A Walk in the Desert

When guys in camouflage pants and hunting hats sat around in the Four Aces Diner talking about fearsome things done out-of-doors, I would no longer have to feel like such a cupcake.  I wanted a little of that swagger that comes with being able to gaze at a far horizon through eyes of chipped granite and say with a slow, manly sniff, “Yeah, I’ve shit in the woods.

~Bill Bryson, A Walk in the Woods

Not to offend Bill or anything, but I think the desert is a much more trying ecosystem in which to attend to one’s daily operations. With eventual darkness as your only real security, bathroom breaks start to look pretty bleak as the sand meets the sky at some indeterminable horizon.

A new breeze has come to Cairo, carrying with it a lighter air scented with hibiscus that makes you almost forget the pollution. Last weekend, 50 other students and I rode this breeze west to the Black and White Desert.

Truth be told, I’m tired of playing tourist. But to a certain extent, having a mailing address in Egypt and knowing how to deal with taxi drivers in Arabic gives you a sense of extra legitimacy and slight swagger when venturing outside of Cairo. “Yeah, I live in Egypt.”

Going to the desert, though, you realize just how much you don’t fit. The profile one cuts against the rising sun is never going to be that natural elegance that befits a Bedouin. Sunburn is a painful reminder, too.

Walking on the Flour Stone, a calcium carbonate deposit the the middle of the White Desert, slate splintered under my feet like ceramic. The footfalls were muted as the sound-waves were absorbed by the chalky expanse. I felt muffled.

It’s hard to imagine actually living in the desert. How do people do it? You can literally go hundreds of miles in any direction and not find a living soul or sustenance. How did they come across oases? How did the logistics of living in such a hostile environment persist for so long?

How do you deal with tummy-aches?

That weekend my immune system lost its sense of adventure and decided to stay in Cairo. Stomach pain plagued our safari and each jolt of the jeep as we sped across the dunes reminded me that I was still partly white-pansy American girl.

You get over the pain and keep walking, forgetting yourself in the vastness of everything else. Earth for me was formerly defined by limited variety of American cities, a select few states, and the East coast. When did my world get so big to include alien deserts and lack of Peptobismol?

Lying on my back, listening to campfire whispers and laughter dissipate in the desert night, I lost any sense of my ‘bad-ass-ness’ at ‘braving the desert’, or worrying about how foreign and incongruity I am with Egypt, or even the constant irritation in my belly. Stars, sand, both innumerable, made me feel universal and isolated simultaneously. There’s something to be said for just being, realizing there’s a world revolving under your feet and the firmament is not the ever fix’ed mark you thought it to be. After trying to do so much with my time here, I think I’ve come to the conclusion that not everything can be something. It’s not all going to change you in a big or small way and waiting for that change could mean you miss out on the experience.

Philosophical musings aside, I think Mr. Bryson would agree that I earned the right to mild swagger.

Color Blind

I spent this weekend camping the the Black and White Desert, about 7 hours west of Cairo. Pictures can be found at the following address, and a more substantial post will follow the successful ace-ing of my Econ midterm and completion of copious amounts of Arabic.

 http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2242662&l=da638&id=919642

Ma’a alife salaama, Allison

Lean and loaf at a summer’s ease

For those who are interested, here are some shared photos from my scuba diving trip to Dahab:

http://bu.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2241910&l=5c27d&id=919642

More to reflections on life in Egypt are coming forthwith, as of now, Arabic homework is petulantly demanding my attention.

Role reversal

I seem to have taken up the academic role of Gandalf to my usual Frodo. Forging ever-on in the quest of learning, I’m now a teacher and hold a rather astounding amount of power.

Sunday nights from 6 to 9 PM I’m teaching Sudanese refugees English in Nasr City. So far, I can’t help but love it, for many reasons. Primarily, the laughter I illicit from people when one of my facial expressions transcends the bounds of verbal humor, or pulling answers out of a class that was, at first, too uncomfortable to make the necessary language-learning mistakes in front of their peers (and me, expect).  We started off by doing brief introductions, and I was the only one in the room not from Sudan. Funny, because even here, I’m rarely without the company of at least one other American. I played a word association game to gauge how well questions could be asked and answered, writing “Tracey”, “21″, and “New York” on a piece of paper, intending that they ask me questions about what those might mean about me (e.g. Is Tracey your sister? Why, yes! Tracey is my sister, and it’s her 13th birthday!) We ended up laughing at Pictionary and word association games, and I was floored by their reading ability (which is far beyond their conversational capabilities at this point. A goal!)

