, achingly so, an endless march of humanity sprawling across a desert plain. Z and I, and we surmounted our first hill (she was in my M.A. Program at AUC), remarked that Suli is likely to whip us into shape, steep inclines leading to anywhere one wishes to go. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">We didn't head for the river, though there is one here, more of a tepid trickle now at the height of the dry season, clumps of tall trees clustering thirstily on its banks. No, we wanted coffee- and not in the place we first arrived to, on recommendation, an upscale coffee shop with soothing fountains and American prices. We wanted local, probably dominated by men, filled with the heady scents of sheesha smoke and the rattle of dice against a backgammon board. After another, in my opinion arduous, trek up another hill, we found it, settled into the gilded couches inside and grinned victoriously at each other. The novelty of being here, in Iraq, in Kurdistan, was yet undimmed- in fact, it still is not quite reality, still hasn't percolated my conscience that I look out the window over the mountains of Iraq, Iran in the distance, that I'm actually here. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">It doesn't help that most people accept U.S. Dollars as easily as Iraqi dinars. I was frightened as to whether I should exchange my wads of cash at the airport (there are, purportedly, no ATMs here) or at an exchange place, but a colleague counseled me, “everywhere can exchange them.” “You mean, there are exchange places everywhere?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">“No,” she explained patiently, “everywhere will accept them as payment, well, most everywhere, and give you dinars in exchange. Or, there are guys in the market that sit around with mounds of dinars and will happily exchange with you.” I find the ubiquity of dollars one of the more, strangely, unnerving relics of the U.S.'s Iraqi occupation. Though, judging by the Jaguar advertisements and shiny cars in the streets, Kurdistan has not suffered like the rest of the country. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">I have much to learn, including the vexing vocalizations of the Kurdish language. I have teaching to start soon, students to instruct, meetings to attend, blood to be drawn. Until then, however, I am going to turn on the A/C, because I'm not paying for it, and turn on our fabulous tv...just because I can :) </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><br /> </p>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633081871324254970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32927105.post-45215089111264595802011-06-26T21:46:00.004-05:002011-06-26T21:57:51.893-05:00Zim and Zam<style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { margin: 2cm } P { margin-bottom: 0.21cm } --> </style> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm">To describe Africa is to stereotype. Endless plains teeming with game, small villages of mud huts and barefoot children, stra<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tkGX0fcGnSU/Tgfvda477-I/AAAAAAAAAYk/pjKXFilp-cM/s1600/DSC08853.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tkGX0fcGnSU/Tgfvda477-I/AAAAAAAAAYk/pjKXFilp-cM/s320/DSC08853.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622725948508729314" border="0" /></a>nge tongues full of clicks and guttural sounds, thorny acacia trees stretching to the horizon, curio markets burgeoning with handicrafts and shifty-eyed salesmen, and brilliant sunsets washing the land in a golden beauty. I found all of this, of course, on my latest gallivant to southern Africa. I was merely a tourist, after all. But to see Africa through the distorted lens of a cliché, beginning and ending with game parks and white tourists over-dressed in khaki clothing, is to miss what Africa actually is to the majority of Africans. I should add a caveat here and mention that I don't actually <i>know </i><span style="font-style: normal">what Africa is, being that it is a continent of which I have only seen a small part, and most of that time I have been, necessarily, a tourist. But, me being me, I will still wax a bit verbosely on that which I have seen and likely overgeneralize. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">Much to the relief of my parents, I undertook this last journey with a companion, Gunther, if you remember him from previous accounts of Revolutionary life. I decidedly, somewhat selfishly and not altogether wisely, that my graduation should be marked not by a commencement ceremony in a hall at AUC but somewhere in a country beginning with Z. As there are only two options of countries beginning with Z, Zambia and Zimbabwe, I was a bit constrained on location. Zimbabwe has, for several years, held a certain allure to me, or, at least, a curiosity. This is not (though Mother might think differently), because I choose places that make headlines (and not the good ones), but probably more because, behind every headline, there is a country, and people apart from sensationalized media. And, to be fair, I waited to visit Zimbabwe until after a bit of stability returned to the country. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">When I was last at Victoria Falls (on the Zambian side) a year and a half ago, I looked across the Zambezi river into Zimbabwe and saw a country that looked much the same as the ground upon which I was planted. But I was still a bit timorous; the word Zimbabwe conjured up stories of farm takeovers, violence, and loaves of bread that cost trillions of dollars. A year and a half later, things looked a bit different. The national currency stabilized due to the introduction of the US dollar replacing the Zimbabwe one. Tour companies were no longer giving the country a wide berth. A unity government offered the slim promise of reform, or, at least, stabilized corruption. And, having survived a Revolution in Egypt, Zimbabwe seemed less daunting.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">So, Gunther and I hopped on a plane bound for Lusaka, Zambia, as flights in Victoria Falls were exorbitantly expensive and flights into Harare, the capital of Zim, would have put us inconveniently far from the Falls. We arriv</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">ed in Lusaka in the early afternoon and approached the Barclays ATM to pull out wads of Kwacha; alas, it was a bit of a harrowing encounter, as the machine promptly ate Gunther's card and refused to return it. Not exactly the welcome I was hoping for, but we exchanged some dollars from our $2000 stash and hopped in taxi for the long, 30 dollars long, ride into the capital to find a bus to Livingstone, the city next to the Falls. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">What should have been about a 6 hour drive turned into an 8 hour one, made less comfortable by the narrow seats that had me, and I don't consider myself terribly portly, squished somewhat hermetically between Gunther and another woman. Our saving grace was not the gospel songs and sermons that blared ceaselessly from the bus speakers but the weather, pleasantly cool and unsweaty given the winter season. Whenever I leave the Middle East, I am shocked and a bit discomfited by the fact that women in the rest of the world wear tank tops, skirts, and low-cut tops. I am so conditioned to the ubiquity</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"> of headscarves, long-sleeved polyester shirts and dark-flowing robes that the lack of these is a jolt to my brain. Even more of a jolt is the fact that men don't harass women, don't catcall a women in spagetti straps and a knee-length skirt. Amzaing. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">The luggage compartment was already crammed beyond capacity by the time we boarded the bus, so it was instead stowed haphazardly behind the driver's seat, accessible to anyone who boarded or exited the bus at various stops. I was indubitably grateful for this unlikely boon when, about halfway into our journey, a large clunk could be heard outside the window. I looked at the woman next to me, wondering if this was routine, as it sounded like we had just run over a motorcycle. “What was that?” she leaned over me to look out the window. Ok, so not normal. We heard another thump, and then another, and soon the passengers around us clamored at the driver to stop the bus. He drove for another five minutes before easing to a halt. Flashlights were procured and soon discovered that the door to the luggage compartment had fallen off, and, with it, luggage. Night had long since drawn its black cloak over the land, making the recovery of the luggage nigh to imposs</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">ible in the dense brush that crowded the road. The bus did turn around, attempt to find what had been lost, although I am not sure if everything was recovered. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">Had we been traveling in South Africa, I would have been more concerned about wandering around Livingstone, looking for our hostel. Luckily, Zambia is relatively safe, even at midnight, and our hostel, aptly named Jollyboys, was a five minute trundle from the bus station. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">We awoke to a green paradise and pork sausage for breakfast. Mmmm. Pork. It was Gunther's first time at Victoria Falls and I was eager to show him their beauty. I was unprepared for just how drenching that beauty would be. The Falls, after an unusually long rainy season, were still at almost full capacity. Despite the fa</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6yMtx3gUs98/Tgfw3DAc1QI/AAAAAAAAAYs/JqHDaI083L4/s1600/DSC_7537.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6yMtx3gUs98/Tgfw3DAc1QI/AAAAAAAAAYs/JqHDaI083L4/s320/DSC_7537.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622727488286020866" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">ct that we had two layers of ponchos on, each, our clothes were still wet beneath them. The amount of water cascading over the edge of the Falls was difficult to comprehend, partly becau</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">se </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">th</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">e immensity of the Falls was largely obscured by heavy clouds of mist and rain created from the water hitting the river below. My camera got a nice shower too; I was torn between protecting it from water and wanting to take lots of pictures. It being me, the latter urge won out. The walk that followed the rim of the gorge directly opposite the Falls (which, in the dry season, affords a gorgeous view of them), was largely lacking in guardrails except at outcroppings (though this was still better than the Zim side, which seemed to think any guardrail was superfluous). We survived the rim walk, slipped and slid across the bridge (which did have very high guardrails) connecting the mainland from an island of rainforest and mist, and spent several hours hiking around the extensive trails in the park, one leading do</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">wn to the bottom of the gorge through a primordial forest of twittering birds, chittering monkeys, dripping palm fronds, and snaking vines. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">Of course, no world heritage site would be complete without a curio market at the entrance. My main reason for going back to Vic Falls was actually because I had failed, upon my first visit, to purchase green malacite bangles that are made and mined right in Zambia. So, I picked those up while Gunther trailed patiently. Good boyfriend. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">I'm an animal nut. Gunther has long since figured this out and is luckily tolerant towards my unfortunate propensity that necessitates frequent (as frequent as the budget allows) trips to Africa. As an anthropologist, he is satisfied with people-watching, a much cheaper endeavor. I, instead, dragged him across the border into B</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dDhQsDBqe5g/Tgfw3UGktnI/AAAAAAAAAY0/U9e4lv5JG7o/s1600/DSC09181.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dDhQsDBqe5g/Tgfw3UGktnI/AAAAAAAAAY0/U9e4lv5JG7o/s320/DSC09181.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622727492875105906" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">otswana and Chobe National Park (NP) the following morning. 280 dollars later, we returned to Jollyboys, wishing we could have spent more time in Bots. You see, Chobe is teeming with game. Over-teeming with elephants, actually, so much so that they are crossing the border, the Zambezi/Chobe river, and invading Victoria Falls and killing people. But more on that later. We saw our only wild lion of the trip in Chobe, a lioness trotting off into the bush, heaps of elephants, buffalo, antelope, the over-present impala...The problem was that our game drive, for which we had paid considerable sums, didn't begin until 10:30 due to unnecessary delays. Game drives are best done at dawn and sunset. During the day, animals rest in the shade, away from inquisitive eyes like mine. About an hour into our game drive, we stopped seeing anything. Our afternoon river cruise, which was advertised as three hours, was cut short an hour because we needed to be back to Zambia by 4:30. Sigh. Such is the nature of game viewing. Never enough time. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">I think Gunther and I are the only people in the world who wait until an hour before a tour departs to check out of a hostel in Zambia, find a taxi to the border with Zimbabwe, pass through customs on both sides, spend 15 minutes lugging bags through the no-man's-land, argue with taxi drivers on the Zim side, and breathlessly arrive, 20 minutes before the tour leaves, at the feet of Sam, our guide. Sam, as we learned, treats everything with a nonchalance that is refreshing. Nonchalant does not mean lazy-- quite the opposite with Sam, who always had breakfast cooking when we were still struggling out of our sleeping bags and tents set up in the evening when we returned from various tours. But he never stressed about late departures or unexpected mishaps. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">As a matter of principle, I am against tours. I like the satisfaction of doing things on my own (if you couldn't tell by previous escapades). But I have come to accept the fact that, occasionally, travel is easier, safer, and more efficient when organized by someone else. Particularly when that travel is around Zimbabwe. Gunther and I had pre-booked our trip through Acacia Africa, an overland tour company that I had previously traveled with and was offering 25% off this tour. It was advertised as a small group tour, though those small groups could include a maximum of twelve people. Ours totaled three: Me, Gunther, and Matteo, an Italian man who never spoke more than five words in an evening.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">My first impressions of Zim-- clean, orderly, laid back, mostly functional, uncannily European at times. There were glimpses of disfunctionality-- frequent power outages in most cities, inoperable ATMs (those though that did work dispensed US dollars, still a strange experience in an African country); the absence of coin change (which was given, instead, in South African Rand or candy), stories from locals about corrupt banking systems and mismanagement. I don't know why, but I expected worse. I expected bathrooms not to flush, supermarkets not to have food, everyone we met to demand a bribe. And, for some reason, I expected there to be no more white Zimbabweans; I sort of had thought they would have fled Mugabe's injustice when he took over all white-owned farms. It just shows, I guess, that I still have a lot to learn :) </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">Our tour spanned seven days of constant motion. We drove from Victoria Falls to Bulawayo, a five hour drive that ended in Zim's second largest city. Sam stopped at a local supermarket to stock up on supplies for the next few days. Supermarkets in Egypt, aside from Carrefour, are small, disorderly, and not really supermarkets at all. Those in the cities of Zim resembled American supermarkets, wide aisles and shelves of well-stocked provisions. The power was out when we arrived, although, by now, this is such a common occurrence almost everyone has backup generators and solar panels. We arrived in camp as dusk settled over the trees and fish ponds, bringing with it a sharp chill that I had not anticipated. “Ummm, we only have one sleeping bag,” I told Gunther as I layered scarves and a light jacket. The camp owner, miraculously, offered upgrades into rooms (the bathrooms were still across the lawn in a block) for only 5 dollars a night. “We'll take one,” I decided. That night we needed three blankets just to stay warm. Winter in Africa is still winter. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">Our next day was a rhino trek. And by trek, I mean trek, not drive. Our guide, a fabulously knowledgeable white Zimbabwean, Andy, led us on foot through Matopos NP in search of rhinos. Sam, the previous night, had told us that all his clients had encountered rhinos in the park. Great! I thought, the chance to see rhinos on foot. In our case, we found rhino dung, rhino tracks, and rhino wallows on foot. No rhinos, though we wandered for hours through the bush with Andy in the lead, a rifle slung over his back. Andy was more disappointed than us, I think. We did find impala, giraffes, and Bushmen paintings at close range and learned more about the life of rhinos than we could ever have learned from a book, Andy's mind an endless fount of information about every beast, tree, and rock in the park.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">Another drive the next morning, punctuated by annoying checkpoints all too reminiscent of Egypt. Even Sam grew frustrated after he was stopped the fifth time to have his credentials verified. Our final destination was Great Zimbabwe, the ruins site that gave the country its name in 1980. I've described enough ruins in this blog of mine to bore even the most avid ruins nut (like me), so I won't go into extraneous detail Suffice it to say the site was impressive, with a walled city built on a high escarpment overlooking a vast valley, home to the nobles, and several sites in the valley, including the Great Enclosure, a coliseum-like structure built for the king's wife. So, who built the ruins? That's the more interesting story. The government (i.e. Mugabe) seems to be claiming that ancestors of the current Shona speakers of Zimbabwe built it, a testament to their stake on the land. That is was built by “Africans” (i.e. black people) was contested until the 20<sup>th</sup> century, as Europeans could not fathom such a civilization borne from “savage” races. More likely, previous inhabitants, maybe speakers of Bantu or other Africans, constructed it and died out. Nonetheless, it has become an immense source of pride to Zimbabweans, who, as we were hiking down from the Hill Enclosure, told us this was <i>their </i>heritage, their personal monument. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">Our campsite (not one of those luxury ones- a domed, two-person tent was our abode for the next four nights), located inside the park itself, was invaded by vervet monkeys, who, though cute, also enjoyed snatching apples and anything else they could get their grubby little paws on. Thankfully, the weather had warmed somewhat since the previous nights in Bulawayo and was further mitigated by our acquisition of a fuzzy, thick blanket. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">More driving the next day, made enjoyable by a stop at a curio market where I found myself in possession of several beautiful hand-carved stone statues that cost between 5 and 10 dollars. Ridiculously cheap, given their exquisite detail. Never mind the fact that I needed to get them to America in about two weeks. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">That afternoon's campsite was Antelope Park, a thoroughly commercial game experience that Gunther found slightly rankling, given that every activity we did cost extra (everything else on the tour had been covered by the tour fee). I sort of agreed, but they offered an opportunity to play with big kitties, i.e. lions, for the nominal fee of $75. I caved. After a horse ride which was purported as a game-viewing activity (but we saw only impala and zebra), I cavorted with two lionesses for an hour and a half, walking with them, scratching them, petting them, and generally drooling over them. The ethical problem with an activity of this nature is that the cats are “retired” from walking with guests after 18 months (the two I walked with were at the cusp of their retirement). The park is attempting to position themselves not as a commercial enterprise but as a conservation center that rehabilitates the lions back into the wild after being habituated to humans. So far, they have managed to introduce only one pride into a large enclosure (10 square kilometers) and teach them how to hunt. If they get funding, they plan to introduce more prides and<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RFakagXjSxI/Tgfw3tAFpRI/AAAAAAAAAY8/VAmI6ILbiwc/s1600/DSC09392.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RFakagXjSxI/Tgfw3tAFpRI/AAAAAAAAAY8/VAmI6ILbiwc/s320/DSC09392.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622727499558790418" border="0" /></a> also increase the size of the enclosures until the cubs of the current prides can be introduced into national parks around Africa. A grand endeavor, given that they only have one pride in the first of four stages of release. Though, it has given them another opportunity to make money, as they allow guests to accompany researchers on game drives to check-up on the pride. Gunther, Matteo and I did this the next morning at 6 am, forking over $65 a piece for the guarantee of seeing lions in the “wild”. It felt a little like cheating, as the lions were radio-collared. But, we found our lions.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">Hwange NP was our next and penultimate destination. Our full day game drive, from 7 am to 6 pm, yielded not the awe-inspiring sights if roaming rhinos and lurking leopards that most safari-goers seek, but, instead, herds of the rare sable antelope, a family of giraffes drinking at a waterhole, and groups of elephant slurping at a waterhole. Game drives are not, to me, just about finding the Big Five (lion, leopard, buffalo, elephant, and rhino), though these are certainly thrilling animals, but about seeing wildlife <i>wild. </i>I was chatting with a friend about this the other night, and I told him about how easy it was, comparatively speaking, to find the Big Five in places like the Serengeti or Ngorongoro in Tanzania. But, he said, those animals are basically tame, with 10-20 game vehicles around any animal at a given time. In southern Africa, particularly in places like Zim or Zam or Bots, the animals don't have that familiarity with humans. So, I guess our one Chobe lion was good enough. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">Less than a day later, our tour ended where it began, in Victoria Falls. No more nights around the campfire, watching the sparks complete with the brilliance of an African night, no more dismantling tents, washing dishes, chopping vegetables, sipping coffee before rumbling away in our unwieldly truck. No more visiting schools full of smiling children and buying them bags of mealie so they could begin their studies on a full belly. From a humble tent we moved into a two-bedroom chalet. Oddly enough, the place, Lokuthula Lodges, was one of the cheaper options in Victoria Falls, a city where a single room easily cost two hundred dollars a night (our entire chalet was less than that). These ostentatious lodges contrasted with the poverty of a country hijacked from prosperity by a dictator. Interestingly, most people readily confessed to dislike of Mugabe, telling us stories of the days when a loaf of bread cost trillions of Zim dollars and supermarkets bare of most goods.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">I booked our chalet because a) I wanted four walls and a bed and a private bathroom after a week of camping and b) the property overlooked a waterhole frequented by game and c) the free shuttle into town, 4 km away. I say property because next door to us was the Victoria Falls Safari Lodge, much more expensive but perched on a bluff above the waterhole. When we arrived, we dumped our bags into our chalet and headed to the bar/restaurant to see what we could find at the waterhole. What we found was about 30 elephants, buffalo, and impala, including one elephant that had killed a tour guide several days before. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">Our lodge, until that incident, had run walking tours down to a hide next to the waterhole. One of the clients of that fateful tour had taken several pictures of the elephant before the guide told her to run for her life while he tried to get a shot off, saving her life and losing his. Using the client's pictures, the lodge staff identified the elephant and the NP sent a team in to shoot the elephant. As the sun set over the breathtakingly beautiful African wild, the water, shimmering with the colors of the sky, turned blood red, and three shots rang out. We learned later that they had not killed him, only injured him. In the week before we arrived in Vic Falls, elephants had killed two others, both locals.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">Two days later, we did a game drive in the local NP, Zambezi NP, curious to see what could be seen before we reluctantly headed back to Egypt and reality. What we found were, as usual, lots of elephants, some lovely giraffe, interesting birds, and other creatures. It is unfortunate that Gunther is a birder; on previous safaris I glossed over the birds anyone pointed out in anticipation of finding bigger, more photographable game, but this trip I was forced to squint and peer through brush at tiny blobs and listen while driver and client debated on the type of shrike. I did learn something about birds, and I have marginally more appreciation for them. So, I guess it is not a relationship breaker...yet. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">The elephants in the NP were aggressive; our guide likely drove too close to several of them, but we were mock-charged, trumpeted at, and chased by more elephants in half an hour than I have in my lifetime. One bull elephant in particular caused our driver to beat a hasty, full throttle reverse as he ran towards us, ears flapping, trunk up, clouds of dust beneath his thundering feet. Due to perhaps illegal poaching and increasing overpopulation, the elephants we met on the Vic Falls side were kind of mean. Though, their pertinacious and sometimes pugnacious behavior was representative of the Falls experience in general on the Zim side. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">You see, Livingstone was an actual town; it was not built with tourism in mind but has swelled to accommodate it; Vic Falls was constructed with the intent of ripping tourists off and draining money as quickly as possible. The admission into the Falls was $30 US each, 10 more than the Zambia side. The amount of time we spent in the park: about half an hour, compared to hours on the other side. The trails afforded few views of the Falls, and those views obscured by mist. Our meals cost several times more than in Zim; this was partly because we ended up dining at the lodge restaurant twice (hard to pass up sharing your meal with elephants), sampling warthog, impala, and guinea fowl steaks, and consuming their sumptuous breakfast spread (for a mere $22 a person), but, even in town, we were hard pressed to find any restaurant for less than $15 dollars an entree. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">And the souvenirs! Such high starting prices that I just laughed and walked away. Actually, before we were to head back towards Lusaka, Gunther and I traipsed back across the border into Zambia (another $50 a piece for some ink in a passport; damn visas) and passed several hours in the craft market at the Falls which is next to the border crossing. As we walked past the stalls with our luggage, voices rang out asking if we had anything to trade. Hmmmm. My camera, definitely not. The sleeping bag, though...why not? Throw in plenty of dollars, and we left with more crafty delights than was really necessary. We just missed the 2 pm bus leaving, actually watching it depart as we stood forlornly on the curb, so we bought tickets on the 7:30 bus and headed to Jollyboys for an afternoon relaxing in their restaurant/pool/lounge area. This bus, run by a dubiously Israeli company, actually was luxury, and Gunther and I stretched out and reclined happily in our coach seats, wishing that Zambians did not only listen to loud, sappy Gospel music, playing footsie in public just because we weren't in the Middle East. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal">And then, it was back to that Middle East. From winter into summer, rainforests to desert, we traversed a continent, ending one journey and on the threshold of another. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal"> </p>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633081871324254970noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32927105.post-76675417193535513422011-03-10T10:53:00.006-06:002011-03-11T06:03:44.755-06:00Growing Pains<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NBKxdcdhrz0/TXkDMrdxldI/AAAAAAAAAX4/ZQ-eOs6MIic/s1600/DSC07483.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NBKxdcdhrz0/TXkDMrdxldI/AAAAAAAAAX4/ZQ-eOs6MIic/s320/DSC07483.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582496729463363026" border="0" /></a><br /> <style type="text/css">p { margin-bottom: 0.21cm; }</style> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I live in two worlds. One appears to have changed little. The other is, at times, unrecognizable. Life at AUC persists despite the upheaval of a new nation forming around it, still filled with deadlines, class discussions, lesson plans, young, rich Arabs texting their friends on their BB while I try to explain the concepts of oral presentations. My students this semester have mixed opinions on the “revolution”, several supporting it, several indifferent, and several missing Mubarek. My supervisors, in our department meetings, push forward with the semester with little acknowledgement that the world in which we live in has changed, irrevocably. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Yesterday, I walked down to Tahrir, as usual, to catch the 4:00 pm bus that will whisk me far away from the city center to the New Campus. Qasr El Aini, the street that leads into Tahrir, continues to undergo a transmutation almost daily. In the beginning, tanks sat parked on almost every block, manned by soldiers wielding machine guns and bored expressions, eating foul sandwiches and reading newspapers as Cairo flowed past on foot and wheel. The tanks disappeared about a week ago, steel treads rumbling towards the Interior Ministry to form a formidable phalanx around its perimeter to deter protesters from breaching its inscrutable walls. Now, soldiers and a few armored vehicles still remain inside the numerous government buildings that line Qasr El Aini, regarding the passing masses with warier eyes. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The seemingly immutable trust between the people and the army is fracturing, bit by bit, although it yet persists. Yesterday, the square was tense, more tense than usual, the tent city in the Square still remaining, though diminished in size, guarded by grim-faced protesters. My bus was late, as usual, and those of us with 5 pm classes hustled aboard, willing traffic to magically dissipate along the typically congested arteries of Cairo. As the bus inched its way through Tahrir, I saw piles of torn-up paving stones lining the sidewalks and men standing beside them, watching. Clusters of men, some protesters, some likely thugs, loitering in the street and alleyways around the square. At the Egyptian Museum, traffic stalled (big surprise) and my fellow passengers glanced nervously out the window as people ran past. A man clutched the arm of his wife, dragging them both quickly away from an apparent confrontation. I walked to the back of the bus and peeked out the windows, seeing groups of men scuffling in the streets, rocks being thrown, and chaos filling the air, further blocking traffic. Everyone on the bus quickly shut the curtains and I reluctantly shut my own as the bus inched forward to reach the overpass that would carry us away from Tahrir. Warning shots from the military echoed, and as the bus darted forward I saw a tank head towards the fighting in a belated attempt to break up the tussles.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Twitter later told me that the military physically dismantled the tent city, trampling the tents and chasing out the remaining protesters with clubs and probable violence. At that time, I was sitting in my grad class, attempting to engage in a discussion on the differences between qualitative and quantitative research, although my thoughts remained beyond the stubborn, disregarding walls of AUC. How do you disengage yourself from an entire nation jostling to determine its future to focus on something as mundane as school? I do, of course, because I do hope to graduate, but it is frustratingly difficult, particularly when even the routes to school are fraught with the uncertainty of revolution. The burbling fountains and high-tech classrooms at AUC are a complete dettachment from the reality of Cairo. Education is the key to the revolution's success, so I do not think AUC, at this point, should cancel classes. I'm not sure what I wish, actually, but I do hope they begin to recognize, more and more, the complications involved in holding this semester. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Last Thursday (was it only a week ago?), I was faced with, once again, the divergence of AUC and real life. My then-abode on the island of Menial became, within the course of an evening, an entirely untenable situation. Ever since the revolution, Menial, a stolidly middle to lower middle class neighborhood, has been experiencing the growing pains of the revolution. This heady new freedom people are experiencing has been translated into a thousand actions- clean-up crews in the streets of Cairo hoping to beautify the streets, patriotic songs on television, flag sellers in Tahrir, posters of martyrs around the city, a bouncy jaunt in people's steps, labor strikes to demand better working conditions, continued protests to call for complete regime change, and a boldness that accompanies a relatively lawless society without police and a crumbling state security. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">In Menial in particular, and, I suspect, in most of the poorer neighborhoods of Cairo, this means armed gangs controlling the streets at night, and not the friendly local militia that emerged during the revolution to protect their homes from looters. No, these seem to be the men who enjoyed that brief wielding of weapons and power, the men that exist in every society that resort to violence and fear when given the opportunity. This is not to say that, stepping outside of my house in Menial, I was immediately confronted by them (not that I tried), but they were present, certainly. Their primary aim seemed to be fighting with local gangs in the neighborhood across the Nile, Old Cairo, firing shots, lobbing Molotov cocktails, flashing knives, etc. Most of Menial was actually quite calm, stores and cafes being open until the midnight curfew, life stepping around this new element. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">But I was not terribly comfortable with the situation. The more upper-class areas of Cairo, namely Garden City, Downtown, Dokki, Mohendiseen, Zamalek, Maadi, and New Cairo, were not experiencing this. Security had tentatively returned to those places. Today it has returned to all. Last Wednesday evening, I was returning to Menial via taxi, crossing over the bridge into the island, driving past an army tank that had not been there before and a group of men shouting and fighting in front of it. The army, of course, did nothing. Their role is not to engage in civilian disputes. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">One of my roommates, N, texted me to tell me he was leaving. Why, I texted back, and he told me he'd explain when I got home. Forget the outside disturbances of Menial for a moment. Let's focus on my domestic one. The married couple I was living with, S and M (those are, most appropriately, their initials) were an interesting union, to say the least. M is a twice-divorced, 40-something born-again Christian who moved to Cairo in the fall to marry a man she had met on the internet, S, a twenty-something Egyptian Christian. An intelligent person would not have moved in with them. I am, unfortunately, not that person. Their marriage appeared fairly benign, for most of our acquaintance. M rarely left the house, and only with S, and instead smoked sheesha and watched American movies. S, I'm not sure what he did. His speciality is computers, and he freelanced occasionally and escaped as much as possible. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">S, for still unknown reasons, had grown tired of N and exploded at the slightest provocation. N moved a chair from the living room into his bedroom, even asked M, but S grew enraged. N did not clean up a small mess right away. N blew up. You get the idea. Upon returning home, I also announced my imminent departure, declaring that Gunther and I had fallen deeply in love and that “we” had decided to live together. Then, I called him and told him thus. I actually explained that I was moving out that weekend and asked to crash with him, a la revolution, for a bit. Given that I offered him no alternative, he accepted.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">After drawn-out conversations and a few tears on M's end, I turned in for the evening around 3, hoping to catch a bit of slumber before an day of meetings and classes. It was not to be. Within moments, shouting roiled from the living room, angry M and S voices unconcerned as to whether the entire building heard them. As the shouting escalated, N emerged from his bedroom and demanded S to calm down, that he would not let him hit M. I must have fallen asleep for a few moments, because I next remember hearing M crying about her foot being slammed in a door and S trying to calm her down. N came out, again, and confronted S. M ran for it (where, I'm not sure, since it was 4 in the morning) out the door and S, cursing, chased after her. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">A war council ensued in my room, where both N and I decided to get the hell out of there as soon as possible. M was deranged, S enraged, and Menial descending into gunfire that sporadically sounded through my closed and curtained windows. M soon returned, without S, weeping, slightly drunk (she had been helping herself to some of my gin), and inconsolable. With the rising sun and ending of the curfew, I packed a small suitcase full of anything of value, locked the door to my room, and found a taxi, arriving bleary-eyed and unshowered on Gunther's doorstep. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Several strong coffees later, I headed to campus, struggled through several meetings and a teaching, bowed out of my evening class and headed back to Garden City to gather my reinforcement. He and I taxied to Menial and walked up the 5 flights of stairs, unlit and uneven, to my soon-to-be former flat. I tried the key but it didn't work. Knocking, a male voice enquired, “Who is it?” “Laura.” S opened the door, looking slightly haggard, and greeted Gunther and me cursorily. M smiled at me forlornly and then scuttled into their “bedroom” to hide behind the curtain . Their “bedroom” is actually the converted second living room into which they placed a bed, covered it in sheets, and declared it a tent. N had to walk through there every time he wished to leave his room. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">For the second time in three months, I found myself throwing everything I own into suitcases and bags, sighing as I tore down the hangings from my walls and carefully wrapping my Africa statues in scarf layers. As we began the laborious process of hauling my many belongings down the dark, slippery five flights of stairs, N appeared with two friends in tow. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Outside, in the world of Menial, a megaphoned-voice announced the re-formation of the neighborhood security groups, the ones that had protected the area during the heady days of revolution. It told every able-bodied man to meet in front of the main mosque at 10 in order to form committees to patrol the area. I stopped for a moment to marvel at this. Before, if armed gangs had been running around terrorizing people, Egyptians would have complained to the police, who would have demanded some sort of bribe and marginally improved the situation. Now, people realized they could do something about it. They had a collective power, had a right to security and a violence-free Menial. And so they did something. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Gunther and I did something too, although it was less symbolic. We hauled all of my crap down the stairs, sidestepping around N and S who were engaged in a heated argument in the apartment. I sent Gunther to fetch a taxi while I waited with my belongings. Two of S's relatives appeared, nodding hello at me and heading up to fan the flames. Luckily, Gunther arrived with a taxi, we threw the stuff into the trunk, tied suitcases on the top, cradled my wooden giraffe across our laps, and left Menial thankfully. