Jeremy of Arabia

Here Are the Highlights

2006-07-30T21:30:00.000+03:00

I'm back in the US, now, in a swirl of work, family, commuting. But as much as my blog stand as a testament to my time in Egypt, it's not the end of the story. I have a feeling I will be back someday, maybe sooner rather than later.

In the meantime, here are the blog posts that meant the most to me, and the ones other people said were decent. Sometimes, one post fits both categories. Oh the joy.

The best (say others):
In the Sahara with 11 People, or, How to Make Your Own Peace with the Sky
Valley of the Kings of the Open Road
The Mysterious Shop on Maraashly Street
Dahab, In Memory
Adventures with Saeed, or, How Not to Get Religion, Drunk or Stoned

The ones from my heart:
Cairo: Thanks for the Allergies
At the Red Sea . . . In a Black Mood
Jordan: Chapter 2 - The Christian Restaurateur tells me how to be happy
Misfit Fittin' In
You've Got to Love Bitterness
Shift
Coming Back to Amr
My B-Day. My Friends.
Dahab - Abdullah's Unstable Water and Other Arguments
Par Avion

Real Democracy in Egypt - I Decide to Vote in the AUC SU Elections

2006-05-11T17:18:00.000+03:00

Today, I got to hit someone in the name of democracy.

Yesterday police beat up protesters complaining about the treatment of judges who dared to call the presidential election a farce. Was I with them? No.

I was trying to vote for Student Union president here at the American University in Cairo. This sounds innocent enough. It’s a student election right? Again, no – it’s a four day horror fest where mobs of orange and green class hooligans accost you, wherever you are, and demand that you Vote or Die (Thanks P. Diddy).

The candidates platforms are so broad as to be completely unattainable. Their experience broad and similar – they’ve both been primo social butterflies, flitting from one event board to the other. AUC has “events” like other schools have bad cafeteria food. EVERY DAY. It’s really not that hard to fill your dance card with all the amazing things you’ve done for the campus.

The candidates also try to impress you with their amazing scholastic ability. One candidate’s platform handout said he had a 3.089 GPA. That’s a ‘B.’ The kicker was, that GPA was as of Fall 2004. That’s four semesters ago. He could be surfin’ a ‘D’ and I wouldn’t know it.

The campaign workers don’t care, though. They apparently got trained in the democratic process, which in Egypt involves buying votes, screaming loudly and beating up the opposition.

Sometimes they’re subtle: “Have you voted yet? You should vote for Seif!” Other times, not so subtle. “Please vote.”
“No,” I say.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t like you.”

No, I didn’t really say that. But after hours and hours of fending off earnest thugs, my polite tank was running dry.

So today, I decided to vote.

As I walked up to the voting location, I was accosted like a celebrity. Or, maybe a serial killer. It wasn’t like they were approaching me for my winning ways, killer smile or debonair lifestyle. In their eyes, I was a big piece of election meat, just ready to seasoned for either candidate #2 or candidate #3.

Did I mention the candidates are numbered? In Egypt, that also serves as an easy jail number for the mugshot, after the losing candidate gets sent to the big house for some hard labor.

Hands grasped my arms, orange t-shirt onion breath in my ears. “Vote for 2! Vote for 2 Have you seen his plan?” I assured them I was going to vote for 2. It didn’t matter, they followed me in, through the metal detectors, like a hawk waiting for a foolish rabbit to come into the open field.

umber three’s green shirt goons, blocked my path. “Vote 3,” said a big man. I assured him I was going to vote and my mind was made up. I did that by pushing past him.

I pushed through the crowd of yelling students, the whole place a blur of orange and green, designer jeans and FCUK shirts. A guy flew stumbled backwards past me, just pushed by the opposition. His friends pushed back. Blue-shirted AUC security guards hurdled into the fray like missiles, separating the rich and the very rich alike.

I was ten feet from my goal. I was going to vote, and no one was going to stop me. Not even people grabbing my shoulder and yelling in my ears. Not the bodies pressed up against me in the center of this maelstrom of democracy and testosterone.

Then, right in front of me, orange pushes green. Green pushes back. The crowd polarizes like a magnet, both sides pushing back. A fist shot out. Whumpf. That’ll leave a mark on that Diesel shirt. People were getting a bit to close for comfort, so I pulled my bag to the center of my back and burrowed in, shoulders and elbows first. I put an elbow one large man’s belly and pressed past, leaning in, right shoulder first. I staggered left with the crowd, using my mass, shoulders and hand to keep a bit of breathing room.

The blue-shirts again, security guards in the mix. The poll only feet away. A small Egyptian girl who had come with me grabbed my sleeve. She was almost shaking. “Let’s go!” She said. “They close the gates when there’s a fight! We won’t be able to get out.”

“I don’t want to,” I yelled back, looking back at the excitement. “This is fun!”

She gave me a quizzical look. I grinned back. But she was right. So we left.

I didn’t vote. But it didn't really matter. That's not the point of democracy anyway, is it?

Par Avion

2006-05-02T15:37:00.000+03:00

Dear Senegal,

I left you a week ago – the same way I met you. My heart in my throat.

From the first, I could only compare you to my only other real experience. You were different of course, in so many ways. But I was fascinated to see how I responded to you, how I changed anew, how I remembered how much I liked to change.

I loved you for that. I thrilled in the chance to fill, to grow, into the space you gave me in the short time I had.

I studied you first, careful as always. So some things didn’t surprise me. I worked on the language, the mannerisms, and the traditions. What made you laugh, what made you smile, what made you sad. What you dreamed for the future, the past you wanted leave behind.

And so I appeared to you, out of the dark.

But other things gave me pause: The rhythm of your life, how who you are changed over time, how your language was different than the one I thought was all-important and thought I knew so well. You were more than I expected, yet your heart was simple.

I spun, reeling in confusion, as who you really were overtook me like a gust of wind. But afterward, we were both still there, growing together, swaying in the breeze and the night.

Then, I took you for granted. I felt that I understood you, that there were no more challenges. I got comfortable in my limited vocabulary, what I could get away with. I looked over the horizon, looked for the next sun.

And, I lost you.

I’m without you now. Who we were together changed who I am now. But I can’t help feel there was more for me to learn, more for me to change. And now – I can’t.

Maybe I’ll see you again. Maybe I won’t. It might not be up to me. But I’ll keep growing, keep changing.

And I’ll miss you.

Dahab, in Memory

2006-04-26T20:13:00.000+02:00

I loved Dahab. Look back and few posts and you'll see the fun I had in that tiny strip of hippy tourist heaven. Two days ago three terrorist bombs turned it into hell.

I had friends who were there, they screamed "Get down" as they heard one explosion after the other, one in a place they had shopped at an hour before. Another friend of mine was at one of the bombed restaurants, in the midst of screams and smoke. Around him lay his friends, some badly hurt. Less than 15 feet away his waiter lay dead - his brains and blood splattered across the floor. My friend escaped death that day, touched only by fate.

Some call this evil. Some say it's a play against the West or the Egyptian government. But I know who really felt it: The normal people -- Egyptians and foreigners.

The Egyptians: Denied the same hospital care foreigners got; told to look for friends among a stack of dead bodies; forced to watched as the town mayor pranced in among the carnage to see the damage -- until the angry, tearful owner of a destroyed restaurant grabbed him by his lapels and gave him a conscience in cuss words.

The foreigners: Vacationing German and American doctors quietly consoling the frantic and the dying, cheerfully bring some back from the brink of despair and death; a friend who wonders still if it's safe to go outside and can't stop wondering if that nice Egyptian man she met at a restaurant is alive or dead.

Dahab was peace. It was happiness. It was Bob Marley with an Egyptian accent. Now the burned bloody holes on the battered boardwalk serve notice that something worse than death can strike, turning each day into the blackest night.

It's called fear.

The Changing Relationship - China and the Middle East

2006-04-24T14:28:00.000+02:00

In the 'Well put, old chap' quotes department:

Yet Saudis are quick to note that China's gain is not necessarily America's loss. China cannot provide the security guarantees that the United States has to most of the countries in the Gulf region. In that light, the idea that Saudi Arabia would turn entirely to China can also be seen as a bit of political stagecraft.

"We are in a Catholic marriage with America," Bahlaiwa said, emphasizing that divorce was unthinkable. "But we are also Muslims - we can have more than one wife."

Read the rest of the story.

In Italy, Blushing at Knees

2006-04-18T14:15:00.000+02:00

I spent all of 13 hours in Milan, Italy on my way to Senegal. I was a bit woozy still from the sleeping pill I popped as my Alitalia flight went wheels up from Cairo International.

I wasn't going to be ambitious, just curious. Wander around Milan a little bit, savoring the fact that I had packed less then I usually would for a sleepover. Maybe drink an espresso and flex my childlike Italian.

But then there were . . . the women's knees.

See, in Cairo? No womanly knees, no legs at all really. Now it's not like I have some thing for knees, you understand. It's just, living in an Islamic country means you get used to seeing a lot less of the female species than usual.

This means that anytime I go to places in Egypt with Western tourists, be it the beach in Dahab or the entrance of the Egyptian Museum, I have this immediate reaction, similar to what most people in the Midwest US would feel if someone came down the street in nothing but a bikini bottom. Mothers would call children indoors and the town hall bell would announce an emergency city council meeting to discuss the latest affront to good taste, apple pie and baseball. Well not quite. They'd probably just say "Stupid Yuropeans" and go back to their coffee.

Okay, so my reactions are different: Raised eyebrows, usually, and some under-the-breath comment about low women. Or, "they must be Eastern European prostitues," as some friends of mine whispered as two slinky minxes high-hipped by us at the Egyptian Museum.

The point is: You get used to the modesty. It starts to affect how you feel about people.

In Milan, immodesty surrounded me. I think my face turned a shade of the red-light district and stayed that way throughout my entire visit.

Other than be embarrased the whole time, I really didn't do anything that exciting. Wandered to the city center, window shopping along the way. Went in the big cathedral, where I sobbed my eyes out (still working on the reasons for that).Had a cappucino AND espresso by the central piazza. Ate a Texas McMenu meal mostly because you could get beer with it. I had to "Maxi-size" the meal to get the beer. Drat.

Hours later I shoved my Euros in my bag. No more fashion shopping for me - West Africa, here I come.

Dahab - Abdullah's Unstable Water and Other Arguments

2006-04-18T13:21:00.000+02:00

It was a weekend. That’s it, nothing special. But I smelled sand, snorkels and seafood, and for poor students in Egypt, that means Dahab.

It’s not that special of a place, really. Most of the resort towns springing up around the Red Sea are just that: Package tourist hell courtesy of piped-in trees and spray-painted cement. But Dahab, while just a blip on the Eastern edge of the Sinai, tries to be different.

It’s hippy-heaven.

Or was, anyway. Like most hippies, Dahab has aged and gotten a bit more practical. The days of huts on the beach are long gone – now there is a plethora of rasta-shops, pizza places, and beach-seafood joints with hawkers who’s best English is the type meant to get you to eat at what is (obviously, they say) the best place. Among dozens.

Unlike Cairo, Dahabian English is decidedly Caribbean. Tinny strains of Bob Marley dribble out of inadequate speakers. Want some lemon juice with your fish? “Ya mon,” says the waiter, his carved-shell ganja necklace fighting for hang time with the dreads that sprout from his Muslim head.

Ah, Egypt. How thou doth confuse me.

I went with a trio of friends – K, D, and M. Oh, what fun. Nothing like mixing friends in the blender of travel and seeing what comes out the other side.

Of course, like any small town, you run into people you know – a gaggle of other AUC students, in my case. Before you know it, we were doing things in bunches; my dream of a vibrant foursome now shot to shreds.

Meet Abdullah. He’s a Jordanian-Palestinian, but more American than I. He’s down with the latest lingo, the current pop culture. Want an obscure (but like, way hilarious, bro) movie reference? Abdullah’s your man. He’s also massive – he played football for a US college team. Three years I think, y0.

Like a cloud, we descended on an “Indian” restaurant for supper that night. We expected quality. After all, the sign out front clearly said “Real Indian Chef.” Ya mon, don’t even try going to the other Indian restaurants on this Egyptian beach – they only have Egyptians steamin’ up THEIR jasmine rice.

Jamaicans, Indians, Egyptians. The multi-ethnic electricity zapped in my head. Especially because most of the tourists hailed from Russia’s Great White North.

I saw one Russian woman, wearing an accent and little else, talking with a man who looked disturbingly like Osama bin Laden. Osama is from Saudi Arabia, has a long beard, wears a turban and a camouflage jacket, and enjoys repression. He likes long walks on the beach.

I almost wanted to flash a peace sign at the guy and say, “one love, bro.”

It got late, K and D got happily smashed. K gets un-quiet and D gets boisterous, by the way. They happily chatted about things, and slowly fell over backwards on their bench. The better to see the stars, I guess.

Before you know it, D and M got into deep discussion about, um, things – you know, politics, the environment, religion, values, morality. Nothing that could offend, obviously.

In a short amount of time, daring D insulted M’s man (“He’s a dullard”), convinced her he didn’t feel anyone’s pain (especially poor people or animals), and was going to sell his services to the highest bidding oil company, morality be hanged.