But as much as they may have learned from me in our first introductory session (can’t tell you if they did), I probably learned more. I figured out how to explain around terms in English and Arabic, how to teach, and that I actually enjoy it. “Ah HA” moments are pretty darn special. Next week we’ll work on questions, which I think is more important than the weight-loss unit proscribed by the book…

That’s another issue. Talking about one’s family, homeland, or futures may be a really touchy subject. You can’t play hangman because it might hit too close to home. Between my students’ reality and the neighboring Gaza conflict, I can’t help but wonder what kind of world really do live in, and just how whatever I’m studying can actually facilitate the quaint undergraduate vision people have of a solution and peace.

In any case, teaching these guys how to say fork, spoon, and knife feels a ton more constructive than the countless meetings I attended at BU for my various political pet-causes.

Anyway, the rest of the day is quite packed. An interview at 3:00 PM for a social development firm internship, then class, rehearsal for the Colloquial Arabic play I landed a part in, and then going out with a friend from teaching.

Did I mention no one sleeps in Cairo?

Wedding Crashers

I have been to some extremely expensive weddings, so please do not misunderstand me when I say that I have never seen a nuptial investment like this.

Sitting at a cafe yesterday afternoon, a friend casually mentioned that she would be attending an Egyptian wedding that evening. I inquired after the bride’s identity, and found that I had met her briefly on my AUC trip to the pyramids. When told that I should come, I hesitated. I thought about my mother’s face if some invitee of my theoretical wedding decided to invite a few friends on a whim. But here, when they say “Come to my wedding” in passing, it’s not an empty gesture. They actually mean it.

So I went. It felt tantamount to crashing an Oscar party. Dressed in a classy brown and black number my mother and I picked up before leaving, I was put to shame by the Egyptian women adorned in jewels, loud colors, and glitter. My friends and I approached the white marble building intoxicated with the sense of doing something halfway wrong, undeniably giddy about the cultural experience that awaited.

We must have said “this is so awesome” 50 times in the 2 hours we waited for the wedding party. We waited two hours, because we did not account for Egyptian time. Egyptian 8 o’clock really means, 10, you know.

The professional camera that swung around the room on a man-operated boom projected Steven Spielberg quality shots on two floor-to-ceiling screens as the lights constantly changed colors. Classical colonial architecture in black, white, and gold contrasted sharply with the blue lights hung from high ceilings.

When the bride and groom did pull up in their limo, it took them half an hour to get up the stairs to the ballroom. No worries, we watched the celebrations on the screens. Sufi dancing, drumming, and all-out ululations.

Islamic ceremonies include the signing of a marriage contract with the designated wali (protector) of the bride, the closest male family member. It’s usually reserved for family members, and does not have the sacramental connotation that it does in Christian traditions. But the party that follows stems completely from Arab culture, and is quite the affair.

After the bride and groom sat on the traditional couch placed prominently atop a stage, the dancing began. 50 men dressed in purple tops and black pants did a series of coordinated dances as a Cairene pop star crooned. We were eventually allowed to dance as the 50 dispersed to pull people into the crowd. The AUC students were briefly pulled up to the podium to take a picture with the happy bride, and just as quickly were ushered off to make room for more celebrants.

The party lasted past 3 AM, but by how long, I can’t tell you, as that’s when we left. Dinner was served around 1:00 AM, after the cake was revealed in a flurry of silver confetti, smoke, and bubbles. The bride and groom proceeded to the next room, with doors closed behind them, so they could peruse the selection of food uninterrupted. What a spread! I’ve never seen more food in my life, but it was gone before I could go back for second helpings. The Egyptian women, as usual, had no scruples about pushing people out of their way to get what they wanted, cutting lines, stealing spoons, and pretending I didn’t exist. I’ve found that walking on the street and in lines, Egyptian women are extremely rude, but when engaging them one on one, you’ll never find anyone more friendly. Case in point, dancing. Smiles, hand holding, labise (kissing on both cheeks, like in France) were commonplace on the dance-floor, but forgotten when the lamb, kofta, and Om Ali came into the picture.