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I am currently searching for an apartment, hopefully in the Garden City/Mounira area, though I will likely end up downtown. Many of the ex pats have left, though some have returned, and there appears, at the moment, to be a dearth of vacancies in the foreign community. Gunther is generously allowing me to remain while I find suitable lodging. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">What I wish to convey with this blog, along with edge-of-the-seat adventures, is the atmosphere permeating Cairo. Change is not a tidy endeavor, particularly when it involves overhauling a defunct political and security system that has been at odds with the people for the past thirty years. It will not be an easy journey, or an entirely peaceful one. Anti-reform elements are still present. Many benefited from the corruption of the old regime, and while the government is prosecuting a few figureheads, most are still stewing in their million-dollar villas, opposing change.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The will of the people prevailed, certainly, on February 11<sup>th</sup>, when Mubarek stepped down and the military stepped in. But in Egypt the military is a very separate entity with its own internal politics and allegiances. They were concerned with who would proceed Mubarek and were more than willing, some say instrumental, in supporting his resignation. They have billions of dollars tied into the country, and not just in military pursuits. It is in their financial interests that the economy recovers, that people cease protesting and disrupting society, that revolutionary voices temper and let them remain in indisputable control. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Many Egyptians, too, want this. They say, kafayia, enough, to the protesters continuing to occupy Tahrir. Change is coming, now go back to work and let it happen. But those still calling for change say the old regime is still in power, that not much has actually changed, that, if we sit back and let the High Military Council rule, we will be transferring from one regime to the next. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">That is why the people began storming the walls of the State Security last week. Why they broke in and began confiscating documents that were being burned and shredded en masse and trying to free the political prisoners locked in nameless cells for political crimes. Why the military aided them in entering the smaller security buildings but prevented them, with force, from entering the main State Security apparatus in downtown Cairo. The secrets of the old regime, their contracts and assignations, agreements and corruption, illegal arrests and torture, those are too incendiary, too damaging to be released. Whether they directly implicate the military, or whether their release would merely cause unwanted instability, I do not know. Nor will any of us, probably. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">What heartens me is the social mobilization occurring. The meetings in cafes at night, the small protests in front of government buildings, the continued calls for reform and change. What disheartens me is the lack of involvement by female leaders. Not a single female sits on the High Military Council, nor one on the recent Constitutional Reform Committee. 52% of the Egyptian population is female, yet not one of those voices is being heard. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">In fact, they are being systematically stifled. On Tuesday, International Women's Day, a march was called for in Tahrir, ironically called the Million Women March, to demand that their voices be heard. Estimates of several hundred women gathered (I couldn't since I had to teach) in the Square to demand equal rights for women. I think this is a reasonable demand, since the entire revolution called for democracy, and democracy, in my book, does not exclude women. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Though the Egyptian men staging a counter-protest do not agree with me. They surrounded the women, told them this is “not the time” for women to demand rights (if not a revolution, then when?), to go home and nurse babies and do laundry. Some of them turned to violence, striking the women and groping them, breaking up the protest. The men who joined the women were also insulted, had their manliness impugned. When I went down to Tahrir later in the day, after class, I found only a handful of dispirited women and an anti-women's rights protest still in progress.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />Divisive elements still exist in Egypt, and the thugs that were one of the hallmarks of the Mubarek regime have not disappeared. Many say they were behind the violence, if not the rhetoric, of the women debacle. Witnesses claim that government thugs burned down one of the poorer Christian neighborhoods Wednesday night when 13 people were killed with government-issued bullets (or so sources say). Both Muslim and Christian leaders were quick to denounce the violence, quick to call for unity and peace with their Egyptian brothers and sisters. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Growing pains. This is a country is transition, in flux, attempting to form a new democracy from the rubble of a corrupt regime. I saw incredible unity during those desperate days of the revolution, when women and men fought side by side for democracy, when Muslims and Christians joined hands to call for change, when rich and poor slept side by side on the cold dirt of Midan Tahrir. That moment is over. And the revolution is just beginning. </p>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633081871324254970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32927105.post-9068676583257907952011-02-18T12:19:00.003-06:002011-02-18T12:44:35.413-06:00Feb 11th<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vyHOu9jFjfQ/TV673WhnJTI/AAAAAAAAAXw/uGwtvNoleO8/s1600/DSC06929.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vyHOu9jFjfQ/TV673WhnJTI/AAAAAAAAAXw/uGwtvNoleO8/s320/DSC06929.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575099948345009458" border="0" /></a><br /> <style type="text/css">p { margin-bottom: 0.21cm; }</style> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="text-decoration: none;">I am tall, blonde, foreign. I live in Cairo, Egypt. Normally, my physical appearance bears no relevance to either my actions or to the words I write. But I was in Tahrir Square the night of February 11</span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><sup><span style="text-decoration: none;">th</span></sup></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="text-decoration: none;">, arriving an hour after the news of Mubarek's departure was announced. The streets surrounding Tahrir were already chaotic, makeshift fireworks erupting on sidewalks and motorbikes blaring their horns as they wove amidst the stalled traffic. Entire families, with children in tow, flooded out of their homes to join the celebration. Women both veiled and unveiled joined male family members to jubilantly rejoice in the downfall of a 30 year dictator. I dressed modestly as usual, in loose jeans and a baggy, long-sleeved shirt. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="text-decoration: none;">Tahrir was a different story. My male companion and I pushed towards the center of the square, heedless of the increasingly dense crowds pressing on all sides. Crowds that were predominantly male, drunk and high on euphoria, felt invincible, citizens of a country that had toppled its government and seemed to wield limitless power. I had been in the crowd for less than a minute before I felt my ass pinched, viciously. Then a hand reached around and squeezed my boob, hard. Although we had not yet reached the heart of the square, the mass of people overwhelmed </span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="text-decoration: none;">its</span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"> capacity and movement ceased. In essence, we were trapped in a seething pit of humanity without an outlet. Although public displays of affection are generally frowned upon, I grabbed my friends hand, his entire arm, and clutched onto him, pulling him behind me to deter would-be attackers. It did little. Hands reached in from all sides, grabbing my butt, my boobs, my vagina. I tried to stomp on feet around me, twist fingers, but there were too many.<br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="text-decoration: none;">It was then I realized the complete lack of women in the square. There were clusters of them standing on curbs, amassed in large numbers to ward of harassment. I saw a husband with his arms completely around the front of his veiled wife, pushing his way out of the crowd, grimly determined to protect her. But individual women, like me, were virtually non-existent. I used elbows and knees to force my way out of the crowd, my friend wrapping his arms around me like I'd seen the husband do to his wife. At one point, the the ebb of the crowd pulled him away but I yanked him back, desperately. Men came to my rescue, recognized the struggle I was in and pushed the crowd aside, as much as they could, to provide a slim outlet. I was alhamdulilah, not brutally assaulted like Lara Logan; we were able to escape the crowd before that kind of attack occurred. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="text-decoration: none;">I had been visiting Tahrir almost every day since the 28</span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><sup><span style="text-decoration: none;">th</span></sup></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"> of January, photographing, filming, and documenting the protests with very few incidences of harassment, far less than I usually receive walking down the street in Egypt. I attribute this to several factors, though I have only my own observations to support them. First, the mere presence of daylight generally deters errant hands from “copping a feel”. Secondly, the thorough security checkpoints surrounding the square established an atmosphere of protection and accountability. The men entering the square were risking their lives to take down a regime. They were idealists in a sense, men with a purpose and a cause that saw everyone else in the square as a fellow patriot, or, in my case, as someone who could share their story with the world. After Mubarek's defeat, joining the celebrations although they had risked nothing, came men who were opportunists to use the celebration for their own devices. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="text-decoration: none;">Image was everything to the revolutionary protesters; I was approached one day by a woman who greeted me politely and asked why I had taken a picture of garbage. She told me that was not the image the protesters wished to convey to the world, that freedom and solidarity were the aims of the movement, not piles of garbage. The protesters incessantly chanted “silmeea, silmeea,” which roughly translates to “peacful, peaceful,” stressing the non-violent nature of the movement. They were demanding respect from the government and instilling it into every action of the protests themselves. Respect between Egyptians and the army, between Muslims and Christians, towards foreigners and women joining the demonstrations, towards the state of the cleanliness of the square. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="text-decoration: none;">It was not until this atmosphere of respect evaporated on the night of Feb 11</span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><sup><span style="text-decoration: none;">th</span></sup></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="text-decoration: none;">, when the volunteer security of the protesters were overwhelmed by the mobs of Egyptians entering the square, did I confront violent harassment. To me, this does not demonstrate wanton misogyny specific to Egypt; as greater minds have shown, violence against women in prevalent everywhere in the world. It demonstrates the value of education and accountability in abolishing sexual harassment. In Tahrir Square, over the day's leading up to Mubarek's departure, mutual solidarity and respect between all was required to present a unified front to the world; any would-be harassers were led away by fellow demonstrators and admonished if not detained. It worked within the microcosm of Tahrir Square during a revolution. I am not certain it could be applied outside this arena. However, if this system of accountability was to be applied by the government, if the regime halted sexual assault as a weapon of torture, if sexual harassment became a crime instead of a fixture of everyday life, if rape victims were were not blamed as "asking for it", then women in Cairo could celebrate their own revolution. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"> </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="text-decoration: none;"> </span></span> </p>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633081871324254970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32927105.post-9775174726443845302011-02-10T08:46:00.002-06:002011-02-10T09:26:23.487-06:00Revolution (Part One)<style type="text/css">p { margin-bottom: 0.21cm; }</style> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">This revolution, for me, will be remembered in moments, sensations, the spike of adrenaline, the waves of fear, the exhilaration of triumph, the resilience of determination. It has been a running joke, really. Ever since I arrived in the Middle East, almost 5 years ago, we laughed about the revolution that would usurp the Egyptian president. Yet, somehow, we never thought it would actually <i>happen. </i>That Egypt would rise out of her sheesha cafes, would turn off the soap operas on TV, would climb out of the lethargy that seemed to envelop this city thicker than the omnipresent cloud of smog smothering its air. But she did. The discontent that has smouldered for decades, the high unemployment rate, the rising food prices, the seeming insouciance of the government, it erupted, blazed, fomented. It became a revolution.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-style: normal;">What I witnessed, what was happening across Cairo and Egypt, was an entire nation in revolt, a whole population saying 'enough' and acting together as a community to display their hatred in small acts of defiance. Through sheer determination, they made their voice cross oceans and continents, wake up world leaders and rattle economies. </span><span style="font-style: normal;">And it started on my doorstep. It started with my young next door neighbor unable to find a job paying a livable wage, with the government refusing to provide basic services to the sick grandmother downstairs, with the doorman permanently scarred due to police brutality. Galvanized by the success in Tunisia, they realized they had a voice. That Egypt need not be silent any longer. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">It was a nation that had lost fear. And that, I think, is what Mubarek most feared. He ruled his nation by fear, fear of the intelligence capturing you and torturing you for saying the wrong thing, fear of the police taking advantage of you, fear of saying the wrong thing. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">What do I recall most? If you want an in-depth analysis of the forces at play, read the news. Memory is not a linear thing, and, looking back, I see these moments as snapshots shuffling through my mind, a face or emotion crystallizing them forever. The prick of tear gas in my sinuses that causes my eyes to leak. The unevenness of the asphault I'm sitting on, how it still retains the heat of the day long past sundown, concentrating on its mottled black texture as a soldier roughly ties my hands behind my back with black cable, his cohort glaring at me with a machine gun. Hearing the sound of live rounds being fired into a crowd, a crowd that presses against the gates of AUC, my university. Seeing a row of tanks parked in front of the Egyptian Museum. Contending with crowds a million strong on Tuesday, watching them ripple in unison as they bow to Mecca for noon prayer. Bristling as a security guard asks me if I have an Israeli stamp. Stuffing my camera's memory card into my bra as I leave Tahrir, hoping the thwart any would-be thugs. Being hit on by a soldier as I sidle my way past row upon row of security. Standing on the front lines of a war zone, seeing the blood still caked on pant legs and still oozing from bandages. Listening to gun shots in the streets around my house. Cheering as a man spray paints a tank with the words, “Down with Mubarek!” Feeling revulsion as an injured man hands me an empty tear gas canister stamped “Made in USA.” Stepping around the makeshift barriers that vigilante groups have set up in my neighborhood to protect us from looters and escaped convicts. No longer being frightened by the machetes, guns, and big sticks wielded by the men of my street. Scurrying home before sundown to beat the curfew. Watching as Tahrir Square transforms from empty square to military zone to battleground to campground. Smirking as I see a burned out police van being now used as a latrine (never mind the smell). Passing the familiar haunts of Qasr El Aini and seeing them closed, boarded up, or destroyed, charred skeletons of burned police vehicles littering the streets. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">It was taking everything familiar, everything known, everything assumed, and watching it burn in a conflagration of Molotov cocktails and tear gas. In one day, the world descended into chaos. I awoke in the morning to an orderly world of roosters crowing and sunlight pouring through my curtains. By noon, after the prayers, I felt my world jarred by explosions, gunshots, and the din of raised voices. In the streets, everywhere I tread, from Old Cairo past Sayyid Zeinab to Qasr El Aini Street, I found tear gas streaking through the air, black smoke billowing from overturned dumpsters, heavily clad riot police thumping through familiar neighborhoods with batons in hand and fear in their eyes. By the fall of night, an eerie calm settled over the city, wafting through alleyways like the wisps of remaining tear gas and smoke from still-burning fires. Tanks, armoured vehicles and bristling soliders stomped through the streets, greeted with eagerness by the protesters defying the curfew. Helicopters buzzed through the blackness and itinerant bursts of gunfire echoed through my windows. Mubarek spoke to the nation, late at night, refusing to step down, and I started with fright as angry shouts reverberated through the stairwell of my building. “It's a reaction to his speech,” I realized incredulously. “They don't believe him.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">Uncertainty tucked me in that night. Looking back, watching the videos I took of that first day of rage, I don't think I was the only uncertain one; it is seen in the hesitation to continue fighting, the tremble in a rioter's hand before he launches a rock, the closed doors of my neighbors at the start of curfew. But it was not uncertainty that prevailed, at least those first few days. Uncertainty did not stay the rioter's hand, did not stop a man from charging at the police, did not prevent my neighbors from emerging the next morning to converge peacefully in Tahrir Square. Courage and conviction triumphed and it was beautiful. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">The next morning, Mubarek decided to return to the peasants their mobile phone service, though internet would remain shut off for many days. My frantic family somewhat appeased, I called my friend, Gunther* (not his real name), and informed him I was moving in. Actually, I told him I was coming over and simply never left. As a resident of Garden City, he is close to Midan Tahrir yet ensconced within a tightly secured area full of embassies, shabbily chic villas, and international hotels. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">Thus began a rarely amended routine of rising to the still eerily quiet neighborhood, secured against intruders by vigilante gangs, tree branches thrown across avenues, and former police barricades dragged onto the road and eventually trundling down to Tahrir, about 15 minutes by foot, to see what could be seen. The route there, down Qasr El-Aini, was scattered with the offal of a smoldering rebellion-- a few looted businesses (though, surprisingly, very few, and only international chains, and witnesses claim burned by the police), torched vehicles, the hated NDP offices vandalized. Again, the absence of fear was palpable-- everyone was documenting this with cameras and cell phones. That Saturday, the 29<sup>th</sup>, we found the square still relatively open to visitors, with the occasional car honking joyously or motorbike rattling through. Still, signs of unrest littered Tahrir-- burned-out police vehicles, flaming NDP offices, a battalion of tanks parked in front of AUC, soldiers lounging in front of their vehicles. Towards evening, a standoff between the interior ministry and protesters resulted in more tear gas and live rounds of bullets shot into the crowd. More than any other day, though, the laxness of the soldiers resulted in unprecedented access to the military-- the crowds were clambering atop tanks, riding them down streets, posing on them for pictures, chatting and arguing with the soldiers. Unlike the police, who had mysteriously fled the night before as their offices and infrastructure literally went down in flames, the military are respected and generally liked. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">No one appeared to be obeying curfew as we hustled home. Masses of people poured into the streets, heading in the direction of Tahrir, chanting anti-Mubarek slogans and waving at my camera as I filmed. The only people still left in the rest of Cairo, it seemed, were the vigilantes, groups of men hastily gathered from the neighborhood bearing homemade weapons, and their prey, ex-convicts. You see, the government, in its attempt to portray Cairo as a world of chaos without the government, knocked down prison walls and uncarcerated the inhabitants. I received calls from friends living in areas closer to the prisons, shakily calm voices telling me of the violences they were forced to commit to protect their homes and loved ones from calamity. Garden City remained safe at the expense of these places, the looters sifted out in these neighborhoods before reaching the heart of Cairo. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">By the third day of revolution, rumors began to reach me of food and petrol shortages in Cairo. After a round around Tahrir, in which Gunther and I found more protesters peacefully gathered, demanding the immediate resignation of Mubarek and making a few lewd comments about him, we took some back streets home. This was due to both curiosity and a desire to thwart Mubarek's thugs whose desire to surpress the revolution stops well past violence. You may be wondering what Egyptians are thinking, seeing two pastily white foreigners photographing their revolution. By and large, Egyptians have been extremely supportive, protective of us and eager to share their stories with the world. I have been told, time and time again, that I must show what I am photographing, what I am seeing, to the world. Show them how Mubarek treats his people, show them his vicissitude (ok, that's my word) and oppression of people who want only freedom. At first, I was hesitant to share that I am American, particularly when presented with tear gas canisters and bullet rounds printed with the words, “Made in USA”. But the vast majority respond, when I say I am American, with a “Welcome in Egypt !” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">Not every Egyptian supports the protests. Those that benefit from the regime, who are hired as thugs or take advantage of the corruption, those are the ones to avoid. Other Egyptians, wearying of the disruption to their lives, sympathetic to a one-time war hero who has 'led' their country for 30 thirty years, desire stability over chaos. Whether these divisions will prove to great overcome, whether the protesters still fighting for freedom in Tahrir will become marginalized radicals, only time will tell. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">The walk home that afternoon, we glanced behind us frequently, noting if someone seemed to be trailing us down Falaki Street, watching us as we photographed the extent of anger against the regime. The media has focused on Tahrir as the epicenter of the revolt, but it took that afternoon to reveal, to me, how thoroughly the police apparatus, and only the police apparatus, had been decimated. Dozens of overturned police vehicles and shattered windows of police stations showed what the news stations had not-- focused rage against a dictator. Almost as striking was the lack of destruction to private businesses and cars, closed for business but still intact. In the market, we stopped to buy fresh vegetables and fruit, still at the same prices before the revolution, still available despite the rumors otherwise. Certainly, the market was crowded, but then, everyone was forced to do their shopping before a 3 pm curfew. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">That evening we defied the curfew. In retrospect, not the smartest move. But we wanted to head to Tahrir, having been told that Mohamed El Baradai was going to speak. Until that moment, I had not needed to carry my passport, my blondness and clear foreignness enough of an indication of my status. However, as we approached the heavily fortified entrance to Tahrir, the soldiers politely but firmly demanded our passports before we could enter Tahrir. We returned home. But we did not stay, retracing our steps until we were stopped, not by the military this time but a neighborhood watch group that told us the way was closed and that, perhaps, we could take another route through Garden City, over to the Corniche to Tahrir. Like lambs to the slaughter, we turned into the labryinth of shadowy streets, followed by a friendly Egyptian who also wanted to get into the Square. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">Within a few minutes, we encountered a row of soldiers that smilingly told us that the way behind them was blocked but, if we turned left, perhaps we could get to the Corniche. One soldier, in particular, spoke relatively flawless English, gesturing again down a deserted street. One of his colleagues, in Arabic, told him the way was closed, but he swiftly interrupted him in polite English, telling us again that we might try that way. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">We made it about thirty feet before a voice shouted, “''If! 'If! Down, down!” The voice, I saw, belonged to a military officer waving his machine gun angrily in our direction. Any giddiness I'd felt about the revolution transmuted, with alarming alacrity, into a clammy terror as I sat on the black pavement, watching the officer, surrounded by several other heavily armed soldiers, shouting vociferously in Arabic. The Egyptian man scuttled forward to talk with the officer and a small blossom of hope bloomed, tentatively, as I thought he might explain our situation. That blossom wilted as I saw a roll of tape produced to tie the man's hands behind his back, then a black wire to ensure that he would not escape. Gunther and I were called forward. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">The officer demanded our passports. Gunther and I shakily produced them as the officer snatched them from our hands and walked away, his colleagues forcing us to sit on the ground. I felt my arms being pulled behind my back and I sat their, completely impotent, as a soldier grabbed my wrists, crossed them, and wrapped them tightly, again and again, with black wire that dug painfully into my skin. Terrifying scenarios raced through my mind as I saw us being taken away into the underworld of the Egyptian secret police, detained, tortured, nameless, voiceless victims to a dictator with infinite power. I glanced behind us, once, wondering why the soldiers that had told us to walk this way had not come to our rescue. Then, I guess, I began to suspect a trap. “Are you ok?” Gunther asked softly and I nodded, turning my attention to the men with machine guns trained at us, hard eyes and cold faces in control of our fate. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">“Up!” They demanded, and we struggled to rise, impeded by our restrained arms, dead weights at our backs. Gesturing with their guns, the soldiers motioned us over to stand against a wall with a few other Egyptian men they had also detained. For one wild moment, as the six or so of us lined up against a curb, faced by a line of guns trained at our soft bodies, I thought they would execute us, point blank, like I'd seen in a hundred Hollywood movies. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">They didn't. “'If!” they demanded again, and we sat, quickly, on the curb, watching as the officer returned, our passports in hand. He didn't return them to us. He paged through them slowly, searching for God knows what (thankfully none of us have Israeli stamps), pausing to shout questions at us in Arabic. “What are you doing here? Who are you? Where are you going? When did you arrive?” He kept contradicting us, telling us we had arrived on a different day than we actually had, attempting to ensnare us in our own words. “Stand up!” He shouted, and we rose once again. An officer patted down Gunther thoroughly, removing his camera, mobile, and everything else in his pockets. I was relieved that he found a female (not a soldier) to search me, the first indication, perhaps, that I might escape this experience relatively unscathed. She removed my camera and phone, a memory card and extra battery, piling them at the officer's feet. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">The officer's cell phone rang and he stepped away to answer it, leaving us crouched on the curb, shuffling our feet and whispering quietly. “Do you have pictures from the demonstrations today?” Gunther asked me and I shook my head. “I removed them before I came.” A wistful expression briefly crossed his face. “I didn't.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">Our interrogator soon returned, demanding to see the pictures on Gunther's camera, frowning as he viewed the photo's from the protests. One of his cronies told us, I think, in Arabic, “You can have everything back but your cameras. Those stay with us.” I burst out in desperate Arabic, “But I don't have any pictures on my camera. Let me show you!” “Inshallah,” he replied. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">Another group of foreigners, with one Egyptian woman, wandered into the small square and were made to sit next to us, though their hands remained untied. We eyed each other curiously, wondering what our fate would be. The officer seemed to relent somewhat, the brutal, accusatory tone in his voice softened to be merely scolding. He made the Egyptian woman translate his words to us, telling us that, although his orders are to shoot anyone out after curfew on sight (a difficult proposition, given that millions roamed the street), he would not do that to us and would release us that evening. We asked about our cameras and he said we could have them back, as long as we deleted any pictures on them. I acquiesced readily, and so did Gunther, albeit more reluctantly, as he had a cache of historic photos about to be erased. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">The Egyptian woman came over to untie my hands, apologizing profusely for being involved in any of this. “I'm so sorry, sweetie, to do this.” “It's not your fault!” I responded gratefully. “Gosh, they really tied you up.” It took her five minutes to undo the shackles at my wrists . As soon as I was free, I rubbed my hands together, massaging feeling back into them. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">One of the local neighborhood watch men, a pro-Mubarek supporter, as we learned later, came over to supervise the removal of our pictures, checking both of my memory cards (my extra card had some 'celebratory' photos of a past New Year's on it that I hastily erased), telling us the media had really, “fucked up the coverage of the protests so far”. By reporting the truth, I suppose. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">Our ordeal was not over. Military protocol required that they deliver us to our embassies for safekeeping, so we were led to the American embassy a short distance away and deposited in front of the bullet-proof window of the consular division. “Can we go home now?” we asked the man behind it. “Wait,” he said. And so we waited, for a good hour and a half, pacing on the pavement with the other motley group of foreigners who had one unfortunate American in their midst. My mother called at this point, as she did every night, to check in. Sorry for not telling you where I was, Mom, but I thought you might have gotten concerned. Finally, a troop of Marine-type characters emerged, swaggering to stand before us in full regalia. “Do you have any questions for us?” Although I was the only woman of the three, he planted himself before me, clearly hoping to intimidate me. “Can we go home now? We live pretty close to hear?” “Not likely. What we can do is bring you to the Intercontinental Hotel and leave you there for the night. You can buy a coffee in the lobby and wait until the morning , when the curfew is lifted.” “But sir...” As military men are wont to do, he launched into a bombastic speech, outlining the dangers of the Egyptian streets. “This man here has offered to escort us home.” One of the local neighborhood watch men, patiently waiting with us throughout our ordeal, nodded. “Who are you? Put that weapon you are carrying down, sir! I feel threatened by it!” Yasser, carrying it to ward off any looters, set down the handle of his daughter's baby stroller carefully on the ground, stepping away from it. “You are not to leave here with it, understand?” He nodded.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">The Marine did not offer to walk us to the hotel, which would clearly be against the protocol he adheres to against all reason, but sent an Egyptian employee to do it. As we left the Embassy, the other American told us he was going home, with his friends. After a volley of arguments, an Egyptian military officer, one of many assigned to guard the area around the Embassy, came over to calm the ruckus. “We will take them home,” he finally offered. And so, in an incongruous turn of events, we found ourselves piled in the back of an army Jeep and driven home by the military. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">I did not evacuate the next day. I went down to Tahrir, within the hours before curfew, to witness the unfolding of a revolution/uprising/revolution. On the walk down to the square, we encountered the 'nice' Egyptian man who had helped delete our photos. “I am pro-Mubarek,” he told us grimly, and we felt his eyes on our backs as we approached the tank brigade guarding Tahrir. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">Within our neighborhood, we still ventured out at night, though sticking within the vigilante groups that recognize us and bid us good evening as we pass by their kitchen knives and clubs and bonfires and sheeshas. You may think this sounds foolish, but Cairo, to me, more than other cities I've lived in, is a community built on relationships. You are safe within the boundaries of people who know you, the doormen who greet you, the fruit sellers who salaam you, the neighbors who ask how you are. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">This, of course, was thrown into upheaval when Mubarek blamed the 'instability' of the country not on his removal of security and release of prisoners and thugs but on foreign elements within the country and started attacking and arresting journalists and other foreign-looking people. But that was Wednesday. Until that day, on Tuesday, Tahrir was 1 million people strong, 1 million peaceful protesters denouncing a regime intent on violence, brutality, and intimidation to rule. Even my brush with it pales in comparison to what most Egyptians face. I am not Egyptian. I cannot and will not say what is best for this country. But I do believe in human dignity, freedom, a right to life without fear. And America's obstruction of these values in much of the world, their support of regimes like Mubarek's, make it perhaps hypocritical of me to even write this. I am a citizen of a country that proclaims these values yet sells tear gas and weapons to anyone that will help maintain its strength. Does that make me a complicit agent in this? Someone who will stand on her soap box of freedom yet, at the same time, undeniably benefits from repressing it? I don't know. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">Tuesday was overwhelmingly peaceful; we approached Tahrir from the Corniche side, walk up to the entrance near the Qasr El-Aini bridge, astounded by the constant stream of people marching towards us from the island of Zamalek, many of whom had probably walked from Giza and beyond. They came towards us, surrounded us, flooded past us, families, men and women, young and old, rich and poor, united around a cause few had dared dream of even two weeks before-- freedom. At the newly formed checkpoints, I showed my passport to the friendly women, smiled as they apologized for searching my bag and patting me down, and entered the square filling with, estimates claimed, at least a million people. Musicians played guitars and ouds (an Arabic string instrument), crowds chanted against the regime, and masses milled around the square, demonstrating tremendous courage and solidarity. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">That evening, enjoying a scrumptious dinner at a friend's house, we hoped for imminent change, emboldened by the U.S.'s increasingly strong language against the Mubarek regime, watching the footage from the square and the reaction around the world. But the regime would not go quietly. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">The next morning, I received an excited call that internet had returned to the country. Ecstatic, I logged into my e-mail and Facebook for the first time in almost a week and read the news, dismayed at what I saw scrolling across the pages. Pro-Mubarek were appearing in parts of Cairo, arriving by bus, almost exclusively male, thuggish-looking, spoiling to bring violence and terror to peaceful protests. I had planned on meeting Gunther in Tahrir to continue our daily documentation of the protests but repeated entreaties by our friends, hearing rumors of impending violence in the square, persuaded me to remain at home. Instead, I watched from the safety of my flat as thugs poured into Tahrir, on horseback and camel, armed and attacking the protesters. I will not go into detail of the events that day or evening; watch the accounts on the internet for a better picture of the grisly battle between Mubarek's “supporters” and the protesters holding the square, lobbing rocks and Molotov cocktails at each other, one side erecting make-shift barriers to hold the square against the impossible odds of an army of trained, armed thugs. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">Tension reigned on Thursday, but I could put off a return to home no longer, needing clean clothes and medical supplies. A brief visit to the market the previous day had only intensified the unrest in Cairo; suspicious stares greeted our white countenances, scuffles broke out between shop keepers usually content to sit in chairs and watch the world idle by. The rhetoric spouted by the regime, that anyone foreign in Cairo was fomenting the rebellion, seemed to be taking hold. Yet my taxi driver dutifully turned on the meter when I stepped in, did not try to overcharge me. The owner of the tiny market near my home greeted me with a huge, “Ahlan!” or “Welcome!”, treating me with the same respect I had always received. Leaving his store, laden with bags of provisions, a young man walked by, muttering, “Israeli spy” in Arabic. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">Gunther called minutes later, telling me that foreigners were being targeted, arrested, attacked by thugs. I flagged down the first taxi I could, telling him to take me to Garden City. He laughed and drove away. The next one responded similarly. A third pulled up and I asked him the same. “Please, get in miss,” he said. As we neared Garden City, the traffic slowed to a crawl and he asked if I could walk the rest of the way, as Qasr El Aini seemed blocked. I nodded and struggled out, weighed down by bags of groceries, thanking the driver, grateful that he treated me like a human being. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">Qasr El Aini was chaos. What appeared to me as gangs of thugs or just neighborhood watch groups had stopped vehicles and buses, pulling people out and searching them. More than ever, I felt like a foreigner in Cairo, someone to be treated with suspicion and derision. I kept my head down, pulled my bags of groceries down the sidewalk and walked quickly down the nearest side street I could find, running smack into a soldier. “Your passport, please,” he asked, and I fumbled in my bag, dropping my groceries and pulling it out hastily. “Where are you going?” “Home, I live here,” I said shakily. “Where?” Crap. I had never bothered to memorize Gunther's address. The solider waited as I shouted into my mobile at Gunther, who was in the middle of helping someone else find a taxi, to tell me his damn address. I relayed the information to the solider who nodded politely, searched my bag, apologized for the inconvenience, and sent my on my way. I wanted to run to the flat, slam the door, and barricade myself behind it. Cairo had always been a friendly place, made, oddly enough, even more so by the protests uniting the people. More than that, though, it is my home, has been for two and a half years, filled with people I love. To become a place where I was unwelcome, suspected as an agent against the Egyptian people, felt like a betrayal. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">Bu then I remembered the taxi driver, with his parting words to “go with peace”, the shop owner, who grinned broadly when I walked in, even the soldier, who bid me good-bye with a friendly smile. It is not Cairo, or its people, who are against me. It is a systematic regime, clinging to its dwindling influence by power, aggression and intimidation, that is. And the people have finally said “kafaya”, enough. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">Friday dawned clear, quiet, calm. The protesters called for peace, for unity, for a huge demonstration in Tahrir. Gunther and I went, warily, after confirming with friends on the ground that the square was guarded and safe. At the checkpoint, we were searched, thoroughly, numerous times, showed our passports and pushed inside, greeted by a tunnel of protesters joyously clapping, cheering, celebrating the victory of freedom over fear. Inside the square, we were welcomed effusively, almost apologetically, greeted regardless of our nationality, approached by protesters telling us their story, showing us their empty wallets, their resolve to continue fighting. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal;">I think I'll continue my narrative of the following week, and its adventures, in another post. I hope you do not find these words either harrowing or frightening; what is enfolding here is a revolution, a time of tumultuous change and hope for a better future. Cairo has changed irrevocably. Of this there can be little doubt. Tahrir is turning into a permanent encampment of protesters not stepping down until their demands are met. Tanks and soldiers fill the streets, protesters walk the sidewalk bearing flags and headbands in the colors of Egypt, hope is filling this city with restless energy, an energy that will not soon be quenched. My part in this whole tale is on the sidelines, a small dot overwhelmed with awe, glued to a revolution enfolding on my doorstep. If you've read my story, remember only the bravery of a people fighting for freedom. </p>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633081871324254970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32927105.post-51891157404239317742010-11-21T17:23:00.005-06:002010-11-21T17:54:30.357-06:00Tunisia with a smile<style type="text/css">p { margin-bottom: 0.2</style>The more I travel, the more I learn. And the more I learn, the less I know I know. And, the less I know I know, the more I want to learn. And so, you see, it is a vicissitude, a vicious cycle, without beginning or end. I have travelled since before I can remember, and I will, inshallah, travel until I can no longer remember. It is a ceaseless, restless urge, a reckless yearning, a plaintive need. Maybe it will quell with the passing of years, the permutations of life, the finding of love and the holding on to it. Perhaps. Perhaps. <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">But there is something visceral, for me, in travel, a stirring of senses, a churning of desires. I have seen life fall apart. I have staggere<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/TOmw-IKh_9I/AAAAAAAAAXg/LxZT12qYqFI/s1600/DSC00956.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/TOmw-IKh_9I/AAAAAAAAAXg/LxZT12qYqFI/s320/DSC00956.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542155397846138834" border="0" /></a>d through its rubble, numb. And I have changed because of it. But that which remains, at the core, is me. And part of that me, not all, but part, is travel. I will probably never be rich, never own fancy cars or expensive houses, never be famous or more than ordinary. But I will travel. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It hit me, again, that prickling of restivity, that immolant spark of curiosity, triggered by many things, not long ago. Recognizing the symptoms, I sighed and logged onto the internet. I tallied up my accounts, fingered the dirty bills of Egyptian pounds I had accumulated over months of English tutoring, calculated the funds and checked the airfares. Tunis. Hmmm. Cheap, developing country. Inexpensive to travel in, 'exotic', safe, close. Done. I worked some more, studied hard for exams, struggled through lesson plans and meetings. Suddenly, the Eid was upon me, a week of no school, no work, and 8 days of adventure. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I was wedged, quite literally, against the front window of a bus and the rattling door that scraped against the highway, careening alarmingly into the setting sun. Behind me, next to me, surrounding me, were similarly uncomfortable passengers, pushed up against one another as each bump jostled their precarious balance. “Good?” the driver asked, leaning over several passengers to smile at me. I smiled wanly back, willing his concentration back to the road. Travel during Muslim holidays in Islamic countries using public transport is not recommended. The BibleQuranTorah, otherwise known as my Lonely Planet guide to Tunisia, failed to mention this. I had fought, for many hours, to obtain my square inch of dirty bus floor, to cram myself onto an overcrowded overcrowded and speed towards my next destination. I made it, of course. The bus driver even took the bus off route, delayed his return to Tunis, to find me a taxi. When I offered to pay extra, he refused, demanding less than the actual fare. “Bon vacances!” he called cheerily as I disembarked into the night and an unknown town. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">My Tunisian friend, Anis, marvelled at my determination. “I've never met anyone quite so...independent.” “Let me teach you a new word. Stubborn.” At his quizzical stare, I produced the Arabic translation and he nodded, emphatically. “Yes, you are very stubborn.” I took it as a compliment.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Sheer stubbornness got me through Tunisia. Not intelligence, coyness, grace or flirtation. Stubbornness. Running around bus terminals, tugging on sleeves and asking every person I could how to get to the next city. Pushing through throngs to achieve a seat on a minbus. Shouting in Egyptian Arabic. Being barely understood in said language. That is not to say it was not consummately enjoyable. It was. Flitting through Roman ruins, palm groves, desert oases, ancient medinas, bustling markets...how could it not be? But the journeys there, that was half the fun, at least. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I began in Tunis, arriving on a windswept night of black waters, glittering lights, and cool winds. Tunis is a port city, on the Med, cooled by a sea breeze and warmed by a golden sun. The ancient Romans made Carthage their playground; the modern Tunisians have added electricity, swanky villas, and roads, but the views they enjoy from Byrsa hill, heart of ancient Rome, remain the same, sweeping views down the water, blinded by a thousand hues of blue . Add a few Roman pillars, headless statues, crumbling glory, and you'll find me clambering amongst this strange melange of old and new, shaded palm groves harbouring Roman temples, high walls sheltering the President's palace. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Anis, a friend of a frien<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/TOmsPj24cJI/AAAAAAAAAXI/yQ9Wwl055JY/s1600/DSC00539.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/TOmsPj24cJI/AAAAAAAAAXI/yQ9Wwl055JY/s320/DSC00539.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542150199779553426" border="0" /></a>d, told me I'm a guest in his country. Then he put me in his car, asked if I'd ever seen the movie Taken (if you recall, a film about kidnapping foreign female tourists and turning them into sex slaves) and drove me north. At the site of Utica, the former Roman capitol (albeit briefly) we disentangled ourselves from the car and set to exploring the half-excavated city, choked by weeds and wildflowers, replete with still vivid mosaics and Punic coffins. Then he took me to his family and a dinner of spicy couscous, lamb, laughter, and garbled attempts at French and Arabic. Then he left me, the next morning, at the bus station, somehow finding me a place on a bus that, it seemed, the entire population of Tunisia also wanted. The queue in front of the ticket window included screeching women, men climbing on other men's shoulders, people choking each other...general chaos. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">After that, the natural stubbornness he so eloquently decried asserted itself. I found my way to Dougga, a magical Roman city built on a hill presiding over th<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/TOmt5-oVQfI/AAAAAAAAAXQ/EYOPBJewtY8/s1600/DSC00679.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/TOmt5-oVQfI/AAAAAAAAAXQ/EYOPBJewtY8/s320/DSC00679.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542152028032418290" border="0" /></a>e fertile valleys beyond. It was here, resting against an ancient Roman pillar, shaded by an olive grove that I smiled. It was slow at first, just a twitch at the edge of my lips, but it spread, split my lips into a wide grin, a beam, as they say, from ear to ear. Whatever lay ahead, whatever lay behind, faded into the simple perfection of ancient Rome brushed by a Tunisian sun, the beauty of the past discovered by the present. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">From this moment of peace came many more. A kind man at the bus station, informing me, courteously, my bus had arrived early, leading me to the queue, accepting my thanks with a shy acceptance. In the palmerie of Tozeur, a desert oasis far in the south, stumbling amongst the prickly trunks and waving fronds, wading through a clear spring, discovering hidden mosques- humble, ramshackle, built with faith and hand- and swaying bridges, laughter rippling in the undulating shadows. A waterfall tumbling out of the desert sands. A lizard crawling through my hair. A black ghost drifting through the brick-worked medina of Tozeur. New friends met on a rooftop. A coliseum rising above the tumble of El-Jem, filling m<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/TOmvPei3jGI/AAAAAAAAAXY/oM-hL5DAHRk/s1600/DSC00894.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/TOmvPei3jGI/AAAAAAAAAXY/oM-hL5DAHRk/s320/DSC00894.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542153496888314978" border="0" /></a>y vision with memories of Gladiator (parts of it were filmed there), expanding to stay my steps as the entirety of its grandeur revealed itself, mysterious, echoing, ghostly. Lady Gaga blasting on a mini bus. Nadia, my seat mate, leaning over and whispering to me, “Take my phone number and call me if you need anything.” The temples of Sbeitla (yes, I know, more ruins) towering over a desolate plain. Sheep that escaped the slaughter, dotting the fields. And shopping, of course. Bartering for Berber jewelry in old souqs, cuddling new scarves and curious wooden puppets. The sea cliffs of Sidi Bou Said, cluttered with picture-perfect white houses and blue doors (a city ordinance actually, the colour design) stepping down to the water.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Peace is not a continuous road; it is rutted with weariness and annoyance. Crowded train rides, harassing men, unheated nights, shared bathrooms. But that smile returned, again and again, unbidden, independent, stubborn. </p>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633081871324254970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32927105.post-73169557437805886862010-11-02T18:01:00.005-05:002010-11-03T14:56:59.139-05:00Race for the Cure, Egypt Style<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/TNGNf7I6qYI/AAAAAAAAAWo/RRRIhkEnKEI/s1600/DSC00394.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/TNGNf7I6qYI/AAAAAAAAAWo/RRRIhkEnKEI/s320/DSC00394.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535360996605602178" border="0" /></a><br /> <style type="text/css">p { margin-bottom: 0.21cm; }</style> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I seem to have most occasional updates to this most itinerant blog of mine. It is not as if nothing ever happens to me. Quite the contrary. Alot seems to happen to me, though most of it too prosaic and base to really be of interest to an audience (or too inappropriate; one needs to be marginally cognizant of future employment when splashing her comings and goings across the interwebs for the generally uninterested human populace to see. Employers, and most especially government agencies, are severely lacking in a sense of humor.). </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">So where does that leave us? Well, it leaves me sitting in this most lovely of cafes at 1 in the morning, watching traffic flash by along Qasr El Aini, listening to the bubbles of sheesha and the strident voices of Arab pop stars on television, staunchly ignoring the backlog of homework and lesson plans cluttering my life. Maalish. No worries. Hakuna Matata. Inshallah, it will all get done, semi-on time and questionably well done. Have another tea, sit back, and enjoy the ride. Welcome to life. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">We all need a car accident in our lives. Ok, maybe not an actual accident,with shattered glass and folded steel, but a hypothetical one at least. We need a jolt, a jarring, a jimmying of our current existence, something to tell us, 'yes, you are still alive, but that could change in the barest blink of metal and concrete and screeching tires. So do something useful for a change.' Or so a dear friend of mine tells me, marveling at the scars on his hands and the sensation of feeling life sift through his hands as the steering wheel lurched into a wall. My car accident happened last summer, when the jumble of my personal inadeqacies and mistakes hit a wall called reality, sat up, and took stock of the <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/TNGNglHADuI/AAAAAAAAAW4/53MHZQJ1p08/s1600/DSC00448.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/TNGNglHADuI/AAAAAAAAAW4/53MHZQJ1p08/s320/DSC00448.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535361007871856354" border="0" /></a>situation. Selflessness is stupid. Selfless people have no self. But selfish people have only fish to keep them company. Ok, bad analogy. Maalish. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">So I did something moderately selfish and moderately selfless last week. I went on Susan G. Komen's Race for the Cure. In Egypt. Selfless, because my participation contributed to something greater than myself, to the awareness of a cause seldom voiced in Egypt, breast cancer. Selfish because it was held at the coolest venue ever – the Pyramids, and a greedy little part of me wanted to be able say. “Oh yeah, so, you did the Race for the Cure in your rinky-dink little hometown? I did mine at the PYRAMIDS! Mwhahaha.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I am not Egyptian, in case you hadn't noticed by the glaring atrocity of my blonde hair, mischevious blue eyes, and Nordic height. I, therefore, am able to judge Egypt unfairly from my ethnocentric, American stereotypes that are clearly superior to anywhere else (can you tell I've been spending too much time with anthropologists. Geez.). As such, I <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/TNGNg0OA2bI/AAAAAAAAAXA/HfdZCdUuZ-A/s1600/DSC00453.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/TNGNg0OA2bI/AAAAAAAAAXA/HfdZCdUuZ-A/s320/DSC00453.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535361011927800242" border="0" /></a>expected the event to be disorganized, chaotic, and frustrating. It was none of those things. The shuttle bus awaited me at 7:30 am in Maadi, departed on time to the pyramids and deposited me at the front gate amid a swelling mass of similarly white-shirt clad Racers. I found my friends easily, despite the burgeoning crowd. We passed smoothly through the gates into the Pyramids proper, boarded a waiting bus and drove 10 minutes to the start line of the race on a fairly average plateau overlooking the last remaining wonder of the world in the clear glory of a blue Cairo morning. We milled amongst the multitudes, danced a bit to Michael Jackson, jostled near the starting line as the announcer told us the race would start, 'inshallah' in 10 minutes. It wasn't an unpleasant wait. Veiled and unveiled women, young and old, men and women, stood excitedly around us, playing drums and singing, waving banners and parading. An unseen signal released the horde upon the poor tourists merely attempting the visit the pyrmaids. 20,000 strong, we flooded the plateau of Giza in a sea of white and pink, sprinting, jogging, and strolling downhill, swirling amongst the pyramids, clambering atop their stones for photos, around the tourist buses stuck on the road, amidst the camels and horses, past ancient funerary temples and halting in front of the Sphinx, sweaty, laughing, and somewhat sun-burned, even at 11 in the morning. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/TNGNgRdwnHI/AAAAAAAAAWw/YYMZz3RdCe4/s1600/DSC00427.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/TNGNgRdwnHI/AAAAAAAAAWw/YYMZz3RdCe4/s320/DSC00427.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535361002598603890" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">A ceremony of sorts was held at the pavilion facing the Sphinx featuring music, loud Arabic orations, and general revelry. Jackie, Mark and I instead ditched the party and struck out into Giza, grabbing some street food, a taxi, and, eventually, a long Metro ride home. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">This is the first time in five years that I have spent more than one year in a single location. The first time I could not merely flit away come May or June to a new adventure, leaving the wake of my old one behind. The first time I have a home of sorts, however dysfunctional, to return to. Casual acquaintances to remember and inquire after their summer. Favorite cafes and haunts to revisit and be welcomed like family. It's nice. Cavorting whimsically through careers, lives, friends, loves, and countries sounds terribly romantic, but this odd desire to be settled, semi-permanently, wars against it. I don't mean 2.5 kids and a white picket fence, but, permanency. Permanency. Stability? Selflessness? Selfishness? Somewhere in this amorphous world of vague terms lies a future. I suppose that's where I come in. To find it. </p>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633081871324254970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32927105.post-68547762267880935342010-10-10T18:18:00.000-05:002010-10-10T18:19:02.583-05:00Watching<style type="text/css">p { margin-bottom: 0.21cm; }</style> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I look up, up, past the faded, torn, uselessly fluttering pendants strung across the sky, past the ferny leaves of an unnamed tree, through an opaque sky suffused in pollution to a single, resilient star above Cairo. A tiny yellow butterfly flits through the sheesha smoke of the cafe, dipping and dancing in intoxicating scents of cherry, peach and apple. A stray dog limps by in the shadows, barking at the rattle of a passing taxi. Cards shuffle at a nearby table, diamonds and hearts and words exchange hands, implacably. The metro tracks rumble as a train shuffles onward, bearing the veiled sighs and weary eyes of another day. Somewhere, a cat snarls, mewls and silences. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">A sliver of Cairo, one of millions. I could be here 20 years and see nothing, Travel from the verdant streets of Maadi to the dusty tombs of the dead, from the congested chaos of Nasr City to the quiet arrogance of Zamalek. Circle the city in a day, get lost in the call to prayer and the bright lights glittering against the Nile, the donkey cart straining across the highway, piled with tomatoes and cucumbers and zucchini and bright peppers, the black Mercedes, tinted windows and shiny facades, purr past. But I have only a few months, a handful of moments, a dearth of time and a glutton of desire . But that, I suppose, could be said of life as well, at the end. Looking back, calculating and evaluating, regretting and smiling. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> I was in bed, it was one of those rare moments of imperfect contentment, too hot to sleep, too engrossed in a novel to want to, when I looked at the hour. 3 am. And it brought me to another world, another time, another clime. I looked at myself, then, curled beneath blankets as snow fell outside my window, nose buried in a book. I wanted to say hi, do you recognize me? This is you, 6 years older. I thought of you, just now, remembered how you used to spend your nights wrapped around a book. You'll take a break, for a few years, run around the world losing yourself and, yes, finding yourself too. But, one day, there you will be, somewhere in the stirring sands of a distant desert, falling in love again with words on a page, startled when dawn taps you on the shoulder with an apologetic smile. I didn't say anything, though to that girl. And she didn't even notice me, silly thing. Too caught up in the Da Vinci Code. Watched her for a few moments, cheesy grin pasted on my face, before I returned to the much more expedient task of finishing The Book Thief. I wondered, fleetingly, what future me might be watching, what secrets she could whisper in my ear. But I didn't notice a thing, too caught up in my book. </p>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633081871324254970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32927105.post-87101797661150877202010-09-22T16:39:00.001-05:002010-09-22T16:42:43.416-05:00A toastI followed a white whale today. Yesterday, I watched the wings of a bat flutter through the fingers of a palm tree. Last week, I heard the rhythm of the Red Sea bubble and grunt and splash and creak. I felt the prickle of a sand dollar and let it lie, half-buried beneath a shifty shoal. I saw the sun touch the mountains of the Sinai with a golden finish, saw it rise and set over a desert plain. I tasted love at the bottom of a lukewarm drink, glimpsed it flit away and nestle among the smile of starlight. Something shifted, something burned, everything changed. <br />Everything, and nothing. Days passed. Life happened. Words twisted the air, wrinkled and rent it. I slept. I grumbled. I laughed. I cleaned. I complained. I cursed. I learned. I ate. I noticed. I noticed a baby sleeping on the platform of the Metro, tiny fist clenched at the indignation of a dream. I noticed a blood-red moon rise over a decaying city. I noticed 20 million people sigh as a canon pierced the air. No more Ramadan. No more fasting. Slightly less inefficiency. And I danced. I danced in the silk blue folds of the sea, tangoed with groupers and flirted with lionfish. I danced on the side of road, at 3 am. Ruined tire and scruffy rocks, semi lights flashing, cigarettes burning. Forget Burning Man. It was Burned Rubber, Egypt style. I danced in the arms of another, I danced in the arms of no one. <br />Let me take you somewhere, for a moment. Listen to the tangle of foamy waves against a rocky seashore. Rush and recede, ebb and flow, purr and shush. Bubbles from a sheesha, clouds of fruity temptation from across the table. You let a glass, slippery and sultry, settle on the table. Look up, suddenly. Clusters of constellations, winking and twinkling, teasing and tantalizing. You recognize Venus, or is it Mars. Over the sea, across an undulating water, an unknown city of lights. Happy September 11th. Hello Saudi Arabia. To those 19 souls who crossed an ocean 9 years ago? Burn in hell. And you drink to that.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633081871324254970noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32927105.post-29828123203300339042010-05-31T21:50:00.005-05:002010-06-01T18:45:16.531-05:00Passing through...<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/TAR6bJqW7HI/AAAAAAAAAWI/7WYJm0tzHds/s1600/DSC00094.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477637653658004594" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/TAR6bJqW7HI/AAAAAAAAAWI/7WYJm0tzHds/s320/DSC00094.JPG" /></a><br />“You’re beautiful.”<br />“Excuse me?” I blinked at the Egypt Air clerk confusedly; normally, I would have expected such a comment from the male populace of Egypt, but my general state of exhaustion and the chaos and emotions that accompany leaving left me somewhat vulnerable to predatory check-in attendants.<br />“You are beautiful.” He smiled at me, and I smiled skeptically back. He ran through the usual questions, and handed me my boarding pass, brushing my fingers as he did so. I rolled my eyes, grabbed my carry-on, and found a strong coffee in the eating area to jolt me awake until boarding and pass out time.<br />Oh, Egypt. I stood on Qasr El Aini Street, looking out over downtown mere hours before I needed to depart, and I breathed deeply—breathed in the pollution, the car horns, the smell of falafel and grease from the little stand around the corner, the playful breeze rippling off the Nile, the crescent moon hung like a pendant in the sky, and my favorite scent in the whole world—sheesha, fruity, intoxicating whiffs of sheesha-- from a café. It took me two years to discover true love, sustainable love—not the oriental, extravagant fantasies of my 20-year old self, gallivanting on horseback around the pyramids every other week, filling my room with baubles from the Khan, and dining in the ultra-chic Sequoia on a whim. That Cairo, although exhilarating, was a quick fling, a self-destructive satisfaction; my new Cairo is certainly less extraordinary—it doesn’t involve moonlight gallops on horseback or frequent trips to posh restaurants in Zamalek, but it is stable, replete with simple pleasures and new discoveries. It is sitting in an ‘ahwa with Christal in Maadi, sipping herbal tea, listening to the clatter of backgammon dice against the wooden board and the bubble of sheesha from the men sitting around us. It is trying different fooul restaurants downtown to determine the best, where to find the cheapest aish. It is waking up covered in a light sheen of sweat, my windows open wide to the shimmering heat of summer and the hum of neighbors’ voices. This is what I miss; oh, and I suppose the people too.<br />So it was with a melancholy heart that I left Cairo; not that I really remember leaving—I was pleasantly slumbering (snoring) before the plane even turned onto the desert runway. I blinked, once, ate the food being thrust at me, and woke again as the plane touched European soil in Amsterdam.<br />I am blessed with amazing friends—my roommate owns a flat in a French village outside of Paris, and the keys to it jangled in my pocket as I exited the airport, a week of French epicurean and sartorial decadency at hand. At the Eurorail office, I asked for the next ticket to Paris. “Ummm, not until 7, maybe 6:30?” It was not yet 10 am. “Errrr, ok. How much?” “133 Euros.” “Is it normally that much?” “Well, if you book in advance it’s cheaper, and it’s a holiday.” Rawr. I handed over my hard-earned Euros and napped on the floor of the train station.<br />I dragged my giant green monstrosity of a suitcase off the train in the Gare du Nord train station of Paris and lugged it down the stairs that lead the RER (suburban rail) and Metro, assuming this was the proper route to Chantilly, my final destination. After waiting in queue for about 5 minutes, I approached the ticket machine, typed in my destination, and got an error message. “Ummmm.” I turned to two French girls standing behind me. “Chantilly? Do you know where Chantilly is?” My French was still a bit rusty, and I had not slept in several days. They consulted each other. “I think, that machine there.” One gestured to an SNCF machine nearby. Seeing the clueless expression on my face, she said, “Come,” and found the next train to Chantilly on its screen, departing at 10:37. I inserted my credit card. DENIED. I tried my other one. DENIED. “You need, you need this special chip,” she said, showing me her credit card that did, indeed, have a symbol for an electronic chip. “Upstairs, you can go to a booth.” I hoped they were not merely trying to get rid of me. “Ok, merci beaucoup!”<br />Back I trudged to the upper world of the Gare du Nord. Ahhhh SNCF! I saw a long row of windows with ‘ferme’ signs in each of them. Closed. “Merde,” I muttered, glancing at the clock. 10:20. If I didn’t catch the next and last train, I would be sleeping in the train station for the night. Standing in front of one of the machines, frantically considering my options, I noticed a man at a machine next to me purchasing a ticket. Unlike my attempts, his yielded an actual ticket. I almost called him over, but I was still hesitant and he headed off in the other direction. 10:25. The man was coming back in my direction. “Excuse me? Do you speak English?” I asked in a tentative, breathless and slightly panicked voice. “Yes.” And he came over to my machine. I explained my conundrum and asked if I could give him cash if he would pay for my ticket. “Of course, no problem.” A few minutes later, my ticket in hand, I looked around the train station. 18 different platforms stretched across its breadth, none of them saliently labeled and several of them puffing ominously. “Do you know where this train is?” He led me across the station to the departures board. “Ah, there, 10:37, yes?” I nodded. “18, right over there.” I thanked him profusely as he rushed off to catch his own train and I slid into the doors of the Chantilly-bound train gratefully.<br />I leaned against the seat wearily and closed my eyes. “Billet? Bonsoir, mademoiselle.” I wordlessly handed him my ticket as he tried again. “Bonsoir?” “Bonsoir, merci,” I responded haltingly as he clipped the ticket. He smiled cheerfully and moved onto the next passenger. “Bonsoir!”<br />I descended in Chantilly and followed two people down the tunnel and up through the exit to Parc Hugo. Shadows and rustling trees, dark streets and a glowing moon filled the strange world around me. I hustled to catch up to couple ahead. “Umm, pardon. La rue de connaitable?” “Oh, you should have gone other way,” responded the woman, her male companion also pausing to interject. “But you can go this way. Take the next right. After two,” and he opened and closed his fists while I looked on helplessly. “Lights,” piped in the woman. “At the second light, turn right. Then left. There you are.” “Thank you!” I called as they turned off on a side street, leaving me alone in this strange world of leafy avenues, Baroque villas tucked behind lacy iron fences, and wide cobblestoned streets. All was quiet, not the Cairo quiet always suffused with the distant honk of cars and the hum of air conditioners and faulty wiring and bowabs shouting, but a quiet in which the earth itself seemed to exhale in the warm spring air.<br />A white, furry dog galumphed past, its owner several steps behind. “Ummm, pardon. La rue de connaitable?” “Bonsoir, mademoiselle.” He proceeded to rattle off in mellifluous French the route I should take. “D’accord. Continuer tout droit, tourner la gauche, au fountain, tournez a droit, et continuez.” “Ouais….Viens!” And so I was led to my street by a Chilean man and his frolicking white dog. At the start of rue de connaitable, he stopped and asked, I think, if I needed more help. “Non, merci beaucoup beaucoup!” He retreated. The street of Connaitable is lined, on either side, with creamy, connected houses, two stories high, tall, red shuttered windows marking the upper floors. Softly glowing streetlamps lit my passage into Marie Antoinette’s France. Bakeries, shuttered for the night, still wafted a faint scent of delicious bread into the street; restaurants with decadent offerings lay behind closed doors; an equestrian boutique advertising the nearby polo club displayed breeches and soft leather saddles in the window; and then, finally, number 76. I walked though the carriage house doors, through a small stone passageway into the courtyard in<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/TAR7l6BaeYI/AAAAAAAAAWY/k5pUnJlUyLc/s1600/DSC09822.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477638937949927810" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/TAR7l6BaeYI/AAAAAAAAAWY/k5pUnJlUyLc/s320/DSC09822.JPG" /></a> the back, cluttered with amorphous shapes sunk into darkness, relieved only by the faint glow from a nearby, curtained window. I turned the key in the lock, holding my breath. Click! Breathing an audible sigh of relief, I dragged my luggage through the aperture, up the very narrow staircase, and into the flat that is to be my abode for the rest of the week.<br />Although it was almost midnight, and not a soul stirred the quietude of the street, I threw open my tall windows and gazed at the moon I had seen the night before from a different continent and a different life. I rested my elbows on the low iron railing and let my soul exhale, slowly, in the balmy night, let my insecurities and stresses and troubles float into the cloudless night sky sunk into a cobalt blue sewn with tiny diamonds sparkling from the heavens.<br />This trip was never intended to be fraught with the bombardment of excitement that Africa was; it rolled along, languidly, whimsically, jauntily. On my first morning, I clambered out of bed and threw open my curtains to an increasingly cloudy sky, brooding clouds racing to gobble up the periwinkle vault above. Hmmmph. I clattered down the stairs and strolled (in France, one must, stroll, saunter, or perhaps sashay; walking is forbidden) down the street and into the nearest bakery where my senses were deliciously assaulted. For supper I ambled to the local supermarket and raided the meat and cheese section—ham and decent, European cheese. On a whim, I bought a bottle of wine, just because I could. That was the day of the Dreaded Paper, which I finished that evening. In celebration, I walked to the local Tabac and bought two bottles of Diet Coke. Very French.<br />Unbound by scholarly musings, I decided a Promenade was in order; I strode down the Rue de Connetable, chanced upon a flea market in the village square and spent a good hour selecting my first French outfit, continued past the Royal Stables resembling a Gothic palace more than a place to keep horses, under the stone archway restricting traffic to one-way inside Chantilly, past the glorious chateau surrounded on all sides by a small lake, and into the woodlands along a dirt path next to the palace grounds. Straight, smooth trunks reared up on one side of the pathway; the other side was bordered by an ancient, crumbling wall. Green light filled my vision, and the verdancy of the foliage contrasted with the leaden rain clouds drip drip dripping on the path. Half an hour later, without meeting a soul save an ornery snail, hearing only the whoosh of wind through wet leaves, I discovered a small village and lay on a bench in a little garden, reading.<br />To go to Paris or stay in Chantilly? This was the dilemma I found myself faced with the next day. I settled on Paris, and made my way to the train station. An hour later, I stepped off in Gare du Nord and descended into the Metro system, hopping on the purple line to St. Michel. I emerged into the watery light of afternoon and the bustle of Parisians rushing purposefully down the broad sidewalks. Ahhh, Paris. Without further ado, I spotted my quarry, Promod, only the world’s best clothing store. Emerging with a lighter wallet and an arm full of clothes, I did not feel yet like returning to the halcyon atmosph<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/TAR4FMxwElI/AAAAAAAAAV4/CSooO_QFOc0/s1600/DSC09853.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477635077513941586" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/TAR4FMxwElI/AAAAAAAAAV4/CSooO_QFOc0/s320/DSC09853.JPG" /></a>ere of Chantilly. So I took a side street, found the Seine and Notre Dame, crossed the river, proceeded another 10 minutes or so, and then came upon another Promod. Half an hour and another shopping bag later, I decided it was time to return to Chantilly.<br />On Friday I finally penetrated the mysteries of the chateau and coughed up the 19 Euros to see the castle itself, the grounds, the Royal Stables and a dressage show. My pictures hardly do the chateau justice; someone told me it is famed for its elaborate, rather ostentatious façade, and I agree. As Akshaya, who will arrive in our story later this evening, said of its appearance, “And this is why the French Revolution happened.” Happily, I found the castle populated by two Asian tourists, French schoolchildren, a few old men, and me. There were no queues, no crowded rooms, just me and the ghosts of a doomed family. <br />Pass through the gilded gates and walk up the sloping ramp to the main courtyard; pause, and drink in the delicate, flourish-covered spectacle in front of you. A channel separates the palace from land, connected to the lake surrounding the chateau. Intricate stone figurines, florid shapes and fantastic imaginations cover the front of the castle; pass under the ominous iron grille and enter the inner courtyard; walk further into the castle’s mysteries and discover the marble-encased beauty of its halls, chambers, chapel, and corridors; priceless paintings and stone statues, stained glass windows and painted ceilings; sumptuous velvets and ornate antiques all attest to an époque of unparallele<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/TAR4FhMjoYI/AAAAAAAAAWA/b5eVHeytolM/s1600/DSC09849.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477635082995081602" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/TAR4FhMjoYI/AAAAAAAAAWA/b5eVHeytolM/s320/DSC09849.JPG" /></a>d luxury and unconscionable wealth.<br />But then walk outside, and marvel at the miles of gardens, lawns, and fountains on the property, the small hamlet where the Comtes could emulate a more bucolic life, the wallabie farm because the duchess wanted them, the Chinese garden full of burbling waterfalls and sinuous koi. We’re not done yet; walk across the field to the Royal Stables and enter its echoing hall filled with the soft grunts and whuffs of the show horses stabled in its interior. Although partly under renovation, it is easy to see the sumptuous world the dukes had created for their horses; indoor arenas, outdoor practice rings, large stalls for their prized equines.<br />While waiting for Akshaya (you may remember, she’s an ex-roomie from that first year in Cairo), I went first to a fromagerie, a cheese store, and had the proprietor select three savory cheeses for me and then to Ca<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/TAR4EREM9oI/AAAAAAAAAVo/qjmWrgRx8C8/s1600/DSC00021.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477635061485205122" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/TAR4EREM9oI/AAAAAAAAAVo/qjmWrgRx8C8/s320/DSC00021.JPG" /></a>fé Noir (I love the prevalence of alcohol in Europe) and downed three glasses of wine while taking advantage of their wifi. Then, off to the train station at 10:30 to welcome Akshaya with big hugs and giddiness and laughter.<br />Akshaya was a Paris virgin before visiting me; I am happy to say I initiated her into its many splendors. Before leaving Chantilly the next morning, we chanced upon the Saturday market and each bought equally gaudy outfits to commemorate our French adventures. And then, off to Paris! Getting lost a bit in the bowels of the train station, walking everywhere, from Notre Dame to the Hotel de Ville where we saw an exhibit on human rights, to the Centre Pompidou and a horribly unfunny mime to the Louvre and the Seine and quaint side streets, through the Tuilieries Gardens and the Place de Concorde, all of which were overrun by fervent rugby fans with painted faces, flags, matching outfits and raucous cheers, up the Champs Elysees to the Arch De Triomphe and past the absurdly overpriced designer boutiques, back into the Metro, to the Odeon area where we bought candy and finally admitted defeat. She fell asleep on my leg that evening (<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/TAR4Egp2O4I/AAAAAAAAAVw/JPgVQ2qq2sI/s1600/DSC00049.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477635065669630850" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/TAR4Egp2O4I/AAAAAAAAAVw/JPgVQ2qq2sI/s320/DSC00049.JPG" /></a>I had no linens and my bed was narrower than a twin, so she was unfortunately relegated to the floor) while I chatted online and eventually settled her head onto a pile of clothes.<br />Though we had seen the Eiffel Tower the day before, and she had emitted a little squeal when she first saw its phallic thrust above the rooftops of Paris, we ventured the next morning to its base, where we frolicked on the lawn in front, took silly pictures, made disgusting faces at the love-stricken couples, and lay gazing at it in wonderment. Who knew, when we parted ways three years ago, that Paris would be our next reunion? That she would be in law school at Columbia, and I in grad school at AUC? It gives me hope for the location of o<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/TAR6bTFq5kI/AAAAAAAAAWQ/ovGs9vyJLws/s1600/europe_230.