The beginning was spiteful. A 60 LE bag Angela had purchased that morning ripped in a fit of nerves and the taxi bit Helene’s pocket and didn’t let go until she had a large tear in the fabric.

Regardless, we were not to be deterred, and trooped off to the bus station, each armed with a backpack (Angela’s born in her arms due to the earlier rupture). We were giddy with what we were about to do. Two of us hadn’t quite told our parents that we had added Syria and Israel to the slightly more acceptable travel destination of Jordan. I was one of the two (of course).

The novelty wore off slightly when we arrived at the bus station and noticed we weren’t going to be the only white kids on our bus. In fact, 12 people that we knew quite well from AUC were also waiting to start their own epic journeys.

The plan was this: The bus we waited for would take us to Nuweiba on the Sinai peninsula in about 9 hours. From there we would catch a highly unreliable ferry to Aqaba, Jordan. That evening, we would continue the sojourn to Wadi Rum, made famous by the exploits and shenanigans of Lawrence of Arabia. A full day, to be sure.

I always try to stay up when travelling through Sinai. The views of the firmament are unparalleled and striking against the jagged foothills that rise up from the rolling desert. This time, I didn’t have to try very hard, because it was impossible to get comfortable. Ma’alesh. My inability to maintain lucidity resulted in some funny dreams, mostly because of the 1970s Egyptian movie played throughout the night.

We arrived on the coast as dawn broke, my lids pried open by a call for passports and the static of the neglected television. Another two hours later, and we were in Nuweiba. The four of us trundled off the bus, immediately accosted by taxi drivers. I couldn’t fathom that there was any place to taxi to in this shipyard. We located the line for tickets, which didn’t go on sale until 9, so we sat down to break fast. Specificity is required in situations like this, because you’ll be brought everything under the sun that you didn’t order, and then be expected to pay. So Mike and I followed our waiter to the stand where he was buying our breakfast (?) and forcefully stated what we wanted and what we didn’t until we were marginally satisfied.

As we much away on our potatoes and egg in the increasingly warm sun, allow me to introduce the cast of characters:

Mike: A charming gentleman who attends Georgetown University when he’s not traipsing through Cairo. Most definitely the comic relief in a group already endowed with good humor palates, Mike keeps those around him upbeat, even when things look dire. He speaks Lebanese Arabic, Turkish, and some Armenian because his parents are from the region originally. This talent saved us several times on the trip.

Angela: My best friend here in Cairo, the two of us have a slightly disconcerting ability to communicate simply using glances and pointed looks. She attends NYU and studies linguistics, with German and Arabic as her two languages of expertise. Intellectually curious and content to climb on Roman ruins all day, Angela is also a bastion of positivity when things go awry, and especially excited for new adventures.

Helene is Greek. Her mother is Greek. Her father is Greek. Her brother is Greek. And they are all named after Greek historical figures. Once you learn that Helene is Greek, you will also learn that she is all about art, and knows quite a bit on the subject, besides. She will make a fantastic mother because her vacation planning skills are impeccable, and she kept us frog-marching through Jordan even when we thought we would have like a break (we were wrong). Always willing to give me her left-overs, Helene goes to George Washington University in D.C., where she studies Art History and Middle Eastern Studies.

Me: See rest of blog.

Our group of heroes has by this point finished breakfast, over payed, and hunkered down to procure tickets. We met a guy named Hisham who studies in Cairo during the year, but was going home to Jordan for his spring break. Speaking in alternating Egyptian, Jordanian, and broken English, we were told to look him up when we got to Amman and swapped study stories.

And I’m sure we would have, had our ferry not left 3 hours early. We were on it, and he was not. By some stroke of luck, Mike and I had asked a police officer when the boat was leaving and where we should go. He said “Right now,” and we went. The boat was filled with people on their way to Umrah, or the lesser pilgrimage to Mecca. After much to-do, we sat down on the boat to Aqaba, me sinking into a black sleep of the dead tired, and our new friend on the wharf, another victim of Egyptian efficiency.

For photos related to this portion of the trip, see:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2262937&l=227cf&id=919642

Living in the Middle East has offered me many fresh perspectives on my position and what I want from life. One of them is taking care not to over estimate the power of the little blue book I carry around. But at the same time, as a member of a respected and active intellectual community in Egypt, there are many important things to remember about being an ex-pat in a beloved country.

With a renewed vision of my responsibilities toward myself, my home, and my host-country, I’ve chosen to take a closer examination at life on the ground, so to speak, by travelling during my spring break.