M wasn’t going to let any of that stand unchallenged. Hoo, boy – there’s a good time. For the record, D is not like that. He just was that night.

Then a fellow AUCian strolled into the picture, about the time D and K checked out together – riding the bench into the starlight of sodden dreams.

I missed most of the conversation. Let’s just say, when I came back to get M (she had my room key, mon), she and the AUCian were in a dueling stance ten paces apart. The other girl lifted her pistol . . .

“You just open the Bible, and read it, and you’ll see what is true,” she said.

Such good hippy conversation.

I promised to mention Abdullah’s Unstable Water. The next day he couldn’t get his fins on for snorkeling, his rotund body splashing in the shallow water. “I can’t do it,” he said. “the water’s unstable.” I looked around and didn’t see a pop culture reference coming to his aid, so I did.

Maybe you don’t care, but the best part of the weekend was when I flew through the water, flapping my wings like the large manta ray soaring 10 feet away. It didn’t say anything about Jesus, but I had water in my ears. I might not have caught it.

Adventures with Saeed, or, How Not to Get Religion, Drunk or Stoned

2006-04-10T21:01:00.000+02:00

His name was Saeed. First impression? Old, stately guy in a big, blue button-up sweater, a scar on his weathered face. Walked with a bit of a limp.

“Taxi,” he told me, giving himself permission to not only tell me the story of the fateful traffic encounter, but educate me on the danger of headstrong drivers in a headlong rush.

I had known him for three minutes.

He had asked the time, and found out I was American. In a rush, we bonded in a love for WWE wrestling. Now don’t get me wrong; I don’t actually love the soap opera episodes inherent in the onscreen lives of angry, tight-wearing sweaty men. I just know a bit about it all, enough to carry on a conversation about Brock Lesnar versus The Undertaker.

Oh - Lesnar, all the way, right?

A casual conversation led into a long afternoon smoking sheesha and drinking tea and talking about life. Mostly him talking, though - in the broken English he said he learned from watching wrestling and listening to the BBC.

Eventually he ran out of English and I ran out of Arabic. We sat in companionable silence, watching the flow of the street – donkey carts and 1960s-era taxis jostling for position; The occasional traffic cop, worthless as they often tend to be in Cairo, casually gesturing for no-one to go anywhere.

After several hours, he took me close by to his neighborhood mosque. The imam and I looked at each other, both a bit confused, I think. But Saeed knew what was going on: He wanted to tell me about Islam, and what it should mean to me.

His English fell flat. I got it, regardless: his passion signaled in the way he squeezed my hand, the zeal shining in his eyes. The pleading in his voice.

“This is how you get to Heaven,” he said, handing me a mosque copy of the Koran. “Praise god, praise god, praise god,” he said in Arabic - with fervency so familiar to me from my youth spent in revivals, special meetings, Wednesday night Bible studies and Sunday school.

We sat for awhile. Soon, I left for class – but not until we arranged for him to come over to my apartment the next day to cook fish. “GOOD fish,” he said.

It took about a day to change my mind. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it: Was I leery of inviting a stranger I barely knew into a home I shared with two girls? Was I a coward, afraid of too much unknown in my zone of comfort?

The next day, he showed up and instead of fish at my place, I took him out. Or rather, he took ME out, to a bar – across from a mosque – like a good Muslim. “Are you happy?” He asked. Sure, I’m happy, Saeed. (But was it disappointment I felt? What was I expecting? What exactly was I doing? Why did I feel so strange deep in my gut? Why was I checking for my wallet?)

Then, off to a restaurant a few blocks from his house for some cheap grilled meat, bread and salad. Afterward we went a block down to drink some tea and look at more traffic. “We should buy hashish,” he said, conspiratorially.

I wasn’t smoking hash, I didn’t want beer, and I didn’t want to become a Muslim. The feeling in the pit of my stomach grew even stronger.

I said goodbye. He seemed sorry and sad, although I’m not sure why. In my mind, I pretended it was because we had shared good times and good conversation, not because he was disappointed I didn’t want to get religious, drunk or stoned.

I was sick all night. The next day, I spent hours in the bathroom, vomiting.

I still tell myself it was the salad.

I'm an Uncle (Again)!

2006-03-25T18:45:00.000+02:00

Grant Gunner Larson. Son of my older sister. Born yesterday, March 24, 2006 at 11:14 am. 8 lbs. 14 oz. Welcome to the world, kid. Thanks for the photo #1 lil sis A.

10 Little Ways I've Changed in Egypt #1

2006-03-25T18:11:00.000+02:00

This isn't an exhaustive list. Just a first draft of the little things I'm noticing the more I think about transition back to the US:

1. I stare more at things on the street.
2. Scarves seem highly practical, and tactically stylish.
3. I'm no longer a Coca-Cola fan. It's not that I've switched sides to Pepsi. I just don't care anymore.
4. I appreciate House music (thanks Turkish ex-roomie S)
5. I'm picky about the quality of cappucinos and lattes.
6. I have a new love of macroeconomics.
7. I don't mind dirt as much as I thought I never did.
8. I highlight things in textbooks.
9. I act more warmly on first meeting with random people.
10. I love soccer.

My B-Day. My Friends.

2006-03-24T19:23:00.000+02:00

I really didn’t want a birthday. I wasn’t grumpy or depressed, really. It’s just – I was turning 26.

26. That’s over halfway to 50, ladies and gentlemen. That’s over halfway from 20 to 30. Looking past the numbers, I find myself noticing that my classmates are increasingly younger. It’s not that that I look down on them and think they’re immature. I just find myself remembering things in history they don’t: the Challenger disaster, the Gulf War in the early 90s, the entire Clinton presidency. I’m facing the fact that each day I am more of a relic, an icon of a past age.

Okay, so maybe I was a bit depressed.

But L wasn’t having anything to do with that. “Birthdays are important in my family,” she said. And with that, she gathered the crew. A quick explanation is in order here: I don’t have one monolithic mass of friends, in fact, many don’t know each other at all. Here at AUC, I have a multiple friendship spheres: study-abroad students – hailing from everywhere, from Pakistan to California; The Arabic Language Institute program here – mostly through my ex-roomie J; and I also have a batch of grad students friends, with the odd Egyptian thrown in, just because they’re cool.

Needless to say, it was strange to have them all show up on short notice to the swanky Don Quixote restaurant here in Zamalek, a place I’d been dying to go to from the first time I walked past. The only thing Spanish about the place was the name, by the way, and the prices were astronomical. Afterwards, a few of us went to Deals for late night socializing.

By the end of the night, I realized I was profoundly touched. When my Frankfurt-Cairo plane landed last August, I didn’t know a single soul from this disparate group. Now, they’re my friends. I think sometimes I take that for granted. I won’t anymore.

Valley of the Kings of the Open Road

2006-03-23T20:47:00.000+02:00

There’s a special guilt that comes with whizzing past four centuries of history on a motorcycle. Maybe it’s because ancient Egypt always seems enveloped in mummies’ whispers. Maybe because here in Egypt, the tales of history still sound their hollow echo between temple columns older than Jesus.

But not this weekend. This weekend smelled like speed and went by just as fast.

I traveled with my friend Dave – we’re two Americans studying at the American University of Cairo, in Egypt We’re both doing the things Americans finally do since the Twin Towers fell: seriously study this area, this people, this language. What makes the Middle East tick? We’re finding out.

But not this weekend.

It’s nine hours up the Nile to Luxor, in Egypt’s south. Here is the home of the fantastic temples of Karnak and the ancient Egyptian capital of Thebes, where pharaoh after pharaoh attempted to one-up the previous king’s monuments to his own glory.

Just across the river lay the hills containing the Valley of the Kings: home to the celebrated monarchs of old: Rameses II, King Tut, Thutmosis III. The whole gang lay buried within a stone’s throw of each other. The days only their tombs remain, the mummies either destroyed in the past or in present-day museums.

After a day in Luxor’s east bank – Luxor temple, Karnak’s Amun-Re temple – we hard-bargained a ride on a “felucca,” the triangular-sailed boats that have plied the Nile for centuries. Captain Sambol was our vessel’s master, but even the mighty captain couldn’t blow enough wind into our sails to fight the steady northward current of the Nile.

We drifted over to shore, only to be accosted by a surly man in a rowboat. Beer, he was selling. Ah, the joys of an Islamic country. After a bit of haggling, we continued to straggle up the Nile, Stella beers now firmly in-hand. The day winding down, we headed over to the west bank to bed down for the night.

The next day – the usual morning tea at the shop. But this day, something different: two motorcycles awaited us just outside – the results of a deal Dave had made with a random guy. Nothing official, mind you. “If the police ask, I’m just your friend,” he said, smiling nervously. We promised not to rat him out.

Here in Egypt, it’s not unusual for two men to ride one motorcycle – one driving and one holding on for dear life. It’s just practical. So the man was a bit confused when we insisted on one each. “No, no,” one said. “Your friend drive for awhile, then you drive. You take turns.”

Dave and I looked at each other. We both knew what each other were thinking. No way.
If we’re renting bikes, we both get our own. It’s the just way it’s done where we come from, and we were willing to plunk down the necessary cash,

After we embarrassing admitted that neither of us had ever ridden a motorcycle before, the man gave us a crash course in not crashing. He quickly realized we had more enthusiasm than ability, and worriedly cautioned us to go slow, for both our sakes and most importantly, the survival of his motorcycles. We promised to behave.

Minutes later we rumbled into a crowd of tourists in the parking lot next to the fabled Colossi of Memnon. The tourists looked at us, we looked at them. We weren’t one-bit jealous of their air-conditioned behemoth tour bus. I think I smelled their awe. It was probably just my own sweat.

For the rest of the day, we did the tourist thing: Medinat Habu, Hatshepsut’s temple, Valley of the Kings. I studied Egyptology last semester. I love this stuff. But even I quickly realized the motorcycles were slightly more fun than the temples of “big rocks,” as Dave called them, tongue firmly planted in his cheek.

As the sun dropped low in the sky, we cruised aimlessly, ending up on the road to Qena – 50 kilometers north of Luxor. The open road was anything but – chickens, children, pickups. The occasional donkey cart. It didn’t matter: riding was the joy, the rest was just distraction.

It got dark. It was getting late. With a touch of sadness, we turned around and headed back to Luxor, the beams of the setting sun on our backs. We were overdue returning the bikes. “Mish qwis,” the man said, “not good.” He demanded we pay more.

No way. Not this day. We had breathed exhaust fumes, held power in our hands; the wind on our cheeks had given us the world. For that day, for those hours, we – not the dead-and-gone-pharaohs – were gods.

No, we weren’t paying more.

Our kind doesn’t take that kind of lip from anyone.

What a Difference an 'A' Makes

2006-03-19T13:33:00.000+02:00

The Associated Press got one wrong today. One letter, that is. But what a letter:

The episode in question, Trapped in the Closet, which first aired last November, shows Scientology leaders hailing Satan, one of the show's four devilish fourth graders, as a saviour. A cartoon Cruise locks himself in a closet and won't come out.

Hey AP: His name is Stan. Get it right. He's a kid character on TV's South Park cartoon show. His name is not Satan.

South Park has always mocked Scientology, but turned up the heat recently with a hard-hitting episode that especially ripped on Scientologist and (I guess) actor Tom Cruise.

What an outrage, huh? It makes me want to torch an embassy. Do Scientologists have embassies? Or wait - should I be torching Comedy Central? Or the Associated Press?

Coming Back to Amr

2006-03-14T15:14:00.000+02:00

I find myself clinging to what this is, what Egypt is to me: Sheesha and lemon juice with friends, sharing a handful of nuts with a taxi driver, randomly meeting a kid named Amr and going budget-shopping with him for his mother and sister.

I’m beginning to see the end, now. Months, weeks, days, winding down. But I don’t feel “done,” or like I’m ready to go in any way. My ears perk up every time I hear of a new opportunity – like a chance to roam Syria on the cheap with D, or getting paid pennies to teach English in Yemen.

But I’m also realizing that if I make the current “Cairo” period simply episode #203 in my life, I risk marginalizing it and isolating it. It will turn into something I always want to recapture – a story for the end of the bar, that “one thing I did once” – instead of just another thread in the weave of my life.

And that could endanger my future. It will make it to hard to come back here, or anywhere. I might get trapped on the Island that is America.

Egypt will always be part of me, who I am. But I refuse to celebrate it or worship it. The day I leave will not be the end of an era. It will just be another day in June.

With possibilities wide, wide open.

The Khamaseen Winds: an allegory

2006-03-07T14:42:00.000+02:00

The Khamaseen Winds hit today, the desert's hot blanket of sand descending over the city.

It's no surprise, really. This kind of thing happens. Good days, bad days. Season after season.

But each of the last several week's early blast of hot, sandy wind is a vanguard of the truth. A harbinger for the fear that envelops the soul.

What if this is it? What if the winds bring the sand and never leaves? What if this is . . . the end?

No, you say, it cannot be. The city has huddled down before, waited out the huffing and the puffing that tears at the heart.

But what if this is different? What if the winds are here for good - ripping at loose shingles and branches. And what if it doesn't stop? Like dripping water, what if it allies with Time, and cannot be stopped?