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477637656188479042" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/TAR6bTFq5kI/AAAAAAAAAWQ/ovGs9vyJLws/s320/europe_230.JPG" /></a>ur next rendezvous. It was Mother's Day in France, that day, and, as we sat on the Metro, we saw men rushing past with bouquets of flowers and men stuffing books and perfume into cute gift bags. Men, it seems, really aren't that different the world over; why not procrastinate when you can buy early? <br />We rushed to catch the train back to Chantilly, did a short walking tour of the city by daylight, packed our things, bid au revoir to the small flat that cradled my dreams for a week, caught the train back to Gare du Nord, arrived with 10 minutes to catch our departing train to Brussels, transferred to a train bound for Amsterdam, watched the conveniently placed red light district and the lingerie-clad prostitutes in Brussels flash by, shivered as the sun slipped from the sky, the canals and fields passing the train faded from sight, and disentangled ourselves at Den Haag, Akshaya’s home. After an attempt at taking the tram, we found the track ‘blocked’ by a car parked too close and would have waited several hours until a crane arrived to move it…cab it was. Short night of sleep, back to the train station (for me) the next morning, onto the airport, and home, finally.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633081871324254970noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32927105.post-42052485671157440522010-04-27T16:21:00.001-05:002010-04-27T18:48:07.353-05:00Musings from a BeachFor me, it’s Dahab. That place where the world ceases to turn, where life slows to a gentle amble along the seashore, whe<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S9d13oUVv4I/AAAAAAAAAVQ/Of-SNHfO1Hs/s1600/DSC09792.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464966271413370754" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S9d13oUVv4I/AAAAAAAAAVQ/Of-SNHfO1Hs/s320/DSC09792.JPG" /></a>re the waves laugh against the rocks, where the smell of incense, sheesha, and fresh seafood waft through the air, where palms cast sifting shadows on the sand. It’s a place that is both imperfect and idyllic, a place where I can sit and tilt my head back, let the breeze tangle my hair, and know tranquility. I realize it sounds a bit clichéd, a bit corny, but every time I come to this place, every time my bus passes through the final checkpoint of the Sinai, I feel, well, exhaustion after the 9 hour bus ride, but also a lightness of being and a glow of inexplicable joy. In reality, it is only a rocky beach, a few shoreside cafes that serve overpriced food, jellyfish-prone waters, and tempering breezes, but it is happiness.<br />So, I’m writing this at 2 am, coming home after a night of dance clubs and French fry snacks, a day of sunshine and saltwater. Everyone else has retired, and the garden of my Bedouin camp is bathed in shadows and quietude, the bathroom light providing the only means of illumination. The dreadlocked hippies next door have put aside their hashish and Jack Johnson for the night; the wild dogs howling outside and the man snoring in the tent a few feet away remind me that I am not the only soul in this starlit world.<br />Well, I wrote the above two paragraphs, glanced at the clock and bolted off to bed. Nights are lovely, but daytime is the best part of Dahab. Right now I’m sitting in the Funny Mummy restaurant, the Red Sea drifting calmly a few meters away. Saudi looms on the horizon, dark mountains towering esoterically, turning golden in the sunshine. The water is so calm I feel like I could step of the edge of Egypt and glide my way across its sunlit surface, peering down at the brilliant coral and lurking barracuda, sinuous eels and the translucent jellyfish.<br />I just bopped a kitty on nose, and it stretched languorously onto its back, paws stuck comically in the air, yawning profusely. The splash of hooves against the rocky shore precedes a beautiful bay horse walking past, its rider eliciting business. Next time, perhaps. Alas that my weekend of leisure will end in a few hours and I will be crammed on a mini bus back to the chaos of Cairo.<br />Not that I don’t love Cairo, of course. But, w<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S9d14SDcJ0I/AAAAAAAAAVg/JJuGhj1mnuA/s1600/DSC09799.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464966282616776514" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S9d14SDcJ0I/AAAAAAAAAVg/JJuGhj1mnuA/s320/DSC09799.JPG" /></a>ith every lover, little tiffs interpret the gentle flow of affection, usually assuaged soon thereafter. So it is with my current home. I love its markets and its vibrancy, the fact that I can go dancing in the Four Seasons and then, at 3 am, walk a few blocks away and buy a 50 cent meal. Horseback riding under a moonless night, when the pyramids surge into view after cantering up a sand dune. The sensual markets of luscious peaches, voluptuous melons, tangy berries, bright red tomatoes, smooth cucumbers, rotund eggplant, and crisp apples.<br />But, rawr, certain moments try one’s patience. I was walking through Maadi one night, after a class ran late, to the main artery of my neighborhood, Road 9, where one can find somewhat reasonably priced groceries at the local end. I took a shortcut, as is my wont, and was almost to my destination when I heard a car screech behind me. Zift (Crap). Car harassment is a common occurrence everywhere in the world; men really never change. But Cairo men seem to not understand that women don’t actually respond to catcalls, honks, and other such techniques.<br />Well, I found one of the very persistent types that night. A car door slammed behind me and I heard the slap of shoes against the pavement. I quickened my pace and saw the cheerful glow of Road 9 ahead. “Hello, long walk. My name is Mohammed. Come into our car.”<br />I turned onto Road 9 and walked down it swiftly, resolutely ignoring the man shouldering his way down the road next to me. “Come on, what’s your name? Why are you ignoring me? Don’t be scared.”<br />I risked a quick glance in his direction. Uh-oh. I, in my baggy sweatpants and a tee-shirt, had attracted one of the tallest Egyptian males in the country. Most are scrawny, underfed and/or malnourished, and short. Mohammed reached out and grabbed me. “Come on, be nice.” His friends drove past slowly in their car, leering. I stepped onto the sidewalk; he followed me, blocking my way. He reached towards my face and snatched my glasses. I screeched, literally, at him in Arabic only, shouting and threatening to call the police. “But I am the police.” He pulls something out of his wallet, ostensibly a form of police id. “ Come on, I don’t rape girls.” And then I lost it, darted past him and his friends and rushed into the nearest supermarket, where the workers stood lookout until Mohammed and his friends finally tired of their games and left.<br />I continued along the road, shakily, until I arrived at my favorite fruit stand that was just closing at 1 am, run by a woman and her young daughter. Greeted with a gap-toothed grin and an ahlan, I selected my peaches and apples and paid a paltry sum. Maa salaama, ya gamila! Cackled the woman as I shuffled off, and I turned to smile. Like any city, Cairo brings out both the best and the worst of humanity, and one can take an experience like that night and allow it to mar this place. I choose to learn from my experiences, at least as much as a (very, thanks to the beach) blonde me can; why should I consider Cairo any safer than any major world capital its size? Foreigners, at times, get lulled into a bubble of false superiority, that because some Egyptians treat us with sugary obsequiousness, that because our jobs pay more in a month than many locals make in a year, we are omnipotent. Most of my female friends, despite the verbal harassment, will say they feel safer in Cairo than in any other large metropolis, that the Arab sense of hospitality will extricate them from any situation that escalates beyond the norm. To be honest, I used to belong to the same camp when I had only just arrived to the Middle East, when I saw the superficial veneer of chivalry and was yet unable to chip away at its shallow surface.<br />Bollocks, I now say. Of course, our Arab neighbors and friends would react indignantly, would defend us under the duress of harassment, just as I would similarly expect neighbors and friends to in most of our homelands. But, complete strangers? A few, to be certain, like anywhere in the world. The world is full of nice people and mean people. But would the entire street rush to our succor, compelled to do so by the purported generosity and hospitality somehow unique in the Arab world? Hell no. And, it’s good I’ve been learning that lesson this year; it spirits away quite a few disillusions and is facilitating a necessary change in behavior and mentality.<br />But the Middle East will always surprise you. About a month ago, I unfurled myself from a long night’s slumber and cranked Jazy-Z and Taylor Swift over the Friday morning sermon filtering in through my window. Christal bopped her head into my room. “Morning, sunshine!”<br />“Morning, gorgeous! Hey, are you up to anything today?”<br />“No. No plans whatsoever.”<br />“Wanna go to the zoo?”<br />And so we went. The concept of ‘zoo’ is fundamentally different in Cairo. Interaction between guest and animal is strictly forbidden in America and Europe; we are there as observers, as visitors to gaze from afar at animals in a simulation of their natural habitat. The Giza Zoo has a different take; after walking from the Metro stop in Doqqi past the usual collection of jumbled stores selling spices and incense and shoes and whole goat carcasses and Mercedes and fresh orange juice and tight clothing, we wound our way around several green parks (Cairo never ceases to surprise me; I think I know it all, but then I discover a neighborhood full of flower gardens and giant palms amidst the choking traffic of Giza) full of families picnicking and finally encountered the formidable gates of the Zoo.<br />We pushed our way to the front of the ticket line, purchased the 20 LE tickets, and jostled our way through the crunch of Egyptians exiting and entering through a narrow outlet. Within 10 seconds, we began to be accosted by hawkers selling food, drinks, souvenirs, lion pettings…Wait, lion pettings? “Christal, wait a sec?” I stumbled through negotiations until Christal intervened and, together, we agreed on a price. 30 LE, including a photograph. Christal opted to merely watch, slightly appalled, I think, at the exploitation of the zoo’s animals. Happily, I harbor no such qualms.<br />The photographer strode off purposefully towards the lion enclosures, passing bushy-maned lions roaring in their cages, stalking back and forth as the crowds milled. “Big or little?” The photographer asked, in Arabic. “Big?” I asked, in question, but he took it as my response and led me through a door that held several <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S9d13DfDsuI/AAAAAAAAAVI/HCQV5c_IShc/s1600/DSC09745.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464966261526213346" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S9d13DfDsuI/AAAAAAAAAVI/HCQV5c_IShc/s320/DSC09745.JPG" /></a>bored-looking lions flopped down in a cage. The keeper smiled toothlessly at me and rattled their cage. The males leapt to their feet, padded to the bars of the cage, and growled, shaking their manes. Cuddling with pissed-off, agitated, and who-knows-how-hungry adult lions? “Small!”<br />And we were led to another door that held half-grown lions, adorable little furballs that blinked sleepily as I approached and let me hug them and kiss them. Probably drugged. Of course, the photographer attempted to charge us more, claiming that he took two pictures, and therefore they would cost twice as much, and I think I paid him 4 extra LE and shooed him away.<br />Almost every exhibit allowed the guest to interact with the animal in some form, for a bit of baksheesh, of course. All of the antelope-type critters had keepers standing beside them, holding hay that guests could hold over the edge of the cage. The monkeys, aside from being fed by food thrown in by guests, were also attended by keepers that had fruit on long poles they allowed visitors to poke through the cage. The black bears reared on their hind legs and swatted massive paws through the cage bars as their handlers walk<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S9d1330irlI/AAAAAAAAAVY/8AMupccbOSo/s1600/DSC09732.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464966275574967890" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S9d1330irlI/AAAAAAAAAVY/8AMupccbOSo/s320/DSC09732.JPG" /></a>ed around the edge of enclosure, occasionally feeding bits of meat. Wisely, they didn’t let visitors get too close.<br />At the hippo pools, I walked up to the edge of the cage, plucked some greens from the handler’s cart, and stuck my hand in a hippo’s mouth; you never realize quite how massive those jaws are until your hand is dwarfed by the sheer size of the tongue and stubby teeth. Leaning against the rails of the elephant pen, Christal and I found little pieces of apple thrust into our hand by the keeper, and then an inquisitive, grey nose, attached to a long trunk, pluck it from our hands and place it delicately in its mouth. The elephant made its round of the crowd, delighting the children and adults alike as it nosed its way into their hearts (no pun intended, of course).<br />Zoos are problematic to begin with; anytime you confine a wild animal to a limited habitat, its quality of life decreases. This may sound rather arrogant, but I’ve seen several of these animals roaming in the wild, elephant herds crossing the plains of Botswana, lions loping through the Serengeti, and zoos are woefully inadequate in terms of space. Does that mean they shouldn’t exist? Not necessarily.<br />Cairo could certainly improve its zoo; the cages could be larger, cleaner, better organized, less harassment, the keepers better paid. But the animals were stimulated! In the wild, animals remain engaged from the environment around them- predators and prey, weather, fellow species. But, normally, zoos confine separate species to individual cages and leave them to graze laconically or sprawl across the grass. I’ve never seen animals so animated as in Egypt.<br />And the people watching was nearly as fantastic as the lion petting and hippo feeding and elephant nosing. Families from the villages encountering the animal world for the first time, wrinkled old crones exclaiming over the monkeys and blonde-haired foreigners, families lunching on the grass, gangs of boys making lewd comments toward me, young couples shyly holding hands; truly a menagerie.<br />I don’t consider myself a snob in most respects. I will squat over a squalid hole and pee with the best of them, but the Cairo Zoo defeated me. I paid the bathroom attendant a pound to use the bathroom, entered the ladies’ side, and found myself crushed in an unwashed horde of aggressive women vying for three toilets. As one person squeezed into the door and shut it, three more pushed forward and formed a formidable barrier in front of it, knocking repeatedly, cracking the door open and checking the occupant’s progress. And the stench was slightly nauseating, even by my Egyptian-acclimated standards.<br />I confess I fled back to Christal and we proceeded towards the exit, walked back to Doqqi, and passed the Sheraton.<br />“Hmmmm, Christal, bathroom stop?”<br />Foreigners who complain about Cairo have a few valid points; but our status as ‘wealthy’ white people allows us access into venues unavailable to the average Egyptian. I emptied my bladder in 5 star luxury, wiped my behind with American toilet tissue, dried my hands on freshly laundered towels, all because I look the part of Western. It’s quite unfair, really, but I didn’t complain that day. We exited the marble-encased Sheraton and had a lunch of greasy finger food at a local joint for 2 dollars and then paid 20 cents for our Metro ride home.<br />And now I’m back in Maadi, having typed and dozed my way through the Sinai, still awed by the beauty of the sheer cliffs and glittering lagoons and moon-washed mountains, by the lights of 4 nations shining in a Red Sea night. The indolence of the last 3 days must cease; school and work clamor for my time, wonderful roommates poke their head into my messy room (“So, how was it?” “Interesting. Dahab is always lovely; it’s one’s companions that add fodder for my future memoirs), and sleep murmurs my name. So, good night, my dears, may peace find you, wherever in this wide world you are. A-salaam alayikum.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633081871324254970noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32927105.post-10050024062942314872010-01-31T16:10:00.006-06:002010-01-31T18:42:34.803-06:00Cairo to Cape Town<div align="left">Namibia stretched to the limits of my vision, a periwinkle sky falling off the edge of the earth. I closed my eyes and heard the soft rustle of savannah grass wiggling in the wind, the lonesome call of a Zazu bird, the buzz of insects hovering, t<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YUtLxpsHI/AAAAAAAAAUI/ZUIFdB1PyVU/s1600-h/DSC09031.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433052766956793970" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YUtLxpsHI/AAAAAAAAAUI/ZUIFdB1PyVU/s320/DSC09031.JPG" /></a>he crunch of footsteps on gravel, the clink of tent poles, and the hum of voices floating above me. We were on a dirt road off a gravel road off a semi-paved road, broken down in the middle of nowhere. It harboured a quiet beauty, this place; it didn’t flaunt perfection like Victoria Falls; like much of Africa, its charm came after observation- a lone acacia framed in the setting sun, a dry riverbed still green and growing, a distant vista of rock mountains turned copper at sunset. And as I watched the sun fall from the sky, I could imagine no campsite more dazzling.<br />They say God created Africa first, when he still had imagination and ingenuity. When he could still create sweeping vistas and endless herds, graceful falls and tall dunes, desolate coasts and teeming plains. It is a place to spend a night watching the panoply of stars cross the heavens, miles from any civilization, a place to drive for hours into the middle of nowhere to sit and watch a Botswana sunset splash across the sky in fiery oranges and molten reds, a place where elephants still have the right of way, a place where earth and sky expand to fill the hori<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YbKaDwUKI/AAAAAAAAAVA/v3floneiYkg/s1600-h/IMG_0899.JPG"></a>zon and you wonder how there is any room for people at all.<br />My sojourn began in my small bedroom in Cairo, when my flatmate, Lauren, fastened a silver chain around my neck. “It’s St. Christopher,” she explained, “the patron saint of travelers and surf boarders. I got it in L.A. Which is why St. Christopher is on a surfboard.” My surfing saint never left my neck in the month I spent in Africa. Why take unnecessary chances?<br />I intended to fly from Cairo to Jo’burg, from one overcrowded metropolis to the next. And I did, eventually. Thanks to multiple delays by Ethiopian Air, however, I received a free day and night in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. Most people, I suppose, might find this a bit inconveniencing, or concerning, though I found it neither. As travelers are wont to do, I made friends waiting in the shuttle from the airport to my hotel- Afrikaners heading home for the holiday. We bonded over cheap drinks in the hotel bar and mutual laughs at our situation. I mean, really, how many people can say they’ve gotten stuck in Ethiopia?!<br />Although the bar offered a nice view of the surrounding countryside and two dollar drinks, I slid off my stool and over to the front desk. “Are there any local markets we can visit?” “Yes, you can take taxi. 10 dollars for hour.” I turned to my 19 year old South African whose name I never could pronounce with a pleading look in my eyes. “Let’s go. How often are we in Ethiopia, anyways?” So, within 5 minutes, we piled into a taxi for the 40 minutes to Mercato, the largest market in Africa. Yes, that’s right, not Ethiopia, Africa. Along the way I peered, wide-eyed, at the rolling hills and colorful processions of humanity walking along the road, dressed in tank tops, skirts, and tight jeans. I knew Ethiopia was a Christian c<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YbKaDwUKI/AAAAAAAAAVA/v3floneiYkg/s1600-h/IMG_0899.JPG"></a>ountry, but somehow I still associated it with the Muslim warfare of Somalia and its own tumultuous history.<br />Addis was more village than city, rows of metal shacks shoved against one another to form houses and shops, occasional buildings lining the main squares, old cars sputtering down crowded avenues, misty rain dripping off dark skin and green leaves and blue doors. Mercato was chaotic, street after street plying jewelry and spices, cars and clothing, curios and electronics, food and drink. Our driver led us<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YEHjnigmI/AAAAAAAAASY/22Fk475eDGg/s1600-h/DSC08373.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433034528335757922" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YEHjnigmI/AAAAAAAAASY/22Fk475eDGg/s320/DSC08373.JPG" /></a> through blocks of indoor and outdoor markets until we finally wearied and returned to the yellow taxi, laden with handwoven scarves, banana-leaf prints and new shirts, bartered for at ridiculously cheap prices. People bothered us, but only mildly; although I kept an eye on my purse, I never felt unsafe or threatened- in fact, I felt much more comfortable in Mercato than I do in Egypt’s market, the Khan.<br />Checking Facebook that evening, I scrolled down my news page and saw my mother’s status update, telling the world that my grandfather had died. Bloody hell. I had to vacate the computer, as we were only allowed 10 minutes, and used my 3 international minutes to call home. I’ve never felt the distance between home and wherever in the world I find myself as I did that evening, standing at the desk of the hotel as people jostled around me, clutching the phone as I heard the line go dead, hearing my mom’s tearful voice fade oceans away…So, I went to the bar and got drunk, chatted with a prostitute, flirted with a German, and made the bartenders laugh when I began jabbering in Arabic. Guilt, sorrow, and a splitting hangover greeted me the next morning.<br />I made it to Jo’burg that afternoon. Perhaps my first day of mishaps should have been an indication this was to be no ordinary odyssey, no easily-completed quest. I was told to find someone wearing an orange vest with a ‘Backpacker Ritz’ logo splashed across it. As I entered the arrivals hall, I saw a flash of orange and looked hopefully in that direction- nope, just security. In fact, all security sported orange vests. Bloody hell. I wandered aimlessly around the hall for several minutes, becoming more nervous as the clock ticked past 2:30, the time of departure for the shuttle bus.<br />Someone tall, lugging two backpacks, crossed my field of vision, chatting with an orange-vested man. I squinted and just made out the Backpacker Ritz logo. “Hey! Wait!” and clumsily hurried after them as they headed into the parking lot. “Who are you?” the driver asked, not unkindly,” I thought I only has these two.” “I was supposed to come in yesterday, but I was delayed…” “Ahh, yes, you’re that one.”<br />I didn’t see too much of Jo’burg. We kept running red lights and barely pausing at stop signs. “Not safe,” the driver explained. Garrett and his mother, Dyanne, were both going on a 25 day safari starting the next day. “Not the Acacia one? Going to Cape Town?” And so I met the first members of my new family. I found the rest of them that evening. All told, we were one British, one American (me), two Canadians (G. and his mom), and 10 Aussies. Sprawled on the wide lawn of the Backpacker Ritz, safely sheltered behind a high electric metal fence (like every building in Jo’burg), I breathed in the first of many African nights, warm and fecund, balanced on the edge of a rainy season, moisture and mosquitoes filling the air.<br />Our guides didn’t seem much older than ourselves; Lindy, we found out, was 23, Mark a few years older. We fell madly in love with them, in love with Lindy’s lilting laugh and Mark’s dry humor, with their fireside chats in the evening and their morning sleepiness as we sipped coffee and cereal. When we left them in Zambia to change trucks, groups, and guides, Lindy was more like best friend than guide, she and I gossiping on New Year’s about boys and life and rumors over gins and dry lemon.<br />There was one thing I needed to do before I left all semblances of civilization- I logged onto the internet, wrote a short and woefully inadequate eulogy for my grandfather to be read at the funeral and crawled up the window ledge into my top bunk in the 20 person dorm room, imbued with restlessness, excitement, melancholy, exhaustion, and uncertainty.<br />By 6 am we departed Jo’burg, packed into our truck, Kavango, a somewhat cavernous beast that I liken to a turtle, if only because it bore our home everywhere we went- our house, our luggage, our food, our tents, our water, ourselves…We settled into the back of the truck, somewhat uneasily, shifting spaces and conversation to find a zone of comfort among a cotillion of new faces and personalities.<br />Our first camp site was in a private game park near Kruger National Park; Lindy popped into the back as we pulled into the parking lot, delivering the best Christmas news ever- we were upgraded, courtesy of Acacia, from camping to luxurious cabins for the next two nights. “Enjoy it,” she cautioned. “After this, it’ll be tents and camping!” A rousing dip in the camp pool, where we found a pleasant introduction to a few of the insects we’d encounter on our journey, and a game of rugby toss later, we hurried back to our cabins and changed into hiking gear for our first safari walk.<br />“Now, everyone be careful,” cautioned the Afrikaner guide as we set out, “we don’t have any lions in the park, but several leopards have moved in recently. A mother and her cubs live in the area around the camp. I’ve seen them several times.” And off we went, past an enclosed croc pond, deeper into the bush, over a sandy riverbank full of leopard, giraffe, zebra and oryx tracks, and, incongruously, to a table in a small clearing set with sundowners- Amarula, the sweetest, smoothest liquor you’ll ever drink- think chocolate<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YEI4KN4yI/AAAAAAAAASg/ApNOcFq3cTc/s1600-h/DSC08417.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433034551029785378" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YEI4KN4yI/AAAAAAAAASg/ApNOcFq3cTc/s320/DSC08417.JPG" /></a> and caramel milkshakes with a bit more potency.<br />“Now, on the way back, try to be quiet, this is the time game comes out.” Unfortunately, Amarula functions more as a voice amplifier; we giggled our way back to the fire, where the local African tribe greeted us in full regalia- animal skins for the men, bright skirts for the women. Pots of interesting cuisine sat around the fire- chicken feet, chicken heads, mashed plantain…I tried it all, swallowing every bit of that chicken head. Afterwards, I was married in a tribal ceremony, along with three of my female trip-mates, to the chieftain. We never had an opportunity to consummate the marriage, and I managed to escape the following morning.<br />Twas a merry Christmas, and an early one. We drove to Kruger for a just-after-sunrise game drive in smaller safari jeeps; Kruger is one of the world’s largest game parks, and the only one that allows you to self-drive thr<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YEJL8RxHI/AAAAAAAAASo/6NAxrMlC0Hs/s1600-h/DSC08437.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433034556340028530" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YEJL8RxHI/AAAAAAAAASo/6NAxrMlC0Hs/s320/DSC08437.JPG" /></a>ough it. Someday, I’ll go back, rent a car, and chase my own lions. That morning, however, we were chased by an affronted elephant that seemed offended by our car driving within a few feet of his leaf munching. He was special, our first ele of the trip, a large male with smooth white tusks and an agile trunk that trumpeted repeatedly at us and stomped after our car. We screeched as the elephant stampeded towards us, ears flapping and trunk waving, but our driver adroitly maneuvered us forwards, only to back up and be chased again.<br />By mid-afternoon we returned to camp, not seeing too much else worthy of mention in the park, and prepared for the evening’s festivities- a gift-exchanging ceremony (the popular items included Playdoh and trashy magazines), a multi-course dinner of impala and other meats, and a dance party- well, I danced. Our music was abruptly silenced when the camp manager rushed in, turned off the stereo, and bade us to listen to the lions roaring in th<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YEJU--x8I/AAAAAAAAASw/bzRpP7y5h80/s1600-h/DSC08523.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433034558767286210" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YEJU--x8I/AAAAAAAAASw/bzRpP7y5h80/s320/DSC08523.JPG" /></a>e park next door. Perhaps my most unusual Christmas. A cabin in the middle of the South African bush, lions roaring nearby, with only a torch to ward off darkness and leopards, my tummy full of ciders and game meat. Mmmmm….<br />My photo gallery may appear as a sequence of ceaseless action and adrenaline-fueled activities, but our trip was, out of necessity, one long road trip across southern Africa- i.e. long drives in the truck. We drove out of South Africa that day, into Botswana, passing banana plantations and cool mountains for the sweltering heat of the flat plains. It hit 46 C, well over 100 F. Without aircon in the truck.<br />Our next campsite sprawled along the Limpopo river in Botswana, the demarcation line for the border. Rather than put up tents straight away, we stumbled to the bar, ordered anything cool, and sat on the balcony under the shade of a banyan tree, watching the water drowsily flow onward. Even the insects buzzed half-heartedly, lethargic in the heat. A bit before sundown, Mark showed us how to erect the tents, an ostensibly two-person job of lining up poles and fastening hooks. Marina, an Aussie girl, was my tentmate, a<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YbJFA1LcI/AAAAAAAAAUg/-jmshBIFNNw/s1600-h/DSC08536.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433059843247517122" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YbJFA1LcI/AAAAAAAAAUg/-jmshBIFNNw/s320/DSC08536.JPG" /></a>nd we eventually succeeded in our first erection. We got quicker as the trip progressed.<br />I could occupy lengthy sections of this already lengthy travelogue about the undocumented hours of the evening, the hours spent setting up camp, having a beer or cider at sundown, chopping vegetables, stirring the dinner pot, enjoying another beer or cider whilst cooking, balancing the hot metal plates on bare legs, washing dishes, sweeping out the truck, and collapsing in the fold-up camp chairs, a beer or cider in hand, watching the heavens twinkle, the fireflies flutter, and the torches of fellow campers flicker in the darkness, chatting into the night. On a participation camping trip, we participate- we set up camp, we cook, we clean…the duties were mutually divided, and rotated, but we swiftly fell into a gentle rhythm of setting up by night and dismantling by morn. I first recognized a kindred spirit in Lindy when, as I was preparing dessert one night and snatching bits of chocolate for testing, Lindy laughed and said, “You cook the same way I do! One should also sample what they’re cooking for quality control.” And she grabbed a bit of chocolate for testing as well.<br />I upgraded the next night. So, I took a bit of acclimating to the camp experience- my tent was a bit like a contemptuous lover, satisfying one night and impossible the next. By the end, we settled into stable, every night sort of relationship, but, in the beginning, it was a bit fickle.<br />Our truck, Kavango, turned into the several kilometer drive for the new camp, stopped briefly to pull out a floundered truck, and eventually approached the lodge/campsite. Lindy hopped into the back, explaining what we could readily see a few meters away through the open windows. “There’s an elephant at the pool. Please don’t get out of the truck just yet…”<br />Elephant Sands was an enchanted sort of place, a place where elephants walked through camp to drink out of the pool, where night was hailed by elephants splashing in the water hole, where the separation of human and animal, civilization and wilderness blurred harmoniously- a elephant would thunder past the path between cabin and bar, and one would pause, wait for it to pass, and then continue the sandy walk. Our quaint little cabin seemed an extension of the bush itself, stucco-walled and thatch-roofed, a tree growing in the shower and supporting the wall.<br />We drove, that night, further into nowhere, bumped for two hours over dirt tracks and overflowing rivers, past elephants at waterholes and impala bounding away, past termite mounds and towering trees. We stopped, finally, at a small pond set on a grassy plain, the purity of wilderness extending beyond<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YHeSlqkfI/AAAAAAAAAS4/NieOnEvhVaY/s1600-h/DSC08590.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433038217436369394" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YHeSlqkfI/AAAAAAAAAS4/NieOnEvhVaY/s320/DSC08590.JPG" /></a> the reach of every horizon. I felt, as I often did in Africa, that the boundless sky and land would open and swallow me whole, that humanity itself seemed suddenly tenuous.<br />I don’t know if it is something internal, genetic, pre-programmed, a vestige from the days we crawled out of the jungles, onto two legs, and became human, or if it is just because of its untamed, terrible beauty, its magnificence, but Africa is more vivid, more integral, more permanently etched, than most places I’ve visited; it doesn’t fade easily from memory.<br />Our drive from Elephant Sands to Kasane was relatively short, only about 300-400 km, but frequently stalled due to elephant sightings along the road. Mark would screech the brakes, we would all blink out of sleepy reveries, out of the pages of a book, or up from a card game, and stand up to see several eles sauntering across the road to disappear into the brush on the other side. Several trees were toppled as the lumbering giants forged their own path through the bush.<br />Kasane had a tiny, occasionally functioning internet cafe, a grocery store, a liquor store, a clothing boutique, a curio stand, and a change bureau- really, what more could one ask? At Thebe Lodge and camp, we hastened to put up the tents before the darkening clouds and flashing storm arrived- we just managed to put up the rain-proof fly sheet and run under the wooden shelter before the sky crackled and a deluge rained down; I have never actually seen a bolt of lightning; of course, I’ve seen my share of storms in Minnesota and other places, but I had yet to see the white hot burn of a bolt singe the ground and tree and very air around it like I did that day. As the rain pattered against the roof above, we sat and watched, and listened, as the lightning struck trees in our campsite and a metal wire that sent static and white, searing brilliance running through the trees around camp. I had been saving a bottle of vodka for a special occasion- I decided it was high time for a glass (or two).<br />Cam came to me later that night. “Laura! There’s these three South Africans at the bar. They really want to meet an American, so I told them about you. They’ll buy you a drink.” At this point, I was next door, meeting the other overland Acacia truck that had just arrived. Nice people, but a bit couple-y. “Lead me away.” I found three white men, one of them rather cute, seated at the bar, awaiting Cam’s delivery. Plopped down amongst them, I heard them immediately order me a double brandy and Coke (“Make that a Coke light,” I instructed). Soon, I was learning ‘useful’ phrases in Afrikaans (Mark, my tour guide seated nearby, was frequently observed guffawing at me) and continuing my worldwide quest to spread American goodwill. Eventually, I ducked away to the loo and ran back to camp</div><div><div><div><div><div><p align="left"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YbKaDwUKI/AAAAAAAAAVA/v3floneiYkg/s1600-h/IMG_0899.JPG"></a></p><div>, leaving my sunglasses at the bar counte like a fallen version of Cinderella. A warm, dark shower later, I went to sleep.<br />By 6 am, the tents were stowed, breakfast consumed, and we were chugging towards our next country. “So, I heard you learned some Afrikaans last night.” Lindy remarked with her cute smile, standing next to me on the rail of the ferry over the Chobe river, the Zambian border in sight on the opposite bank. “I don’t think I actually remember any of it,” I confessed. “Which is probably just as well,” she agreed as the mists drifted off the still river and into the thick forests on either bank.<br />Within two hours, we stepped off the truck and into sweltering Zambian heat. Welcome to Livingstone, home of Victoria Falls. The first part of our tour officially ended here; we were to leave Mark, Lindy, Kavango, and half of our group and join up with another truck and crew coming from Nairobi. However, we were to spend two nights at the Waterfront Lodge and campsite, indulging in the various activities on offer and fending off the resilient mossies that make Vic Falls the best place in Africa to contract malaria. We soon learned why Vic Falls supported such a thriving mosquito population- rain, rain, and more rain. It rained the morning we arrived, that night, the next morning, the following night…<br />The Waterfront was aptly named- it occupied a spot along the banks of the Upper Zambezi- that is, the Zambezi above the Falls. Monkeys invaded our campsite; Garrett claims he was attacked by one. Whether this is true or not, they competed with the giant, croaking frogs and cicadas for loudness and leapt above one’s head on the way to the bathroom in the morning. Dyanne, Garrett’s mum, and I lazed away the morning by the pool while most everyone else went swimming in pools above the Falls.<br />At noon, I flirted with the desk manager and received an escorted visit to my new tent, Nyala, snuggly nestled beneath a bower of trees and set off from the main path a bit. Yes, I upgraded. But, in my defense, so did 10 other people. Although the thought of pitching my tent in a small lake seemed slightly exotic, I opted for dryness- Nyala was a raised, permanent tent with two narrow beds (one for me, one for the ants; Marina roomed with Nikki for a spell), a power point, and a thoroughly waterproof exterior...and only 15 dollars a night (25, but I’d already paid 10 for camping).<br />Several hours later, I found myself astride a beautiful bay steed, trotting through herds of zebra and giraffe and splashing in the Zambezi. From my horse’s back, I saw the spray from Victoria Falls rise above the forest several kilometers away- Mosi-o-Tunyi, the Mist that Thunders. I hurried from the stables at the 400 dollar-a-night Royal Livingstone to my humbler 25 dollar-a-night Waterfront and raced to catch the booze cruise, errrr, sunset cruise. It was nearing New Year’s, and the white Zambians and Zimbabweans descend yearly upon Livingstone, giving the tourists a glimpse of the rampant racism still in existence in Africa. “You idiot, can’t you move faster!?” was one of the milder insults hurled by the individuals towards the black bar staff as they doled out drink after drink.<br />A few drinks in, my revulsion mellowed into curiosity at these people, and I, still reeking faintly of horse, chatted up one of the tall, tousled males who, I learned, was two years my junior and wanting to know the number of my tent. Oops. I fled back to the safety of our group.<br />Much of my safari is firmly affixed into the recesses of memory, much like a still photograph captured immutably. That night is a bit more like a grainy photo from the 1800’s, weaving in and out of recollection. I remember eating part of Garrett’s steak (it was very good, I complimented him on his choice), dancing in the disco for a bit, laughing as I paid two dollars for a drink that normally costs quadruple that (which might have been part of the problem), watching Zambian prostitutes hit on members of our party, seeing them reciprocate, meeting members of other Acacia trucks,watching the stars with Garrett, Marina, and Nikki, and, finally, wandering back to my tent, locking myself in, fishing out the correct chargers for my mobile, setting my alarm, and then going to sleep. I’m quite proud of that last part.<br />“You have toothpaste on your chin. Sorry, but the father in me had to tell you.” A man whose face swims in and out of recognition kindly flicks off the glob of toothpaste and smiles sympathetically. “I’m from the other Acacia truck. You might not remember.” It is 7 am, I have had an (unwillingly) cold shower and am making my way to breakfast before I throw myself into a raft and paddle down one of the most challenging whitewater rafting rivers in the world. “No, I remember. I just don’t remember names.” I do recall his face, barely. “Thanks for the toothpaste warning. I suppose I shouldn’t mind the rain, as I’m going rafting this morning.” “You’ll have a wonderful time!” he enthuses, “we did that yesterday. Best thing I’ve done so far.” “I didn’t honestly plan on doing it, but it looked like too much fun to pass up.” “Don’t worry, you’ll love it, and try to flip, it’s the best!”