The largest thing I can take away from my experiences so far is the importance of understanding one’s limitations. Both at home, and abroad. It’s a lesson I think many people can learn.

I never even think about this. Apparently it’s because I can’t hear myself think.

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/04/14/world/middleeast/14cairo.html?_r=2&th&emc=th&oref=slogin&oref=slogin

Enjoy!

So I climbed Mt. Sinai. Nothing compared to other peaks, I suppose, but after having walked uphill for 4 hours straight in the dead of night, I was happy to be done with it. I was looking for some sort of religious experience, which I found inklings of between the camels (I think this is the world-camel-spawn point) and pilgrims (tourists?). Anyway, I came, I saw, I conquered, as the saying goes. And I have pictures to prove it:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2256719&l=33376&id=919642

Also, other happenings in my Cairene existence. These are from a “girls night in” with my friend Hanan, a trip to Ein Sukhnah beach, and then a wedding I went to with my friends Hisham, Georgia, and Ehab.

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2256731&l=41227&id=919642

More to come soon! Papers to finish and tests to study for before my spring break in Jordan.

It’s no small coincidence that most monumental feuds and turning points in Western religious tradition take place between brothers.  What if Cain and Abel just buried the hatchet (so to speak) instead of nursing a Isaac/Ishmael-like resentment. Lot might have been a bit happier had he been on better terms with Abraham (at least his wife wouldn’t have turned into sodium-chloride).

One of the most fascinating and revolting things about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is that it blurs the lines between Jews and Israelis, Muslims and Palestinians. Fault and blame lies heavily on both sides. So, too, does the weight of death, and despair mar the disparate factions. But where’s the intense hatred that the Europeans worked so hard to deserve?

From what I can tell it’s easier to hate the people closest to oneself than it is to retrospectively trace problems back to their roots. Balfour, Sykes, and Picot should be rotting in a special level of hell, not all British and French. And while I’m not a fan of “big people” history and think that history is made by trends and the masses, the decisions of a few have certainly ruined our present.

The conflict is perpetuated through thoughtless, common talk on either side. How is saying “You’re cheap like a Jew” or “Yet another Jew getting paid to go to Israel” make you any different from those who associate all Muslims with terrorists and always randomly select you for airport screenings.

Eleven million people died in the Holocaust. Six million because they profess to be of the Nation of Abraham and uphold the Covenant of Moses. Does this make it right to commit crimes against humanity on another population? No. Does killing innocents in the streets of Jerusalem bring one any closer to Jenna? No. You keep Kosher, you are Halal. You share one God. The interference of the powerful few and the anger, frustration, and abuse of the many on both sides.

Man up. Stop hating, and give your brother a hug.

Salutations, all!

 Here are the links to my photo albums from my railway romp to Luxor and Aswan. This weekend is the beach and another wedding, so hopefully there’ll be lots of photographic evidence of my well-being to enjoy!

Railway Romp Part 1

Railway Romp Part 2

To those of you who are news-aholics like myself, you might have read that within the last month, Egypt’s been having economic problems. This is nothing too surprising in a country that sets aside money to finance their international debts as the primary order of business when determining the annual budget. At least she’s no Zimbabwe (poor girl has 100,000% inflation. That’s a lot of weight to carry around).

But a few weeks ago, the inflation rate reached an 11 month high at 12.1%, and while it hasn’t slowed the economy, it has resulted in a cutback in bread subsidies, a service that the government has been providing since the 1970s.

 I have to say, for the poor majority of Egypt’s population, the challenge living on less than a dollar-per-day has become harder in recent weeks. Bread here is so vital that the root of the word in colloquial Arabic means “life”.  This country is suffering in a visceral way.

But even I was surprised to hear that on Sunday, April 6th, massive demonstrations will take place in all the major squares in Cairo, ending up at Midan Tahrir.

 Where I happen to go to school.

In a country where most of the news your hear is from the street (and more accurate from that source than anywhere else), excitement crackled from campus to campus. Teachers consulted each-other and debated about the wisdom of holding class. “If one student shows up, I will teach,” a dedicated philosophy professor intoned. Students excited at the prospect of a day off and study-abroads thrilled and nervous to be on the cusp of history speculated about what Sunday will hold. I, too, confess excitement and a little bit of nervousness. Communitas can quickly turn into a mob mentality, and we can’t forget that the police can quickly turn from guardians to executioners (for Egyptians. I have a little blue book that exempts me from all that.) But I feel like it’s time Egypt stood up and did something for itself.