What if the darkness of days is the darkness of life?

Taking the Foreign Service Exam...

2006-03-02T22:23:00.000+02:00

Just as practice. Taking it is how you get into the State Department's Foreign Service - to work as a diplomat or other such nonsense. You can take it even if you don't want a job, so I'm going to throw myself at it and prove how little I know.

Shift

2006-03-01T13:25:00.000+02:00

Familiar things are slipping away. No, that’s not right - old familiar things are slipping away, things I brought with me from the US.

It’s been slow, almost predicable, even. I used up my black spiral-bound notebook, lost my black windbreaker and stained my green t-shirt. I ripped a shirt sleeve on a sharp rock in the Western Desert. I even lost weight, and now no longer fit into half of the pants I brought here.

Back in South Dakota, in late August last year, I packed with intent. I checked what I should bring, budgeted what I wanted to pack, reviewed climate reports, and decided if x shirt would match y pants. I didn’t do all this because studying in Egypt was a grand safari – I did it because I didn’t have a lot of money and didn’t want to carry a lot on the plane.

It worked out. I’ve haven’t had to buy anything clothes-wise since I’ve been here, although I’ve wished for something a bit warmer on some chilly winter nights.

But the process of loss is speeding up. Half of my clothes are wearing out: stitches unraveling, jeans wearing holes, soles separating from shoes. My adaptor for my laptop broke. No explanation, no puffs of smoke. Just . . . gone.

I lost my favorite, world-traveling jacket yesterday. No big story – I just left it somewhere, and now it’s gone.

Khalas.

"Georgetowning": An Example

2006-02-24T18:49:00.000+02:00

A Yahoo! opinion piece by a Georgia Anne Geyer. The second paragraph gives it away . . .

"I've spent 10 days here looking intensively into the "new Egypt" after last fall's upheaval elections, and it seems to me..."

Flat-out Sick

2006-02-20T09:05:00.000+02:00

It finally strikes. A combination of Cairo cold, me getting soaked in a rainshower (I know, I know), and campus-illness that everyone's getting. Prescription: Green tea with honey, sleep, maybe some fuul with baladi. And drugs.

In Awe

2006-02-19T14:14:00.000+02:00

That has to be the most amazing real beard I've ever seen. Abu Tir, Palestinian and bearded extraordinaire.

Out of the Mouths of Babes..

2006-02-16T09:17:00.000+02:00

Thanks S for sharing A's incarnate wisdom and her synopsis of the civil rights movement:

Alaina: I know what the flag stands for!
Mommy: What?
Alaina: Freedom! I learned about it at school today. Freedom means
choice.
Mommy: Sure does.
Alaina: Well, a long time ago there were only people with black skin
and faces, and they were called slaves.
Mommy: Oh?
Alaina: Yeah, and they had to do all the work. Like you'd say 'Go
get this thing.' And they'd have to go get it.
Mommy: Yep.
Alaina: But then this man came to America. I can't remember his
name... You know, the first white man? And he was, like, the ruler
of the whole country. What's that called again?
Mommy: President.
Alaina: Yeah. And he believed in freedom for everyone.
Mommy: Abraham Lincoln?
Alaina: YEAH! But he wasn't the first president. That George guy
was. But then it was later, and the black people still didn't have
choices. Like, they wanted to go to McDonald's, and the government
said 'No! You can't go to McDonald's!'
Mommy: Hmm.
Alaina: But this other man, Muffin Luther...There's more parts to his
name, but I can't remember them.
Mommy: King Junior?
Alaina: YEAH! Muffin Luther King Junior. And he believed everyone should have equality. Equal means the same. And he was white like us.
Mommy: Really? I'm pretty sure he was black.
Alaina: NO!!! Miss Myra said he had a white face and skin, just like
us.
Mommy: Hmmm.
Alaina: And then the black people were normal and had choices. And
now they're just like us! Like, last year there were some people
with other colored skin, and they were, like, my friends.

NASCAR and Drugs

2006-02-16T09:09:00.000+02:00

I really don't care, but I noticed this string of Freudian slips in a NYT piece about the dangers of the 'bumping' racing move:

"It's the crack phenomenon with Nascar racing," the driver Kyle Petty said. "Our meth habit right now is bump drafting. Everybody thinks you got to have it, everybody thinks you got to do it. Some people are more addicted to it than others. And Nascar obviously is stepping in and saying, 'We're having an A.A. meeting now.' "

Ok, Kyle Petty. So we have, um, crack, meth and Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. Anything you want to talk about?

Why I Don't Like Jazz

2006-02-15T16:19:00.000+02:00

The Argus Leader's Robert Morast sums up, on his blog, why we both don't like it (or just don't understand it):

"You know, I'm not a cultured jazz head. I'll probably never be a cultured head. This is mostly because I don't understand the audio allure of frenetic bursts of unsyncopated rhythms and notes that quickly die down to work back into the primary melody. It seems ostentatious and unecessary . . . "

Amen, brother. Now blues, on the other hand . . .

Misfit Fittin' In

2006-02-14T13:37:00.000+02:00

I’m sitting at Cilantro in Mohandiseen - an upscale coffee shop in an upscale area. Classier than a lot of coffee shops in the US – that I’ve been too at least. The atmosphere is serene, the clients polylingual and leather-clad. I keep waiting for them to discover that not only am I unclassy and poor, I’m wearing the only pants I currently own that fit me at all. But so far they’ve left me alone. Me – sporting my foreigner looks and silver laptop. Who knows how long I’ll make it through this masquerade.

I sat down at a table in the corner. I pulled the chair back and the corner of the leg yanked out a piece of faux-marble tile baseboard. I looked around. No one saw, at least, none of the Gucci-ed glitterati. So I carefully pushed the piece back in with my toe and tried to look nonchalant.

In some ways, this place is a great example of much of the “upscale” I’ve experienced here. It looks - and often is worth – a million bucks. But at the same time, there is a quiet desperation, a feeling that it wouldn’t take much for this to collapse into obscurity and ruin. I think it breeds a bit of a reckless abandon: go for broke, because it might not be around later anyway. Or maybe it allows one to be carefree: If it all falls apart, it’s okay because then we’re right back where we started.

Okay, that seems a bit overblown. The point is, upscale class here never feels like upscale class. Then again, I probably wouldn’t know upscale class if it daintily avoided me in the street.

Georgetowning an Experience

2006-02-12T10:04:00.000+02:00

It’s called “Georgetowning” it: When one has a “real” cultural experience, and converts it (probably in a blog like this one) into a tome on the deeper truth, an in-depth look into the real world exposed by you being in-country and on the scene. . . Even though you probably don’t really have any idea what just happened AND you probably got ripped off.

“It’s like when you buy bread from a guy on the street and then go back and write about how it’s a perfect symbol of the economy, or something,” says my friend.

You see, Georgetown (the university in DC) spreads its students across the globe, and Cairo in particular seems infested (blessed, I mean) with them. Now don’t get me wrong – I have friends from Georgetown, unpretentious ones. Even if they do talk about their home U all the time.

The thing is, I don’t think the concept is limited to Georgetown students. M in Senegal told me about going to a place with French people sporting the hair and clothes that allows them to go back home and say, with a mix of pride and fear, “I was in AFRICA.”

I’m guilty of it too. I do it all the time – cheaply trying to plumb the depths of my experiences here for something to learn, to grasp, something to take back home. “This is one of the once-in-a-lifetime experiences,” people say. True. But sometimes I think I’m blind from looking so much. And yet, I persist.

And blame Georgetown.

End Neocolonialism! Oooh, Look at the Pretty Torch

2006-02-11T09:13:00.000+02:00

You gotta love it. UberProtesters at the Winter Olympics in Turin take some time from their busy protesting for something really worthwhile.

"We will always stand close to the people who defend their countries and struggle against neo-colonialism," said Chiara, a red-haired orator. "But first let's watch the torch." The protesters pulled out cell phones and began to snap digital photos.

A la Michael Moore - George W.'s "Now watch this drive" comparison, anyone?

Read the WP piece here.

Will Kidnap for Job

2006-02-09T18:00:00.000+02:00

Unemployed? Need a job? Kidnap a foreigner!

"Gaza militants have kidnapped about 20 foreigners in recent months, using their hostages to try to get jobs from the Palestinian Authority or to force it to release their jailed comrades."

And, the CNN piece says, they often get what they want. I guess that's one way.

How It'll End, and Why

2006-02-08T19:26:00.000+02:00

The Danish Cartoon Controversy rages on, with no end in sight. Embassies are burning across the Middle East, while Western newspapers scream "freedom of the press!" The Arab world is alternately angry at the West and itself. But a piece in Saudi Arabia's Al-Jazirah newspaper (quoted in a Slate article) glints a critical eye at how this all tends to go down:

"Muslims are the strongest people in the world when it comes to individual reactions and the weakest when it comes to institutionalized operations. Events have taught us that every reaction to such attacks on Islam (wherever they may take place) ends with institutionalized responses aimed at sapping the popular, local anger, but not at treating the issue in the place where it broke out."

Feel the Flow

2006-02-08T12:13:00.000+02:00

From the funeral of Coretta Scott King:

"We know now there were no weapons of mass destruction over there. But Coretta knew, and we knew, that there are weapons of misdirection right down here. Millions without health insurance. Poverty abounds. For war, billions more, but no more for the poor."

Thank you Rev. Lowery. Take notes, young grasshopper. That's how to write the spoken word. Read it...Da-dum, da-dum-dum...feel the rhythm.

Read the LA Times story here.

On to the Africa Cup Finals

2006-02-08T11:30:00.000+02:00

Egypt wins again - this time against M's Senegalese Teranga Lions. That means they'll face Ivory Coast in the final in two days. I was downtown in an overcrowded "ahwa" or coffee shop with a couple of friends and a bunch of Egyptians. Some apple sheesha, and hot cinnamon milk got me in the mood for a good game.

Television watching in Egypt is a group activity, but never more so than during a big football match. For this one, riot police in their big trucks were stationed around the city - but especially close to Midan Tahrir. The cafe I was at was one block away from the big central square, which is actually shaped more like a circle.

With every mistake, good defense or shot on the goal, we exploded out of our seats - to yell at the clearly-guilty-as-sin Senegal player who fouled Barakat, or throw up our hands at a horrible pass or a shot on the goal gone wrong.

As time wound down, Egypt's 2-1 advantage looked secure. I could feel the pressure build - stamping of restless feet and the occassional victory whistle.

Then it was over. Khalas. Done. The players celebrated onscreen as we victoriously poured out of the ahwa into the streets. Behind us, the waiter, his glasses knocked askew, flipped through bills and made change as he tried to get everyone to pay their last minute bills.

A crowd gathered in the square - a swirling mass of young men and flags, shouting and chanting. The police looked concerned but not overly worried as they herded the crowd out of the traffic doing it's part to celebrate with a cacophany of honks.

At that moment, in the spin of celebration, everyone in Egypt was an Egyptian. And we were all winners.

On to the finals...

EGYPT WINS!!!!!

2006-02-04T17:52:00.000+02:00

Egypt beat the Democratic Republic of Congo's football (I mean, soccer) team last night in the African Cup quarterfinals. I didn't get to see the game live, but I saw all the highlights later. For hours, boisterous Egyptians drove around town tooting their horns - "honk, honk, honk-honk-honk" - and waiving the Red, White and Black. Even the police down at my corner joined in, echoing back the car horns with their whistles. It's a big game for them - from here they move on to the semi-finals to do battle with the Teranga Lions of Senegal (M, your team's going down!)

I'll be sure to see that game as it happens. I think nobody is happier than an Egyptian when the Pharaohs win, and nobody is harder to be around when they lose.

You've Got to Love Bitterness

2006-02-02T09:59:00.000+02:00

It was a rough time last semester, with Arabic kicking my butt. But apparently when I said Failure was new to me, during a dark time, I forgot to say I meant academic failure (even though I thought that'd be clear) - and forget to mention every personal failure I've had which has let someone down. Lord knows I've had a few. Hence the anonymous comment posted below this morning.

"Failure NEW to you???? Hmmmmm. You disapointed/failed me majorly....but then again, you didn't know me very well either, did you?????"

Thanks Anonymous, for making my day brighter. Hopefully yours is as well. I hope an anonymous twist of the knife truly satisfies.

And for what it's worth - since I don't have the slightest clue who you are - I'm glad to see you've moved on so sucessfully. I have. I've learned lessons and become a better person because of them. Hope you can say the same.
--------------
Part Deux - It Continues

Received shortly after I posted the above -

Mr. Fugelberg - I don't think it's bitterness that someone feels against you. Surely, you put your personal life out there online in this blog, or personal diary, for the entire world to read and certainly must not realize that you open yourself up to criticism. (What are blogs for? Agreeing with everything and everyone out there?)

Even though you travel afar on distant soil foreign from your own, you need to learn that not every one will like you/agree with you, or what you have to say. It's called LIVING IN REALITY. Just because you don't have the same opinions that say, your neighbor has/or doesn't have, it doesn't make you right/wrong, and it doesn't make your neighbor right/wrong, it just makes two different opinions in the world.