<br />He wandered back to his tent and I booked Nyala for another night and then loaded a plate full of eggs and bacon. “Good morning!” Garrett called, roseately cheerful, as usual. “How are you feeling?” “Not too bad, luckily, I think it’s the adrenaline. I’m excited!” Eventually, we all convened in the cavernous hut designed for pre-rafting briefings, some bright-eyed and eager, others bleary-eyed, in the same clothes as last night. Of course, it wasn’t merely Acacia that would be rafting; about 40 people straggled into the hut by 8:30 and plopped on the benches. A Kiwi strode to the center, grabbed a life vest, and rattled off a list of instructions on how to survive a flip, a fall-in, and other such essential information. Only a few hours later, I realized his orders were a bit challenging to apply whilst on the raging river.<br />We climbed down one of the most beautiful gorges I have ever seen; I felt as if I had stepped into Jurassic Park; black, volcanic walls soared hundreds of feet above, bright jewels of birds fluttered past, monkeys hooted and swung from trees, vines trailed over giant boulders, towering palms dripped morning dew on our heads. At any moment, I expected T-Rex to crash through the jungle and tear through the lianas and ferns blocking his path. No such attack occurred; we clambered into our raft barefoot, grabbed our paddles, and practiced as Marvin shouted, “Paddle, Paddle fast, hard right, hard left, GET DOWN!” The last enumerated order being, in my mind, the most essential.<br />We numbered 7 in our raft, all friends from Kavango. It is impossible to transcribe the experience of whitewater rafting in words; nothing prepared me for the absolute thrill of crashing into a several meter tall w<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YbKOBqgTI/AAAAAAAAAU4/8pLrGBhC1sY/s1600-h/IMG_0799.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 214px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433059862846800178" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YbKOBqgTI/AAAAAAAAAU4/8pLrGBhC1sY/s320/IMG_0799.JPG" /></a>ave, crouching in the bottom of the raft, emerging drenched but upright, and paddling madly to avoid a sharp rock ahead. It seemed insane, at times, that we were conquering grade 5 rapids on the most difficult stretch of river in the world, and powering through them successfully. Well, Marvin did the hard work, we just paddled, grunted, and shrieked at various intervals.<br />Until Rapid 7, anyways. I would merely call us confident, although some might label it as supercilious. We approached Rapid 7, the longest and most difficult on the Zambezi . I tumbled out 5 seconds into the rapids. One was supposed to grab hold of the side and cling; I spun away from the raft got sucked under and bobbed up 10 seconds later, choking, <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YbKaDwUKI/AAAAAAAAAVA/v3floneiYkg/s1600-h/IMG_0899.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 214px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433059866076795042" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YbKaDwUKI/AAAAAAAAAVA/v3floneiYkg/s320/IMG_0899.JPG" /></a>gasping, and utterly disoriented. I had no concept of up or down, water or air; I seemed to inhale both arbitrarily; I was battered and tossed and submerged and thrown; I fought for a little while, paddling and trying to reach the surface. I finally gave up, and, miraculously, I popped into air. In reality, I suppose it was only a very short while that I fought the river, but time seemed to stretch into infinity. My raft shouted at me to put my feet up; I wanted to shout back, though I would have only coughed out water, that the bloody current wasn’t being very cooperative; I narrowly avoided crashing into a rock and finally flushed out of the rapids, quite traumatized. There is a priceless photo of me taken while amidst the waves and churning eddies, a look of pure terror on my face.<br />A kayak picked me up, or, more accurately, had me cling to the prow as we roiled through more rapids. At a calm spell, another raft threw me into their bow and had me get down as they paddled through 7 b. I watched from afar as my old raft flipped and threw everyone into the drink. After a bit of laughter, deep breathing and teasing (“You looked terrified!), Malvin righted the raft, we hoisted each other back in and completed the final two rapids in grand fashion (no one attempted Rapid 9; it’s Grade 6, otherwise known as Commercial Suicide).<br />After an arduous climb out of the gorge (not quite as picturesque when you’re going up), we had a drink (or three) on the ride home. Most people would consider that enough adrenaline for a day. Nope, I went absailing, zip lining, and gorge swinging that afternoon. Though we had booked our day of impetuosity separately, Garrett and I ended up doing the same activities, for which, I think, we were both indelibly grateful. No one wants to gorge swing alone.<br />Absailing was simple; attached to a harness from above, I hopped down the wall of the gorge. I volunteered to go first for the Flying Fox. It seemed straightforward- snap into a harness, run off a cliff, and zip line over the<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YHeiA_RLI/AAAAAAAAATA/YgyS6mfpO8o/s1600-h/DSC08661.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433038221577503922" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YHeiA_RLI/AAAAAAAAATA/YgyS6mfpO8o/s320/DSC08661.JPG" /></a> gorge. I galvanized every molecule of resilience within me to step back, run off the ramp, a<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzMHXKJZRe6-IlNJUnW-Hg3p95CdXcjIjkq5YflEKHDsdvjNwfe5LPOzkxiD4E8vdkCFfaV5ZB7JWE' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>nd launch myself, hundreds of feet above the green tree tops, into gravity-inducing flight. I did it, twice. The gorge swing was easy, in comparison. It went down, fast. I stepped off a cliff, plummeted down its length, and then swung like a pendulum across the length of the gorge, howling all the way. If we were not required to walk out of the gorge each time, I would have done the swing many more times.<br />Garrett and I were both utterly enervated, elated, and drained; but the night was not over. We had a pre-departure meeting for the rest of the tour that night, where we met our new guides, our new truck, and our new tour mates, all of whom had come from Nairobi. I slept tumultuously that night, my dreams echoing with the confluence of rapids and flight, drowning and flying.<br />By 6 am I relocated to our new truck, Songwe, commandeering a new locker and a new position in the social hierarchy. M<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YHe0-esJI/AAAAAAAAATI/G7oj_fB2DqE/s1600-h/DSC08707.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433038226667253906" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YHe0-esJI/AAAAAAAAATI/G7oj_fB2DqE/s320/DSC08707.JPG" /></a>y tentmate, Marina, rejoined me in mutual uncertainty of the 10 newcomers onboard. Though I had been in Livingstone two days, I hadn’t actually glimpsed the marvel of Victoria Falls; this was immediately remedied that morning. I am not sure of my expectations; they were effaced by the unparalleled beauty of the Falls. Lacy ribbons of water cascaded down hundreds of meters to plummet into misty pools; but the Falls were not an isolated ribbon of water, they stretched for hundreds of meters, from Zambia to Zimbabwe, funneling into the roaring Zambezi. Suddenly, the spray I had seen from kilometers away made sense, the Mist that Thunders aptly named.<br />Leaving Zambia thereafter, we re- crossed the Chobe river, arriving again in Kasane at Thebe Lodge. I celebrated Christmas in Kruger; I welcomed the New Year in Botswana at Chobe. As New Year’s are wont to be, it was a mixture of old and new; Mark and Lindy were also there, with a new crop of travelers. Our new tourmates, whose names I was not yet adept at remembering, overflowed our photos and our tables. Part of the night was spent with Lindy over gin and dry lemon, speculating on whom I should make out with (sadly, no one that night) and excitement over the lunar eclipse; part was spent with old friends and new; and part was spent watching unsafe fireworks launched over the Chobe, ringing in 2010 with hugs and laughter and toasts.<br />“Beth, Beth, where are you!? I’m locked out of the tent!” My short slumber was jarringly interrupted by Siobian shouting at 3 am the next morning. I’ll confess, I held a grudge for a couple days after that premature awakening. Why? By 6 am, we were seated on a safari jeep, off for a New Year’s Day tour of Chobe National Park. I think the animals, too, took a holiday, as the drive yielded little of excitement, other than humorous photos of everyone else, passed out against the metal bars of the jeep.<br />As most slept off their hangove<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YUslX9TyI/AAAAAAAAAT4/4IlAfLw7gqE/s1600-h/DSC08795.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433052756648480546" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YUslX9TyI/AAAAAAAAAT4/4IlAfLw7gqE/s320/DSC08795.JPG" /></a>rs, Dyanne, Marina and I ordered greasy plates of chips and cold pops in the bar restaurant, weary off the monontany of sandwiches. Cruising on the Chobe river at sunset proved more fruitful in terms of game viewing; heaps of hippos yawned from the reedy shallows and grazed on the grassy islands; elephant herds plashed in the cool river, rolled in the mud and drank from its banks; baboons climbed the high trees and plucked bugs from each other’s fur.<br />I felt like I was back in high school again, the new kid standing awkwardly to the side, unsure of where to sit or how to act. Throw 16 mostly 20-somethings together for three weeks, and this is what happens. Unlike the first leg of the trip, where everyone was without loyalties, two established groups combined, and social tensions clashed as territories crossed dominances were threatened. Sounds more like a nature show that a people safari, huh?<br />At first, I resented the new group, particularly the three cute females for attracting the attention of our males. No matter if I actually ‘liked’ any of them; they were ours. By the end of the tour, there was no us and them; we had happily melded into a cohesive comraderie. Not, I suppose, that I really had ‘loyalties’ to begin with…Acacia has had about 4 Americans (that might be slight hyperbole, but they don’t get a lot) on tour, ever, in the history of their company. But I like being unique <br />Hmmmm…I’m writing this after just emerging from a steamy, sudsy whirlpool in Istanbul, so my thoughts are progressing quite languidly at the moment. Ah, yes, Maun. Gateway to the Okavango Delta, one of only two inland delta systems in the world. One long drive later, we found ourselves in the sleepy town of Maun, racing the proverbial rain following from the east. As an optional afternoon activity, we could board a six-seater aeroplane and buzz over the Delta marshland, gaining the scope of the land from the eye of a Zazu bird (a Zazu bird being, if you hadn’t guessed, the bird that looks like Zazu in the Lion King). 100 dollars for an hour? Bloody hell. If everyone else is doi<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YOvNcogUI/AAAAAAAAATY/T0ySVMGSHCw/s1600-h/DSC08879.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433046204695478594" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YOvNcogUI/AAAAAAAAATY/T0ySVMGSHCw/s320/DSC08879.JPG" /></a>ng it too…<br />“So, where’s the aircon?” we asked our cute Swedish pilot, Corey, as we wheeled down the runway. He gestured towards the closed window and shrugged winsomely. Well, I got to know Nick, my seat partner, a bit better, as I kept falling into him when the plane banked a sharp sideways. The flight was magnificent, however, despite the sauna-like conditions. Frik, our new guide, was right when he said that the only way to truly gain a perspective of the Delta was by air. It extended for hundreds of miles in every direction, a melding of land and marsh and river woven into an incredibly unique ecosystem. From my lofty perspective, I saw hippos resting on the bottoms of ponds, elephants rolling in the mud, gazelle leaping over grasslands, giraffes munching from tree tops.<br />That night, at our camp<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YOv7a-uQI/AAAAAAAAATo/srhN_sdGIWM/s1600-h/DSC08894.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433046217036577026" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YOv7a-uQI/AAAAAAAAATo/srhN_sdGIWM/s320/DSC08894.JPG" /></a> outside of Maun, we attempted to sleep without the suffocating restraint of the fly-sheet. Around 2 am, a peal of thunder awoke Marina and she leapt into action. I rolled over, blinked, and struggled to free myself from the zipper. “I’ll just do it!” she said, a bit exasperated. I rolled back over, yawned, and promptly began to snore (most probably, anyway).<br />Of all the campsites we ‘experienced’, I liked the one near Maun the least; it was large, for one thing, and the trek f<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YbJwQvqgI/AAAAAAAAAUw/BjYVOAKFygg/s1600-h/DSC09301.JPG"></a>rom campsite to bathroom took several minutes. I never felt unsafe in a campsite, but the night I trekked back from brushing my teeth in the bug-infested ablutions block (I shared my toilet stall with a truly giant, black winged that that stared beadily at me) to our distant tent, I walked alertly through the darker stretch of brush, swinging my fluorescent torch into the blackness of night. The fact that the owner of the campsite, a Kiwi, fended off intruders from his home with shotgun emissions was not exactly comforting, either.<br />After a cold, barely dawn shower, I helped dismantle the tent, threw it onto the giant, open-sided ATV which had just appeared and clambered in. The truck rumbled through the fringes of the Delta for over an hour; we finally disembarked next to a river lined with traditional dugout canoes, called mokoros, which we would take further into the Delta. Before sitting on a rocking boat for several hours, I and several other females visited the bush loo, revealed our white bottoms to a troop of passing village children, and swiftly boarded our canoes. Nothing like spreading American goodwill, eh?<br />I would describe (to the point of clichéd-ness) many things in Africa as magical- sunsets, seeing elephants drink from the pool, feeling the spray of Vic Falls on your eyelashes. I would qualify the mokoro ride as unique, though highly enjoyable. Supine on the floor of the mokoro, my back resting against my day pack, my butt upon a plastic mat, I was fairly comfortable. The mokoro driver stood behind me, a pole in hand to push the canoe along the reedy channel, rocking the canoe gently as he propelled us through the reeds. For about the first half an hour, the slap of damp reeds in the face felt soothing, a little exotic- then it just became slightly painful. Lulled into a light snooze by the mokoro’s gentle rhythm (despite reed scratches; I’m a heavy sleeper), I started awake as the canoe bumped into land. “Welcome to camp.”<br />Bush camping in the Okavango Delta- magical, until the rainstorms hit. However, in the glare of noonday sun, we giddily explored our small swath of the island, paddling in the hippo pools (devoid of hippos during the day, luckily), ad<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YOwIjtCVI/AAAAAAAAATw/TZHE85y7t9Q/s1600-h/Swimming+in+Delta.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433046220562827602" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YOwIjtCVI/AAAAAAAAATw/TZHE85y7t9Q/s320/Swimming+in+Delta.jpg" /></a>orning ourselves with water lilies, balancing a Monopoly board on a tree stump, and watching the world drift past our small patch of watery paradise. For sundown, we took a short mokoro ride- 10 minutes on the water, and the vaults of heaven cascaded down in a soaking deluge. Laughing manically, the mokoro drivers raced through the narrow channels while we huddled in the hulls (I had the foresight to pack a ziplock baggie for my camera); we ran aground at a muddy flat. “In!” barked the polers, and we obligingly dove, fully clothed, into the Delta, joking about crocodiles and hippos to banish any real fears about lurking beasties. “We go back, now,” said our driver, and Marina and I heartily nodded. Though the boat was bailed, and a rainbow strea<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YOvtH1P1I/AAAAAAAAATg/zt_ioZg8NuE/s1600-h/DSC08937.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433046213198167890" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YOvtH1P1I/AAAAAAAAATg/zt_ioZg8NuE/s320/DSC08937.JPG" /></a>med faintly in the fading light, none of us wanted to be one the water when day dissipated and night lapped menacingly around the wobbly canoes.<br />As we zipped ourselves into the tents that night, Frik cautioned us once more,” Just remember, this is the true wilderness out here. There are no fences and anything can and will wander into camp. Elephants, warthogs, hippos, lions, it’s all out here. I’d try to wait and use the latrine until morning, but, if you must go, bring a buddy. And don’t go down to the hippo pool. You might find it occupied.” With that cheerful oration, Frik disappeared into his tent, I ducked off to the loo one final time, quaked as I squatted over the hole and flashed my torch beseechingly into the shadows, and dove into the tent. Another storm rattled through the Delta in the night, rustling the trees, battering the tent and thundering epically into our sleep.<br />As dawn crested the horizon, and silver light bathed the trees, I squeezed out of the tent and rushed to the loo, having regretted those final few ciders most of the night. Our scheduled morning game walk turned into a rain slide as, you guessed it, it rained. Soaked to the skin, without jacket or proper footwear, I ditched the sandals and danced happily over the muddy flats, leaping into puddles and slipping on wet clay. Two hours later, when we boarded the mokoros in the continuing downpour, I was less spirited, muddier after wrestling with a wet tent, and somewhat cold. When we reached the awaiting ATV vehicle to drive us to camp, I was cold. They offered us ciders- I took two and warmed up slightly. Of co<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YbJaDWfRI/AAAAAAAAAUo/xSSR31A0_eE/s1600-h/DSC09244.JPG"></a>urse, I could find no hot water in camp; Garrett was kind enough to allow me to use his shower in the luxury cabin to which he and his mum had upgraded.<br />Marina and I upgraded, though not to such grandeur; we had an elevated cabin with beds, a power point, and diaphanous clouds of mosquito netting. At one point that night I woke, up thrashing, with the sensation of being trapped in a net. I think mossie nets take a bit of getting used to…<br />Several of us taxied into town that afternoon; I needed to touch base with the family, extract more cash, and resupply my dwindling storehouse of ciders. Walking past a roasted chicken restaurant, Marina and I turned to each other. “We really deserve it,” she began. “We’ve been through a lot. And I’m really sick of sandwich meat…” I concluded. Best 5 dollars I spent that day.<br />As we departed Maun, I somehow managed to misplace the cabin key. Whether it was ever found or not, I couldn’t be sure. As Marina didn’t really talk to me for several hours, I am assuming not. If you ever end up sharing a room with me, do be aware that I have an unfortunate penchant for misplacing keys- I lost the room key in Beirut last spring, in Marsa Matrouh a few years back (which is ironic, since I was the keeper of the safe key with all of our passports and valuables for the first week. Hmmm)…<br />Never mind. The edges of the Kalahari drifted past Songwe’s open windows, a semi-arid land of scrubby trees, stunted plants and hard earth. At 3, we pulled into our latest camp outside of Ghanzi, Botswana, a deceptively charming site with a straw ablutions block (and no doors; one stretched a chain across the opening to signify occupancy; we became subsequently closer after that night; straw has gaps and poor noise control), a sandy stretch for tents, and several thatched, opened-walled huts that we staked our tents under. Why? As usual, we brought the rain.<br />Frik, impossibly knowledgeable about everything in Africa, gathered us around the truck, a scorpion dangling from his fingers. “Now, we’re into the real Kalahari here; it’s not a very nice place. Do you remember when I stopped the truck on the way in? A black mamba crossed the road. The most aggressive snake in the world, and one of the deadliest. These guys here aren’t quite as dangerous; they don’t usually attack unless provoked.” And then Frik demonstrated exactly how to provoke a scorpion while we (those of us stouter of heart, anyway) watched, fascinated. “So, just be careful when you’re walking around at night; I’d recommend close-toed shoes on the Bushmen walk later.”<br />I smiled wanly at Frik- deadly insect, and a see-through shower. Gonna be a fun night. Of course the Bushman walk was the most scintillating part of the entire trip; the San people, more conventionally known as Bushmen, inhabit the wilds of Kalahari from Northern Botswana into Namibia and South Africa. Indigenous to the land, they speak a language with clicks in it- indubitably fascinating to a budding linguist such as myself. Although, like all native populations, they have been pushed off tribal lands, prevented from hunting, and are rapidly losing their culture and traditions.<br />Our Bushmen guides, 3 men and 2 mothers with their infants, collected us, materializing out of the brush and beckoning us to follow. An interpreter, a coloured woman, also joined us. Their women don’t traditionally wear tops- one of the mothers had her animal skin open in the front to reveal an ample bosom, although she re-adjusted her covering after she noticed all of us staring at her nudity, fascinated<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YUs9WajOI/AAAAAAAAAUA/9DKZBG1q0YM/s1600-h/DSC08986.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433052763084459234" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YUs9WajOI/AAAAAAAAAUA/9DKZBG1q0YM/s320/DSC08986.JPG" /></a>. The men wore loincloths which accented remarkably taut posterior regions- even the old man had a nice butt.<br />Following them through the Kalahari, we paused when they did, watched as they dug out a tuber or root with a digging stick and listened, raptly, while they explained its many uses. Then the translator elucidated. I will not even attempt to produce an approximation of their language- see one of my videos if you wish to hear it. At the end of our walk, they sat in a semi-circle and made a fire with two sticks and a block of flint, squeezed a spongy plant to release a sour liquid, and chugged water from an ostrich egg. Needless to say, I was enraptured. It just felt genuine- their jesting, their laughter, their reticence, their ease with the natural world. It was their life, or, had been until recently.<br />Instead of cooking our own dinner, Sonja (Frik’s wife) had arranged for a delectable buffet at the camp bar/restaurant. As I wove my way back from bar to tent early (I was in the midst of a good novel), I blinked away fat raindrops and flicked the torch nervously. At least, in the Delta, the threat came from animals I could see- here, it was the invisible that threatened. Once again, I was too frightened to venture outside my tent in the night (Frik had mentioned something about scorpions liking the folded up flaps of the tent doors) and only crawled out (ungainly as usual- I always seemed to fall out of the tent more than step) as dawn trembled over the horizon. Marina had slept somewhere else that night (and for the rest of the trip), so I could at least beat the sides of the tent and dislodge potential scorpions without fear of waking her.<br />The sink basin harboured an interesting array of insects- flying ants, a beetle or two, a few unidentifiable species, though the shower itself was mercifully free of bugs (or so I hoped; since the electricity wasn’t yet on, I only had my torch to shine briefly into the corners). Turning the hot water tap on, cold water rained down; I grimaced, though I had become rather accustomed to cold showers by now; I always managed to shower before the rest of the camp awoke, and, usually, before the hot water was heated. “Morning!” Frik called. “Morning!” I responded, resolutely ignoring the fact that only a somewhat gap-py straw wall separated us. “There isn’t any hot water.” “Did you turn the other tap?” “Bloody hell.” By then, I was done and walked back to my tent, dismantling it with an unnecessary amount of verve, though that may have been merely to shake out the snakes and scorpions and deadly spiders before they attacked.<br />Another border crossing, another new country- Namibia. We spent the night in the capital, Windhoek, sleeping in a hostel, The Cardboard Box. Happily, it was a bit more comfortable than a cardboard box (bunk beds and no scorpions, for one), and I spent part of the afternoon in a craft market and the evening at Joe’s Bierhaus with the gang. In one meal, I consumed crocodile, ostrich, zebra, and springbok, a Jaegerbomb or two (in a former German colony, a necessity before dinner) and a dessert of Amarula.<br />Our morning drive deposited us in northern Namibia, in the midst of Etosha National Park at Ilkuliewane (or something like that) campsite. Etosha is a fairly dry landscape sustained by waterholes which attract vast herds of wildlife to drink from them…except in the rainy season. Then, the herds disperse, the big cats melt into the brush, and I spend nights sitting at the waterhole, sodden, without anything to show for my efforts other than an empty Amarula bottle. Despite this, Etosha was my favorite park and a close rival to Elephant Sands in terms of campsite. It was more like village, for one; I could visit the convenience store (very refreshing popsicles), the castle turret, the overpriced curio shop, one of several bars, a café, a restaurant, out-of-my price range cabins and two-story bungalows…and a waterhole, floodlit by night.<br />It stormed, as usual, our first night, and we scurried into the washhouse to complete the dinner dishes; then I ran down to the waterhole to capture the spectacular lightning display. The lions roared that night, whuffing and grunting from the shadows just beyond the waterhole, drawing nearer and nearer to camp, though never near enough to see.<br />After an 8 hour game drive the next day, where we saw little of mention (but cranked out Disney theme songs over the loud speakers by afternoon) I was resolute. Stake-out by the waterhole that night. We hadn’t see<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YUtlwANdI/AAAAAAAAAUQ/0eV1of2c9hM/s1600-h/DSC09122.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433052773929203154" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YUtlwANdI/AAAAAAAAAUQ/0eV1of2c9hM/s320/DSC09122.JPG" /></a>n a bloody lion yet. I began my all-nighter a little before sundown, when I ambled away from the dinner preparations. As I approached the waterhole, I saw a large grey mass moving in the distance, drawing nearer to the water….”Rhino!! RHINO BY THE WATERHOLE!” Our camp was a 10 second sprint away, and my alarm created a minor stampede as dinner was abandoned and 15 desperate souls clattered noisily to the waterhole viewing area. Mutters from those already seated complained strongly of certain people being too loud. I nestled my bottle of cider between my feet, took out my camera, and captured some amazing photos of a black rhino drinking at our pool.<br />I thought it was a good omen to the evening. I was quite wrong. The rain began around midnight, and I huddled in the small overhang shelter with Garrett, Percy, Matt, Mic, and my new Aussie friend, Xavier. It tapered off at about 1; Matt and Percy trundled off to bed. By 1:30, the rain intensified, the floodlights, alerting us as to what lay beyond the low, easily breachable fence cut off, and the camp plunged into darkness. “Let’s go, not safe.” A security guard who had been tracking the movements of lions in the brush near the waterhole hastily shepherded us out. “Lions close.”<br />I waited inside the gate of the camp area for the electricity to return or the dawn to come. I found three Americans, instead. I followed them silently as they flashed their torches back along the pathway to the waterhole and startled them as I appeared suddenly beside. “Hi!” We stood for half an hour in the dripping darkness, chattering and hoping for something of interest to appear. Nothing. I actually did go back to my tent for an hour or two; awoke, restless, before dawn, sat by the waterhole and shivered; a quick, lukewarm shower refreshed me and I saw dawn peak over the horizon, veiled in more rain clouds. Defeated, I returned to camp for coffee and tent dismantling.<br />“Is everyone ready for more bush camping?” Sonja asked, standing next to the tree that I had attempted to climb the previous day. “Food for the evening is spaghetti and then porridge tomorrow morning.” “Will there be any access to water?” I asked, knowing I was on dish duty the next day. “Then, will we have enough with us to do dishes? What if we break down and get stuck in the middle of nowhere?” <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YUuOv-waI/AAAAAAAAAUY/XUmmBhnmaIU/s1600-h/DSC09175.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433052784934961570" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YUuOv-waI/AAAAAAAAAUY/XUmmBhnmaIU/s320/DSC09175.JPG" /></a><br />“You broke the truck, Laura.” Frik stood next to the still smouldering tire as we stood to the side of the dirt road in the middle of nowhere. “The stabilizer is terminally broken. I think we’re camping here.” In 20 years of guiding, this was the first time Frik had actually disabled a vehicle; luckily, Songwe contained everything we needed, including dinner and cold drinks from the Eskies, to thoroughly enjoy our stranded hours (photo of truck before completely breaking down; note Frik underneath in an attempt at repair).<br />By morning, Acacia rescued us, sending a minivan to unload our packs and ourselves and a tow truck for Frik and poor Songwe. En route to Swakopmund, our intended destination, we detoured to the Cape Colony of fur seals, a stretch of desolate Namib coast undulating with vast numbers of furry, pungent, barking seals.<br />Quaint. Th<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YbJaDWfRI/AAAAAAAAAUo/xSSR31A0_eE/s1600-h/DSC09244.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433059848895233298" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YbJaDWfRI/AAAAAAAAAUo/xSSR31A0_eE/s320/DSC09244.JPG" /></a>at is how I would describe Swakopmund. An German beachside town in Namibia, with all of the contradictions construed in that statement. Palm trees next to German beer houses, African markets set up on unpronounceable streets with German names. A bit like Vic Falls in terms of activities on offer, Swak promised quad biking, sandboarding, sky diving, dolphin cruising, ocean kayaking…By this time, all I could afford was quad biking, and I spent that afternoon zooming over the rolling dunes, bouncing from one towering peak to the next- the tallest dunes climbed hundreds of feet above the desert floor, and we carelessly roared up one, curved over its side, and sped down its length. I only wished my bike had a faster setting. Next time…<br />Ah, yes. Our accommodation for Swak was in a clean, tidy hostel a block from the ocean; I flooded the bathroom and entire dorm room the first afternoon (I did help the hotel manager sweep it out the door), merely adding to my burgeoning popularity as truck-breaker and bathroom-flooder….A Gemsbok steak that evening and a leisurely morning of perusing the craft stalls of the small town cured any latent disaffection. I had my favorite lunch of the trip, toes dug into the ocean sand, watching white-crested waves foam against the shore and seagulls swoop into the water, digging a sand castle between my legs and munching on chips, cheese and an apple, a crisp cider invading my castle moat.<br />At dinner our second night in Swakopmund, Frik stood up and thanked us for our patience with the truck issue, winking in my direction. I stuck my tongue out at him. “Now, does anyone protest spending an extra night in Swakopmund? Because a spare truck is being driven up from Cape Town, this is a brand new truck, so Laura, don’t screw it up, but we can’t leave until the morning after tomorrow.” Sleeping another night in comfortable beds and warm showers or delving back into tents and sleeping bags? “Swakopmund!<br />By the end of our third day in Swakopmund, I stood observing the detritus of my retail therapy, spread across several beds in the large dorm room. James walked in, carrying a small plastic bag that contained all of his purchases. “Good luck with that.” I glared at him. Somehow, I managed to stuff stone statues, earrings, necklaces, an antelope skin, bracelets, a kudu horn bottle opener, a wooden mask, several Ethiopian scarves…ok, so I bought too much. What’s new?...into my backpack and carry-on.<br />Namibia seemed flat, empty, wild, destitute of life, rent by gaping canyons and jagged peaks and sandy dunes. The rain chased us, of course, thrashing our new truck, Tana (the smallest of the three- it was sad, Kavango had the largest locker, Songwe had a decent one, and Tana was impossible), and chasing us under shelter when we reached the new campsite, Sossuvlei.<br />I appreciated the quiet moments Africa offered, moments to think, to remember, to de-clutter the jumble of thoughts from a frenetic semester. At our new campsite, I took a stroll in the harsh afternoon sunlight, sat upon a small hillock shaded by thorny acacias and stared out at the mountains of Namibia glowering in the distance. I could barely make out the white Acacia truck over the horizon and the indefatiguable form of Garrett tossing the rugby ball to Nick and Matt. James was seated at the truck tables, journaling; several girls were in the ablutions block, testing the showers. Dyanne sat with Frik, Sonja, Steph and Reid beneath the tree in camp, chatting about sheep ranching and giraffe eggs. Percy was back in Swak, recovering from malaria while Mic tended to him. Sue and Bart were flying back to Cape Town to end their African odyssey. Though I couldn’t see most <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YbJwQvqgI/AAAAAAAAAUw/BjYVOAKFygg/s1600-h/DSC09301.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433059854856989186" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/S2YbJwQvqgI/AAAAAAAAAUw/BjYVOAKFygg/s320/DSC09301.JPG" /></a>of them. Somehow, during the course of our experiences together, we had coalesced into a community.<br />I slept in the truck that night; I became a bit weary of setting up the tent by myself- not that no one offered to help, of course, but I couldn’t be bothered. Too early, Garrett burst into the solitude of my slumber by slamming open the truck door. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. “Is it 5 already?” I peeled off the plastic sleeping mat and slumped into one of the chairs. Bloody hell, it was early. Just before sunrise, Frik skidded into the sandy parking lot below Dune 45 and we clawed up its sandy slope to watch the sunrise tinge the light violet and marigold and crimson. Then, it was time for a desert hike- a white man, named Bushman, guided us through the dunes of Sossusvlei, teaching us desert survival techniques. He caught a lizard by tossing his hat in the air, passing the shadow over the lizard and watching it burrow in mistaken fear of a bird. He taught us what a vlei is- a depression between dunes that collects water in the rainy season. He taught us what Sossus means- the place where people disappear, so named because Bushmen used to shoot arrows at anyone who trod near their land. Bushmen have good aim, and the people never returned home.<br />Like I often do when I visit the desert, I could feel sand in every orifice, so I showered off while everyone else packed away the tents and howled one last time as the killer ants attacked me on the walk back from the bathrooms. Though our next campsite, neatly tucked into a copse of trees and mountain, truly exemplified close encounters with the insect world. I slept in the truck again that night; there was no way I was fending off giant beetles, leaping cicadas, creeping spiders and Lord knows what else to wrestle with my tent flap and sprawl into a nest of scorpions.<br />While washing and drying dishes in the cozy kitchen, myself and the three boys often dove for cover as the local cicada and beetle population buzzed in to inspect our work; I think they found my hair a safe place to nestle. Dyanne shrieked; I finished drying while Nick and Matt reported seeing the largest beetle (think the size of a hand) in the female bathrooms. Joy.<br />Not that the campsite wasn’t lovely; it had a delightful pool, a charming bar, cheap cabins into which to upgrade, and the proprietors were simply endearing- a sweet old couple that baked us cake and put soap in their bathrooms (no other campsite felt this necessity). My requisite, early morning shower was refreshing in a cold, being-dive-bombed- by-cicadas sort of way, but at least there was no tent to disassemble.<br />We crossed back into South Africa that afternoon; in stood in the aircon of the police station with Nick while Frik ‘tried’ to have Nick arrested. That afternoon, I achieved a personal challenge by erecting my tent all by myself- no outside help needed. I thought it was worth celebrating. I threw on my swimsuit, hustled down to the river dock, was ‘helped’ in by Beth, and spent the afternoon splashing around the Orange River, the border between South Africa and Namibia. We did ascertain that there were no crocs or hippos before submersion.<br />That night was another of those fuzzy, grainy memory sort of nights; there was a drink called springbok at the bar, with peppermint schnapps and Amarula; it tasted just like peppermint ice cream and it only cost a dollar or two…I was up to leave the next morning, soaked in the shower and slept most of the way to our next campsite, Highlanders. Do you remember Mark, our first tour guide? His uncle ran this camp, nestled in wine country on a row of terraced slopes; in efforts to re-civilize ourselves, we signed up for wine tasting and sipped delicious vintages produced by the very vineyards surrounding our truck. If I had more room in my pack (those stone statues and animal skins were unfortunately bulky), I would have transported home divinely delicious 5 dollar bottles of South African wine. Alas, I suppose I will just have to go back…<br />And then, impossibly, it was the last day of the tour; I packed away tent #522 for the last time, with a bit of nostalgia; I took my last cold shower and stuffed my pack into my protesting locker with a sad resignation. We had a final drive to Cape Town, arriving by 11 o’clock for a township tour of the local black communities that were established during apartheid. I hope I am never selfish enough to complain about my living quarters again; whole families were crammed into a space intended for one.