I’m not sure whether the school will remain open, but I just wanted to assure family, friends, and faithful fans (alliteratively) that I will be safe, have the US embassy on speed dial, and don’t foresee any personal risk. Don’t let CNN freak you out. If you have any concerns or questions that I can answer, please feel free to email me and I’ll respond as soon as I can.

For further reading on the economic situation in Egypt that paints a happier picture, please click here.

Egypt has this cute habit of reminding you that you’ll never figure her out.

 Like yesterday. I stayed up later than usual that evening, and on a whim decided to check my email. Waiting in my inbox was something I’d pushed out of my mind, not wanting to waste time in anticipation. You’re reading the blog of a Resident Assistant for the 2008-2009 academic year. Not only will I be living on Bay State Road again (arguably the most expensive address I’ll ever inhabit in my lifetime), I’m the new dictator of the Honors House, where freshman and sophomores from the program I graduated from last year reside. Things seem to happen when you aren’t explicitly waiting for them.

And apparently when it rains, it pours. I was repeatedly awoken by a frantic knocking at my door at 8, 10, and 11 in the morning. Had I rolled over at this last summons, they most likely would never have thought to break it down, thus saving me from whatever catastrophe they wanted to alert me to. Frankly, I thought it was my pal Hanan looking for a partner in crime.

Instead, I sleepily wrenched the door open, and as it so happens, there was a fire in the bathroom on my floor, which my friend Kinza extinguished without issue. AUC only decided it was a level A emergency about 1/2 an hour after the event, and ordered us to evacuate. I was more annoyed then happy at this turn events. Homework to do, don’t you know. Plus, for a staff that routinely sits and does nothing while the fire alarm sounds at 3 in the morning without cause, it’s hard for me to take them seriously.

I trooped dutifully, if not grumpily, to a cafe with my friend Mike, where I spent my afternoon in the anomalous activity of getting homework done. I have two midterms this week, and want to make progress on the papers I have due before spring break.

 As we sat down, the fourth strange occurrence of the day swept in on the wind over the Pyramids. Baby’s first sand-storm. I was confused by the weather, never having seen a sky with such a hue. Invisible in the air but forming a thin layer on the ground and parked cars, particles tickled at Mike and My throats and eyes as we concluded our study session.

 I text-messaged my friend Hisham to tell him about the day’s events. His reply contained no words of worry or condolence about the fire, probably thinking it was no big deal. Instead, he said congrats on the position, and to my query whether it was dangerous to go out with my friend Georgia to Khan al-Khalili, his response was simply, “duh.”

 Much to learn, Young Padawan.

Also, my Uncle Harry wanted to know whether I am engaged in any academic pursuits during my time here. To clarify, I am a full-time student at the American University in Cairo, taking an above-average course-load. My classes are Intro to Islam, Islamic Philosophy, Economic History of the Middle East, and a 6 credit-hour Arabic class that meets for 10 hours per week. This, compounded with play rehearsal (a play that is completely in Colloquial Egyptian) and teaching Sudanese refugees English makes me a busy girl during the week, even more so because I usually travel during the weekends.

I suppose that makes this “empty” weekend even more strange.

You might not know it, but Egypt was a paragon of technical progress in the nineteenth century. They were the second country in the world to maintain an extensive railway network. Before France, the United States, and only briefly after Britain, freight raced through the sloping Sahara and through oases on slugging metal monsters that belched the smoke of modernity into the Egyptian sky.

Then again, freezing on my nocturnal second-class journey from Cairo to Luxor, I could perhaps marvel with less-than-positive awe that this achievement had moved little beyond its original technical leap. I shifted a little more to the left to avoid the indistinguishable lump of humanity of mother and child squeezed into one seat, and stared into the darkness until we pulled into Luxor, 10 hours after leaving the capital. Soon after dumping our belongings at our 20 LE/night hostel, we loaded into a taxi to explore Karnak. I told the cabbie where to go, and he responded blithely, “Ya bit, stay out in our sun for a little while, and you’ll really be a Saidia (Upper Egyptian)!”