Right?

P.S. Maybe the person who wrote the anonymous blog you are referring to you did actually learn a lesson from you as well and they just have a different way of showing it. Question is, how bitter are you? Hence, why would you respond in the way you did? I detect a sense of bitterness in your response as well.

My response:

Anonymous -

I'm spelling your name correctly, although you don't have the courtesy to do the same with mine. And yet you know it. Interesting. Since you clearly know who I am, I hope citing my name gave you the moral authority you seem to think you need.

You seem to be patently confused about what I said regarding failure and how I responded. Of course I realize my life, through my blog, is more open than it would be if I did't post a thing. I'll admit, I don't get a lot of readers, so any comments I do get have a higher than average affect on me. As you've so ably pointed out, I'm right here, online, standing where you can see me. I wish you had the same respect.

Frankly, I'm confused by your lecture on "LIVING IN REALITY" as you so ably put it. I'm certainly aware, and respect, other people's opinions. I wouldn't be here in Cairo if I didn't. So in that way, your critique seems misplaced. But there's clearly a big difference between arguing about politics or whatever and making an anonymous personal attack which seems to be based on a past experience with me. That's bitterness, clear and simple, not a difference of opinion.

If the person who commented learned a lesson from me, despite my own apparent lack of character, I am gratified. But writing an anonymous, biting personal comment seems to indicate a lack of growth and be somewhat counterproductive. If that's what it takes for 'anonymous' to walk away from the past, so be it. I just wish they wouldn't step on my feelings on their way.

You ask if I am bitter, and you claim to detect a sense of bitterness. I'm not bitter, since I have no idea which past personal situation 'anonymous' is commenting on. But I certainly feel blind-sided from the attack. I've grown much in the past few years - I feel like I've come so far and learned so much. It hurts to have a blank face whisper poison on my blog.

Former Pakistani ISI Chief: US Likes to Kill the Enemy

2006-01-29T22:41:00.000+02:00

Predator - US Unmanned Recon and Attack Drone

So maybe I'm missing something, or maybe I don't know the intricacies of other military cultures - but doesn't it make sense to destroy your enemy?

"A former head of the ISI said that ruthlessly destroying potential threats is part of U.S. military culture. "If they suspect the enemy is there, then they go for it," said the former Pakistani spy chief, retired Lieutenant-General Asad Durrani."

OK. Sounds fair enough. But I have to ask - do other militaries fall into the Rodney King "Can't we all just get along?" school of tactics and strategy? Now don't get all Sun Tzu on me - I know there are many ways to defeat an enemy, and you're most successful when you beat them without even meeting them on a field of battle.

But does that mean avoiding a chance to take out the leadership? Or is he saying the American military culture is headstrong and proud which drives demands for quick strikes without accurate intel?

His quote is from a Reuters wire story regarding unmanned drone attacks on ground targets, after the recent case a solid-intel shot at "Al Qaeda's number two man" that went wrong. At least they know who the man is, even if they can't find him. The identity of AQ #3 isn't so clear.

CIA's Correa Gets Cover Blown in Venezuela

2006-01-28T17:09:00.000+02:00

FROM SOUTH AMERICA: The Venezuelan government says a US diplomat is a CIA spy. Joseph Correa,the US Naval Attache at the embassy in Caracas, is accused of inciting rebellion during a failed coup and working through Venezuelan naval officers to steal top secret documents.

Venezuelan VP Jose Vincent Rangel (no relation to US Sen. Charlie) says Correa skipped town - after first spiriting his assets to Miami - when he got called to a "meeting" by the Venezuelans. Sounds like he smelled a rat. The reports say he was the CIA's top dog there - which seems doubtful to me. A station chief personally running low-level assets? From an attache desk? With no cutouts? C'mon. But maybe it's a small shop, I don't know.

This, of course, feeds into Presidente Chavez's persecution complex brilliantly, and helps him to explain to his people why he is stockpiling weapons for, well, a war. Oh wait - a glorious effort to repel a capitalist, imperialist invader.

Despite Pat Robertson's assasination order, the boys at the Pentagon say the US simply doesn't have the troops to spare. Even though their boss disagrees.

US Government Learning to Play to the Crowd?

2006-01-25T23:46:00.000+02:00

I'm just finishing a brand new book on the new media landscape in the Arab world,as originally crafted by Qatar-based satellite news channel Al Jazeera. It's good stuff, but an essay that really caught my eye evaluated the difference between what seems credible on Western channels, and what "sells" an idea in the Arab world. The piece looked at everything from expressions, to differences in underscoring a message (Arab "arm-waving expressions" vs. Western "sarcasm and repetition"). The piece makes a great deal of sense, and made me wonder how much training US politicians get for interviews on Arab TV channels. Based on what the book is saying, you'd doubt they get much.

But, that may not be the case everywhere in the world. An AP piece out today says the US has turned a new leaf in public relations with Japan by beating the "apology masters" at their own game in the aftermath of two recent crises.

"I figured the U.S. side would come up with some kind of excuse, but since they admitted it so honestly, it makes me think that the United States values relations with Japan," said Hisao Iwajima, political scientist at Tokyo's Seigakuin University.

Read it all.

The Mysterious Shop on Maraashly Street

2006-01-22T16:16:00.000+02:00

I live on Maraashly Street in Zamalek. The AUC dorm isn't far up the street. I walk this street all the time, so I know pretty much every shop and store. But there is one place I've never dared enter - this one really small antique shop.

It's not like I'm afraid, really. I just don't really have any reason to shop for antiques -- especially at a creepy-old-building, hole-in-the-wall, open-at-strange-hours, never-see-anyone-there shop.

I'm not kidding. It seems like this shop, this strange one with the French name above the door, is never open. And when it is open, it's the middle of the night. But I never see anyone inside, going in or going out.

Well, there was this one time. She was very large, possibly Egyptian - but her red hair and garish old-lady applique track suit effectively masked her nationality . . . I can't recall even looking at her in the face. She came out the door, and was gone. Aha, I thought, mortals do shop there. Strange mortals, to be sure, but mortals nevertheless.

It got me to thinking . . . maybe this shop, maybe it's by appointment only. Maybe it's so exclusive you call ahead and they give you a password. Maybe you have to know someone who knows someone. Maybe it's an antique secret society.

So now I have even more reasons to not step foot in the door. What if I did?

"Mr. Lopez-Garcia?"
"Um, no, I'm just looking."
"Do you know the secret handshake?"
"Not really, no. I just thought I'd take a peak..."
"Get out!"

And I'd get the bum's rush, with nothing to do but wipe my pride off the Maraashly Street asphalt.

Zamalek is a posh, wide-open, foreigner-type place. I really shouldn't feel hesitant. But I just keep walking by, slowing a bit when the place is lit up -- old chairs and bureaus silhouetted in the yellow light spilling out the open door.

Big Brother and an old Arab's garden

2006-01-22T15:30:00.000+02:00

An old Arab lived close to *New York* City for more than 40 years. One day he decided that he would love to plant potatoes and herbs in his garden, but he knew he was alone and too old and weak. His son was in college in Paris, so the old man sent him an e-mail explaining the problem:

"Beloved son, I am very sad, because I can't plant potatoes in my garden. I am sure, if only you were here, that you would help me and dig up the garden for me. I love you, your father."

The following day, the old man received a response e-mail from his son:

"Beloved father, please don't touch the garden. That is where I have hidden 'the *THING*.' I love you, too, Ahmed."

At 4pm the FBI and the Rangers visited the house of the old man and took the whole garden apart, searching every inch. But they couldn't find anything. Disappointed, they left the house.

The next day, the old man received another e-mail from his son:
"Beloved father, I hope the garden is dug up by now and you can plant your potatoes, that is all I could do for you from here; Your loving son Ahmed.

This is a great joke. Nothing like laughing at life under a shadow of suspicion. At the same time, it's tremendously sad that this joke even exists. Thanks to US-supporting (it's true) Egyptian blogger Big Pharaoh.

Life as a Novel

2006-01-13T17:10:00.000+02:00

"One should lead one's life as if one were the protagonist of an epic novel, with the outcome predetermined and chapter after chapter of edifying, traumatic, and exhilarating events to be suffered through. Since the end is known in advance, one must try to experience as much as possible in the brief time allotted. Writing is a way of ensuring that you pay enough attention along the way to understand what you see."

Jeffrey Tayler - Travel writer and Moscow correspondent for The Atlantic Monthly, interviewed at rolfpotts.com

Purpose

2006-01-12T15:53:00.000+02:00

"In these times, any one of you who feels inclined to risk a little and learn a lot should travel to an Islamic country to make friends and to learn, not to teach. . . . You should get to know them well enough to understand why what they believe is plausible to them, and you should explain their views to other Americans as sympathetically and as accurately as you can."

--William T. Vollmann, from "Some Thoughts on the Value of Writing During Wartime," a lecture given in November 2002
From vagablogging.net

Egypt #1 for Adventure! (AKA "Driving")

2006-01-11T19:21:00.000+02:00

Egypt is the top destination for adventure travellers according to a recent poll. In some places, adventure means scuba diving or rock climbing. Maybe safaris or ancient ruins.

In Egypt, it means riding a bus.

Six Aussies recently died here when their tour bus driver "lost control." And according to statistics, it happens a lot. Egypt travel, while cheap, is often deadly.

Not for me though, right?

I read somewhere that having a child makes you realize your own mortality. For me, I knew I was mortal when I stared down a Red Lodge ski slope and suddenly realized I wanted to live. In times past, I'd look the Devil in the eye and cannonball down without a moment's pause. It was after Alaina was born, so maybe that was it. Maybe I just got older.

Either way, I might not sleep quite so easily (?) during my next trip on a Upper Egypt Bus. Co. cruiser. I want to live.

Earthquake

2006-01-08T22:40:00.000+02:00

This afternoon - about 1pm or so. I was sitting on the floor and it suddenly felt like I was rocking side to side. "Curious," I thought. So I stopped perfectly still and realized it was the building moving, back and forth. It was over in 15 seconds, and I didn't even mention it to M (We were gorging on McD's), but I was curious about the cause. Turns out it was an underwater earthquake off Greece, magnitude 6.7-6.9. Here I am, 750 miles south, and I felt it. That's just plain cool.

Apparently it was also felt in Israel and Jordan. No worries - no injuries reported here, and only moderate damage to a some places in Greece.

Hurghada and Knuckle-Draggin' Russians

2006-01-05T19:53:00.000+02:00

With unusual aplomb for Americans, M, her bro T and I cruised down the Red Sea highway to Hurghada. It’s a bustling tourist location at the westside base of the west finger of the Red Sea. It’s a tourist location for a reason: the desert blows its warm breath over hotels and villas that front a calm sea with some of the best scuba diving in the world.

This isn’t a typical American destination; even less so than Cairo and Giza’s pyramids. Generally unfounded worries of Islamic terrorists keep Americans out and Egyptian tourist security tight.

But that doesn’t stop the Euro-tourists from flocking to the sun, sand and sea. All shapes, all sizes, bussed in, flown in. Czechs, Germans, Austrians, Poles, Russians. And the Egyptians are glad to welcome them all, despite the westerners' shocking taste in clothes and bottomless thirst for Islam-forbidden booze. Many of the Egyptian workers at Hurghada come from the economically-troubled region in Southern Egypt. South Egypt is something like the Indian reservations in South Dakota: the last place in the world you’d go to find good doctors or good jobs. And people from the area often mocked and derided for where they come from, just like “the Rez” jokes you hear back home.

So it’s worth putting up with the trashy tourists that infest the hotels and bars. To Egypt, they’re solid-gold bank.

But that doesn’t mean they have to like it.

“I don’t go out with Russians anymore,” says the divemaster on one of the boats we scuba-ed from on the first day. He’s originally from Germany, close to Hamburg. But that life is his no longer. “I have nothing there,” he says, “only friends. And they come to visit me here.” He smiles.

During lunch, the German expat divemaster explains the ways of Russians to Me and M

He hates Russians, and not just because they commit the typical tourist sins. He tells of a trip to the reefs with some Russians who packed vodka in water bottles—the easier to smuggle the booze on the boat. For them, the break between dives—usually a lunch and rest break—was a chance to get happily sloshed.

It rubbed the expat German divemaster the wrong way, mostly because alcohol and scuba diving simply do not mix. Your life is on the line every time you trust yourself to a couple of hoses sprouting from a bottle of air. He didn’t like Russians personally either – “no culture,” he says, but the vodka was the last straw.

He choice could also affect his pocketbook – he estimated half of tourists in Hurghada hailed from the Great White North. Americans were a species he hadn’t seen in over a year.

Me and M on the stern of the dive boat - leaving Hurghada's port

Saying hi to Nemo - All the clownfish were curious about the strange bubbling ones invading their home

Neither had the owner of a restaurant we went to the second night. To celebrate, he brought us a free appetizer on the house. I wondered if maybe the Americans he remembered were the same ones the divemaster recalled as well. I made a note to be on my best behavior. For once, I felt like I could make a fundamental difference in the relations between Egypt and the US.

So I smiled a lot, and avoided the vodka.