<br />But then we left the township for our comparably glitzy hostel in a posh neighborhood of Cape Town; the stark images of poverty and depravation faded as we finished unloading the truck, sorted through our accumulated loot, and prepared for our farewell dinner. That night is a blur, though not because of alcohol intake. Just the alacrity of it all- the hugs, the good-byes, the final toasts, the silly cab rides, the 5 am exit- if I did not have an elephant hair bracelet on my wrist and a thousand photos of my journey, I might have thought it a mere figment, an impossible fantasy. But it was real, beautifully, embarrassingly, laughably, impossibly, gravely real. </div></div></div></div></div></div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633081871324254970noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32927105.post-71327141394024227162009-10-13T20:17:00.001-05:002009-10-13T20:17:50.383-05:00ReflectionsThe world smelled of wet things today; I inhaled the breath of trees, the scent of watered palms, the taste of damp grass, the soapy aroma of cleaned car, the cooling breeze off the Nile. By night the drifting smoke from burning fields clogs the air and I lie in bed, immobile, inhaling the acrid scent through opened windows. The dust of the world filters through my screen and rests on any available surface- a cherrywood dresser, a wicker basket, a cloth mural. Occasionally, I exert a half-hearted attempt to re-settle the dust and send it on a thousand year journey across the sands. More often than not, I watch it pirouette in the beams of sunlight and wonder how long it has danced through human life. Did it swirl through the lives of our hirsute ancestors who rose from the jungles and journeyed across deserts; did it pass before the kohl-lined eyes of ancient pharaohs; did it tumble over seas and dynasties and back again; did it rest on battlefields and broken limbs; did it churn in the debris of bomb-decimated cities; did it spend a wedding night in the trembling hairs of a young bride….how wearisome indeed is such an immortality. <br />Time is indeed a curious ticker- there are days that pass in a moment, and days that linger into infinity. I never suspected two and a half weeks of vacation could melt away in languid afternoons and ambling nights; but I suddenly found myself on the brink of responsibility, again. I turned back to demand a receipt of my time, and Time obliged- a black night by the pyramids, barefoot atop a surging horse, howling at the top of my lungs to race faster down the sandy tracks and over the short dunes; dusty feet somehow remembering the way through the crowded markets surrounding Khan al Khalili and trudging up a thousand year old minaret to see all of Cairo sprawling into the white-hot sunset; living for the coolness of nights and sleeping through the relentless days; chortling somewhat obscenely in a movie theater at the ribald Egyptian comedy- humor, it seems, is a universal language; bathing in the crystalline waters of the Red Sea, bumping into jelly fish; two drinks happy and riding the subway home. Very well, Time, it was well spent. <br />I have a sand dollar sitting on my dresser that I pulled from the sea. One side is smooth, the shade of mottled cobalt; the other a lucky star to wish upon, worn by the sea’s caress. I told my mom I found her fortune; even the Red Sea wishes her well. It seems a lifetime ago, when this narrative began, when life seemed simpler, more innocent, less final. And then my mom got cancer two and a half years ago, when I was in Egypt for the first time. It is typical, I suppose, of my egocentricity, to put this event in my own terms, but I will. After all, merely having a blog is a fairly good indication of one’s inflated sense of self. That time, I clung onto what I could grasp- first love, best friends, drowning in travel and new experiences. Alhamdulilah, to the amazement of her doctors and her terminal diagnosis, her cancer disappeared, and life regained its bemused trajectory. Every few months, Mom went in for scans and received astonishing reports-nothing. Last New Year’s, I drank one too many glasses of champagne in celebration of another cancer-free report J By then, it had been over a year, and I toasted to hope. <br />I returned to Cairo. The day after my return, an e-mail popped into my inbox, “Cancer’s probably back, her scans showed a suspicious lump.” Really, God, I mean, is this really fair? At least you could have had the courtesy to wait until I was home for the summer. I don’t like being a mere voice on the telephone, half way around the world, a disembodied daughter unable to even offer a hug. <br />We do what we can with what we have. I am always amused that my mother thinks my stubbornness came from my father, when she can deliver the most adamant oratories for her cause. She managed to schedule an earlier surgery than the doctor wished, my school was cancelled so I could spend the wee hours of the morning on Skype, and the males of my family sent me hourly updates on the day of surgery. The cancer was a different form than the original breast cancer, a less virulent variety, and renewed hope sprang anew. In typical Mother fashion, she is now in Las Vegas with Dad, gawking at Sin City while I listen to the mosques draw the sleeping from bed in the stillness before dawn. <br />I love the dark of folds of this night, when lights extinguish and I fumble in the dark to crawl beneath my sheets. When only blacker shadows of my room’s possessions anchor me to this world, something faint and shining glimmers on the nightstand next to my bed. My precious sand dollar, a tiny chip broken off from an edge, gleams white and solid on its other face, somehow impervious to the rain of dust falling in my room.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633081871324254970noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32927105.post-87328003794612617882009-09-25T20:54:00.004-05:002009-09-25T22:00:11.954-05:00Lassitude<div><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/Sr13XuxxzqI/AAAAAAAAASI/ERlZI3W1nds/s1600-h/SANY0459.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 239px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385591978982493858" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/Sr13XuxxzqI/AAAAAAAAASI/ERlZI3W1nds/s320/SANY0459.JPG" /></a><br /><div>I slipped into the door of the Metro, immediately engulfed in the laden air of the car- heat, moisture from breathing and perspiring bodies, unwashed skin, strong perfume, and general air pollution combined into a soupy mélange during the heat of the day. A grey gallabeyia and brown sandals flew along the pavement behind me, a man running past the women’s cars to find the first door on a mixed gender car. With a rattle, the doors slammed shut and the train rolled down the tracks, surprisingly efficient as a means of Cairo transportation. And, at 1 ginea, or Egyptian pound (L.E.), I can’t beat the price. A taxi to downtown costs about 15 gineas.<br />Sitting down on the bench along the window, I tilted back my head to catch the faintest of breezes sneaking through the aperture. A black shadow sat across from me, garbed in flowing sable robes from the top of her head to the tip of her toes. Only her eyes peeked forth, studying me with curiosity. Colorful veils protected the modesty of most of the other women, neon pink and bright green head scarves highlighting tight, long-sleeved shirts and skinny jeans. Other women wore loose, floor-length black dresses, some decorated with bright embroidery. One or two other women sat unveiled, chatting on their mobiles or staring at the grey apartments whizzing past the windows.<br />At the Sadat station, I transferred lines, heading to Dokki. With my eyes closed, my mind drifted pleasantly, unaware of the general babble around me…<br />About a week and a half ago, my door creaked open as a cross breeze blustered through the apartment. An unfamiliar female voice echoed in the hallway, and the telltale wheels of her suitcase rumbled over the tiles. I lifted my head weakly, but then succumbed to the lethargy of my nap and rolled over, unwilling to engage the 5th roommate in conversation. Bright pink, Hawaiian-flowered suitcases filled my dreams.<br />I met the owner of the suitcase later that evening, a cute brunette opening the door to her spacious chamber ( her room’s about twice as big as mine). The promise she showed in her suitcase taste was reflected in her bright smile and lilting voice. We chatted, and she laughed when I told her I taught classes every day at 8:30 am. “We’ll probably never see each other,” she said, “I am an absolute night owl.” Two days later, AUC closed, and pushed me into her ranks of insomnia and flitting home at 5 in the morning.<br />Dare I say it? Nay, I shall whisper it, to not destroy the karma of our flat. We get along well. Our discordant lives somehow shift and meld into a harmonious existence. A poli sci major, an English teacher, an anthropology student, a Bohemian currently facing reality as a nursery teacher, and an artist. That is either the opening to a cheesy horror flick or an epic adventure. For our sakes, I hope it is the latter.<br />…My metro stop was fast approaching, so I lurched from my seat and stepped onto the platform in Dokki, somewhat bemused by the bright, 70’s-style tile walls creating an undeniably unique atmosphere. Trudging up the stairs, I squinted in the blinding, late afternoon Cairo sunlight as I emerged into the happy chaos of Dokki. Dokki is shabbily quaint, not pretentious like Zamalek or Maadi, not as stiflingly crowded as Sayed al-Zeineb, but worn around the edges. Middle to upper middle class. More transportation awaited me. I purchased some water at a kiosk (kishk in Arabic) and hailed a taxi, grinning as one of the archaic black and white dinosaurs putted over to the curb…<br />There is a castle in Maadi. Not a historic relic from the Crusades, but a modern monstrosity constructed to cater to the ostentatious proclivities of the upper classes. Someday, perhaps I will take a photo of it, but imagine a soaring, Gothic-meets-Shakespeare fortress surrounded by a small moat. Sarah happened to be house-sitting for a friend who lives in the top flat of the building. As we ascended the spiraling staircase, surrounded by iron roses and vines trailing upwards, the word neo-colonialism popped into my mind. But then, we entered the flat, and I was too overwhelmed to really ponder the delicacies of presiding in a castle over the common folk of Egypt. It soared, with enough space to house the General Assembly of the U.N. comfortably, two floors of vast emptiness, echoing marble floors, a grand staircase, a sumptuous kitchen, multiple bedrooms, wall niches and alcoves, indoor balconies, and several whirlpool tubs. “Really, quite homey,” I sighed, sinking into the bean bag chair in front of the big screen tv with satisfaction.<br />My two male roommates, Cole and Sam, both utter sweethearts, were ‘mildly’ impressed I knew someone who resided in the Castle. “What! You’ve been in there?! And come back alive?” Cole spent his birthday curled up in the cozy arm chair, watching trashy American television and ordering greasy food to the lacy iron-encased door. He spent that evening in the desert by the pyramids, listening to throbbing techo music while sprawled in the grass between Sam and me. Lauren had been invited to a concert by her ‘people’ and invited the three of us along. We shrugged. “Why not?” With the four of us wedged into the backseat of a small sedan (one gets to know one’s roommates very well by the end of the trip), we drove from Maadi to Giza and the labyrinth of streets snaking behind the pyramids. Due to our combined weight, we walked up the final hill rather than bog down the car in sand.<br />Thank goodness I have never revealed a talent or interest in the entertainment business. I am not one to schmooze or flatt<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/Sr13XSFjX9I/AAAAAAAAASA/OJgd9bDl3g4/s1600-h/DSC08119.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385591971280805842" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/Sr13XSFjX9I/AAAAAAAAASA/OJgd9bDl3g4/s320/DSC08119.JPG" /></a>er wantonly. We left Lauren to perform her requisite rounds of smiles and feigned interest while the three of us parked ourselves on a grassy hillside lit by glowing lanterns and played word games for the next several hours. It was the first disco I visited that did not serve alcohol and permitted children to arrive at midnight; though perhaps this is why the dance floor crowd was thin. Eventually, we left the neon-lit palm trees and reed cabanas of that club for one 5 minutes down the road. At the entrance lay the stables, and Lauren and I could not help ourselves, cooing at all the pretty horses while Sam and Cole waited somewhat patiently outside. I sense riding in my near future.<br />Nabil, her manager of sorts, winked at me (of course). “Up there, the pyramids, most amazing sight, you won’t believe it.” I pulled my camera out and trudged up the sandy incline excitedly. Finally! As I crested the shifting hill, I squinted into the mercurial darkness in front of me. Two faint triangles stood dimly against the midnight blue of the surrounding sky, intense pollution granting everything a nebulous nature. “Wow,” Cole muttered at my side. “I don’t know what to say. My jaw hurts from hitting the floor.” We endured another half hour of plastered smiles and shaking hands before the three of us departed. It was after 2 in the morning….<br />My cab passed from Dokki to Mohendiseen, the buildings sporting colorful electronic signs, the cars bearing fewer signs of age, and the store names appearing in English as well as Arabic. “Sharia Shehab, min fudlik.” And my driver turned down a familiar street, passing by the haunts of older days and lighter times. ‘There’s the internet store, and Etam, where I spent waaay too much money…’<br />When restlessness struck, I found myself in Zamalek, strolling the streets of a previous life. Not because I am particularly nostalgic, but the only bar in town, Pub 28, still open during Ramadan, happens to be in Zamalek. We tried several other drinking establishments in Zamalek, but, alas, all were shut down but the venerable institution of Pub 28, so we slid into a booth and split a pitcher of Sangria. I suppose some might consider us irreverent of the culture, or might even boldly state that we should be able to give up at least alcohol for Ramadan, as the Muslims give up food, drink, smoking, etc. I say, most of the clientele in Pub 28 was Egyptian, not foreign.<br />Hamdulilah, I need no longer fret about proper mores during the holy month. Ramadan ended with a palpable sigh of relief around Egypt as the final fast was broken at iftaar on Saturday. Though certainly not fasting, I decided that I wanted to spend the last iftaar in a place where many Egyptians eat to break their fast. I went to McDonald’s. Indeed, my friends and I were the only foreigners in a restaurant full of Egyptians who waited with the acquired patience of Ramadan until the sun finally slipped below the horizon. Thank goodness the McFlurry and perfected French Fry are a universal indulgence….<br />My cab passed by Club Aldo, and I blinked. “Hina kwayis!” I hopped out, handed him 6 L.E. and called Aya, my new language partner. “Wait me there,” she directed, and I admired the brazen high heels taunting me from the store window. I’ll take my natural height and hobbit-sized feet any day.<br />What would be a perfect ending to this rambling narrative? How about a new friend, a tall, bubbly, beautiful girl who wants to teach me Arabic if I will teach her English? How about a languid afternoon in Grand C<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/Sr13YO3vF_I/AAAAAAAAASQ/ZHbJBTDJ630/s1600-h/DSC08131.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385591987597416434" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/Sr13YO3vF_I/AAAAAAAAASQ/ZHbJBTDJ630/s320/DSC08131.JPG" /></a>afé, lounging in chairs along the Nile, eating and drinking for the novelty of it? Life on the Nile slipping past languorously, billowing sails powering small feluccas, flat barges laden with cargo, two-person row boats casting lines to catch the evening’s meal, not unlike a scene from 5000 years ago. When the light shifts, and the relentless rays transmute into a soft glow, and the sparkling blue of the Nile burns molten orange, and the sky flares with smoldering brilliance, and the reeds along the Nile rustle in a sudden breeze, and the palm fronds sway, you know, for a blinding moment, this is the most beautiful place on Earth. </div></div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633081871324254970noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32927105.post-10780980001458565422009-09-20T07:15:00.000-05:002009-09-20T07:16:15.155-05:00The UnexpectedSomething unexpected happened the other day. No, I’m not pregnant, Mother. Not yet, anyways. I found this revelation to be pregnant with another variety of news- swine flu. If you wish to be politically correct, you may call it the H1N1 virus. I will stick to the Arabic translation of the malady, which is influenza al-khanazeer- flu of the pigs. Perhaps the reason why it is so feared in the Middle East, given that pork is a wholly vilified meat. Which is sad, because pork is a succulent, juicy, yummy…I digress. <br />Yes, the swine flu is the root of my current and future indolence. The Ministry of Education, in an attempt to curb outbreaks of swine in Egypt, took the iniative to bar any educational institution in Egypt from operating until October 4th. This includes my venerable and hallowed halls of learning, AUC. No, there have been no reported cases at AUC this fall, but, of course, what are a few fewer weeks of education for burgeoning young minds? To be honest, as residents of Egypt, we would never know if the swine flu had infected every last village and household of Egypt, as the government has an unfortunate tendency to keep information from the populace. I have heard rumors from “every hospital in Cairo is overwhelmed with swine flu patients” to “there have been few reported incidents” to “because Egypt never actually eradicated the bird flu, they fear that the two might mutate and form some worldwide epidemic.” Meh. All I can do is sit in my happy little flat in Maadi and bemoan my unexpected vacation. <br />What?!? Laura, protesting vacation? Well, yes. For one, money is usually required to jet off to exotic locales. Money which is sadly absent from my bank account. Two, immediacy of the announcement did not allow me ANY time to plan. Third, I will now have to make up the missed lessons on my free days from campus. Sarah and I are trying to wrangle some free beach lodging out of a friend who has a chalet on the North Coast (i.e. the Med). Enshalla. <br />I started writing this desultory little missive as dawn pierced the pall of Cairo’s pollution with a hint of orange, and the acrid scent of burning garbage wafted through the streets, merely contributing, of course, to that pollution. Now, the garbage collectors have extinguished their nightly fires, and only the occasional, smouldering dumpster remains. Eid Mubarek. Happy Eid! Yes, Ramadan is, alhamdulilah, done done done. For my debaucherous Western ways, this means that I can eat and drink in public again and, more importantly, the bars and clubs in Cairo will, once again, open. As the Dixie Chicks rather aptly put it, “some days you gotta dance.”<br />You will learn more about my life at AUC (if it ever returns) in future blogs, but I was sitting in my office on Wednesday, blearily reading my textbook for Applied Linguistics when, through my open door, an abrupt increase in the chatter of voices incited mild curiosity. To be fair, an ant crawling in the hallway would probably have been sufficient distraction. Regardless, I arose, peeked around the doorframe and saw all of my professors and a number of my peers standing around, discussing swine flu and school closing in loud voices. “Tom, what’s happening?” I asked the director of my program, the Intensive English Program. I have never seen Tom look unharried; indeed, he seems to rush through the halls of AUC in a state of perpetual mild panic. Given the disorganization of AUC, however, this is not very surprising. <br />“I think school’s cancelled for the next two weeks.” “Whoa, what?” and the administrator for my Fellowship, Maida, bopped out of her office, 5 feet of charmingly accented English and pink accessories. “Yes, it is true,” she affirmed. “So this means, what?” I asked Tom, who, for once, did not seem to be in a hurry to return to his office and certain mayhem. Sometimes avoidance of looming disaster is best. “Do we have to make up the days we lost?” “I don’t know,” he said in a tired voice, “classes on Saturdays, Tuesdays. We do have to make up the time, of course, this is an American university.” <br />Tom eventually left to confront the barrage of confusion from students and staff. I called Sarah. “Hey, guess what? School’s cancelled until October 4th.” My Fellowship requires that I teach a class to incoming freshmen every day. I was priviledged enough to received the 8:30 am teaching slot, meaning I leave Maadi on the 7:30 bus, meaning sleep is a pleasant fantasy most days. I taught Wednesday morning, blissfully mindless of the impending suspension of school. Unfortunately, it also meant my 15 bright-eyed and 17 year-old Egyptian students had no warning, either. I couldn’t show them how to do their next internet assignment or how to draft an outline or write a citations page. I e-mailed them all, of course, and most have responded back…”Ms. Laura, I have received your e-mail , This my topic, swine flu. Best…”<br />But I am finding it is very difficult to teach a class about oral presentations and listening comprehension when my only method of communication is via typed words on a computer. We shall see. From a remarked dearth of any free time, to an unwanted plethora of it…that balance I was trying to seek is slow in coming. Well, I am off to shower (Cairo’s hot and induces a somewhat appalling amount sweat) and then wring out my laundry (my machine, though ‘automatic’ in theory, doesn’t actually drain, meaning I open the door to a deluge of water, which I squeegee down the drain, and then squeeze out my clothes) and then visit the castle that Sarah is currently inhabiting. Yes, the two floor flat she is house-sitting (it’s occupants have the means to jet away when school is cancelled) contains a grand staircase, iron trellises, marble floors, carved wall niches for cherub-like statues, indoor (and outdoor) balconies, enough space to comfortably host the U.N. general assembly, and an air of the generally outlandish that characterizes the wealthy of Maadi. The building has a moat. Adieu for now, my dears!Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633081871324254970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32927105.post-62297145079588513002009-09-08T16:19:00.000-05:002009-09-08T16:20:51.799-05:00MaadiAlas that my tummy offers protestations, and I can offer it no succor. But yoga will not be done for at least 20 minutes, and so I await, captive in my room. It is nighttime here in Cairo, a still sweaty coolness from the scorching heat of day. The dry branches outside my window rustle in the faintest of breezes, and a downstairs neighbor shouts at someone in Arabic. A car, most likely passing through the nearby meedan (roundabout), rumbles past without a honk. Light from the bare bulb saturates my room, illuminating my large (alhamdulilah!) wardrobe, spacious bed, and drying rack of clothes in the corner. Remarkable to think that I have only been here about two weeks. My room has an intimate feel to it, a familiar sort of twinge that makes me feel rather like I am returning home, instead of entering a new life. <br />But perhaps that is merely indicative of my entire experience, thus far. Certainly, there have been novel moments, but, overall, I feel as if I have (forgive my watery analogies, but I am, after all, in the land of the Nile) stepped into a boat on a reedy bank, and felt it glide smoothly into the river’s current, melding into the world I left, years ago. There may be new companions on this journey, but many are still the same; new scenery sliding past, but the essence of this place is immutable. Cairo never changes. Certainly, buildings rise and crumble, people arrive and depart, headscarves come in and out of fashion, regimes ascend and fall, but Cairo sits quietly on her haunches, bemused at human efforts to alter a city that has, truly, witnessed it all.<br />Today I had no classes or meeting on campus; I walked. I walked from my door, down the winding staircase, underneath the arches at the entryway, into the quiet street shaded by towering acacias leaning indolently over the pavement. The Nubian bowab of the neighbor’s building is, as usual, snoring softly in his chair, slumped over a plastic arm as cars rumble past and feet patter by. I turn left onto street 250 and encounter the parade of lumbering SUVs, Mercedes, taxis, and BMWs. To the unassuming eye, Maadi appears affluent, high-class, occasionally supercilious…there is more to Maadi than diplomatic residences, gated villas, imported cars, pasty foreigners, and wealthy Egyptians.<br />I walk through miidan Victoria, skirting the honking and exhaust-choking vehicles merging and weaving through the circle and emerge unscathed, alhamdulilah, onto the far side. A sidewalk of sorts exists here, although alarming depressions/chasms, sudden mounds of sand, low-hung signs, and iron posts appearing sporadically along the way render it somewhat perilous as a pedestrian route. So I just walk in the road, like everyone else. I follow the brick on my left, a fortification of Victoria College, a place I have yet to penetrate, although their large outdoor baseball and football fields are often used by AUCians in need of energy release. The Grand Mall of Maadi is in front of me, though I pass it, ignoring the taxis in front of it that assume I must need their services. Surely a foreigner does not wish to walk anywhere. Surely not. As I leave the ‘orderly’ quarter of Maadi, with its swept sidewalks and overpriced Costa coffees, I enter the other part of Maadi. Although still clearly paved, the road somehow manages to also convey the impression of a dirt pathway, rutted and bumpy. I often see foreigners in my neighborhood, and unveiled Egyptian females are a common occurrence. Other than my roommate, who showed me the way, I have yet to find another foreigner endeavouring through the alleyways and congested streets of hadayiq al-Maadi; doubtless there are other audacious souls like me, but we are not usual, this is certain.<br />I come to the Al-Arab bus station, less station and more chaos than, perhaps, that to which you are accustomed. It begins inside a dirt lot enclosed behind a crumbling brick wall, though the mini buses spew into the street as well, shouting at riders as men hang out the doors and narrowly avoid hitting you as they careen down roads not meant to hold 7 lanes of traffic. I cross more traffic lanes, glaring at drivers through my sunglasses as they attempt to cut in front of me. Tiny mahaals, or stores, line both sides of the wide road, offering car repairs and home goods and sheesha smoking (alas, only for men; women are, to put it mildly, not very welcome); a few fruit and vegetable vendors line up beneath the scant shade of the trees, their produce selections succulent and fresh from the gardens and farms along the Nile. <br />I continue down the road, taking the left fork into a narrower, cobblestone street. Tail swishing belatedly after flies, a donkey turns to stare at me, warm, brown liquid patience filling his doleful eyes and resigned face. Little children shriek and play in the street, running in and out of dark doorways and underneath the feet of passerby, brown hair flying and bare feet covered in dirt. A few women in full niqabs, or black coverings, appear, but most women are garbed in colourful, long dresses and bright headscarves. The odour of an open sewer briefly assaults my nose, and I step carefully around a pile of muck that a street worker has pulled from an uncovered man hole. <br />I love the way the buildings seem to lean into each other, dusty brown walls and crumbling bricks somehow managing to climb aloft several stories. Doorways, though, are perhaps the most fascinating element of any area; some are carefully wrought iron barriers, some intricately carved wooden apertures, some plain and peeling wood, and still others brightly painted with Arabic script scrawled across them. <br />Sunshine suddenly fills the road, and the blessed shade of the crowded houses retreats, and I feel several degrees hotter already. Off to my left, down a wide road, shouting and movement catch my eye. A market! And a local one. Where I live, there is one man who sells produce in a tidy stall, tripling and quadrupling the prices for the foreigners. Here, in this corner of Maadi, tidiness is in short supply. Shopkeepers hawk their wares behind carts still attached to the donkey, rickety tables scorching beneath the hot sun, and canvas awnings stretched across the road as it narrows. Chickens squawk from atop a pile of crates, and rather adorable bunnies sit demurely in the shade, sadly aware of their fate. Swarms of flies descend on the piles of dead fish while their owner futilely waves them away; shirts and blankets and pots and pans and everything in between overflows into the walkway; and the produce…gleaming mounds of red tomatoes, supple cucumbers and fresh peppers, strings of garlic and purple eggplant; sweet pears and ruby dates, shiny apples and heavenly figs, bunches of yellow bananas and large melons all vie for my attention as I step over the muddy slop in the road and the squashed fruit. <br />How I wish it were not Ramadan, and I could sate my thirst with freshly squeezed juice or cold water. Alas, I sweat without hope of replenishment. For a little while, I am lost in the crowd, swept amongst the brimming shopping bags and the pungent odors of fresh fruits and rotting garbage and tangy spices and unwashed bodies, the children darting through the crowd to deliver packages and shoppers carefully picking out each piece of produce. I stop, eventually, and turn around, hot enough for one day. One my stroll back, I stop and collect my own shopping bags-tomatoes and cucumbers, lemons, grapes and the most sensual fruit in the world, luscious figs. I kilo each of tomatoes, cucumbers, grapes, and figs and four lemons = less than 4 dollars. I manage to only lose myself once on the long walk home, dirty and sweaty and quite unlike the carefully manicured denizens of my neighborhood that drive past in air-conditioned luxury.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633081871324254970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32927105.post-45643233813733678262009-08-30T18:54:00.003-05:002009-08-30T21:01:49.178-05:00And back again...It is becoming an unfortunate habit of mine. I sat in the London/Heathrow airport with the latest Cosmo spread across the counter, a fresh plate of sushi from Pret a Manger half-eaten next to me. Three months ago, I passed through the same terminal, endured the same layover, and occupied my time in the same manner. I was leaving Jordan, then, leaving a country and an experience both illuminating and educating, disheartening and humbling. People always return from their study abroad forays gushing about how much they learned, how much they changed, how much they absorbed. Well, sure, I learned, I changed, I absorbed. But this was elastic; imagine me as a rubber band, springing from Cairo to Minneapolis to Amman to Chaska...I did not realize, until I arrived safely, abeit without my luggage, upon Minnesota turf how enervated I was of bouncing between selves and worlds. Struggling between two extremes, I needed a fulcrum, a focal point around which to balance.<br /><br />So, I spend this year seeking, not stability, because, as I recently learned, that is too extravagant a concept for a girl like me, but balance. A way to reconcile my somewhat disparate selves into a self that satisfies me. Can I be the girl who hops in a cab to Syria on a whim, who enjoys vodka and sodas over happy hour, who works in a scrapbooking store, who tells her mom (almost :) everything? Yani, henshoof, as they say here in Misr. We will see.<br /><br />So, how did I get here? As in, Maadi, Egypt, somewhere off Medan Victoria, sitting on my large double bed, my fan and window cooling my flushed face, the static of tv channels droning outside, the coniferous tree rustling softly outside my window, the voices of my roommates blending mellifluously in a deep male baritone and gentle female tenor. Here. Well, physically, it was a day's travel from Chaska, MN to Chicago, and then to London, and then to the morass of humanity that is Cairo, the descent of the airplane through the visible pall of pollution onto the tarmac. But, metaphysically? I am working on my master's at the American University in Cairo, studying Teaching English as a Foreign Language. I have abandoned, at least temporarily, any thought of working for the government. Most jobs that would satisfy my NSEP requirement also, only somewhat unfortunately, also require me to be in the States during the application process. Which leads me here, to AUC, pursuing an equally intriguing career path of college-level English teaching. An opportunity to gain a master's, adventure, learn, and experience, funded mainly by my Fellowship from AUC? I was loathe to pass it up.<br /><br />Life is funny, a bit ribald as well, but funny in the way it twines together separate fates and weaves a tapestry of purposeful chance and unintended consequence. Take, for instance, last fall, a little over a year ago, I was waiting in the Amman airport for a flight to Greece when I happened upon two brothers. One would depart from my life in 20 minutes' time; the other would remain firmly interwoven with mine, so firmly, in fact, that I am now pursuing a long-distance (and we know how cynical I am about love, right? Well, if you don't, I am, quite) relationship with someone living in Washinton state. The second time I met him, he found me slumped in a chair in a Starbucks in Bremerton, WA, snoring (in what I hope was a sexy rumbling; oh, who am I kidding, anyone who's heard me snore is unlikely to describe it as remotely attractive), likely drooling and sprawling. In my defense, I had slept very little and traveled very much in the past 36 hours, but, regardless, he still claimed me, and still looks at me with a little awe and a lot of love. And that, I suppose, makes all the difference.<br /><br />Alright, I am going to shower and sleep. It is, after all, only 4 am here. Thanks to Ramadan, however, no one else feels slumber a necessary activity either!Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633081871324254970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32927105.post-75936523836454108272009-05-17T07:32:00.006-05:002009-05-19T07:28:19.303-05:00Homeward<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/ShKkDczhy2I/AAAAAAAAAR4/LRUesErTgoY/s1600-h/DSC07363.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337508887566338914" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/ShKkDczhy2I/AAAAAAAAAR4/LRUesErTgoY/s320/DSC07363.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>You know it is time to go home when every picture, poster and decoration no longer resides on the wall. Egyptian quilt? Crumpled in a heap on the ground...Poster of Arabic phrases? Somewhere behind my nightstand....Photo of the King and Queen? Facedown next to the bed. I can take a hint, Jordan. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>When the new white shirts you brought over from America have transmuted into a tawny tan (despite repeated washings) not unlike the desert around me, you know it’s time to go home.<br /><br />When your roommates no longer talk to you, and your best friend is leaving Thursday, you know home is calling.<br /><br />When the thickness of dust on your nightstand is impervious to attempts at cleansing, it is time to get on that plane.<br /><br />When you can respond to vulgar catcalls with equally uncouth Arabic insults, you know it is time to go home.<br /><br />When you have been to Syria (and Petra) more times in that last year than you have ever visited your nation’s capital, it is time to return to Uncle Sam.<br /><br />When you actually begin to enjoy 8 hour waits on Syrian borders, and form lasting friendships with people you meet there, you need to return to the USA, land of no border waits.<br /><br />When you have utterly exhausted two pairs of shoes, it’s time to go back to America, land of big-feeted women, and buy some new ones.<br /><br />When the bank account is dipping despairingly towards zero, it’s time to head home to free room and board.<br /><br />When your scarf collection is threatening to overwhelm the large space to which you have relegated it, flee for home!<br /><br />When you have completed the Rogue State tour, and wonder, given the salient state of Arab Nation visas in your passports, if the Americans will even permit you re-entry, it is time to grovel (or flirt) to American border control.<br /><br />When your English conversations begin to include an appalling amount of Arabic phrases (Yani, I want to, bes, insha’allah…) it is time to return to the English-speaking hemisphere.<br /><br />When your adventures of the past 9 months move from incredible, to incredulous, to incorrigible, it is time for Minnesota.<br /><br />When you know you’re coming back, in 3 months, to Cairo, and going to grad school at AUC for two years, it’s not really leaving. In the words of Fadi, the Bedouin, “I don’t say good-byes. See you later.”<br /><br />But, most importantly, when you miss your loved ones, it is time to go to home.<br /><br />Friday I depart, which means frantic packing is currently ensuing. Perhaps someday I shall regal you with tales of weekends of Aqaba and Rogue State Tours and nights in Little Petra and interminable border waits in Syria. Mumkin. But now, back to condensing 9 months of Life into two suitcases and a carry-on. </div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633081871324254970noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32927105.post-18650857381712187492009-04-22T16:35:00.007-05:002009-04-24T05:56:52.969-05:00A Road Well Traveled<div><div><div>I was 100 miles from nowhere. I stood where once Lawrence of Arabia had stood, on the precipice of Al-Azraq Cast<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SfBXvklRupI/AAAAAAAAARo/XKOAsvpWiSg/s1600-h/DSC06751.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327854833964792466" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SfBXvklRupI/AAAAAAAAARo/XKOAsvpWiSg/s320/DSC06751.JPG" border="0" /></a>le, gazing out over the flat desert plains unfolding before my eyes in an endless, tawny carpet. Balancing between the unknown and the known, the familiar and the occult. At my back lay the road to Amman; before me, the winding road to Iraq. The black basalt beneath my feet shimmered in the glare of the sun, and I stepped carefully off the shallow ledge onto firm, if unfamiliar, ground. <br /><br />A few sun-wearied tourists staggered through the castle grounds, incredulous that such a place could exist in a land unhindered by civilization. I was on the road less traveled. Ducking under the low lintel of a doorway, I entered a ruinous room flooded by sunlight and the dust of centuries. My gaze fell on a black staircase climbing into the azure blue of the open sky above. A staircase to nowhere…<br /><br />It was 6 am in Petra- Wadi Musa, to be exact. I had spent the previous day clambering among the red rock ruins of the ancient city…the slow descent through the cool, shadowy siq, the soaring walls rippling with shadow and color and sunlight; the first glimpse of the Treasury, and Shahreena’s bewonderment; leaping over boulders to clamber up the steps of the Roman Theatre; traipsing down the winding road into the heart of Petra, surrounded by the weathered pillars and tombs of ancients; exploring into a seldom-visited valley peppe<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SfBRtJqDAjI/AAAAAAAAARQ/NP24Rr9IOpQ/s1600-h/DSC06511.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327848195307536946" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SfBRtJqDAjI/AAAAAAAAARQ/NP24Rr9IOpQ/s320/DSC06511.JPG" border="0" /></a>red with esoteric pillars and red-veined rock; swaying on donkey-back up to the Monastery, and walking slowly down, bargaining for Bedouin jewelry on the way back; using a restroom in a 2000 year old tomb; trudging back up the siq, wearily, Shahreena dragging with similar fatigue at my side; and a blessed shower back at the hotel. <br /><br />So, 6 a.m. Shahreena rolls over, looks at me through the dim light of early morn filtering past the faded curtains. “Do you wanna do Wadi Rum today?” I stumbled from bed into the bathroom, flicked on the light, and peered in the mirror. Spontaneity does little for my beauty. A tooth brushing later, and some water splashed on the face, we race down the winding, creaky, and somewhat incongruous staircase, out the lobby, and into a deserted Wadi Musa morning. Only buses roll past, and I peer blearily at the Arabic scrawled across their front.... “Wadi Musa!” Shahreena shouted, and we watch as the only bus that day passes us. But then, sensing our foreign natures, the driver stops, shouts at us, and finds us room among the other sunburned, tired foreigners. <br /><br />11 a.m. Sweaty, enervated,<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SfBRs3vsvzI/AAAAAAAAARI/DBReNcQBvYk/s1600-h/DSC06641.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327848190499405618" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SfBRs3vsvzI/AAAAAAAAARI/DBReNcQBvYk/s320/DSC06641.JPG" border="0" /></a> but victorious, perched on a ledge overlooking Lawrence’s Spring in the vastness of Wadi Rum, hundreds of feet above the red, sandy floor. There is a reason few Bedouins leave the desert; there is a reason why a clear, brilliant day lifts the soul to soar in the heavens among the eagles overhead. There is a captivating magic to the desert, to the tractless sands shifting beneath the jeep, to the wandering camel herds browsing over the sparse vegetation; to the rocky mountains clawing from the sand to unattainable heights; to the smoothness of a red sand dune (although there is not much magic in climbing up it; that involves a lot of cursing, sweating, and a collapse at the top); to the inscrutability of Nabatean runes scrawled on a cave wall; to the whispering silence of sifting sands during the glaring heat of midday; to the natural wonder of a rock bridge carved from the inexorable forces of nature; to the simple pleasure of water, each drop m<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SfBRtTWCNUI/AAAAAAAAARY/AS6dH56Vh_0/s1600-h/DSC06695.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327848197907952962" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SfBRtTWCNUI/AAAAAAAAARY/AS6dH56Vh_0/s320/DSC06695.JPG" border="0" /></a>ore precious than diamonds under a beating sun. <br /><br /> The thrum of Arab drums and shouting of voices accompanied us through the gates of Jerash, under the triumphant arches and past the hippodrome. In every crevice, along every hillside, crowding in every doorway, the grey Roman ruins blossomed in a riot of springtime color-yellow wildflowers vied for superiority beside vermillion blossoms and deep purple blooms. We gazed, wide-eyed, at the impossible beauty of the desert in spring. I felt small, standing in the shadow of a great Roman pillar, awed by its ability to endure, and the stubborn power of nature to persevere, year after year, and drape the city of Jerash in glory once more. <br /><br />Their vividness astonished m<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SfBXvRPSo9I/AAAAAAAAARg/d54fGwrlRMo/s1600-h/DSC06768.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327854828772303826" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SfBXvRPSo9I/AAAAAAAAARg/d54fGwrlRMo/s320/DSC06768.JPG" border="0" /></a>e, as I stood pondering the frescoes on the ceiling above. First brought to life in 800 A.D., they told a story, millennia old, of the first Muslim Caliphs, the Ummayads. They spoke of dancing women, camels, great hunts, pleasures in the baths, singing bears…Al Amra Palace, once a hunting lodge in the Eastern Deserts of Jordan, offers a glimpse into the humanity of early Islam, its frescoes proving what Muslim scholars hesitate to confirm. Concubines and companionship, wealth and wine, dancing and debauchery...it seems the rulers of the world have always enjoyed what propriety forbids.