The Wall

I'm taking a little turn from my stories from Egypt and returning to the land where I developed an interest in the Arabic culture: Palestine. Typically I veer from discussing the political situation in Palestine/Israel simply because my opinion has no weight in the matter; I have no interest in argument or government 'bashing' for the sake of it. The story that follows is not meant to hold any implications of my opinion of the political situation in this region of the world. This is a story of my experience.

Over four years ago I concluded a one and a half year period of my life that I spent as a teacher in East Jerusalem. Most of my interaction was with people of Palestinian origin, and I lived close to the region of the city which experienced a lot of conflict. I knew first hand what it was like to cross checkpoints, jump road blocks on foot, and be rerouted kilometers out of my way to travel what would have been a short distance. Just before I left, Israel started to build concrete borders around Palestinian neighborhoods in this region. I remember them being very large and very long, and the site of them made me think of the Berlin Wall. I saw several more pictures and heard many more stories, but they never quite effected my core; these borders were on the other side of town. Just after I left, I read in an American newspaper that they were beginning to build concrete borders in my former neighborhood. Could I have really felt the impact of this from so far away?

I returned to Jerusalem for the first time since I left, and stayed in the same neighborhood on the opposite side of the checkpoint. Immediately I noticed the change. Small barriers with barbed wire (similar to the ones we used to jump over in the past) were placed right down the middle of the road where the checkpoint is separating one side of the road from the other. Perplexed, I never really found out how one could actually get to the other side of the road. These barriers extended a hundred meters or so, and then...there it was. I saw it for the first time. It was large and gray and wound up into the hills of the region dividing it into sections like the materialized lines on a map which separate countries, states, counties, or villages. The first glance was almost surreal. All I wanted at that time was my camera. Still, this did not completely settle in my mind the reality of the situation.

The other evening the bus I was riding drove past my street, and I had to disembark slightly further up the road from where I was used to getting off. As I got down I looked right in front of me to see that huge, gray structure. I looked to my left and watched the bus depart through what seemed to be a large door in the road with barbed wire above it. This was the only entrance into the adjacent neighborhood and could obviously be opened or closed shut. I walked a bit farther up the street toward the place where I was staying, and after making a turn I had to walk right next to it. This is when the reality of the situation hit me. There it stood, four times my size in height, as permanent as one's bone structure, with an intricately, intertwined nest of barbed wire and fence at the top...the Wall.

One rhetorical question with a sarcastic overtone came to mind as I gazed up at this massive structure which looked as if it would never end: are the people on the other side of this Wall animals? I was reminded of the movie Jurassic Park where they had to put a large wall around the area where the dinosaurs lived. As I continued to walk by it, I remembered the words of a random man who had just prior to this given me directions. He said gidar. That's the Arabic word for it...Wall. I continued to repeat this word to myself. I will never again forget it. For a moment, fear flooded into my heart as I looked upon the Wall. I can only image how fearful the people were when it was being built and how fearful they are now as they must look on it every day. I continued to walk beside the Wall and remembered that one of my students lives in region on the other side of it. I looked in the direction of where his house should be, and I almost started to cry. He is over there on the other side. I turned to corner but continued to look back on it. It closed me off so completely from what was on the other side that it seemed almost like it was the end of the universe. But I know it wasn't. It was a Wall.

Most Recent Blog Posts

Here are the most recent posts to date:

7/18...A Letter to My Father from Upper Egypt
7/18...A Comfortable Ride on the Public Transport
8/07...Comments on The Voice of a Nation post