Princely Living and King of Kings Whiskey

2006-01-03T18:20:00.000+02:00

In some ways, I’m living the Egyptian Dream: A snazzy apartment, with dark wood furniture, a king-sized bed and a balcony that overlooks the backyard of the US ambassador’s home in the exclusive Zamalek Island neighborhood in Cairo. I’ve got a doorman, a maid, a washing machine.

But all is not jasmine and daffodils: Egyptian décor can run from childishly playful to Style de Palace Saddam Hussein. Full length mirrors often reflect both gold-painted gilt furniture and kitschy “I LOVE You”s painted on fabric hearts – like prized disasters from summer camp art hour.

Want style sanity? Get a hotel room.

My apartment is fairly sane – blue and white paint in the living room, peach in the bedrooms. Some overwrought furniture in the bedrooms and the dining room, but not bad overall.

But the dining room cabinet/curio thing simply has to go. Two shelves of impossibly confusing tackiness stare out over my forlorn table. Top shelf features a fake jug of “King of King Whiskey” guarded by two demon-eyed angels. Bottom shelf houses the clash of religions: two outdated calendars – one features “Allah” spelled out in Arabic, the other stars the ground zero of Roman Catholicism, St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome. What would the Pope say?

Surrounding all this: Knick-knacks, fake flowers, gold camels and a two-inch Santa Claus statue. In the cabinet on the left a life-sized porcelain dog peers through the glass, its mouth permanently fixed in a sloppy grin, tongue out.

Some nights, it’s hard to sleep.

Words of Wisdom from Egypt blogger Baheyya

2006-01-03T14:50:00.001+02:00

When approaching social analysis, assume sparingly, observe carefully, listen intently, think clearly, write lucidly, be on the lookout for the unexpected and improbable, don’t twist the facts to suit your preferences, and always, always, ask: what would prove me wrong?

Excellent advice for travel writers and journalists, too. Read the rest here.

Excuses

2005-12-24T18:49:00.000+02:00

Finals, apartment shopping, hugging friends goodbye.

9/11 - Summed Up

2005-12-05T20:36:00.000+02:00

I read a lot of news, but maybe I'm blind. This is the first time I've seen a summary of 9/11 written in "news-speak," plugged in the bottom of a story in case anyone still reading didn't know what the article was about.

"Nearly 3,000 people were killed when 19 Arab hijackers organized by al-Qaida flew airliners into New York City's World Trade Center and the Pentagon and caused a crash in the Pennsylvania countryside."

Gotta love it. Using "Arab" lets the writer avoid national, religious or ideological factors. Using "hijackers" means they don't have to make the call on whether it was terrorism. And they can simplify the Pennsylvania situation by having the Arab hijackers cause the crash -- apparently by taking over the plane.

Sigh. It's well done but lacks soul.
The primary reasons journalism bores me sometimes.
--------

Sidenote: An opinion piece on a conservative website ripped the AP story clean off. In large chunks.

Three Months, and I Finally Go to Giza's Wonders

2005-12-03T23:02:00.000+02:00

I've been to the east-side, for a rave. I've been just west -- twice -- for Mena House happiness. But I've never gotten up close and personal with the Sphinx and his three pyramidal amigos.

My Egyptology class went today. It was good to go with people who (obviously) knew the place inside out. Nothing like hanging out with real, live Egyptologists.

Cairo's smog pushed right up and over the Giza plateau, shrouding the city from view and making it easy to imagine the urban sprawl wasn't taking over the Old Kingdom. It also made it hard to take photos of the three pyramids, since the "photo op" place is far enough away -- which means the Great Pyramid, in the background, fades into the toxic air.

I'm constantly underwhelmed by things here in Egypt. It's the same feeling I had when I saw the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia -- "Oh, um, yeah. That's really . . . small. And, yeah, historic. Cool." I'm sure it'll sink in. But they Pyramids are so iconic it's almost like seeing a big movie star close up and realizing he's a lot shorter in real life.

And tourists, as always, take away from the wonder. Listen to me gripe. Ancient Wonder, Jeremy, lighten up.

Shorn

2005-11-29T17:07:00.000+02:00

I got a haircut. Not just any haircut, but a HAIRCUT, by a barber who clearly knew what he was doing with a scissors and a straightedge razor. We were able to communicate clearly enough to understand what I wanted. He still cut it shorter than I wanted, and miraculously straightened by curly hair. But wow, was he good.

I understand now why barbers often doubled as surgeons back in the day.

The Muslim Brotherhood rolls on...

2005-11-27T12:42:00.000+02:00

The multi-stage parliamentary elections will finish up in a couple weeks, but already the Muslim Brotherhood has shown it has the grassroots support it needs to be a viable political force . . . in a functioning democracy, at least.

The numbers don't lie:

444 - Total available parliamentary seats
15 - Number of MB candidates in the last parliament
1/3 (148) - how many of the available seats contested by an MP "independent" candidate
75 - Seats the MB has won so far - with one more round to go.

Let me put it do you this way: the MB has won HALF of the seats they've targeted. With one round to go.

Cry tears, secularists.

Looking for a home...

2005-11-22T23:17:00.000+02:00

I'm in the midst of an apartment search, here in Cairo. I'll probably be living with some friends, so it takes a bit of logistics to find a place.

Here, the newspaper isn't the best source for housing. The newspapers here aren't good for news, either, but thats another story.

First, you can use your friends. The AUC community is still small, so if you don't know of a free apartment, you probably know a friend -- or a friend of a friend -- that does.

Second, you can use the bowwabs (the building doorman/watchman/all-purpose-man) in the area in which you're interested in living. The bowwabs seem to all know each other, and if they don't know of a place, their friend probably does. Sound familiar?

Third and finally, you can work through a simsar - probably best translated housing broker. The upside is he'll probably know several places that fit what you need. The downside? He'll get a cut of your rent. And not all simsars are beautiful souls with your best interests at heart.

Caveat Emptor, indeed.

Sinan unites Lebanon

2005-11-10T17:30:00.000+02:00

My roommates and I were talking about what it would take to bring the Lebanese together into one big happy nationalistic family, and suddenly there he was, shakin' his booty for Lebanese nationalism.

To the Lebanese: if you don't want a groovin' Turk to unite you, you better figure something out soon.

I "monitor" the Egyptian parliamentary elections

2005-11-10T16:56:00.000+02:00

Patrick F. and Michelle S.'s head - at the polling station

The biggest news was that I was allowed to be there. Technically I was under the authority of an Egyptian NGO, but mostly I was just rubber-necking. The elections went well compared to the presidential election and was a bit more interesting . . . from what I'm hearing, the ruling NDP remains dominant, the Muslim Brotherhood picked up some seats, and the other opposition parties got beat like a rented mule.

The NDP (and the MB for that matter) was much in evidence at the polling station I attended. Although campaigning was legally barred 24 hours prior to the election, scores of party reps clustered near the entrance of the polling station. Even inside, young NDP'ers with their distinctive t-shirts and neck cords wandered around with party propaganda.

One man told our little student monitoring group that the "Look, I voted" finger ink was bogus. Another man, outside the polling station, said employees from the nearby Gezirah Sporting Club had been bussed in earlier that day. the deal was simple: vote for the NDP man, get paid 150 Egyptian pounds each. For many of them, that was a half-month's salary.

From a VOA article:

The monitoring group Shayfeencom reported that police briefly closed one polling station in Cairo's Sakakini district after the judge running it was caught stuffing the ballot box for the ruling National Democratic Party candidate. Voting resumed after the judge was replaced.

Ah, democracy. On the other hand, I got a cool Muslim Brotherhood pocket calendar -- dates on one side and "Islam is the Solution" slogan on the other.

Bombin' Amman

2005-11-10T12:38:00.000+02:00

I leave Amman, and it gets bombed by Al-Qaida. While it's tragic, and I'm sorry it happened, why didn't it happen while I was there? I wouldn't have been in any of those three hotels (too poor,etc.) but it would've been interesting to be there.

Does that make me a bad person? Maybe just a hindsight thrill junkie....

My first story in Egypt Today!

2005-11-09T12:07:00.000+02:00

And hopefully not the last...

It's about a program at AUC that pays for head-of-their-class public school students to attend here. I'm currently in the process of comparing it with my original to see how much my writing was deconstructed. It looks like they kept the essence of my lede and ending. Hooray.

View it here.

Jordan: Chapter 2 - The Christian Restaurateur tells me how to be happy

2005-11-08T19:30:00.000+02:00

His name is Ashraf. He is the proud owner of Clepatra's Restaurant, what he calls his "colloquial" restaurant. "Treasury," his tourist restaurant, is where he makes food wanted by rich tourists. Clepatra's is where he serves the People kebabs, chicken, rice and beans. Tonight, that meant us.

"Good, cheap food" had been the request, and with that - one of the young hotel front desk workers led me and Allison (as a scout team) to Clepatra's, just around the corner from the hotel. On the way he grabbed Ashraf, who had been yakking with the owner of a dry-cleaning place.

A bit later, our caravan dismounted in his restaurant. Much bread and rice was consumed. Delectably tender kebabs were savored. A good time was had by all.

Afterwards, with everyone going to bed back at Al-Anbat II hotel, I decided to stay at the restaurant and drink some tea. It had been a long day: traveling in a large group came with its own set of frustrations, and 24 hours of travel and waiting was enough to wear me down to a nub.

"Stay as long as you like," said Ashraf as he brought me tea in a small tin teapot. It was quiet in the restaurant -- a few workers in the back, a tourist couple from our hotel sat in the corner with one of the front desk guys and talked about . . . something. I sipped the sugary tea and wrote in my little black journal, hoping to wind down a bit before sleep and another long day.

I was in mid-sentence when Ashraf breezed back in from the chilly outdoors. "You smoke?" he asked, handing me a cigarette. I didn't, but it seemed like he wanted to talk and in this part of the world, it's almost rude to turn down the triple offer of nicotine, tea and conversation. It was an offer I couldn't refuse.

We both lit up and exhaled, blowing smoke towards the front door and the traffic outside. We talked about what I was doing in Jordan (tourism) and where I was from (US, but studying in Cairo). I guessed probably didn't like Bush. I was wrong.

"I'm a Christian, not Muslim," he said. "And I think he is good to do what he thinks is best. It takes a tough man, a strong man." He sat back for a second, eyeing me to see if I got it. I wasn't sure I did. He leaned forward again.

"It is what is important to you," he said. "With many people, it's money."

"You don't think money is important?" I asked.

"It's useful to do things, yes," he said, stabbing the air with his cigarette. "But I want to make my God happy. I want to be happy, I want my guests to be happy."

But money can buy a lot of happiness, I said. Not so, he replied. At his upscale restaurant, rich tourists come in and expect meals with quality should equal the size of their wallets.

"I want them to be happy," he said. "And they're not happy unless I charge them one-hundred US dollars."

I sat back a bit, feeling the nicotine.
"That's a lot of money," I said. He smiled.

"But they're happy, so I'm happy," he said.

But that's cheating them, I said.

Suddenly two tall tourists walked in to Clepatra's, led by one of Ashraf's friends. Some referral business, this time from Russia.

"We want feesh," they demanded.

Ashraf sat them at a corner table and yelled at Mahmoud in the back to see if there Clepatra's had any fish.

"But why do you want fish?" He asked the tourists. They looked confused. They just wanted some fish. But Ashraf did not feel like feeding fish to the Russian tourists. They left, still confused, and Ashraf returned to my table.

"You see them?" he asked, as he lit up my second cigarette. "They weren't happy."

"But, don't you have fish?" I asked.

"Yes, yes," he said impatiently, "but they were not happy. I could see what they were thinking, like maybe my fish had bird flu or something. They're not happy, I'm not happy. And why would I have them in my restaurant?"

Jordan: Chapter 1 - to Petra

2005-11-07T23:35:00.000+02:00

It was late when we finally rolled into Wadi Rum, the tourist-town just outside the old Nabatean capital of Petra in

Jordan

. We were a motley group: 9 AUC'ians and Julia the German. Together we had braved the overnight bus across the Sinai and spent all morning and afternoon figuring out how to get on the Nuweiba, Egypt speedboat ferry to Aqaba -- Jordan's port on the eastern finger of the Red Sea.

It was a close thing: Since Annie looked like the ticket seller's daughter, several of us got to buy the ticket in Egyptian gineeh instead of US dollars we didn't have. Our time in Nuweiba reminded me of of how a World War II fighter pilot once described his job: long hours of boredom interspersed with moments of sheer terror.

Kofi and Me

2005-11-07T15:01:00.000+02:00

Kofi Annan, the UN secretary general, will speak at AUC tomorrow. I have no doubt it'll be a packed house. He has a lot on his plate: Syria, Iraq and Iran as well as the oil-for-food thing hanging on like an angry dog.

He's in Egypt to palaver with Pres. Mubarak and the foreign minister. In case you didn't know, the Egyptian diplomatic corps has been in the thick of regional issues, and has a good combination of Middle East clout and powerful friends in the West. Annan's visit is proof of both.

We'll see what he has to say tomorrow.

Decision

2005-11-07T13:09:00.000+02:00

Wow. Gotta love anonymous posts saying I should stop making excuses and spending all my time on the Internet.