Egyptian men seem to also lack that idea of gentlemanly politesse so ingrained in Western society by Catillian classes, conscientious mothers, and Jane Austen. No chairs are pulled out, and if you don’t have a seat, don’t expect that anyone will give theirs up for you. Again, it’s merely a cultural difference, not a show of rudeness.

The complete spontaneity of my attendance made my acceptance among the attendees even more astounding. I was at most a curious spectator, or more negatively, an intrusive foreigner. But I raised my voice to ululate with the women, danced in true Egyptian form, and conversed with any and all who approached me. The elderly who sat beamed at my enthusiasm, and I in turn smiled at their acknowledgement.

After dinner, the dancing recommenced, this time starring a famous singer from Said (Upper Egypt). Men in galabiyyas touting tablas, ouds, dumbeks (traditional musical instruments) struck up songs I recognized from this summer, and lots of line and group dancing followed. Personally, this is my favorite kind. The most analogous thing I can compare it to is dancing at a bar-mitzvah. Finally, eyes stinging from tiredness, sweat, and make-up, I threw in the towel. Halaas, one can only take so much fun.

And just thinking about the price tag still makes me a little giddy. Don’t worry, Mom and Dad, I just want the dancing. Not the camera crew.

Less than 20 meters under the sea

Last week I took advantage of my location to engage in an activity that few people would associate with Egypt: Scuba Diving. After a two long days of classroom instruction and a lengthy pool dive in a typically Egyptian-only pool (connections are everything), 15 AUC students, 4 professional divers and one nameless bespecled boy loaded into a van to strike out across the Sinai.

Going across the desert, I found myself incapable of engaging in too much conversation, instead enraptured by my first glimpses of the endless stretch of sand bathed in moonlight. Outlandish whims surfaced out of the calm, like wanting to experience Bedouin life in the desert or learn the geophysical history of the location, all so that I could more intimately connect with my surroundings.

Beyond that, I couldn’t help but play Six-Degrees to the Sinai Peninsula while bumping down the highway. Two major wars with Israel, the Suez Canal. This land’s significance goes back to Moses traipsing through it and then showing the Red Sea who’s boss. Beauty and blood are intimately related here.

At 40 LE per night, Dahab’s lodgings were by far the least expensive when compared with Haragada or Sharm al-Sheikh. Apparently the diving conditions were “very bad”, so said my dive instructor, but to the uninitiated, it was paradise. With the Sinai mountains at our back and facing Saudi Arabia across the Gulf of Aqaba, it was hard not to feel empowered and alive. I took responsibility for my safety, and that of others, all the while exploring a ecosystem in which I’d only waded and splashed during my childhood.

Linguistically, I prefer Dahab’s relaxed speech compared to Cairo’s verbal barrage, and heard phonemes characteristically associated with Classical Arabic or other dialects emerge throughout my brief conversations. Very interesting especially when conversing with the notable presence of Russian tourists and scuba divers, muddling along in their Arabic the same as us but with heavy accents and more inclination toward vodka. (You really shouldn’t drink and dive. Seriously. It could lead to Nitrogen Narcosis.) One of the bizarre highlights was an Egyptian family posing for a picture with my friend and I in our bathing suits as Russians laughed at us. That and the clumsy stealth of 3 youths taking turns snapping photos of themselves lounging in front of me and my same friend. Boys will be boys.

Diving itself felt natural. Beyond the whole “breathing under water” deal, maintaining neutral buoyancy at a significant depth while keeping one’s speed in check is a very relaxing way to spend an hour. Though I’ll admit when my low-pressure hose refused to connect and function on my 3rd dive, mortal peril was a topic I contemplated at 16 meters under the sea. So many things can go wrong! But, thanks to some prudence and fortitude, I came out better for having scuba’d.

When we clambered back into the bus after our 4th and final dive, I started right in on my Arabic homework, something that never happens on any kind of trip. Never underestimate the powers of a fulfilling vacation.