A Letter to my Father from Upper Egypt

Daddy, I'm sailing on the Nile right now, and you'd be totally jealous of all the archaeological sights and the beautiful scenery I've seen. Just earlier I passed an area of the Nile that is used for farming. There were beautiful rushes all along the shallow banks of the river with black and brown cows drinking and bathing on the water and on the water's edge. The shoreline is flourishing with low tropical trees and agricultural lands from which we see a man in a long robe peak out every now and then. Beyond the flora are low desert hills as dry and barren as the Sahara. The aviary life on the edge of the river is quite active and stunning. The river is wide and calm, and I am just waiting to see an alligator stick up its head. As we sail, every now and then I'll see a little boat with oars or a small sail on the edge of the river or manned by a dark skinned figure going about his work as if seeing a large cruise ship was an everyday occurance. Yesterday our ship was surrounded by small merchant boats all around. They caught hold of our boat and were gathering together joining themselves with ropes. The men were shouting at us on all three decks trying to sell us various goods throwing the merchandise onto the ship and then demanding money. The scene was quite a hilarious one to behold! Since Friday, we've visited a handful of temples and archaeological sights which would make any archeology lover pee his pants. The artistic work and magnificence of it all is just mind blowing. We've received historical lectures with a tour guide from the university all along the way, and it is all more than I can digest. Nevertheless, I find it intriguing. To think that these structures have been present, whether above or below the silt of the Nile, for upwards to 4-6,000 years is outstanding! I cannot completely enjoy my little vacation because of my workload from school and my desire to be in the mountains (I should not keep reading about the mountains and climbing if I want to be content for the years I must spend in this desert). Just the same, I'm more than grateful for this opportunity!

A 'Comfortable' Ride in the Public Transport

The fact that I ride public transportation in Egypt is not one that I spread around to many people. From those that I have divulged this information to I have received a variety of responses: "You're crazy," "You're brave," "Good luck with that," "Don't you think the taxi ride is worth the extra couple dollars per week?" I am presenting this attitude toward the public transportation system in Egypt simply to set the backdrop of a day at the bus station. I am not at all ashamed to take public transport, and, yes, I often think that I have a few bolts loose in my head. Nevertheless, each penny I save in relishing the adventure of "The Bus Station" is worth it. Some days I despise my frugal efforts, and some days I just sit back and laugh.

In Cairo, it is only wise to plan approximately one hour in advance for traveling a distance which might otherwise take about 15 minutes. So, each morning I leave my house around 7:30 am to be to my 9 am class on time. The first several times I used the small, crowded bus stop under a bridge near my house I would have to casually ask just about everyone around me which bus went where and how I could get to my destination. This is an amusing process in which I simply state "Midan Ta7rir" and the head nods followed by a string of incomprehensible speech either affirm my guess or direct me to the next bus. After several attempts, a couple which landed me in some very strange neighborhoods, I finally got a hang on the "system of no system" and could distinguish which buses took me where I wanted to go. Of course, one can never truely know when the bus will arrive or depart. He has only to hope that he won't have to wait another hour to catch the bus.

Safety is as foreign a concept as are Timetables. The prevailing business strategy is, "Let's crowd as many people into this bus as we can to make as much money as we can." This strategy relinquishes any concept of "Maximum Limit" or "one person to a seat with standing room." Luckily, the buses usually start from the station near my house, so I am typically able to get a seat from the beginning. If I come a bit late, I can guarantee right off the bat that I'll be standing or sitting on the dust covered floor above the engine in the rear of the bus. As the driver proceeds on his route, another man walks from the front of the bus to the bus collecting the money and giving us these wonderful little tickets, which I have yet to discover their usefulness, and then sits near the rear door which becomes the only entrance onto the bus from that point in time. This door is the salvation for every passer-by who wishes to be to work relatively on time, thus all of the people continue to crowd in until men are hanging outside the bus by the railings and the distance between one person and another cannot even be measured by the width of a pencil. Sit down and enjoy the ride, because you'll be here for another 30 minutes! I equate exiting this amalgamation of people to the birthing process. I'll let you take the details from there.

Taking the bus or the minibus from the larger, more central station near the Egyptian Museum is another story. Upon entering the station you pass by a plethora of vendors selling everything from sweets to socks, watered down juice to grilled corn, shoe shining services to old clothes. Of course I draw quite a bit of attention when I enter this fiasco, but I have to admit that it is not often that I actually experience any kind of harassment. Occasionally I hear the whistle or the call of a desperate man or a curious boy, but I've learned to just ignore that. It is at this point in time that I cross through a labyrinth of minibuses driving in all directions shouting out the location to where they are going, people hopping in and out of vehicles, potholes the size of large watermelons, and buses which enter the station with no regard as to whom or what is in front of it. Once I find the supposed location as to where my bus will arrive, again devoid of any timetable, I must sit underneath the bridge to shade myself from the unrelenting sun and inhale the fumes from the surrounding vehicles which hang in the air with the sole purpose of suffocating every individual they can. Then I wait, and wait, and wait, and wait.