For those of my readers who have not had the luxury of Egyptian travel, take my advice: go to Luxor and Aswan. If you seek Ancient Egypt, you’ll find it here along the banks of the Upper Nile, and with a little imagination you can block out the harping cries of desperate men selling fake antiquities and instead pretend to hear the intoned chanting of the cult of Amun. Karnak, Luxor Temple, the Temple of Hapshetsut, The Valleys of the Kings and Queens stand testament to everything you’ve ever seen on Discovery Channel. The Temple of Queen Hapshetsut, hands down, was my favorite site. A testament to love, power, and betrayal, it sits not so much hugging the mount as protruding naturally from the rock. Built by the Queen’s architect and lover, it was intended to immortalize and confirm her claim to the throne as daughter of the god Amun (clever girl). While her cleverness most likely resulted in her death and her concern for power her led her to kill her lover for indiscreetly portraying the two of them on the temple’s walls in a compromising position, I felt for her. I told her as much when I visited her mummy in the Egyptian Museum upon my return to Cairo that Sunday. Well played, my friend. You had a good run.

After two days of exploring Luxor, we made the impulsive decision to continue 4 hours southward to Aswan, if only to spend 8 hours there. Those 8 hours became my favorite in Egypt thus far. True, I didn’t get to see the Tombs of the Nobles, or continue to my own personal goal of Abu Simbel, but the falouka ride to Kitchner and Elephantine Islands gave me enough of a taste of Aswan to know that this is the Egypt I really love. Kitchner Island is a botanical garden that was cultivated by it’s former owner, Lord Kitchner, who was awarded the island as a prize for conquering the Sudan. Elephantine Island, in contrast to Kitchner’s controlled and elegant floral beauty, is a Nubian stronghold in the heart of a region that lost a battle against modernity when Nasser built the High Dam, drowning a historic region under the glassy surface of Lake Nasser. I sat sipping tea and watching as a woman almost carelessly decorated my right hand with black henna, conversing easily in Arabic that I maintained was of the Levantine dialect. “I’m half Lebanese, half American,” I said. Instead of questions, this generated conversation in rapid Arabic inquiring after my family, lamenting the political situation in the Lebanon, and saying that all Arabs share in the broken state’s political problems. I couldn’t quite bring myself to feel bad about my fib, because it yielded better conversation and more respect from an Egyptian stranger than I’ve felt in Egypt in a long time. Our tour guide from Luxor had even said that she was surprised when I spoke Arabic, because she said I sounded, “like a real Arab.”

The compliment, while gratifying, rings hollow. I know that I don’t sound authentic. Egyptian friends have told me as much, and the chuckles and outright laughter I still glean from everyday speech are as discouraging as they can be amusing.

But this trip down the iron tracks laid long ago by Egyptian dreams, sweat, and blood made me feel as though I had made a little bit more progress in becoming closer to the Egypt I love. I travelled as a resident of Egypt and asked to be treated as nothing more or less. As the tracks clicked away the miles, each punctuated clack and chug of the diesel engine and syncopated hemeola of the struggling wheels seemed to mesh together in a simple melody that I could only hear as progress.

There’s an often told story of my childhood, when during one of my stays in Atlanta with my paternal grandparents, I was treated to several meals at the Country Club of the South.

This is establishment is renowned for its famous guests and residents, like some of the Rolling Stones and Atlanta Braves baseball team, as well as fantastic gingersnaps that could only be pilfered from the men’s bathroom by my uncles and cousins.

During this particular visit, my tiny person was approached by a matronly woman of advanced age, who said, “Well, you’ve been here 3 times this week, young lady. Aren’t you lucky?”

I’m sure an older me would have picked up on the derision in her strangely critical remark, but small-me chirped, “Yes, I’ve had quite the week!”

My Mommom took my by the hand and said, “Allison, I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

Well, I’ve had quite a week. I turned 21 this week, and enjoyed the company of a good many friends on the anniversary of my birth. About 25 people went to the Hard Rock Cafe, bought me a steak and potatoes dinner that I’d been sorely craving, and whiled away the evening with laughter and conversation. I went salsa dancing at the behest of two good friends and didn’t get home until 3:30 am following a nice walk, mango juice, and backgammon session.

Yesterday I watched the Al-Ahly versus Zamalek football (soccer) match, donning an audacious Al-Ahly hat and cheered my head off until Ahly had the sense to score two goals for the win.

Tonight is Sufi Dancing in Khan al-Khalili, following a brilliant breakfast with my girl friends at Lucille’s, home of the best burger in Africa (apparently). The cab ride home was like something out of a movie, with 6 of us illegally squeezed into a cab as people gawked at the strange American girls dancing and singing to Arabic pop.

As if that weren’t enough, my friend Hisham is producing the movie version of one of my old short stories. With minimal time commitment from me, he says. I’ll hold him to that. But it is flattering to know that my writing might catch someone’s attention so fiercely as to demand a movie be made from it. It’s all about Wasta, I suppose. 

Yes, sir. Quite the week indeed.