To all of you out there who are (anonymous or no) concerned with my classes, I am dropping Arabic. Not because I'm failing -- since apparently I actually wasn't -- but because I need to spend more time in media here. I'll take a less intense Arabic class next semester, never fear. It's simply a matter of priorities.

In some ways, I'm sorry I brought it up on this blog. While I appreciate all of the concern and comments, this wasn't meant to be a public decision. Silly me.

Thanks for your concern, and if you feel like I'm a 'quitter,' than maybe you don't know me very well.

Options, Options

2005-10-27T14:06:00.000+02:00

After speaking to my Arabic professor, it appears she has a more optimistic view than I do both about my language abilities and my potential grade in the class. Since the grading seems to be a bit arbitary, and she seems to think a lot of me, I may have more options than I originally thought.

In all reality, it'll probably come down to whether I want to do lots of work and barely pass Arabic, or if I want the time free. I spoke to several other students in the last few days, and some of them are at the end of their respective ropes in this class, as well. Good to know I'm not the only one.

Adjusting, Tip #3

2005-10-26T09:10:00.000+02:00

Know your limits.

Just because you can do it doesn't mean you should. If one statue starts to look the same as the last one, or one day look the same as the next; DO SOMETHING ELSE.

If your adventure isn't exciting and interesting, you're taking the wrong road.

Setting Priorities

2005-10-24T22:27:00.000+02:00

I'm seriously considering not going to Arabic class anymore.

Reasons:
1. I'll get a failing grade anyway.
2. I'm falling further behind.
3. I don't have time to do anything else.

Things to check on:
1. Must my credits transfer as is?
2. Can I transfer them as pass/fail?
3. Do I need to transfer credits at all?
4. If I fail 6 credits, and get (realistically) "A"s in my other 6 credits, will I be allowed to continue at AUC next semester?
5. How drastically would it affect my (decent) GPA at SDSU?

What I could do if I didn't attend my intensive Arabic class:
1. Write for publications. This includes Egypt Today, Cairo Magazine, and possibly something with the AP bureau here.
2. Network. Currently I'm not meeting any Egyptians, or getting involved in the local political and journalistic scene. At this rate, I won't have any contacts here when I leave.
3. Explore Cairo and the country. I'm not seeing any parts of the city that don't have to do with school. No Cairo exploration and no Egypt travel means I have little incentive to go to other countries, since I haven't even explored this one.
4. Have more time to practice Egpytian Arabic, the language used on the street.

Impact of not taking Modern Standard Arabic for the rest of this semester:
1. I'll have only a slight working grasp of MSA vocab and grammer. However, even if I completed this semester satisfactorily, I'd still only have the ability to read short articles and maybe pick up the meaning of newscasts.
2. See above for impact on GPA, academic standings, etc.
3. I'd feel like a washout and a failure.
4. I'd feel like I had let down those who had hoped for me to do well here.

Failing. It's a new experience for me, and I hate it.

2005-10-24T10:26:00.000+02:00

I've had issues with math before, but I've always been able to escape out of that. With Arabic class, there is no escape. And that's a big part of the problem: I just hate feeling like an idiot four days a week. And in between I try to catch up on my homework, which means I feel stupid then too. I don't fail. Not like this - where I can work my butt off, actually learn a lot, and then look at the syllabus and know that I'll be lucky to get a D. Yes, a D. And the midterm is next week. You know how pleased I am to know I have the next half of the semester to feel progressively dumber?

I've talked to my teacher. She's said nice things about how everyone struggles and it gets easier. I've been in school long enough to know there is no such magic breakthrough. With the workload of this class, everything I don't learn solid becomes a trap for later down the line.

I'm not sure what bothers me worse. I'm sleep-deprived and depressed; I don't spend enough time on my other six credits of classwork; I'm not freelancing for magazines like I wanted; my grade point average will drop (an F for six credits will make a difference) which means depending on where I'd want to go, grad school may be out of the question; I'm not learning any street language; and I won't see anything of Egypt except during school vacations.

I have excuses, sure. I've been sick, had other school assignments desperately due. The teacher hasn't ever taught an intensive course like this before. The only people doing well in the class (I think) are the linguistics major and the Japanese French-major with perfect English.

In the end, this is hands-down my most counterproductive academic exercise. The sad thing is, I'll go home with an F, and I'll have actually learned some solid Arabic. But it will still feel like I wasted my time.

Truth: See "Stranger Than"

2005-10-17T22:38:00.000+02:00

You Know You've Lived in the Middle East Too Long When . . .

You're not surprised to see a goat in the passenger seat . . .
It wouldn't suprise me at all. Or chickens, or a side of lamb.

You think the uncut version of "Little House on the Prairie" is provocative . . .
It is. YOU CAN SEE WOMEN'S HAIR!

You expect the confirmation on your airline ticket to read "insha'allah" . . .
"God Willing." I'm still taken back when an otherwise secular Egyptian says this in normal conversation. It's just flat-out hilarious when foreigners says it.

You don't expect to eat dinner before 10:30 p.m . . .
I do sometimes, but then I always feel like I have to eat again after 10:30.

You know whether or not you are within missile range of Iraq . . .
I'm not.

You think Pepsi begins with a "B" . . .
The "p" is pronounced "b" in Arabic. Say "Bebsy." Interestingly enough, Bebsy is really taking it to Kooka-Koola here.

You think water only comes in bottles.
It does come out of the tap, but the de facto standard is a bottle. Did you know water in a bottle can get old?

You think that a box of kleenex belongs on every dinner table . . .
Kleenex, or its local equivalent "Flora," is the all purpose whipe, from foreheads to dashboards. I've seen ornate gold and red tissue box holders in the front of decrepit taxis.

**************************
Want to cry about traffic? Dry your eyes with a kleenex, drink your Bebsy and hang on to your rack of lamb. We'll get there soon, insha'allah.

**************************

Thanks L for the list.

Something Lost in the Translation

2005-10-17T22:22:00.000+02:00

Jonathan, my roomie, got a "gift" in his box of cereal. It was made in China, where they also translated into English the standard warnings placed on any plastic bag of small items that might end up around children.

I laughed, but I hurt a bit too, knowing this translation is far better than anything I could do in Arabic.

In, But Not Of

2005-10-16T14:20:00.000+02:00

Journalism has transforming powers: One moment I'm a broken, miserable Arabic student, and the next I'm scheduling an interview with the president of AUC and the chairman of British Petroleum Egypt. It's not that I get a big head about it. More like I slip my game face over my fears and enjoy it. Especially if they offer me something to drink in a glass.

My Bookshelf, Now

2005-10-16T10:56:00.000+02:00

Full of guilty-pleasure fiction and books on Christian fundamentalism for my political science paper.

Congrats Karim!

2005-10-16T01:41:00.000+02:00

Good luck to Karim Elsahy, of the blog One Arab World, linked from this blog. He's inked a column deal with Egypt Today - a publication for which your humble blogger freelances. He worries that he won't get published due to his brashness. If I may be so bold, Egypt could use some brashness right now.

In the Sahara with 11 People, or, How to Make Your Own Peace with the Sky

2005-10-15T23:41:00.000+02:00

Last Thursday, with a long weekend courtesy of Egypt's "glorious victory" holiday, I journeyed into Egypt's western desert -- the northeastern hem of the Sahara. I was unabashedly a tourist, with white skin, a Boston Red Sox cap and a shiny digital camera. There were 12 of us: three men, nine women. Almost half of our crew hailed from Georgetown in D.C.

Split into three Land Rovers, we sped down the highway into the unknown. The early-afternoon sun was playing for keeps, but our open windows and excessive speed whipped the desert's breath in one window and out the other -- blow-drying our hair and parching our eyeballs.

Our first stop was the Black Desert -- sand flats with brooding pyramids of black and tan rock. We were dropped off at the base of one such monument to heat and geography, and encouraged to climb. You could almost hear the guides chuckle. We all made it, some better than others. At the peak were dozens of rock piles and a view that would've made Ansel Adams swing out his big camera. After some aimless staring. photographs and conversation, we slip-slided down the slope to the waiting guides.

Down the highway we continued. I nodded off, my lack of sleep the previous night catching up to me. Then, the highway was gone. At least that's what the seat of my pants told me. I looked up and we were sailing across rock and sand, no longer a smooth black asphalt track. We chortled with glee, but Mohammed, our driver, seemed more intent on correctly fishtailing behind the Rover in front of us.

We stopped at sand dunes and rock outcroppings, our overcrowded senses delighted with anything and everything. The dropped in the west, and at one overlook, our guides pointed where they would be, off in the distance. "That's where we make camp," they said. And they were off, our three mechanical camels slaloming through the sand, toward the horizon.

We wandered past hulking limestone, weathered by the sun and wind. By then my shoes were off, the soft and suprisingly cool sand filtering between my toes with each step. It turned out the horizon wasn't as close as the guides had implied. But distance, like Cairo, became something abstract and unimportant.

We huddled together on the rugs of the shelter, open to the sky - a friend, not an enemy. Within minutes, the soft walls of our world echoed with the sounds of foreigners talking about life. Movies, music, the school in Cairo. I zoned out, the sky darkened and I slept. Only to be awakened by a plate of steaming food in front of my face. I ate. It was amazing.

After the food, the crowd continued its communion. I needed to get away, into the world of sand and stars that lay somewhere away from their favorite actors and boring classes -- topics fittingly shared under the harsh pool of electric light.

I wandered, not sure how far I had gone. The light of the camp became but something to cover with a foot as I lay down on the sand. There was magic here; ageless wisdom the stars whisper only when you're alone. The wind laughs a bit, and sighs. The sand sifts and settles like a blanket below the window of night.

The twilight woke me, early the next morning. I quietly moved out of the mass of bodies in the shelter and sat against the hard rubber tire of my Land Rover, wrapped in my blanket, waiting for the sun. It took its time, but I had plenty to spare.

We cruised hard that day, stopping at an oasis filled with Europeans and and a large date palm that wasn't. The scenery became hauntingly repetitious -- like a fashion show full of chisel-featured models parading for our inspection.

Another night, another high mass with the stars.

********

And now I'm back in Cairo. The air is filthy, the night sky choked with halogen light and suffocating smog. No stars muttering truth or wind cracking a joke.

Somehow, in those few days, the desert gave me something. Magdy, an Egyptian and frequent desert traveler, stayed at our shelter that first night. We talked quietly of work and home. But quickly circled back to this land, the desert. He was given something too, I think, everytime he came back to this wasteland that had so much to give.

"When you're out here," he said. "There's . . . something."

He and I both stared out at the gathering night. I felt it.

"A quiet?"

"Yes," he said, looking back at me. His eyes full of stars, night, wind.

"a chance for your heart to be still."

Blogger's Block

2005-10-12T15:49:00.000+02:00

That's what I'm calling it. For some reason, I simply can't write about Dashur or Saqqara. And since I feel I must, but I can't, nothing else gets written. It simply has to stop.

So, here it stops. Dashur and Saqqara were lovely. It was hot. The pyramid was claustrophobic, especially for the one girl behind me that kept hyperventilating. It was funny. The place smelled like bleach and urine. I'm not sure which one came first.

The interior of the tombs were so well preserved as to be almost criminally enjoyable. Just as art, not as "artifact."

There. Blogger's Block be gone.

New Feature! More Photos!

2005-10-09T00:59:00.000+02:00

You heard it here first - more photos using online photo host Webshots -------------------->
I'll try to keep it updated, and I'll catch up from before now.

http://community.webshots.com/user/jjfugleberg

Adjusting, Tip #2

2005-10-09T00:53:00.000+02:00

Do things that are uncomfortable. Even if it means stepping into an uncertain doorway or eating something that both the CDC and common sense says to avoid. Speak the language, even though you know you're mangling it. Go buy a random food and then figure out what it is and what to do with it. Maybe ask someone. Learn basic courtesy words and use them until that's what comes out naturally when you run into someone or the cab driver gets hopelessly lost.

You can't be a native, but don't let that stop you from faking it with relish.

*Bump

2005-10-05T00:44:00.000+02:00

I'm told my photo posted below could scare small children. So hopefully moving it down will help. I'll file on last Friday's trip tomorrow, which means much more aesthetically pleasing photos.

Preview: I'm leaving for the Western Desert thursday morning.

For Tim: My Smiling Mug

2005-10-01T19:58:00.000+02:00

M says I look like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. Thanks M, Jack is cool.

Sneak peak of Dashur, Saqqarra

2005-09-30T18:09:00.000+02:00

I'm flat exhausted, after a day's adventure. Entered pyramids and tombs, ate nothing, and had one bottle of water. Need sleep. More later.

Cairo: Thanks For All the Allergies

2005-09-28T10:01:00.000+03:00

Well, I wondered what it was. I went to the doctor this morning and he says I'm having one big jolly respiratory allergy reaction thing. That explains why it feels like there is a pipe-cleaner in my lungs and I have the energy of a lawn ornament.

The funny thing is, I'm not really allergic to anything. Beyond my mythological reaction to penicillin, that strange thing with cod liver oil and a horrible feeling I get in my nose when I'm around cats.

The point: Cairo is to blame.