Never Comes the Day

Never have I had so many veritable travel possibilities within my reach. My roommate and her friends are going to Morocco for spring break with discounted tickets they found on a travel site. Other friends are going to Jordan/Syria/Israel, places that would make me feel like I really maximized my Egyptian location if I made it to all of them. I need to go to Upper Egypt to “do Egypt right”, and just across the Sea, Turkey, Greece, and Italy beckon.

The choices are so numerous that it’s limiting. Limiting in the sense I feel like there are no wrong choices and am unable to pick my right ones.

Ugh. Maybe I’ll feel better about this in a few days. Everything is up in the air right now due to nobody’s fault but the natural friction of logistics and planning. But I’m really confused right now.

The Writing on the Wall

The truth will out. One way or another. This time it outed itself in the form of a desperate note on a bathroom-stall door. Black-ink panic against a backdrop of beige-paint normalcy. “Do you guys make out with your boyfriends? What should I do?” read one, next to, “My boyfriend and I had sex, but thank God I did not get pregnant. Buy a pregnancy test and avoid it if you can.” Upon closer inspection, the door was covered in messages in various states of legibility, all asking for or offering advice about sex, men, and social acceptance. Marriage, love, babies. Sex Ed 101 on the bathroom door. I was offended when my liberal Yankee-self moved to Virginia and learned that my brother’s school teaches exclusively “Abstinence-Only” sex education, a practice I think is extremely unsafe no matter what your intention concerning personal activity.

Here, it’s not just abstinence only that’s taught, but it’s impure to think about if one is not married. So of course everyone does and discusses it when circumstances permit.

For these girls, I guess that means seeking comfort in anonymous publicity.

A picture is worth how many words?

These links should work. Enjoy!

Giza Pyramids, Sphinx, Saqqara:

 http://bu.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2236579&l=cacc7&id=919642

Alexandria:

http://bu.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2234442&l=0016b&id=919642

Around Cairo:

http://bu.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2232318&l=f5d3c&id=919642

http://bu.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2230261&l=3c52a&id=919642

Leave a comment if there are any issues with the links.

Weekend Update

This weekend, I’m going scuba diving. Scuba diving! Me!

This is not something I ever envisioned myself doing. After 6 hours of classroom instruction (completed today), and confined water dives tomorrow, I’ll be going off to one of the most renowned dive locations in the world, the Red Sea.

Truth be told, I’m slightly nervous. I have an irrational fear of looking out into open water and seeing the drop of the continental shelf. Honest. I’ve had that fear as long as I’ve known what the continental shelf was.

School goes, as they say. I finally sat down and did a solid study session. It might not have been the most thorough, and I know I messed up one expression on my Arabic quiz today, but it was more studying than I’ve done since I’ve been here, and it made me feel a bit more like Allison.

Truth be told, I don’t study much. With language, I usually only need to hear the grammar explained once. As far as vocabulary goes, writing the words out once and then a quick read through has them preliminarily memorized. It’s the usage in class and in conversation that makes them stick. But due to my inability to input the information before, my usually efficient process started yesterday, the night before the test. Not the best call on my part, but I think that one error was my only mistake. If my Middlebury professor is reading this, she’s probably laughing at my perfectionism and calling me majnoona.

I start teaching next week in Nasr City. A few other people were doing it and I started to feel guilty about my lack of philanthropy. I flirted with the idea when I got here, but thought I might be too busy travelling or doing whatever it is foreigners do in Egypt. My conscience and genuine desired to help somebody while here gave be a swift kick in the behind. There’s so little I can actually do to help people in Egypt, and any notion of changing the system is out of the question. English skills would mean these refugees can leave Egypt or possibly procure better jobs within the system (see previous entry on my opinions of the modern Egyptian state.)

My other commitment, Folklore Dance Club, might have to go on the back-burner, which is unfortunate. We’ll see. I went to the first meeting, and I really liked the people there. I was the only foreigner, so I got tons of Colloquial practice between the other kids and the coach, a lecherous old man who is nothing like my exuberantly happy teacher from Middlebury.

Also, I think I had some lemonade made with tap water, so I’ve been feeling pretty shoddy. Stomach and head kind of deal. It seems to be getting better, but class was a real ordeal for the past two days. Maalesh.