<br /><br />It is night, in Amman, and, for a few hours, our travels are over. A real meal is simmering on the stove, courtesy of Shahreena (since we all know I would never prepare such a thing. Cooking!? What is this?). Our usual, the potato chip lunch, needs supplementing. One good meal a day, one of potato chips, and whatever breakfast we find available. Such is the price of impulsive and far-flung travel. A small price, when a true friend like Shahreena is by your side, laughing as you hop from one adventure to the next. One Bollywood movie later, and lots of Malaysian curry filling a potato chip-wearied stomach, I curl up in bed, still giddy from the laughter of the evening. </div><div> </div><div><a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2684479&id=13942051&l=b9bef4bd02">http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2684479&id=13942051&l=b9bef4bd02</a></div><div><br />“Americans? Please, take a seat.” The Syrian border guard eyed us suspiciously and waved me towards the familiar set of chairs at the side of the border crossing hall. “How long?” Shahreena asked in her funny Egyptian Arabic. “Maybe one hour, or two, or three, or four…” Or five. We watched as the other people in our taxi, all Arabs, breezed through customs and piled into the car to Damascus. We sat, with our luggage piled around us, and waited, a large bag of snacks at hand to alleviate the frustrations of Syrian bureaucracy. The Swiss, the British, the Iraqis, the Brazilians, all airily sailed through the visa process. We waited. I pulled out an Arabic children’s book, about a kidnapped dolphin, and read it under the bemused eye of Arabs passing through the checkpoint. We waited. After hour three, I rose to ask the official, behind the desk, about the visas. “No word yet from Damascus.” I fluttered my eyelashes, but only slightly, and pondered undoing a button from my shirt. But, really, what’s the point? We waited. After hour four, I asked again. “No news.” “Could you call them? Mumkin?” I pleaded. “I don’t have their number,” he confessed to me. “I am waiting for a call. Perhaps you could try an officer in the station across the hall.” I defiantly munched the last of my potato chips, scarfed down the rest of my Snickers, just for good measure, and looked up hopefully every time the phone rang. We waited. “Americans!” At hour five, we started from our seats, paid the laughably paltry 16 dollar visa fee (most countries pay 50 dollars), and endeavored to find transportation to Damascus. After approaching a few taxi drivers, we found two empty seats, sunk into them, and headed to the one of the oldest continually inhabited cities on earth. <br /><br />The poor lighting of the bathroom obfuscated much of the drabness of the décor. But something, something moved in the water of the toilet. Hmmmmm…I peered in a little closer and found a rather large cockroach happily swimming his way to me. Flush. Ok, so the Sultan Hotel was not quite fit for a sultan. Perhaps continual habitation has its drawbacks. A stroll through the Hamadiya souq, a thoroughly satisfying 3 dollar meal, and a window shopping tour of Damascus’ mercantile delights later, we were satisfied. I deposited Shahreena at her hotel and spent an enjoyable evening in ex-pat company with several of my American friends living in Damascus. <br /><br />It came, slowly, roiling o<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/Se-RU5YFdDI/AAAAAAAAAQg/MomChaC0P5o/s1600-h/DSC06828.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327636672387839026" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/Se-RU5YFdDI/AAAAAAAAAQg/MomChaC0P5o/s320/DSC06828.JPG" border="0" /></a>ver the desert sands with tempestuous arrogance. I glanced up, my finger on the trigger of my camera, capturing the stark beauty of Palmyra. The cheerful blueness of the sky slowly bleached into a dull, ominous shade devoid of any real definition. Flat on my back only moments earlier, staring at the still grand heights of the Roman pillar colonnade, I had noticed nothing. When I had crossed the threshold into the sacred temple of Baal, still colossal after thousands of years, the sun still beat mercilessly against me. “Is that a…sandstorm?” Shahreena asked, at my side, staring at the cloud seething on the horizon. “Go. Fast.” And so we raced through more of Palmyra, laughing nervously as the storm rolled towards us, our awe of ruins somewhat tempered by the knowledge that a vast storm swirling with millions of particles of stinging san<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/Se-RVOOL5QI/AAAAAAAAAQo/0OamBEUq62k/s1600-h/DSC06888.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327636677983462658" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/Se-RVOOL5QI/AAAAAAAAAQo/0OamBEUq62k/s320/DSC06888.JPG" border="0" /></a>d would be imminently upon us. “I want to go, there.” I pointed to a somewhat distant temple, one of the most famous in Palmyra. Standing behind it, photographing it in the dim lighting, I felt the first blast of the storm claw at my skin. I closed my eyes and hugged my camera to me as the first wave passed over. Suddenly, I was inside the storm, and an eerie, glowing light suffused the temple. Cool. During a lull in the sand barrage, I raced towards Shahreena, who had, sensible girl that she is, headed towards the exit whilst I headed further into the desert. We met, and laughed, slightly red-eyed due to the, well, sand...Then the rain came. And we abandoned Palmyra for the dryness of our car, rented out for the day. Safe inside, the storm intensified, battering the desert with gusts of rain and heaving winds and muddy torrents. <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/Se-RVdjvmeI/AAAAAAAAAQw/yb3elL3UJaA/s1600-h/DSC06963.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327636682100414946" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/Se-RVdjvmeI/AAAAAAAAAQw/yb3elL3UJaA/s320/DSC06963.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I shivered. High in the mountains, surrounded by the lush fields of Syria’s interior, I regretted my obstinacy against packing a jacket. All was fog and dampness, rain and mud, and the stone fortress of the Crac des Chevaliers lay obscured beneath a cloak of opaque whiteness. Instead, we gorged ourselves on our one real meal, and trudged back to the hotel in the fading light of day. <br /><br />All was forgiven by morn. The fairy tale contours of the castle revealed itself from the hotel windows, a magical structure of turrets and towers, high walls and<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SfBM3wdsTtI/AAAAAAAAAQ4/qJAejuLMJ0I/s1600-h/DSC07022.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327842879965253330" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SfBM3wdsTtI/AAAAAAAAAQ4/qJAejuLMJ0I/s320/DSC07022.JPG" border="0" /></a> soaring balustrades. A walk down a country lane, past a cow and herd of sheep, past a tractor parked by the road, past the Arab tourists blaring pop music from their bus, we arrived at the gates. And slipped down the flagstones of the interior, surmounted the surrounding walls, climbed the Princess’ tower, descended down spiraling staircases into darkness, laughed as we discovered the moat (a moat!), and fended off roving bands of school children utterly fascinated by the two foreigners (I once again became a minor celebrity). I have read of the echoing halls of castles, reverberating with the sound of banquets, the bustling corridors, filled with the pitter patter of servants, courtiers, and knights, the inner courtyards bursting with gardens, the outer walls defending the fortress…But it took the Crac, in its remarkable intact state, to visualize the pageantry of the past, an era remembered only by the cold, grey stone walls, silent sentinels. <br /><br />It stood like a question against the city of Aleppo, a half-ruined tower at the edge of the citadel. Surrounding the fortress sprawled the mod<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SfBM4HcVOxI/AAAAAAAAARA/8g5Fujn2pWc/s1600-h/DSC07144.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327842886133562130" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SfBM4HcVOxI/AAAAAAAAARA/8g5Fujn2pWc/s320/DSC07144.JPG" border="0" /></a>ern city, a sea of rooftops, minarets, open parks, and the occasional church steeple. Each of these had an identifiable purpose, or at least a place, in the fabric of humanity. But around me lay the rubble of history, fallen pillars, collapsed walls, toppled domes, a lost story. The Citadel was an archaeologist’s dream, and nightmare. Largely unexcavated, but highly trafficked. But I was not interested in contemplating lessons of the past. “Ready for our one meal today?” I asked Shahreena as we wove our way down from the Citadel, through the massive doors, over the ramp, and into the square beyond. “Mmmm…food,” she murmured, and I suspected our bus snack of potato chips had been forgotten. Several large European tourist groups crowded past, eying the Arab masses celebrating Syrian Independence somewhat furtively. Settling into the little café off the square, ordering in smooth Arabic, I knew I was definitely on the road less traveled. <br /><br />It was h<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SfBzwxf3hDI/AAAAAAAAARw/FZPWPctH_38/s1600-h/DSC07098.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327885640937210930" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SfBzwxf3hDI/AAAAAAAAARw/FZPWPctH_38/s320/DSC07098.JPG" border="0" /></a>uge. The world’s oldest free-standing minaret, dating back from the 9th century, stood proudly erect in the courtyard of the Ummayed mosque in Aleppo. We ducked into the interior of the mosque to find the shrine of Yehiya, our bare feet whispering over the smooth carpet, passing beneath the arched forms of looming white pillars. Garbed in a shapeless grey robe, courtesy of the doorman of the mosque, I watched the activity in front of me for several moments, wondering why I felt suddenly…wrong. “Where are all the women!?” I hissed to Shahreena, who turned to me, rather chagrined, and mouthed, “Oops.” We escaped, unscathed, from the observation of men’s prayer time, rushed onto the warm, intricately patterned marble of the courtyard, and exited the mosque, gaining shoes but losing the hobbit robes.<br /><br />“Pay. Now.” The hotel proprietor barked at us. I glanced at Shahreena and shrugged. So much for Arab hospitality. We each handed him an equivalent of 10 US dollars and flooded into the late afternoon Damascus sunshine. A morning in Aleppo, a drowsy 4 hour bus ride through the fertile fields of Syria, and arrival in Al-Sham, the original name for the intoxicating city. I towed Shahreena through the winding alleyways of the ancient souq, past stores selling feather boas and ribbon, kitchen utensils and crockery, sexy negligee and bright headscarves. We giggled our way, with the occasional photo and purchasing stop (my scarf collection was sorely lacking in camel hair and silk additions. Cheap, though, Mum, don’t worry), to the Ummayed mosque of Damascus, stunning in its size, age, and sheer grandeur. I sent Shahreena to visit the graves of the Muslim saints while I lingered in the white courtyard, seated on the floor in my requisite hobbit uniform. The gilded mosaics of the Treasury glinted at me as I smiled, leaning back against one of the pillars. In Jordan, in Palmyra, at the Crac, in Aleppo, I saw time without meaning, cities and civilizations abandoned, grand purposes forsaken, forgotten but by the click of a tourist’s camera. But here, here, women and men still washed at the fountain as they had a thousand years ago, children shrieked and raced across the smooth floor, the devout still offered prayers in the direction of Mecca. <br /><br />My conversion wasn’t nearly as cool, or as divinely inspired, as Paul, St. Paul, from the Bible. In Damascus, on a street called Straight, Saul turned to Paul, and regained his sight, and his devotion. Replace the donkeys with cars, remodel a few of the buildings, and you find me, two thousand years later, watching night settle over Damascus, hearing the honking of cars and the bubble of sheesha pipes, the flurry of life down the street and the clang of shop doors as they close for the day. Here, on a road very much traveled, I find it. Life. Neither extraordinary or revolutionary, just life, unbroken, unharried. There is no severing of the ancient with the modern, just a seamless blending of the two, a continuity of the centuries, millennia, really. And I flow flawlessly into its gentle current. </div><div> </div><div><a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2684266&id=13942051&l=7cbe520ba7">http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2684266&id=13942051&l=7cbe520ba7</a></div><div> </div><div> </div></div></div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633081871324254970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32927105.post-81885930905018438012009-04-17T13:22:00.002-05:002009-04-17T14:10:38.687-05:00ClarificationGreeting from Syria. Ahlan wa sahlan, as they say here. My adventure-dearth has happily been interrupted with a spate of satiating exploring in Petra, Wadi Rum, the Eastern Deserts of Jordan, Jerash, the border with Syria, Damascus, Palmyra, Crac de Chevaliers, and, here, Aleppo. A blog shall soon follow, replete with roiling sandstorms, thundering storm clouds, 6 am bus chasing, rock climbing, donkey riding, and lots of laughter. <br /> <br />However, this is not the reason I am writing. Well, perhaps it is, partly. I feel rather enveloped in a bubble of happiness. Syria is bliss. No, I write because, through various veins of communication, I have heard some chatter about my previous blog entry, and some clarification is necessary. I like to write, as has been clearly manifested by the length certain entries. Writing is both catharasis (I know that's spelled wrong, but they don't exactly have spell checker in Aleppo) and practice. It records my life the way I want to tell it, through the refraction of my conscience. Sometimes, that means certain events occured in a different order than they are actually recorded, or, perhaps, it means I take the liberty of poetic license. As a suffering English major of 5 years, I have that right. This blog is not an photograph of my life, but rather an impressionist's drawing of it. Some parts are missing, some are exaggerated, some are painted with the reflection of distance, and some are reality. That weekend in the desert, with the Bedouins, true, every part of it. But that was something tangible to recreate. When a distinct lack of adventure arrives, I become frighteningly creative. <br /><br />So there is my statement. Not a defense, because there is nothing to defend. A blog, which you are likely reading from halfway around the world, and updated perhaps weekly, should never be a true reflection of character, moral fiber, or personality. Entertaining, and a recording of a few thoughts and events, certainly. But more than that...<br /><br />Alright, my travel buddy is ready to trek back to our hotel through the darkened streets of Aleppo. I think a stop for chocolate might be efficacious.<br /><br />Maa salama! <br /><br />Or ice cream...There's a ice cream store across the street. Mmmmm....Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633081871324254970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32927105.post-75958340762038630612009-04-09T19:06:00.007-05:002009-07-04T01:52:03.970-05:00Twilight<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/Sd6OvsHoWEI/AAAAAAAAAQY/3K1ztDmFJCA/s1600-h/Holding+Lamb.jpg"></a><br /><div><div><div><div>There is a beautiful stillness to the air. In the minutes before twilight, nothing moves, and the serenity of the desert at dusk steals over the land. Muted lighting casts the tawny buildings in rose-colored softness; the green olive trees turn almost silver as the fading light brushes their leaves; the budding spring flowers turn towards the departing light, almost wistfully; the shadows of the gardens below deepen, and the trailing vines snake almost menacing a<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/Sd6N-jGQFMI/AAAAAAAAAQQ/7ynw2Fb8SII/s1600-h/Me+and+Jess+w+Lamb.jpg"></a>long the low wall.<br /><br />And, then, I hear it. Sunset. The mosque next door begins to chant, building in volume as the “Allah Akbars” add up. Doors slam in the flats downstairs, and men shuffle towards the mosque to perform the 4th prayer of the day. The scent of cooking is suddenly discernable on the air, drifting up from the neighbors below. A game of football commences in a nearby driveway, and the thump of the ball and the cries of children weave smoothly into the melody of the mosque.<br /><br />Twilight. A balance of light and dark, day and night, suspended between an end and a beginning. Absent of sunshine and darkness, stuck somewhere in between. Emptiness.<br /><br />This concept of emptiness is interesting, because it falls at a time of year when life is flourishing-reservoirs are overflowing with water, spring flowers are pushing stubbornly through the brittle ground, trees are sprouting green shoots of life. But, in a sense, it is devoid of meaning…In a few weeks, the flowers will wither and die, the leaves shrivel and brown in the relentless sunshine; in a few months, the reservoirs will be drained. A feeble gesture, it seems, this attempt at reconciliation, at renewing promises. I endure, each day, for those moments when life sparks verily, and the commonplace duplicity is replaced by the genuine. When emptiness is a refuge, not a void, when life’s twilights are a balance between truth and lies, mirth and sorrow.<br /><br />Souq Hour, on a Friday. Waking up to the muted light of cloudy sunshine, scrambling eggs on the stove, walking for an hour to Dahayat Al-Rashid and meeting Jessica Jane, cabbing downtown to the chaos of Friday market in Abdali, walking amid the tables of second-hand shoes and overstocked clothes, ducking between the racks of children’s pants and women’s lingerie, dodging families with small children and Filipino maids searching for bargains, finding one in a pair of boots for yourself, encountering Sarah, your Arab friend, on the other side of a stack of purses, discovering a genuine University of Minnesota cheerleader's top amid the racks of tank tops, quite curious as to how it ended up in Amman, extricating yourself from its chaos to amble, with Jess and Sarah, Downtown, past the mosque of Al-Hussein, past the gold and silver sellers, past the embroidered gowns and patterned scarves, past the juice and tea sellers, past the pirated DVD stores and Petra souvenirs, into the calmness of Jafra, whe<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/Sd6N-kRLSVI/AAAAAAAAAQI/JRPHfsa8YME/s1600-h/Catch+Attempt.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 214px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322847915625630034" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/Sd6N-kRLSVI/AAAAAAAAAQI/JRPHfsa8YME/s320/Catch+Attempt.jpg" /></a>re a salad accompanies weary chatter.<br /><br />Sheep Hour, on a Thursday. Looking out the window of your flat to espy the incongruity of a herd of sheep frolicking in the empty lot-turned-verdant-meadow next door, walking downstairs and amongst the furry beasts, laughing as the little lambs bleat and bound in short leaps over the uneven ground, smiling as their mothers maaaaaa as you approach, trotting away on spindly legs, gulping as the tautly muscled and horned ram stares at you, cooing as you cuddle the softness of the lamb you captured (see pic: left) , taking a photo of Jessica <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/Sd6N-cwGVmI/AAAAAAAAAQA/ApniPfiRiJE/s1600-h/Captured+Lamb.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 214px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322847913607845474" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/Sd6N-cwGVmI/AAAAAAAAAQA/ApniPfiRiJE/s320/Captured+Lamb.jpg" /></a>with the lamb she wanted to catch but could not (and so enlisted the aid of the shepherd, all too willing to aid the foreign women romping among the sheep like nymphs from a fairy tale).<br /><br />Happy Hour, on a Wednesday. Sipping vodka and sodas in La Calle, whispering secrets across the table, tottering out of the bar, arm in arm, pausing at the top stair of descent, gazing in undiminshed awe at the Roman ruins of the Citadel soaring over the city, sloshing through the ‘sewage’ water from Jebel Amman to Downtown, laughing all the way…<br /><br />Language Hour, on a Tuesday. Sitting on the steps of the Language Center, as usual, while conservatively veiled Heba joins you, drinking in the sun in your short-sleeved tee-shirt, tilting back your loose hair to catch streaming rays of golden sunlight, chatting with your friends as they pass you by, teaching Heba the phrase “leg waxing” in English, listening to your voice grow in confidence as the Arabic flows, incredulously, from your lips, sketching in your notebook as you attempt to explicate the meaning of traffic cone in Arabic. You succeed.<br /><br />Kidnapping Hour(s), on a Monday. Loitering in the Raghdan bus station for an hour, Jessica and Rebecca, several inches shorter, on either side, watching humanity amble past, seeing black abayas brush colorful skirts and tight jeans, glancing boldly into the midnight eyes of a woman obfuscated behind a face veil, sighing in relief as Heba finally arrives, on Arab time, and escorts you to her home, a cool, half-constructed house overlooking the environs of East Amman, eating chicken and rice and salad until you nearly burst, and then eating more because that’s what you do in the Arab world, sipping the delicacy of Pepsi after the meal, sitting with her mother and sister for hours, chattering in rapid-fire Arabic and actually contributing to the conversation, stuttering as you find yourself the sole defender of the Jewish religion, wondering why you are the defender of the Jewish religion, realizing that you enjoy being the incendiary element in a conversation, indicating a desire to leave in the early afternoon, sipping tea several hours later, helping Heba write a 5-paragraph essay on the ideal vacation, thinking that Heba has likely never gone on the ideal vacation unless a pilgrimage to Mecca is your idea of an idyllic respite, piling into a cab, 7 hours after arriving, and listening to the splatter of rain on the windshield, grateful that rain, to your knowledge, doesn’t speak Arabic.<br /><br />Teaching Hour, on a Sunday. Walking to school through the morning coolness, grimacing as the second carload of men shouts lewdities, blissfully ignorant due to country music serenading from my earbuds classes have ended at the language center, and you linger in the restaurant, Saveen, nearby, talking between mouthfuls of egg and hummus with your classmates, walking from the university to Khalda, down Sharia Medina Al-Munowarra, over to Sharia Gardens, up the giant hill, and down again, entering the gates of Zaha Center, nodding to the guards, trudging past the bright red buildings and yellow-shaded window sills, passing into the library, a clamor of children rushes in, fighting for the seats closest to you, calling for quiet, you begin the lesson, showing them the bribe of chocolate to the best student, calming their recalcitrance down with a smile, dismissing them with fondness, contemplating the walk home, and catching a cab.<br /><br />Saturday. It is neither sleep nor wakefulness, but a dreamy state of drifting. It is too late to go home, and too early for beauty... </div><div><br />The curtains of the sunroom fall back, soundlessly, and the crepuscular light fades into darkness. A thousand memories meld into a mingling of color, laughter, fear, frustration, ecstasy, betrayal, triumph, exhaustion, and Arabic. My moment of luminescence fades, and my twilight turns to night. I settle in on the loveseat contentedly. Soon, the dark will dissipate, and mingle with the recrudescence of morning. A new kind of twilight is born, a new balance is created, a new clarity is realized…. </div></div></div></div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633081871324254970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32927105.post-16890653506264301882009-03-21T10:31:00.006-05:002009-03-22T16:01:44.843-05:00Faith<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/ScUPh0JhwMI/AAAAAAAAAP4/7Ux0l5pIMe0/s1600-h/DSC06412.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315672008789442754" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/ScUPh0JhwMI/AAAAAAAAAP4/7Ux0l5pIMe0/s320/DSC06412.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>Their footsteps gave them away, though my eyes were closed to the sheltering sunlight. A person pattered by, nimbly and swiftly. Rebecca. Another followed after, slower, heavier, less certain in her direction. Jessica. They disappeared into the apartment, their chatter receding into blessed silence. Only the occasional car horn, the rumble of an engine, the jingle of the gas man’s truck, the voice of the mosque, the shriek of a child disturbed my serenity. I turned over, bare leg stretched out luxuriantly on my mattress.<br /><br />I heard their voices before their footfalls, a rise and fall of cadence twittering about the events of the last two nights. Their events, not mine. Wrapping my blankets around me, I stood up and relinquished to them their balcony and gossip. I paused next to the kitchen counter, inhaling the redolence of my fresh lilies blooming in spring glory. With a contented sigh, I settle into the familiarity of the loveseat, permanent residence of my ailing laptop, and lean over to sip my Diet Pepsi. Grrrrrrr. Empty. With a more frustrated sigh, I push aside my disgruntlement and admire the shade of my skin, smoothing transitioning between pasty winter white to sun-brushed bronze. Insha’allah.<br /><br />With God’s will. This simple Arabic phrase, the most oft-repeated in the Arabic world, making the impossible suddenly possible. I hope you get better, insha’allah. I will see you again, insha’allah. It is amazing, really, the faith behind these words. They grant the gift of hope, of possibility, of reality. Were they to be suddenly, inexorably, effaced from the Arabic language, I cannot imagine the chaos this would induce. Business transactions, prayer sessions, friendships, conversations would be suddenly bereft of the assurance of faith, of the comfort of knowing that all rests in God’s capable hands. Faith, yes. But also inculpable cultures, societies based on the belief that, ultimately, God is responsible for Everything. Only through God is anything possible.<br /><br />Sound familiar? Is that not the basic tenet of most major religions, the ultimate faith in God? The simple act of prayer is an act of insha’allah, of placing our needs, our concerns, our hopes and our joys on the will of God. Here is what I wish, God, and, if you will it, then make it so. Christians are so good at prayer, yet many of them utterly fail to see the connection between this action and that of their Muslim brethren. Faith in the same God, acts of worship to praise and petition Him...<br /><br />Religion. By my own will or not, I seem to find myself recently enmeshed in religion experiences. Life in the Middle East is an encompassing journey of religion, an ensconcing envelopment in the practices of Islam, and, to a lesser extent, Judaism and Christianity. I hear, and see, Islam every day. My local mosque assures that I know, 5 times a day, when I should be praying in the direction of Mecca. Many cab drivers leave the Quran blaring from the radio when I step inside. Every veiled woman is a testament to the fundamentals of Islam, to the decree that women should be modest and unadorned, and, by nature of the veil’s controversy, every unveiled woman is a testament to her own form of faith, be it towards the religion of Islam or another.<br /><br />But visit any of the sites of the Holy Land, and you will soon learn that Islam is not omnipotent. Christians and Jews have as much, or more, history in this region as the Muslims, and they will not go quietly. Attend a church service in Amman, and you will find Christians both devout and fervent. Pass by the Western Wall of Jerusalem on a Friday night, and the flocks of bearded, black robed Jews will overwhelm you. </div><div> </div><div></div><div>But, religion is not the problem. No, don’t laugh. It is Man. Man created these apocryphal divisions between us, Man suddenly decided he could not live harmoniously beside another decent human being. Religion does not advocate slaughter of another people merely because of their religion. I am not going to go into the basis of jihad, but nowhere in the Quran does God tell Muslims to murder. And nowhere in the Torah does God tell Jews to commit genocide merely on the basis of differences in creed. The Bible is devoid of any reference to wage war against you neighbor because he is unlike you.<br /><br />Man is reasonable; faith is unreasonable. Perhaps this is where the tension lies, between the void of reason and faith, and the struggle to connect the act of miracles with the reality of life. Yet, without this faith, without religion, where is Man? Alone, with the weight of the universe crushing down upon him. Religion begets responsibility. We have an interceder between us and the expanse of time and space, something that recognizes us, something that cares about us, something that gives us direction.<br /><br />And so, we believe. We have faith in that which we cannot see, touch, or hear. </div><div><br />Faith comes in many forms. For the non-religious, faith is found in more prosaic objects-money, love, sex, friendship, humanity…But these things are imperfect. They will always betray you. Only a God, designed in perfection, will never leave you. And this, perhaps, is why humanity has always chosen the divine over the mortal, the unseen over the tangible, the imagined over reality.<br /><br />And so I understand the mindset of the Christian worshippers of Thursday night, of their fervid devotion to God and their love of Jesus. And their sermon, well, it was good. Not just good in an oratorical sense, but good in a sense of purity, of ethical mores. In instructed parents on child-raising practices, and listed 6 values-honesty, integrity, respect, self-confidence, charity…And, afterwards, when we gathered in the apartment downstairs to share a meal, I felt at home. Everyone was kind, smiling, generous, laughing, attempted various levels of English with me. But, perhaps what touched me most was the last speaker of the night, a burly old man with a red-checked Jordanian headscarf atop his head. He lumbered up to the lectern, and I internally rolled my eyes. He exuded the conservative, dare I say backwards, attitude that I detest in Arab men, be they Christian or Arab.<br /><br />So, when he opened his mouth and spoke, I blinked, and wondered if my internal translator was malfunctioning. Today is Mother’s Day in the Middle East. Happy Mother’s Day! The occasion was celebrated that evening; all of the women (including me, hence the lilies in the kitchen) received flowers. But, this man, he spoke about recognizing mothers every day of the year, not just one. About their essential role in life, about the respect they deserve, about how hard they work, about how many of them are career woman and mothers…My friend, Reem, squeezed my hand and smiled, her face suffused with the beauty of faith.<br /><br />Just as, a bit over a month ago, Mother, too, smiled at me while she stood before the altar of the Crucifixion in Jerusalem…<br /><br />Yes, this blog appears to be about faith, and its tribulations and its elations, and what is more fitting than a trip to the holiest city in the world?<br /><br />So, to Jerusalem we go, via cab, bus and foot. Cab from Amman to the Allenby Bridge crossing; thwarted at that border; a cab to the Sheikh Hussein border crossing, an hour north; cabs and various buses and interminable waits to finally cross into Israel; a cab (as all of the buses were not running due to the Jewish Sabbath) to Jerusalem, to the heart of the old city; by foot through the Jaffa Gate, down David Street, up stairs into a narrow side alley and, finally, to the Lutheran Guesthouse.<br /><br />Jerusalem is more of a hassle than anything else. It is a breathtaking city, steeped in history, religion, and culture, but every moment spent inside it is an exercise in patience and discord. This is not to say that neither I, nor mother, did not enjoy ourselves, for we did, immensely. I took Mother on walking tour of the old city that eve, down David street, past the West<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/ScUOP7XrQuI/AAAAAAAAAPw/y683GQjdo2M/s1600-h/DSC06331.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315670601978561250" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/ScUOP7XrQuI/AAAAAAAAAPw/y683GQjdo2M/s320/DSC06331.JPG" border="0" /></a>ern Wall, out a gate, and around the outside of the city, enjoying spectacular views of East Jerusalem, the Mt. of Olives, the City of David, and the Al-Aqsa Mosque. However, Mom was hungry, and my route was circuitous, as always, so we had to retrace our steps (not quite as awe-inspiring, the second time) and wander back through the old city.<br /><br />Teenage Arab hoodlums harassed us, or, more specifically, me (apparently, the shape of my rear side is of particular fascination to Arabs, as the Iraqis, Jordanians, Egyptians and Palestinians have all made various comments regarding its general contours and what they wish to do to it), as we traipsed back over the worn flagstones of Jerusalem. Finally, we espied the familiar glow of David Street, with relief, and made our way to the Armenian Tavern, which I had visited on a previous trip. Warm, pleasurably powerful showers later, we slept.<br /><br />The echoing halls of the Lutheran Guesthouse gave way to the smooth, millennia-old stones of the Via Delarosa. Using my ‘innate’ sense of direction, we found it without toooooo much wandering, and began the walk of Jesus. It was a pleasant spring day, lit by cerulean skies scattered with puffy clouds, a warm<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/ScULvNHTumI/AAAAAAAAAPg/5nFyHhQWSh0/s1600-h/DSC06308.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315667840782809698" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/ScULvNHTumI/AAAAAAAAAPg/5nFyHhQWSh0/s320/DSC06308.JPG" border="0" /></a> breeze carrying with it the whiff of incense, the chatter of tour groups, the mutterings of Arabic, the call of the mosques, and the ringing of church bells. We were among the few independents in Jerusalem tourism traffic. Even without the war in Gaza, most people fear travel in the Middle East. With the war, almost everyone followed obediently behind a tour guide as he explained each of the twelve stations of the cross.<br /><br />Mother and I, we dodged around the tour groups, ducked into little stores as our whims dictated, and ambled at our own pace along the holiest way in Christendom. Some of the station are marked by beautiful chapels and eloquent statues; others, by mere plaques on the city wall bearing a Roman numeral. One was disguised in basement of a tourist store. The site of Jesus’ prison was atmospheric, at least, devoid of tourists and accessible only by descent into a dark cavern lit by flickering candles. I realized, then, what the Via Delarosa was lacking. Faith. Individually, perhaps, it still persists, resilient despite the shopkeepers selling pieces of the cross, the repetitions of the Quran sliding through the air of the street, the brusque push of impatient citizens pushing in front of you. But I have found more faith in the voices o<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/ScUOPlXBGWI/AAAAAAAAAPo/8NjIxrpmEBY/s1600-h/DSC06324.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315670596070218082" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/ScUOPlXBGWI/AAAAAAAAAPo/8NjIxrpmEBY/s320/DSC06324.JPG" border="0" /></a>f a congregation in Amman, lifted up in praise to the Lord; in the gentle eyes of my Coptic professor, Nabila, in Cairo; in the soft words of my pastor in Chaska; then I have in the streets of Jerusalem.<br /><br />Religion cannot exist, wholly, in an atmosphere of repression, oppression, hatred, or violence. In the church of the Holy Sepulchre, situated on the Mt. of Calvary and the resting place of His grave, various Christian factions compete for dominance over the site. While we were there, we witnessed several processions, in the space of an hour, past the sites of significance, each conducting their own rituals. I should think that the time and resources devoted to this puerile competition could be better directed at other causes. God himself must suffer from both deafness and asthma, constantly being asphyxiated by the sickeningly sweet scent of incense and the booming, and often off-key, words of the priests and underlings chanting in front of his grave.<br /><br />The Church itself is cavernous, with niches, balconies, and stairwells, and chapels to explore for hours. Time has softened its stark, dark, imposing interior, blunted the sharp-cut edges of stone blocks, smoothed the tops of altars with the brush of millions of pilgrims. Regardless of religion, the sheer enormity of professed faith encompassed in one building is staggering. The desire of millions of Christian hearts is fulfilled when they cross its mighty threshold.<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/ScULujO2wAI/AAAAAAAAAPY/8rCmD9DbEsU/s1600-h/DSC06335.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315667829540175874" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/ScULujO2wAI/AAAAAAAAAPY/8rCmD9DbEsU/s320/DSC06335.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />We embarked on a backwards tour of Jesus’ life. We walked, from the Via Delarosa to the Mt. of Olives, descending into the valley between, clambering among the Roman tombs. In that sunlight gorge, frequented only by the occasional Arab passing on his way to East Jerusalem, it was peaceful, finally, and the beauty of the Holy Land, unmarred by commercialism, strife, and tension, descended.<br /><br />At the Mt. of Olives we visited the Garden of Gethsemane and a beautifully lugubrious church upon the site. Some of the olive trees, they told us, were witnesses to the betrayal of Jesus. They looked merely old, and tired, weighed down with the contemplation of the ages and the secrets of humanity.<br /><br />Twas the night, and the voices of the muzzeins resounded through the darkened streets, answered by the clangs of the church bells, then the morning. I took Mother, as usual, on the road less travelled, or, I suppose, the bus less travelled. To Bethlehem we went, via public bus outside the Damascus Gate. It was us and Arabs.<br /><br />The bus deposited us outside a recent construction of the Jews. The barrier wall, with a gate more fortified than a border between two nations. A banner next to the gate read, with mocking sincerity, “Bethlehem and Jerusalem: love and peace.” We followed behind an Arab woman with her children, and waited patiently while the IDF interrogated her. “Oh, American. Go through.” The border guard <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/ScULuQz6-nI/AAAAAAAAAPQ/O8aG0iZCOlE/s1600-h/DSC06417.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315667824595368562" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/ScULuQz6-nI/AAAAAAAAAPQ/O8aG0iZCOlE/s320/DSC06417.JPG" border="0" /></a>barely glanced at our passports.<br /><br />We passed through the several metal detectors, metal queues, beneath the wall itself, through more metal queues, and into the West Bank. When I had previously visited Jerusalem, in the summer of ’07, the wall had not extended that far, and a mere road checkpoint impeded progress. Now, the steel will of Israel divides Jerusalem and the West Bank.<br /><br />With their usual avarice, the Arab taxi drivers attempted to charge us exorbitant fees to visit the Church of the Nativity. We bartered them down, slid into a cab, and endured the constant badgering of the driver, who tried to encourage us to visit other sites in the West Bank. We exited at the church, gratefully, although he waited for us. Its interior was, of course, beautiful, ancient, gilded, and ornate; only a small crush of tourists impeded our access to the site of Jesus’ birth, although every single one of them took a photo of themselves touching the silver star marking His emergence into this world.<br /><br />The modern, Catholic section of the church was still thronging with Sunday worshippers leaving service. I saw faith that day not in the glint of the Star of Jesus but in the welcoming smile of the local priest, the laughter of friends exiting the sanctuary, the scattered Bibles across the pews. Below the church lay another historical site: the location of the inn where Mary and Joseph sought shelter.<br /><br />Our taxi driver brought us to an olive wood store, but their prices were outrageous, so we left. Rather angry by this time, the driver deposited us at the border crossing, muttering curses beneath his breath, while we fled to the Israeli side. I glanced back, once, just as Lot’s wife had done (happily, I was not doomed to life as a pillar of salt) to gaze over the jumble of buildings of the West Bank. I, too, could do little more than mutter curses under my breath for the situation of the Palestinians and those eponymous people’s treatment of tourists.<br /><br />Directly behind us was a jovial group of American tourists, demurely herded into a single line, utterly fascinated, and impressed, by the aspect of two American women traveling alone through the dangers of Israel. I politely declined to mention that large groups of tourists generally pose more of a target to terrorists than individuals. We got into our public bus; they piled into their tourist one.