Cairo, the city that likes to pretend smog is fog, or haze. Cairo, where anything with an engine is the unfiltered cigarette of the road. Cairo, the city where Ahmed Public dives for the protection of an awning during a freak rainstorm not because he wants to stay dry, but because he knows the sky's caustic raindrops will destroy his favorite jalabeya.

Ahmed, I feel your pain.

I'd empathize more, but I have to take some drugs, skip class and moodily drift off to sleep on the wings of a perfect Perlman/Mendelsohn mind meld.

Alexandria . . . Sleepily

2005-09-27T08:18:00.000+03:00

The old coastal city of Alexandria was my home this weekend. I say home, because I did what most Alexandrians probably do on the weekend - sleep and eat. Yes, there are some amazing museums. Yes there is a fort. Yes, there is the rebirth of the ancient world-renowned Alexandria Library. But I spent most of my time flat on my back, dreaming about some guy with money in his shoes.

It may have something to do with me developing a sickness unto death. But I'd prefer to think its the atmosphere of Alex, the WASP of the Mediterranean - lazy, tidy, fun-loving and pretentious.

One of the first things Laura (my Alex traveling companion) noticed when we got to Alex was the big no-honking sign right outside the east train station. What suprised me is that it actually seemed to mean something: The corniche, 10 lanes of traffic that divide the city from the sea, is actually a pretty quiet place. Compared to Cairo, at least, where one cabby has all the tools he needs to wake the dead.

I got away with a lot on this trip. I ate more Egyptian food than usual, with breakfast at 11am and suppper at 11pm. Mooched off of the school trip (which I wasn't on) for free meals, one night's room and transportation to a mall.

Didn't do: Swimming. Most of Alex's tourist sites - Fort Qaitbey, Royal Jewellery Museum, Graeco-Roman Museum, catacombs. Fish shopping, coffee shop visiting.

Did do: Sleeping. Alexandria Library, Santa Lucia - saffron rice and sea bass, fuul, slept on a balcony overlooking the Med, bug bites - due partly to sleeping on a balcony overlooking the Med.

As Google Defines Me

2005-09-26T17:13:00.001+03:00

Thanks siblings! Here's a fun thing, taken from their weblogs. Thanks to Janna for the text.

Directions: Type "(your name) is" , (with the quotes) into a Google search, cut-and-paste the first 10 responses that work. Just pull the answers right out of the excerpt google shows you, don't click the link and search around. The only rule is that each one has to start with "(your name) is"

I only put the clean ones here. It took three Google pages.

1. I am guessing on the size of the Blogging Market.
2. I am a girl.
3. I am particularly interested in applying his more than forty years of experience in analyzing, organizing and writing about the historical literature of medicine, science and technology in the planning, building, and writing of innovative, interactive websites for libraries, archives and museums.
4. I am most often the answer man.
5. I am very active in the area of RDF syntax and parsing.
6. I am one of the youngest Maine Native American basketmakers.
7. I am the eldest of four children.
8. I am getting married.
9. I am still involved with The Family.
10. I am capable and effective.

A Glimpse of Alexandria

2005-09-26T00:23:00.000+03:00

More to come...

Democracy v. Terror, Round 3

2005-09-25T22:08:00.000+03:00

To a recent comment from an earlier Round:

Yes, I'm aware of our inability to "control" Iran (Iran President Ahmadinejad, left), clearly a religious government. But Iran, even if you factor out decades-long engagement ineptitude towards them, actually proves my point.

Religious governments should be easier to control because they should be easier to understand. The problem is that we have a foreign policy blindspot where religion intersects with government. That's not to say religious governments are inherently easier to control. But they should be easier to manipulate with a concerted effort to understand the religious underpinnings.

Unfortunately, I believe that seldom happens. And when it does, its only to the degree it effects immediate state policy. When was the last time you heard of a Islam doctrinal expert in the US intelligence community -- someone who makes long-term forecasts about the evolution of a religion critical to the Middle East and many other places in the world?

Religious Right effect on US foreign policy toward the Israeli/Palestinian issue

2005-09-25T14:52:00.000+03:00

Don't yawn -- that's actually the subject I'm delving into for my POLS 405 class here at AUC. Let me lay it out below, from my paper description:

"The strong relationship between the USA and Israel has many facets. But I believe the case can be made that US support for Israel is partially based on the belief that an Israeli state has a key role in Biblical prophecy, and that belief runs deeply through American’s cultural psyche. That culture-wide belief is maintained, and probably accelerated, by strong – sometimes uninformed – grassroots support from US Christian evangelical fundamentalists. That base of support, and the resultant culture-wide background beliefs, is channeled by the American Jewish lobby into a compelling influence on American foreign policy – especially regarding Israel’s relationship with the Palestinians. More often than not, American politicians find themselves working with the American Jewish lobby based often on the religious beliefs of the politicians and their constituencies."

Wordy, maybe, but the topic nonetheless. The basis for this is my own history and experience with Christianity and fundamentalism. What's fascinating for me is the fact that a worldview that I had always taken for granted comes as somewhat of a shock to the rest of the world.

Suprisingly (to me at least) there isn't a lot of work on this topic. So I'll be doing a lot of research. I'm starting with the basis of the belief, specifically Christian Millenarianism -- post- and pre-dispensationalist. I'll look at the rise of Christian evangelical fundamentalism and how the movement's views on morals and the "end times" compels its believers into political action.

My roommates and I got into a stiff argument about this topic, with Sinan minimalizing religion as a force in foreign policy of any state. I think he's wrong. Moreover, I think it's far more persuasive and pervasive than a lot of people care to admit.

It's not bad the religion affects a state's behavior towards other states. But it needs to be seen for what it is and dealt with as an ever-evolving facet of political science.

End of sermon.

Adjusting - Tip #1

2005-09-22T21:39:00.000+03:00

1. Make things your very own.

That doesn't mean climb into a hole. Get out, just a bit, and find things that you make comfortable by claiming them. It doesn't have to be anything big. It could be a guy on the street corner you see every day. Make him your guy, that you see everyday. Find a place where you can get something to drink - coffee, or a fruit juice. Make it your place, in your mind.

Pick something else as yours, when you feel like it. Before you know it, you'll be home.

Diving In Dahab (and Sharm, and El Gouna, and Alexandria...)

2005-09-22T21:02:00.000+03:00

Just a quick update on scuba diving here in Egypt. The following is what I've learned or heard about. I don't know anything for sure. Hmm, sounds about right.

Dahab - Great diving, for a good price. It's on the eastern coast of the Sinai, North of Sharm. Supposedly spectacular, and the place everyone goes that's in the know. Also cheaper than Sharm and a LOT cheaper than El Gouna. What everyone says: "Dude, it's awesome."

Sharm - The usual centerpoint for Red Sea diving. Recent victim of a one-time-deal terrorist attack. Warnings from the US Government notwithstanding, still a place the premiere Red Sea resort and diving destination. But everyone knows about it, so there are prices to match.

El Gouna - I was just there a few weeks ago. OK to good diving, but prohibitively expensive. It has the advantage of not being on any terror worry lists. Expensive. Muy expensive.

Alexandria - Working underwater archaelogical sites here. Under part of one of the harbor is a submerged piece of ancient Alexandria. Some spectacular statues were taken out of the water a few years ago. No idea on prices or dive spots.

To do or do not. Maybe I'll just try

2005-09-22T08:39:00.000+03:00

The school sponsors trips to different places. That's good.
They are usually interesting places, at a good price. That's good.

But it's frustrating to be a sheep in the herd. It's nice to not have to worry about all the structural things - where to sleep, where to eat. But if I have be nervously checked off another list by one more tired, frustrated ISSO staffer...

So, the bottom line is that I'm considering a independent trip to Alexandria this weekend. Not sure how many are going yet. The school is sponsoring a simultaneous trip, and some have defected to that. There may yet be a few adventurous souls...

Alice in Pharaohland

2005-09-18T18:59:00.000+03:00

I went to the red-brick colored Egyptian Museum on Friday. I walked in the front gate(s) and was immediately shocked by how many tourists there were. I know I'm a foreigner. But I'm used to seeing Egyptians, not other foreigners. Sometimes even running into another AUC student on the street gives me a bit of a start.

Tourists - everywhere - in all states of undress. I've gotten so adjusted to the usual apparel here that I was simply struck dumb by what some of these people had on - or didn't, actually. One broad shouldered and broad accented Australian man kept taking his shirt off. He could do that, because he kept putting it back on. I didn't understand why. And a few slinky Eastern European female types were gallivanting around in what even my Western mind would call prostitute duds.

I felt a bit native, in a way. I knew, for example, that they were charging about three times as much as water usually cost. Oh, smug me.

Inside, the most common smell wasn't granite or age: it was the tang of human sweat. The museum isn't air-conditioned, so the monumentally calm statues gaze down on suffering, sweating peons of the present. The 100 degree (f) temperature outside didn't help, either.

The range and depth of antiquities in the place is beyond outstanding. There are so many spectacular pieces that they don't event attempt to group them by priority - just time period. There were quite a few pieces taking part in traveling exhibits, but it hardly mattered. I can imagine being the museum guy with that job:

"Hmm, which one of these five priceless necklaces shall we send out to be slobbered on by the Boston Museum? Well, how about this one?"

Tut and I had a man-to-man. He didn't say much, and I went away feeling a mite small.

Geographically speaking, my language skills are flat

2005-09-18T09:46:00.000+03:00

It's called a plateau.

On which I can get somewhere in a cab with a bit of fluency, but there's no way I can maintain a conversation beyond where I'm from, where I got to school, and where I live. And even that is pushing it. I forget simple words, forget new ones I struggle to learn, and wonder if I should be learning Egyptian Arabic instead of Modern Standard.

Democracy v. Terror, round 2

2005-09-17T12:59:00.000+03:00

(Macchiavelli. It'll make sense below)

In an earlier post I mentioned that religious governments may be easier to control. Some commenters had some interesting questions based on that statement, and the post in general.

First, I'm not assuming that a more religious government would provide a high quality of life, at least as we understand it. However, it would be what the people want, and therefore a positive move from that perspective.

Some friends of mine got into an interesting discussion in their political economy class, where the teacher said the US (specifically under Pres. Ike) supported military dictators for the sake of modernization. That simply doesn't make sense. The US, at least as I understand it, has always been about supporting their own goals in this region, and modernization falls far down the list under stability for the oil supply's sake, and a united front against (past) concerns of Soviet "expansion."

The expansion concern is done like dinner. But when I talk about what the US should support, I'm hardly ever saying what I say because I want to help the people in the region. I know that sounds draconian, but actually it's more Machiavellian (expediency, although not necessarily deceit). If the US considers democracy and stability key parts of its foreign policy in the Middle East, than maybe it's time to support potential Islamist governments, to some degree. Not for the good of the people, but for the the sake of US policy priorities and possible a better relationship with said countries.

When I said religious governments may be easier to control, I meant since they're working off almost a prepared script, it should be relatively easy to know what they're going to do. The problem is that we may not like what they want to do, so that's where control comes in. and control is based on a proper understanding of the situation.

Just perused a book here - Religion, The Missing Dimension of Statescraft. It's overblown and pretentious, but it says that diplomats in general (and US diplomats in particular) need to factor in religious issues and angles when dealing with foreign policy to a country where religious plays a center role.

I'll take that one step further - the US should not only factor religion in its diplomatic efforts, it should actively recruit and pursue elements of a religion - ones that may be friendly to the US and its interests. Those contacts would be invaluable if a democratically-elected religious government takes power. And, even if it doesn't.

Verdi's grand opera "Aida," with a side of sick

2005-09-17T12:49:00.000+03:00

I attended the final show this season of Verdi's masterpiece, Aida. The Cairo Opera House, which I understand was donated by the Japanese not too many years ago, is a spectacular exclamation point on the south end of Zamalek Island. The south of the island is more properly know as Gezirah, it's old colonial name. It's still the name of the extensive park and sporting club there - still featuring a polo ground and magnificent gardens.

The set was uber-golden spectacular, the chorus extensive. But I simply couldn't get over how old Aida was. I mean, come on - she supposed to be this Nubian slave beauty with whom the soldierly Ramdas falls madly in love, to the disgust of the Pharaoh's daughter. She has her eye on him, but Aida's supposedly too much for his gallant heart, and he more or less rejects the Pharoah's daughter for -- that??!

I know I should be nice, but they were both portrayed poorly; Ramdas too weak, and Aida too dumpy. Which meant everytime he professed his love I wanted to throw rotten tomatoes instead of weep tears. The Pharaoh's daughter and the High Priest stole the show and, based on the cheering at the end, I wasn't the only one that thought so.

I kept up with the plot as best as I could, aided solely by the program. For the Arabic speakers in the audience (of which I'm not one yet) there was a projection screen with Arabic subtitles. Handy for them, frustrating for me. I felt better when I noticed there seemed to be an inordinate amount of Japanese in the audience. Now, maybe they could read Arabic - or knew Italian - I don't know. Maybe they just came to check on their investment. But at least I wasn't the only non-Egyptian in the audience. And there were tons of AUC students.