The most vital task I must set myself to as I wait is looking in the direction of where the bus will be coming from. The reason for this becomes quite apparent if you know the chain of events once the bus comes into sight. When the bus begins to pull into the station, men, woman and children run toward the bus entrances before it has even stopped and crowd into both entrances to appropriate one of the hard plastic seats that line the only ventilation system on the bus, the windows. This process includes a non-biased method of pushing, shoving, and pulling, but "when push comes to shove," the Egyptian system of manners (which is quite a strong one) does prevail and you find people making way and giving up seats for older women, pregnant women, women with small children, and white foreign girls. Many days I am fortunate enough to acquire a hard plastic seat or the edge of a step to rest on, but equally as often I get the joy of standing cramped as tightly as possible in between the rows of seats next to men who are quite good at keeping their physical distance from me as much as is in their power.


After this riveting exhibition when I've settled into my new environment, I realize the quality of the air that I've been inhaling since entering the little enclave under the bridge. It is one of those discoveries which would persuade anyone to encourage the efforts of building electric cars. The exhaust and pollution choke the life out of every alveolus in my lungs. The worst part about it is that you are stuck in a bus where the air outside is the same as inside under a bridge that allows for no circulation of clean air in the least. Every vehicle that crowds in and out of that station exhausts polluted fumes that hang in the air exasperated by the heat and high concentration of people. This wait can be anywhere from a few minutes to thirty or forty minutes depending on the number of people that get on the bus, the time of day, the number of buses going to entirely different places ahead of my bus, or the mood of the driver. Freedom comes at last as the bus leaves the station and continues toward its destination repeating the same confusing dance as described before.


The other modes of public transport carry their own little distinctions. For example, riding minibuses (white, 12 person vans which usually carry around 16 passengers) presents challenges like finding a vehicle that has a complete floor without holes, never really knowing whether the driver is high or sober, squeezing your way in and out of the vehicle after having effectively communicated your desire to "descend" at a specific location (which, if you don't know how to do this, don't ride them or you'll never get off), and listening to the arguments between the driver and passengers when he doesn't get all the money he thinks he's supposed to or he decides to take a route slightly different from that which was originally assumed by the passengers. Riding the metro, which is quite often a relatively normal and enjoyable event, can get interesting during the rush hours when people, previously hidden from sight, descend in mass from all directions to squeeze into the train cars with no adherence to "enter on the right, exit on the left." Regardless, this is the system, or the non-system of the public transportation in Cairo. Enjoy your ride!

An Easy Morning Jog through the Labyrinth

Today I discovered the most effective way to go jogging in Cairo without becoming bored with the doldrum, monotonous (though always amusing) surroundings: go for a jog in Ma'adi. First I must describe to you the district of Cairo known as Ma'adi. I come here once a week or every few weeks for church and as a little vacation. Via bus and metro it takes me around an hour or less to get to Ma'adi, and when I arrive, I feel as though I've entered another dimension. This district is known mainly for one group of residents: the foreigners. If you're homesick for the West, go to Ma'adi. If you want to see green trees, beautiful public and private gardens, and relatively orderly streets, go to Ma'adi. If you want to see quite wealthy residences and a lot of foreigners, go to Ma'adi. It's in the southern part of Cairo where everything is more spacious and spread out, comparatively. I definitely wouldn't call it spacious compared to Springfield, Missouri, but spacious. As this city becomes more crowded, people, especially those with more money, are moving to the outskirts. This is Ma'adi: an international haven leagues away from the reality of Cairo.