<br /><br />A pleasant walk around the walls of the old city later, Mother and I found us in front of an innocuous door for an Assyrian chapel. Another female tourist, also solo, stood beside us, eyeing it with similar dubiousness. Having asked the front desk where the site of the Last Supper was, they directed us here.<br /><br />We entered the door, found the interior courtyard deserted, and almost turned away, when the flash of light caught our eye. In a side chapel, an old priest, gray-bearded and black-robed, lit a candle and carried it out of side. Curious, I followed him, haltingly, watching as he lit more candles in front of an altar. When he finished, he turned to me, surprised to find visitors. Smilingly hesitatingly, I said hello, and his face crinkled up in the most wonderful smile, and he beckoned to me, mother, and the other woman. For almost an hour, he gave us a tour of the complex, telling us a story of the patron saint of the chapel (I forget the name, forgive me) in slow but precise English. From there, he led us to a sumptuous chapel of red velvet and gold icons and shining altars where he explained the significance of the site. He is one of the few men in this life that exudes, from every pore, radiant goodness. His pure delight in the sacrifice of Jesus, his eternal love, was evident in every sentence. He was a creation of faith in the purest sense. Muslim extremists, too, are creations of faith, as are Catholic/Protestant terrorists. But this priest understood the message of religion free from its corruption and outside influence.<br /><br />I left the softly lit chapel, hidden down an anonymous street in Jerusalem, glowing, if not literally, than figuratively. I did not find faith in the hallowed halls of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, or on the steps of the Dome of the Rock, or on the prayer crevices of the Western Wall…no, it was found in the testimony of an old priest in a little chapel down a street I will probably never find.<br /><br />And that, I thought the next morning, after I had made an early morning (while Mom wisely remained in bed) foray to the Dome of the Rock, is the true beauty of Jerusalem.<br /><br />Oh, my. Time seems to run in a swift river when I write. What was sunlight is now twilight, and the afternoon call to prayer has melded into the call of sunset. The voices of my roommates, still chattering, now come from the sunroom. Faith is such a tenuous thing. It can be won or lost in the work of a moment; it can endure for millennia, or disappear for eternity; it can be proven in the actions of those you love, and disproven just as easily. It is little wonder the Middle East is forever entrenched in war.<br /></div></div></div></div></div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633081871324254970noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32927105.post-60963827997517771062009-03-13T10:55:00.003-05:002009-03-13T11:27:41.507-05:00PerspectiveTis that time of month of again…No, not THAT time of month :P It is the time of month when I wake up, hit the snooze on my alarm clock, cuddle into the warmth of my Pooh blanket a little longer, and morosely drag myself from the dregs of mosque-interrupted slumber to a warm shower…and realize that I have not blogged in an egregiously long period of time. I’d apologize, but, then again, I think I’ve already offered remorse for the same sentiments in previous entries. So, you must suffer with my whimsical entries a bit longer.<br /><br />It is also that time of year…finally. Jess and I were trudging home from school on Sunday, passing through the small park near our home, and noticed white blossoms budding on the branches of a tree tucked behind the walls of a garden. Spring!!!! Although I hesitate to promulgate the word too loudly, for fear of retribution from the fickle gods of Ammani weather, I think spring may have finally arrived. After weeks of bitterly driving winds, battering rain showers, pummeling hail, and the occasional sprinkle of snow, sun broke through the fortress of clouds, and cheery beams of sunshine beckoned us from beneath our layers of blankets and shivering.<br /><br />I think I may have neglected to mention that we received our heating bill for the last three months. It totaled 380 dinars. So, all of those nights of semi-toasty coziness next to the heater were not quite as blithe as we had expected…We coughed up the money, said good-bye to our savings, and resolved to live in chilly resilience for the rest of the winter. We finally reached the point where we laughed at the absurdity of the situation. Jessica, Rebecca, and I sat in our living room, huddled beneath blankets and jackets, and fingers semi-frozen as we scrawled out our homework, our breath emerging in white puffs that swiftly dissipated in the frozen air. I no longer put my groceries in the fridge; what was the point, when the temp of the apartment was the same as that of the talaaja (fridge, in Arabic).<br /><br />But, we were strong. Winter is not eternal; I do not live in the land of Narnia, and there is no witch to cast the curse of endless winter over the deserts of Jordan. It’s interesting, however. I feel…different, with the change in weather. Reborn is too dramatic, but perhaps revitalized is more appropriate. My body, in a state of inertia for the past several months, uncurled from its constant state of huddled shivering to realize my world again. There is, in fact, more to life than the distance between the warmth of my bed, the steamy heat of the shower, and the cocoon of blankets on the couch.<br /><br />Even the small lake pooling on the floor of the living room cannot banish my good humor. Nor did the sparking water heater switch, which we smelled one evening while preparing for bed. “Hey, do you guys smell something….burning?” And so, upon further investigation, we tracked the scent to the hot water switch, which we quickly turned off. When the electrician, our old friend by now, arrived the next day to repair it, he laughed and asked if anything else was in imminent need of breaking. “mumkin il-ousbua3 al-jaii,” I joked. Probably next week. Such is the life.<br /><br />A rather unexpected series of adventures have been thrust upon my life this past week; and, no, I am not referring to the continual excitements of the Arabic language- I learned how to say, “I poked out the eyes of everyone around you”- but rather, physical discoveries taking me beyond the confines of Amman. Last Wednesday, I participated in a retreat for my work, Relief International. I think it was officially a “workshop”, although the only working we endured was stabbing balloons with knives. Due to tensions in the workplace, and stress after the war in Gaza, and merely because team-building and stress relief are always useful excuses, the Jebel Nasser office group took a holiday. We gathered, early, last Wednesday, and boarded a chartered bus to the Western border of Jordan (i.e. Israel, but we try to mention the name as seldom as possible).<br /><br />I was impressed; we were only half an hour late in leaving the center; positively early to Arab Time. One of my favorite people in Jordan, Malak, arrived to join our group. She is the daughter of one of the managers of the center, an entirely brilliant girl who speaks nearly flawless English at the age of 15 and is at the head of her class in school. And, for those of you who are wondering why I was not in school…I skipped. And instead spent 8 hours surrounded by the chatter of Arabic and the beat of the tabla (drum), both produced energetically by my Iraqi colleagues.<br /><br />Because I was the only native English speaker, the group leaders conducted the entire day in Arabic, and I am pleased to say that I understood the majority of what was said without the aid of a translator. However, if I ever had a vocab question, Malak or Ahmed were only a few feet away. We played trivia games for much of the ride, but occasionally the leaders asked for volunteers to walk up to the mic and perform some task, usually involving humiliation on the participant’s side. Needleless to say, I was ‘volunteered’, and made to repeat “Lorry wara lorry,” (truck behind truck) five times. At least I won a bandana for my efforts.<br /><br />A little over an hour later, we arrived at the site of the B<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SbqH_Te-2FI/AAAAAAAAAOw/2GtsRSLr99k/s1600-h/P1000630.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312708232068651090" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SbqH_Te-2FI/AAAAAAAAAOw/2GtsRSLr99k/s320/P1000630.JPG" border="0" /></a>aptism on the Jordan River. Yes, The Baptism, you know, the one in the Bible, where Jesus is submerged in the Jordan River? It still gets me, sometimes, how close I am to the origins of Western religion/culture/conflict. I live on the edge of the Holy Land, a mere two hours (not including the interminable border waits) from Jerusalem. As my friend Aaron was commenting as we were driving on the road to Madaba, the geography of Jordan is startling similar to that of Israel; or, perhaps, not so startlingly, since they were once the same country. In times long gone, shepherds did not have to fear land mines and machine gun-manned borders. The land simply was, an endless vista of rocky mountains, scrubby outcroppings, salty seas, groves of olive trees, dusty paths, lazy rivers, and humanity, all fluidly mingling on the roads from Damascus to Jerusalem, from ancient Philadelphia (that’s Amman) to Cairo.<br /><br />But, no. Now the Middle East, my world, is marred by barbed wire fences, guard posts, and the tangibility of tension. “Laura, look, over there,” Doram, the (cute) sports teacher at Jebel Nasser indicated, standing breathlessly close to my ear, “Israel.” And then the moment was ruined when he uttered a curse, in Arabic, and turned away in disgust.<br /><br />Malak, my little angel (her name means angel in Arabic), hovered near me or her father throughout our excursion, offering soft commentary in her sweet voice. “This forest must be scary at night!” she whispered as we passed beneath the knurled forms of the trees lining the banks of the Jordan river. She was right, though, the flickering shadows reflected off the black swamp water, the twisted arms of the trees thrusting menacingly across the path, the absence of birdsong. “I<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SbqH_sDz9sI/AAAAAAAAAO4/A83kRr5VeDo/s1600-h/P1000696.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312708238665578178" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SbqH_sDz9sI/AAAAAAAAAO4/A83kRr5VeDo/s320/P1000696.JPG" border="0" /></a> bet there are ghosts here at night!” I joked with my colleague, Luma, in Arabic, and she shuddered.<br /><br />Being Arabs, my group took a plethora of photographs, dragging me into the majority of them, pausing at every interesting tree, pool, and stone. Our guide stopped before the site where, they think, Jesus was actually baptized, now a stagnant puddle of algae-ridden significance. “You see,” the guide stated, “the Jordan River has shrunk since the time of Jesus. Now, people are baptized in the actual river, at the point closest to this site.”<br /><br />So, we trekked through more twisted woods, past natural springs to the Jordan River, a languid stream entirely un-Biblical in proportion. About 15 feet across the river, the Israeli flag fluttered in the breeze, and IDF soldiers watched our group warily. A nervous twitter passed through our group, and their behavior (forgive me) resembled a recusant child stealing a cookie from the jar, knowing she’s wrong, but nonetheless enjoying the occasion. More pictures were taken with the Israeli flag prominent in the background. I performed a few ‘baptisms’ of my more courageous colleagues, and then we headed up the bank to the Greek Orthodox church.<br /><br />Our invasion of the small nave frightened away the white tourists, whose guide eyed our babbling multitudes with annoyance. I was rather shocked by the enthusiasm of my group, who flowed into every last niche of the church, sitting, photographing, and laughing beneath the stern countenance of Jesus, who watched from a mural on the ceiling.<br /><br />We hiked back to the bus, thoroughly sweaty and hot by this time, and rode about 15 minutes to a villa near the Dead Sea. Inside the stone walls, we separated, with unspoken familiarity, women into one room, men into the other. Initially, I had followed the men into the living room, but then I realized I was the only female. Oops. I found my female colleagues sprawled across the beds in their private sanctuary, removing their veils and giggling as they relaxed away from the prying eyes of menfolk. Boring. I soon abandoned them and went out the pool, where I soaked my feet and absorbed the warmth of the sun. I laid down on the heated stone, stret<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SbqIAJpp9TI/AAAAAAAAAPA/vzaBsv2iHHk/s1600-h/P1000833.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312708246608934194" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SbqIAJpp9TI/AAAAAAAAAPA/vzaBsv2iHHk/s320/P1000833.JPG" border="0" /></a>ching out while keeping my body covered, when Ahmed walked by and muttered, “Bad idea, Laura.” The next day, I was paging through the pictures that had been taken and discovered one of myself, ‘lasciviously’ lying on the ground.<br /><br />Throughout the afternoon, we played team-building games, ravenously devoured lunch, and relaxed away from the stress of the workplace. A few of the boys (including Doram, very nice body, btw) went swimming, and I watched them enviously as the splashed in the refreshingly pool. However, I knew that is lying in the ground in haram (forbidden) then stripping down for a swim would get me stoned. At the end of the day, we gathered in the living room, blew up balloons, and wrote on them our biggest challenge in life at the current time. The person who could best solve it was given a knife to pop the balloon. Given the severity of certain situations (my family is in danger in Iraq; I am not able to earn any money as a refugee in Jordan), I felt rather imperialistic when I reticently stated my challenge as, “The Arabic language.”<br /><br />Perspective. View the site of Jesus’ baptism through Muslim eyes, see your challenges in relation to the inequality around you. Realize that weather is ephemeral, not eternal. Realize that true friends are eternal, and not ephemeral. Experience Pink Panty Dropper night without dropping a single panty. Listen to Egyptian Arabic with the (slightly smug) knowledge of having triumphed to Jordanian Arabic…<br /><br />Hmmmm…some of that I will leave to your fecund imaginations…but one of the adventures upon which I am allowed to espouse is Aaron. Time for a quick trip down memory lane…Remember, in Cairo, I had two Aaron friends? One of whom worked for State Department? Re-enter Aaron, in Amman on business. Tough life, I know. I met him at his luxury Ammani hotel, introduced him to Jafra, the Arab restaurant downtown, and the Jordanian dialect. Being State, he is an unusually perspicacious being, and he adopted a semi-Jordanian accent remarkably swiftly. However, there were moments when his Egyptian shone through, and I had to laugh. I may not have a job, but a least I can speak Arabic in two dialects ;-)<br /><br />On Monday, we (as in, all of Jordan) celebrated the birthday of Mohammed. Alhamdulilah, as this marked a national holiday from work and school, and an opportunity to travel around Jordan with Aaron. He rented a mid-sized sedan from his hotel, and discovered that translated into a scratched and sputtering Chevy Aveo. No worries. I directed him out of Amman, with a quick detour to my flat to pay the rent. “So, is this a typical Jordanian apartment?” Aaron asked, as we walked up the four flights of stairs (still no elevator). “Yup. Note lake on the floor.” But, he was impressed with the rooftop balcony.<br /><br />We drove to Madaba, about half an hour outside of Amman, coursing through the valleys and over the hills of Jordan’s topographical variation. “It’s a lot…hillier…than Cairo,” Aaron commented, easing the car adroitly through Middle Eastern congestion. “And cleaner, and…” The list grew.<br /><br />“Now this is more like Cairo,” Aaron said, as we nudged forward in holiday Madaba traffic, eyeing the disheveled storefronts on either side of the road, the ubiquitous Arab men shouting, the accumulation of rubbish, and the disorderly lanes of traffic. “But they’re actually waiting at the stoplights.” That would be in reference to the lack of traffic adherence in Cairo. Of course, I got us hopelessly lost attempting to find the mosaic church, but, with a few shouts for directions, we found the church and spent a couple hours wandering through the streets, enjoying (on Aaron’s part, anyway; I merely continued to revel in it) the return to the Arab world, and savoring cheap shawerma and Arab hospitality.<br /><br />With Aaron’s desire for mosaics thoroughly sated, we left town, got slightly lost again, and proceeded to Mount Nebo, where Moses saw the Promised Land before he died. Having visited twice before, I followed Aaron patiently as he discovered the unremarkable (and perpetually hazy) view, and then suggested we drive down to the Dead Sea. The bright sunshine of the Dead Sea Valley warmed my face, and I lazily stretched in the passenger’s seat, enjoying my holiday away from Amman, while I allowed Aaron to navigate to steep curves and abrupt incline changes of the road. Partaking a second lunch at the Dead Sea Panorama, we raced back to Amman in time for sunset atop the Citadel, a surprisingly poignant visit. With the brilliance of sunset deepening into a fathomless blue, we ap<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SbqIAkRk9mI/AAAAAAAAAPI/eLufNGoDoUY/s1600-h/DSC06460.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312708253755700834" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SbqIAkRk9mI/AAAAAAAAAPI/eLufNGoDoUY/s320/DSC06460.JPG" border="0" /></a>proached the vestiges of the Zeus temple, a few pillars standing testament to forsaken glory of Rome. As the voice of every mosque in the city drifted up to us, blendingly mellifluously into a single ‘Allah Akbar’, we climbed among the Roman columns, stood among the remains of a Byzantine church, and watched the light fade behind an abandoned mosque. Amman spread before us-north, south, east, and west- and we stood in the center of it all, surrounded by the timeless voice of Islam.<br /><br />The moment faded, and we left the citadel, picked up one of Aaron’s colleagues, and ate dinner in one of the most sha3bi (hole-in-the-wall) restaurants in Amman, Hashem’s. For 6.5 dinar, we feasted on the greasy delights of falafel, hummus, fries, fool (beans), bread, and tea. From there, I took them to one of swankiest districts of Amman, Sweifeh, where we people-watched. Returning them safely to their hotel, I cabbed home, arriving to a darkened apartment, the roomies already sensibly tucked into bed. Perspective, I smiled softly as the incorporeality of slumber overtook me. The ability to feel the shiver of immortality as the mosques call to pray, the ability to feel insignificant among the relics of the ancients. May I never lose it.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633081871324254970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32927105.post-78073504055441773432009-02-27T09:30:00.005-06:002009-02-27T11:57:52.498-06:00Completing Jordan<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SagLU3vw24I/AAAAAAAAANU/UXmV5OCpuC4/s1600-h/DSC03818.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307504614045703042" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SagLU3vw24I/AAAAAAAAANU/UXmV5OCpuC4/s320/DSC03818.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br /><div><br /><div><br /><div><br /><div>I suppose it is time for another blog. I have been sadly sporadic as of late as to the frequency of my blogs. But life is so…mundane! Beautifully mundane, do not mistake my banality for boredom or disgruntlement! But my adventuring days are at an end, at least for a little while J I have returned to the routine of classes and work five days a week. Between that, and my desire to study in the evening, I have little time for the pleasures of leisure-going out, reading trashy novels, finding alternative sources of amusement, traveling, or blogging. But it is a life of contentment, of satisfied enervation at the end of every day. If I could spend my life learning the intricacies of the Arabic language, of the subtle connotations behind the addition of a preposition here or an extra vowel here, I would die a happy woman. As it is, I merely lap up what I am learning learn in these last few months, and hope to continue down the road, somewhere, somehow. And my teaching…an unexpected pleasure/frustration of my life in Jordan, but still welcome. There are days when I wish I could throttle my students for their lack of respect and attention; but, happily, there are other days when they amaze me with their perspicacity, and I feel as if I am actually contributing, meaningfully, to their education.<br /><br />I have begun to teach some of my more advanced students media articles; I choose an article for the newspaper or internet, print it out, and read it aloud in class. We discuss the general meaning, define any difficult words, and then try to incorporate those words in sentences of our own design. I am still working on the perfect system for my media classes, but my students appear to be enjoying it. Most recently, we read an article on Obama, and the past November’s elections in America, adding such words as “victory” “replace” “symbol” and “agenda” to our combined English/Arabic vocabulary. My little ones are learning the names of various clothing items.<br /><br />I look at what I just transcribed…”my little ones”…and cannot help but smile, as I never thought I would ever possess the potential to have little ones, either as a teacher or mother. Never say never (no, this does not mean there are little you-know-whos on the way, mother, don’t worry). Never say you won’t have a Bedouin horde living in your apartment in Jordan; never say you will manage to retain a passport for more than a year; never say you will never go home with a man in Syria (if only just to eat his food)...<br /><br />In regards to Mother, I have neglected to inform you of the events that transpired, now over a month ago, when she arrived to the non-centrally heated state of Jordan. Thus, it falls to me to provide a somewhat abbreviated description of our adventures in the land of Bedouins.<br /><br />So it was that mother arrived on the eve of the 16th of January into the chill of an unheated winter’s night. I had not looked at the latest e-ticket info that she had e-mailed me, and arrived to the airport a bit over an hour early. I waited submissively (that’s about the only time you’ll ever see that word describe me, so enjoy….), studied the Arabic, and stood next to the railing, surrounded by colorful veils, impatient sweethearts, and bouncing children, until she finally emerged from behind the customs barrier in the arrivals terminal. After hugs, I led her through the crush of similarly joyful multitudes into the van I had chartered. We settled into the torn, sunken bench, tugged the rattling door closed, and jarred as the van sputtered to a protesting life. “Welcome to Jordan,” I said with a smile.<br />As I have expressed in previous orations, the airport is quite far from Amman, and it was a little while before the lights of the city winked into view from atop their mountains and valleys. After a brief argument with the driver over money (oh, the Middle East) we began the arduous climb to the apartment. Fate placed my bowab (doorman) and his sidekick on the stairs, doing maintenance, so we did not even have to lug the suitcases up the 4 flights of stairs!<br /><br />The following few hours are a little hazy; I recall mother’s reaction to the temperature of the apartment-“How do you live like this!?”- her reaction to the water pressure in the sink-“How do you ever get clean!?”- and her reaction to my expanded wardrobe – “At least I know how you spent your money!” I spent a blissful hour unpacking her extra suitcase full of magical American products like peanut butter M&M’s, insulin, Bath & Body Works lotion, trashy romance novels, and syringes. With two of us in my room, and luggage to boot, it was a cozy fit, but welcome after several months of separation.<br /><br />We went out to the Macarena Café that evening, and met a few of my friends, but retired early due to jet lag. I was bundled happily beneath Pooh, reading trashy romance goodness, when Mother walked in after her shower-“I thought the sink was bad. And that only cleans your hands!” Indeed, I think the scrappy vestiges of illusions that Mother had, about my exotic and fabulous lifestyle abroad, were sadly semi-washed away under the steady drip of my showerhead. At least, she conceded, “the temperature was good. But then, I can’t very long showers, because I worry about running out of water…”<br /><br />A lazy morning ensued. Jessica picked up the car we were renting for the following several days, and, around noon, we headed to the spa, Essentials, for some pampering/torture. Mum and Aunt Suzie settled into pedicure heaven while Jess and I entered waxing hell…Which might be a bit of an exaggeration, since it is an entirely voluntary practice, but still. It is at least a quick procedure, and I settled into my own pedicure treatment about 15 minutes later.<br /><br />One thing can be said about the 4 of us. We like to snack. And Abdoun has excellent snack shopping. From there, we headed to the mall. I know, I know, so much for Middle Eastern culture, right? Well, for one, the mall IS a large part of the culture here in Jordan. Amman would not boast at least 8 malls (with more on the way) if it did not constitute a dramatic part of the lifestyle. And, secondly, Mom received more than her share of Arab culture in the following days. And, thirdly, Promod?!<br /><br />We went to the mall under the pretext of finding a location to pay the internet bill; however, we happened to also come across one of the two Promods (think Laura’s favorite clothing store) in Amman in the midst of sale season. Several hours later, and several shopping bags heavier, we headed downtown for Mother’s introduction to Jordanian food and friends. Mom sampled some native dishes, I smoked a little sheesha, and she met my circle of friends.<br /><br />Our real adventures began the next day…no, I don’t mean exploring Petra or climbing on Crusader castles…I mean paying our internet bill. Because the office conveniently located one block from our apartment abruptly closed, we were forced to head to the mall to find another kiosk. And then Mom’s ATM card failed to work…eventually, we resolved our conundrums, the credit card mysteriously issued money, and we pulled out of Amman, an hour late, on the road to Kerak.<br /><br />The itinerary upon which we embarked was eerily similar to another trip I did in Jordan…the one, two years ago, with the infa<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SagLUg16kpI/AAAAAAAAANM/JPY7pyKXatE/s1600-h/DSC03792.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307504607897490066" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SagLUg16kpI/AAAAAAAAANM/JPY7pyKXatE/s320/DSC03792.JPG" border="0" /></a>mous Colin. I look at myself then, and at myself now, and am amazed at the changes that have occurred in the last two years-personally, linguistically, socially…There was a moment, long ago, when I had stood on a precipice of the castle of Kerak, gazing out over the terraced, rocky fields, the glowing sun setting the far mountains afire, my first real boyfriend at my side, and wishing briefly that I had studied in Jordan instead of Cairo. Standing there, a month ago, my mother and my roommate at my side, I felt complete, and a warm fizz of satisfaction bubbled through me. It was as if I had left a question hanging in the air over Kerak, and returned to shout my answer over the echoing stone walls of the castle. “This is who I am!” Loved, and loving life.<br /><br />I will spare you the details of our wanderings through the tunnels and over the turrets of Kerak; suffice it to say mother explored her first Crusader castle with a bit of wonderment and a lot of photo-taking. From Kerak, we proce<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SagQ_5QMMTI/AAAAAAAAANs/fTjuEvWgkjI/s1600-h/DSC03785.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307510850742661426" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SagQ_5QMMTI/AAAAAAAAANs/fTjuEvWgkjI/s320/DSC03785.JPG" border="0" /></a>eded to Petra. Proceeded quite slowly. Determined to not backtrack, we took a circuitous (read scenic and slow) route, pulling over our little rental car, shouting and a gang of boys lingering on the side of the road, “Wayn Petra?” And laughing as they peered at us, four foreign, two blondes to boot, and could not decide whether to answer us in broken English or villager Arabic. Several hours later, by way of Tafila and other ‘quaint’ villages, a sign welcomed us to Petra. “So, where’s the hotel?” Jess, our driver, asked.<br /><br />“Ummmmm…” Twas an excellent question. None of us had actually printed out the directions to the hotel. “We’ll just drive around and find it,” I suggested with a bit of trepidation. Wadi Musa, the town bordering Petra, is not large by any standard, but it is built in a valley and clings to the mountains surrounding it. One could drive for a long time to find the Valley Stars Inn…”Wait, there it is!” Mom said, and, alhamdulilah, the unobtrusive building appeared next to the road. In retrospect, it was lucky to have ‘chosen’ the road less travelled, as it led us directly to our hotel. The other road leading into Petra from the main highway is on the opposite end of town.<br /><br />Our hotel was charming, and heated, and we all checked into our rooms, settled in for a brief nap, and then found some grub in the somewhat grubby village of Wadi Musa. Wadi Musa is a recent incarnation; Bedouins have lived in the area for hundreds, if not thousands of years, but they never required hotels, restaurants, souvenir shops, or travel agencies to herd their camels and goats through the desert. However, in the off season, and because of the recent war in Gaza, Wadi Musa was sparingly populated with tourists. More locals than tourists gathered in the sheesha cafes (not that we gathered there, thinking of my mother’s peace of mind, I steered her to a more touristy, and empty restaurant), and there SUVs and pickups roared through town. Interestingly enough, we chose to dine in the one restaurant in town owned my Mahmoud, my infamous Bedouin suitor of the early Jordan days.<br /><br />I know this not because he was there, alhamdulilah, but because of Fadii. Enter Fadii. After an utterly unremarkable dinner, we returned to the hotel, and awaited the arrival of Fadii and company. Fadii being, of course, the (erstwhile?) boyfriend of Kathy, and tour guide of Petra and environs. He came, with Mohammed in tow, and met our family and chatted awhile. I have always liked Fadii. His choice of companions, and desire to bring them to our apartment, unasked, has occasionally cast him in a less than favorable light. However, Fadii has always treated me with respect, humor, and friendship. It was different, seeing him without Kathy at his side. He was more subdued, more mature, and also treated us (Jess and I) with an intangible sense of relief. Almost. We are neither as accepting nor as lenient as Kathy, and Fadii, alhamdulilah, understands that. I think. Before he left, he told us to call him, and he would take us horseback riding the next day, after we were done with Petra. He did not offer to guide us, or try to pawn the services of one of his friends on us. It seemed, that night, like it was the offer from a friend to a friend.<br /><br />Ah, Petra. There is nothing on earth like it. The feeling of walking through the Siq, watching as the smooth stone walls arch higher and higher above you, until you are a mere blot of humanity between their heights. Anticipation heightens as you pass suggestions of history, faintly etched carvings, weathered stone building cut into the cliff face. And suddenly, sunlight. Before you, the Siq widens, and you stop, in awe at the Treasury unfolding from the curves of the walls. You stand for several moments, drunk<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SagLU_A2pQI/AAAAAAAAANc/wkFMpLB2Ogw/s1600-h/DSC03848.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307504615996433666" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SagLU_A2pQI/AAAAAAAAANc/wkFMpLB2Ogw/s320/DSC03848.JPG" border="0" /></a> in the glory of its perfection, of its mystery, of its permanence, the rose-colored columns still proud, still distinct after thousands of years of humanity have passed beneath its shadow. Eventually, you tear yourself away from its beauty, and realize, with a lightness of being, that an entire city awaits your exploration. A day in Petra is a day of wonder, and wandering, and imagining. There are no signs, no barriers, just you and the ancient city.<br /><br />Of course, there are Bedouins, most of whom are selling jewelry and trinkets and food and donkey rides. But, still, even they cannot blot out the majesty of the rose-hued desert city, chiseled from sheer rock. Mother and I, and Jess and her aunt, stuck together for a little while, but we eventually parted, each off to explore our own corner of Petra. Jess and I climbed a delightfully precipitous cliff face together, gazing at the views of the surrounding tombs and camel trains winding through the hills. Then, we separated, and mother and I clambered through the pillars and stairs of the Roman settlement, reuniting with the other two for the hike to the Monastery.<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SagQ_uL2b4I/AAAAAAAAANk/iozCfqwuihE/s1600-h/DSC03858.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307510847771668354" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SagQ_uL2b4I/AAAAAAAAANk/iozCfqwuihE/s320/DSC03858.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />Mohammed Gold Teeth, as I will call him, had encountered us early on, just beyond the plaza in front of Treasury. We declined his offer of a donkey ride, but told him, perhaps later, to the Monastery. So, I put mom on a donkey ;) Just as we had wended our way through Petra, ambling slowly down the main road, past the theatre, past the High Place of Sacrifice, past the market, past the tombs and palaces, so had he, and met us again at the place of donkey congregation near the Monastery. He, of course, first quoted us an exorbitant fee, and we politely declined, but then we countered with a more reasonable fare, so Mother and Aunt Suzie took donkeys up the mountain. Jess and I walked. Well, Jess walked much faster than I, as did the donkeys, so I enjoyed a leisurely stroll up the 700+ (I think far more, I lost count after the first 100) stairs. Mother waited for me before we entered the area of the Monastery, a building not unlike the Treasury in terms of size and grandeur, although there is an element of discovery about the Treasury with which the Monastery simply cannot contend. However, it was a pleasant location to sit in the over-priced café, soak in the warm sunshine, chatter with some former AUCians (American University in Cairo-ians), and rest after such exertion.<br /><br />The climb down was more pleasant, at least for me. Mother took her donkey down, as well, and I must confess I am glad I did not ride down the uneven stairs and past sheer cliffs to the valley far below. To assuage your worry, dear reader, donkeys are far more sure-footed than silly humans, so there was nothing to fear, other than fear itself. From the Monastery, we slowed meandered back the way we had come, pausing to climb up to some remote buildings, devoid of any tourists, and wonder at their past. January is regularly off-season in Jordan, and with the onset of war in neighboring Gaza, only a few tourists populated the vastness of Petra. We <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SagTWr38MfI/AAAAAAAAAN8/BWrDR9ZsQsM/s1600-h/DSC03888.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307513441311535602" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SagTWr38MfI/AAAAAAAAAN8/BWrDR9ZsQsM/s320/DSC03888.JPG" border="0" /></a>bartered for a few Bedouin trinkets, and then trudged, weary by this time, having hiked, all day, through the desert, up through the Siq, up the ramp, and, then, to the entrance gates.<br /><br />Well, Mother did. I was accosted by a galloping desert man on a white mare ;) Fadii. A horse track parallels the human one, and the Bedouins, at the end of the day, race their gorgeous steeds up and down this. However, I was somewhat surprised when a white mare halted suddenly beside me, and the dark-haired Bedouin on her back removed the scarf covering half his face to grin at me. He plopped me upon Qamar, or Moon, and walked beside me for awhile. I sent Mother off with Jess and Auntie. A horse materialized by way of a friend, and Fadii and I rode up the steep mountain cliff to a narrow trail overlooking Petra. Galloping briefly along a wide stretch of it, I felt something akin to perfection stealing into my soul. There I was, atop a beautiful white horse, racing along a cliff in Petra at sunset, my Bedouin friend beside me. The horses rested, snorting softly, as we watched the sun gracefully dip below the rose red rock of Petra. Words were useless in the face of such beauty.<br /><br />Real life returned, and we walked back in the fading light, both dismounting so our steeds would not slip on the pavement. Near the Movenpick, Fadii handed off the horses, and then we sipped tea in a local café, chatting, before I visited his family at their house and was deposited, famished, back at my hotel in time for dinner at 7. The Valley Stars is a family-fun establishment, and the mother of the family (she has untold numbers of offspring) cooks delectable dinners for guests, occasionally. That night was no exception. I ate Maglooba until I fairly burst. Maglooba=rice and chicken and potatoes and yummy flavors all upside down and irresistible. After dinner, Fadii, Jess, Mohamed, and I drove to the Movenpick bar and enjoyed a few sophisticated hours of catching up, laughter, overpriced drinks, and amazing ice cream.<br /><br />So, I realize that this is turning into more than an abbreviated description of events. As usual. I will conclude swiftly, never fear.<br /><br />The following matin, as we were on the road leaving Petra, I saw a sign to Shobek. “Hey, you guys want to see another Crusader castle?” I mean, honestly, how many times in life will you be able to say that? So, we pulled off and drove about 5 minutes to the castle of Shobek, a much less visited cousin to Kerak. I prefer it. Kerak may be more intact, but Shobek is more dramatic, set upon a remote plateau, surrounded my windswept desert plains rather than congested city streets. Plus, Shobek’s got the Tunnel.<br /><br />Go back to the archived entries. Skim through the old Jordan trip with Colin until you come to the section about Shobek. Note that we found a tunnel, descended a little ways, and then turned around. Not this time! No, hell no, Jess and I conquered that baby. Same torch as last time, different, different resolve.<br /><br />This tunnel is akin to a descent into Hades. The daylight quickly fades past the first bend in the stairs. If one can even call them such. They are mere suggestions of steps, crumbled, worn bumps on a ramp sliding into Stygian blackness. Jess and I shared the flashlight, and the occasional onslaught of fear, as we descended, step by arduous step, into the unknown. When surrounded by the certainty of the uncertain, when your body is coated in a sickly sheen of centuries-old white powder and the sweat of fear, time slows to a trickle. We were only in the tunnel for about a half an hour, but, of course, I felt I had been submersed in the blackness for hours. Finally, I spotted a glean of <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SagRAKE1QfI/AAAAAAAAAN0/6sYxOHVT0Cw/s1600-h/DSC05425.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307510855258423794" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nTM7jy502ZA/SagRAKE1QfI/AAAAAAAAAN0/6sYxOHVT0Cw/s320/DSC05425.JPG" border="0" /></a>light on the wall of the tunnel ahead. It was truly only a lessening of the stifling darkness, but, to us, it was the brightest ray of sunshine. We followed the light to an empty well, climbed up the shaft using metal hooks fastened to one side, and emerged at the base of the plateau, walking back up to meet the mothers (photo: relief, after emerging from the tunnel).<br /><br />After that, the day felt rather mundane, though it wasn’t. We visited Mt. Nebo, where Moses saw the Promised Land before he died, waded in the Dead Sea via the public beach, attempted to visit Ma’ain Hot Springs (but refused to pay the 12 JD fee, per person), and, finally, dinnered in Madaba, at an atmospheric restaurant whose name I will never be able to pronounce. And then, finally, home. Whew! A whirlwind of Jordan touring, and that was before we ran around Turkey for two weeks.<br /><br />The next day we intended to visit some Desert Castles in East Jordan, near the Iraqi border (fun!), but slept in instead. After lunch, Mother and I ‘happened’ to wander past the second Promod in Amman (fancy that!), where we spent another enjoyable afternoon (at least I think she did). By nightfall, we headed back downtown, I took her past the Roman theatre, impressive by spotlight, to the pirated DVD store, and then to Books. Books@Cafe, that is. In the span of 5 days, Mother managed to cover the majority of my life in Jordan, from my favorite restaurants, to my favorite friends, to my favorite sites. And, together, we went on to discover the wonders of Turkey. What a perfect vacation from school! </div></div></div></div></div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06633081871324254970noreply@blogger.com1