My general enjoyment wasn't helped by the fact that I was ill, and by act III I thought I was going to keel over since the hammers located right behind my eyes refused to stop their infernal pounding.

But other than that, it was a great time.

Democracy v. Terror, round 1

2005-09-08T08:23:00.000+03:00

I just finished an interesting piece by F. Gregory Gause II in the Sept./Oct. issue of Foreign Affairs. In it, he says if the US really backs insta-democracies in the Middle East, it's shooting itself in the foot regarding future relations with those countries. Many of would go to some sort of Islamic rule if allowed to truly be democratic, and the foreign policy of those new Islamic countries would be even more antithetical to US interests in the area.

Sounds fair. But his weak evidence -- comparing India (a democracy) to China (authoritarian) verges on bizarre. Taking his point to its logical conclusion, democracy may actually encourage terrorism. Hooray! Let's all become authoritarian to stop terrorism! It works in China, after all . . .

His two real suggestions? First, the US should put more energy into supporting the development of moderate, non-Islamic parties. Second, the US should seriously considering giving up its democracy-at-all-cost position because it's not realistic and may even be potentially dangerous.

Fair enough, but why should the US support moderate, non-Islamic parties if they don't really represent how the people feel? Is the solution to simply go back to supporting "terror-reducing" authoritarian regimes? What's the real goal here?

Simply put, the US can't give up its support for democracy in the Middle East, at least in this administration. Plus, pushing democracy is an excellent policy cover for a whole host of desired changes in the region, not the least of which is a realignment of state types in countries critical to US security. Clearly the days of cooperating with obvious dictators is over. But just like the US needed to keep its thumb on maverick dictators, the US simply can't afford to let democracy run willy-nilly without, for its own sake, without setting the scene for a reliable outcome.

And what if it is Islamic governments? Use them, for crying out loud. It's the same principle, really - understand them better than they do, predict their behavior, and then interfere with policy choices that are bad for US policy and interests. The US has to stop being so scared of theocracies and religious governments.

The problem is the West simply doesn't understand these kinds of governments. I believe religious governments are even easier to understand and control, since their actions are dictated by a framework that has limits and practically a standard platform. Dedicated learning will quickly erase fear born of misunderstanding. That doesn't mean the US has to promote Islamic governments. But doesn't it make sense to give the people what they want, while you manipulate it under their nose?

So - all of this may be the basis for a paper for my "international politics in the Middle East" class. We'll see.

At the Red Sea . . . in a black mood

2005-09-07T23:03:00.000+03:00

This morning the sun swallowed whole the sliver of a crescent moon. It was beautiful, natural, probably as thrilling to me as when the first man saw the same sight.

A few hours later, I just wanted to sit in the shower and mope.

I had just arrived at a pre-manufactured slice of Western heaven, El Gouna's Movenpick resort. It's on the Red Sea, but that's about as original as it gets. Between the rhumba music in the Piazza, and "Gangster Paradise" playing in the lobby, I was about ready to bash my Western brains out.

Even the plants (the plants!) need artificial life support from hoses that snake to-and-fro through the sand that serves as sod here. I contemplated locking myself in the room with a book, to read in air-conditioned peace. I missed Cairo, the noise, the smells, the hubbub - the sheer realness of the place.

But El Gouna! No need to speak Arabic here, the staff knows twenty-seven languages! Most of the guest are English or German. One teutonic yet bald tourist held the door open for me and I thanked him in German and felt profoundly Western. And just completely out of place.

I finally dragged my pale body to the beach and into the fabled Red Sea. It was ripple-chip salty - a tang that I wouldn't usually mind, but today felt completely too much to handle. I climbed aboard the platform over the coral reef closest to shore, and watched hand-sized non-poisonous jellyfish shimmer with the current. My quiet space was quickly interrupted by a coterie of jolly AUC students -both male and female of course - enjoying the sun, coral, and each other's bathing suits.

"Oooh, look at the jellyfish!" A girl squealed.
"They're not poisonous," said a tanned dude. "I know, I put one in my mouth."

With that, a diaphanous jellyfish was promptly scooped out of the water, to lay on the platform not far from me. It reflexively squeezed into a tight jellymass, locking away the masses - no way to be disturbed by new things. Safe.

I know that feeling, I thought.

-----------

It took hours, and a sumptous dinner, but I gradually let myself open, like a jellyfish thrown back into the water. New friends helped, as did a nice steaming cup of tea. The swimming was nice, too.

I'm back in Cairo now. Back to the pollution and noise. Back home.

The city opens up . . .

2005-08-31T00:17:00.000+03:00

It's amazing what a few words can do. Several days ago I was subjected to a point and pantomine to order what I want. That same day a counter man at a falafel (tamaaayah in Egpyt) asked for 50 piasters (cents), and instead I gave him fifty Egyptian pounds. It was easy to do - the two bills are a similar size and color. But I couldn't even understand that I had grossly overpaid him, and in the end he had to point and pantomine as well. How can it be that the curse of Babel makes humans act more like apes than the supposedly intelligent creatures we are?

Now, after four days of four-hour classes, I know some Egyptian Arabic. Not a lot, mind you, but enough to get around, order food, ask people to breakfast (neftar in Egyptian) and make a more-fluent fool out of myself.

Suddenly the pollution-packed streets of Cairo seem a bit brighter, friendlier. Now I can laugh over my stumbling words with Hazzem, the friendly waiter who brings me roast pigeon stuffed with rice. And my taxi driver and I can gleefully compare the Arabic and English words for mosque and church as we whiz over the Kasr-El-Nil bridge to Zamalek. I slap the seat in joy and he chuckles with pride as he says how much of a new language he has also learned in such a short time.

"After only two months!" He crows.
"Kwyis owi (very good)," I reply.

And so it is.

In Cairo

2005-08-27T22:36:00.000+03:00

Here I am, in the city called the Mother of the World.

Al Qahira, "the Victorious," is an amazing vibrant city with alleys filled to the roofs with people, people and more people. I hadn't posted yet, simply because I haven't known what to say about this place. Descriptions about this place by my fellow study abroad students vary as much as each corner does. Sanan, my Turkish roommate, calls it a "crappy Paris." Andreea, from Romania, says compared to her third-world country, Cairo is eight- or ninth-world.

I haven't been to Paris, or Romania for that matter. But I can tell you this place reaks in history, spices and bright dreams, yet is still probably Mr. Clean's nightmare incarnate. Maybe if he and the Brawny guy got together?

But I digress.

It's hot, but not stifling so - and this is still the warm time of year. basically you sweat, but not so much that you wish you were dead. The people are, well, people. Rich and poor, well-dressed and simple. At one corner, small children beg for "baksheesh," and on the next corner a man walks by you, wearing the latest fashions.

That's what's so amazing about this place - the sheer contrast brought about by those packed in this relatively small place. Cairo is known partially because there are so many people per square foot, and that claim isn't threatened by my experiences. From what I've seen, that means the rich and poor have at least one foot in each other's houses.

I have two main regrets. One, that what I've already seen can't be summed up in a short phrase. Two: that I don't know the language. It is so frustrating to explore this city without the most basic grasp of Arabic. I just finished my first day of survival Arabic, however, so I can limp through some basic conversations.

Ana isme Jeremy. Ana taleb fee Gama'a Amreeka fee Al Qahira. Eziyak? Ana tahbain.
(My name is Jeremy. I'm a student at the American Univesity in Cairo. How are you? I'm tired."

More tomorrow.

Where have all the [Egyptian writers] gone?

2005-08-14T01:43:00.000+03:00

One would think a vivid locale would demand some vivid prose. And Cairo/Egpyt authors tend to deliver - in their own unique Anglo-Saxon ways. That's not to knock some the the brilliant writing that has emanated from the confluence of wordsmiths and the Nile. But it's troubling that all of the non-fiction writing about Cairo/Egypt I can find is authored by foreign correspondents and Western experts.

It could be that authors with Arabic as a mother tongue write about their homeland in, well, Arabic. It could also be that I haven't done enough research. Either way, it's still odd.

Are Egypt's times a changin'?

2005-08-12T23:42:00.000+03:00

Asharq Al-Awsat correspondent Mona Eltahawy says, in a WaPo column, that despite the practically guaranteed success of Pres. Hosni Mubarak at the polls Sept. 7, democracy is on the march in Egypt. But it might not succeed if the USA doesn't keep its promise to promote change.

"The U.S. administration must not take its eyes off Egypt. It has exerted unprecedented pressure on the Mubarak regime, but everyone I spoke to in Cairo wondered just how serious the Bush administration was when it said that it would no longer follow a decades-old policy that favored stability and the support of dictators at the expense of democracy."

Read the rest of it here.

Paki Prez- "Ha! This time it's not our fault!"

2005-08-09T09:00:00.000+03:00

Pakistani President (the general who led the coup but now wears a suit) Pervez Musharraf says the London Bombings were "homegrown," and at the most, the bombers only got some "tips" in Pakistan. It's an interesting PR push for the Pakis, who tend to get blamed (quite rightly) for fomenting chaos by supporting Islamic fundamentalist extremist groups.

The background: Pakistan used to be part of India. It's not anymore, but some disputed border regions continue to be the fly in the Indo-Paki peace ointment. When the Taliban swept through Afghanistan, Pakistan was more than willing to ferry fervant fighters to the front to raise some deniable hell - supported by Paki's intel service, the ISI. Also PM hoped support for the Taliban would secure the Western border and reduce the number of Afghan refugees. It didn't go as well as he'd hoped.

With 9/11, Prez. PM seized cooperation as his best chance to gain US support and stop a situation he wasn't too keen about anymore anyway. Goodbye military outfits and support for the Talibanese - hello suits, ties and "War on Terror." Despite the new attitude, there is still a great deal of support for fundamentalists in both the streets and the ISI. A fact that hobbles PM's Mr. Clean image. That's why it's so hiliarious when he gets a chance to say Pakistan ain't got nuttin' to do wit it.

"Radicalisation took place back at home, wherever they live, in whatever condition and whoever they've been meeting and interacting with." - Prez. PM

But not in Pakistan! Thank goodness for that! Does he want a cookie?

"Not-it," he says, smoothing his suit. "And no tag-backs."

Back in Blog - Part Deux

2005-08-08T20:49:00.000+03:00

So, I really mean it this time.
I'm furiously buying things, trying on clothes and trying to get over homesickness early. I'm not really succeeding with any of it. But Aug. 25 (fly-out date) is quickly arriving, and ready or not Cairo, here I come.

I'm ordering books I may or may not want to bring with me across the pond. Either way, they'll be read. And - I have two of them, simply because I needed to spend $25 for the free SUPER shipping. OK, I wanted to read the both, as well.

One is by Max Rodenbeck, the current Economist correspondent in Cairo. While disparaged by some critics for a far-too-broad overview of Cairo history (oh, tut-tut [natch]), I can't doubt that Rodenbeck has a superb understanding of Cairo as it is now. And, since that's where I'm going, I care-and shall therefore read.

Back in Blog

2005-06-28T06:45:00.000+03:00

I'm back. My unexcused absence partially due to the fact that I didn't think I was going anwhere. No money, no tripp-y. Anyway, I'm going after all - due to a Gilman scholarship. Basically, I'm poor but I want to study overseas. On the other hand, it's a bit competitive, so I'm grateful. I'm preparing now - from immunizations to reading. More on all that later - I'm tired.

Me

2005-03-29T10:46:00.000+02:00

Born in the Upper Pennisula of Michigan in 1980. When I was five my family moved to northwest Washington state, practically on Puget Sound and in the shadow of Mt. Baker. Five years later we moved to Fargo, North Dakota--in the middle of a wide valley in the middle of a prairie in the middle of the continent. Since then I've lived back in Michigan, Minnesota, and in South Dakota for the last five years.

Scandanavian heritage--both parent half Norwegian and half Swedish. Farmers on both sides--got off the boat and settled in northern Minnesota, just south of the border with Canada.
Both grandmas still alive on or near where they've spent most of their lives.

My dad majored in music education but felt called by God to be a minister. He's been a minister for almost thirty years now--of the "sit down-don't clap--keep your hands by your side" Lutheran species. Nevertheless he can play a mean guitar, and get by on a lot of other instruments. Tunes pianos for fun. Picked up his dad's quiet nature and his well-timed humor.

My mom went to nursing school and then got married and had kids. Raised us, fed us, spanked us and educated me from second grade on with some help from my dad. She's the fire to my dad's ice and the core of the family. Taught me the power of cleaning up before visitors come over, the need for a spirit that doesn't accept everything, and the energy that gets things done, develops a good conversation, and makes quality friends.

I'm the second of six kids--two boys and four girls.

I've been married. I'm not anymore. I have a four-year-old daughter named Alaina Skye. We talk like adults and that scares me.

An internet start-up

2005-03-28T11:16:00.000+02:00

And it begins.

In a nutshell, here's my plan:
I'll leave late in August 2005 for Cairo, where I'll study Arabic at the American University in Cairo, or AUC. I hope to be funded by an National Security Educational Program grant, which I've applied for and should hear about in the next few weeks. If it comes through, it should pay for all my expenses. Hedging my bets, I've applied for scholarships and financial aid, which would just cover everything if I don't splurge on anything.