After church this weekend, I decided to stay in the area to visit with friends, attend an open mic night with the young adults from my church, relax after a stressful week, and so on. With the opportunity to spend a morning in this beautiful area of town, I decided to plan on going for a lovely run. This would provide me the rare opportunity to actually run in the shade of trees in a pair of modest shorts (rather than my heat inducing pants) and not have to be concerned with choking on the pollution, becoming a moving target for the ever-present traffic, providing the local pedestrians and loiterers free amusement, and becoming the subject to practice their English-speaking skills ("Welcome to Egypt" is what they always say). I anticipated an easy, relaxing jog. It turned out slightly different.


I've always quite detested jogging in cities. You pass by so many people and buildings and shops, and though it seems as though you've jogged at least 2 miles based on the ever changing scenery, you've really only gone about 200 meters. I constantly find myself looking at my watch, and asking myself how much longer I have to hop over construction areas, weave in and out of cars, or circle the same block. How I do miss the long, barren roads of upstate New York and the forest trails of Jackson Hole Wyoming! Nevertheless, today I did not find myself getting bored at all with my city jog.


There is the one distinct quality about Ma'adi which never ceases to amaze newcomers to the community and locals alike: the layout of the streets. The streets were very cleverly named with numbers ranging from 9 to 539 in no apparent order, and they were constructed and laid out in a way which enhances the internal navigation system of the local driver (aka...they weave in an out of each other with random round-abouts placed in between in a most confusing, often frustrating manor). I do believe that even Ferdinand Magellan would have become frustrated navigating in this community even after living here for several years.


I discovered that if I want to go for a long run, go to Ma'adi. It's quite logical, really. You start your jog simply trying to remember the direction from which you came. After a very short time of enjoying the trees, flowers, and beautiful houses, all of the roads and intersections begin to mesh together in your brain, everything looks as though you've seen it in the recent past, and your internal compass confuses north and south with up and down, in and out, right and left, and stop and go. You find yourself in a labyrinth of Middle Eastern expat land. Your easy, relaxing, thirty minute jog has turned into an all-day adventure and a first-hand lesson in reorientation and navigation. Today I simply had to succumb to asking directions. Of course the language barrier is always an enjoyment trying to work through with my limited vocabulary and the limited patience of people around me, but after a very long jog, a lengthy conversation with a couple guards, a ride with a random local guy on his way to work, and a second ride with a lovely foreign woman who was shopping for flowers, I arrived at my destination with a fresh image of Ma'adi: "What deranged, unbalanced maniac made the layout for this district?!" Regardless, I always enjoy an adventure and never regret all of the detours that must be taken to reach my goal. It’s all a learning experience which has the potential to create some good relationships and always ends up becoming a good story. Yes, I will jog in Ma’adi again. Next time I'm just going to bring a few pounds with the anticipation that I'll be having to catch a taxi from whatever far-out land I end up in.

The Voice of a Nation

I was more of a musician in the past, but I guess that I am still a musician. If you have the talent and passion in your heart for the 'voice of the heavens' (aka music), you can never lose that identity. As a musician and as one who studied music for a time, I realize the power and impact that it can have on a person, an industry, an idea, or even a nation. Little did I know the impact of Umm Kalthum on Egypt before this week.

It is tradition at ALI to have an end of the ‘torture’/semester party. I don’t think I realized what a big deal this party was until I arrived that afternoon and the room was packed full with students, teachers, administrators, and other college officials who came for more than just the bountiful banquet that followed the presentations. Maybe I had gotten the idea that the party wasn’t very important based on the fact that the competition for Arabic writing submissions was announced last minute, or the presentations that were being prepared all seemed spontaneous and unorganized. Of course, this shouldn’t surprise me based on the nature of the Egyptian culture where so many events seem to happen spontaneously and without distinct organization.

Students are encouraged and often times coerced into contributing to the entertainment at this party. This entertainment can be anything from a simple play in Arabic to singing songs in Arabic about Alexandria. At the party, a couple of my Norwegian friends told jokes in Arabic which they only realized were funny when the audience laughed aloud unceasingly. It was at this point that I realized that jokes can only be understood by people who can completely grasp the language used in the joke and have a good understanding of the culture and context of it. At the time I had neither, but it was fun laughing with other people even if though I didn’t know why I was laughing. My vocabulary teacher, a short, strict, passionate, loving woman who I can easily call my mother and my sister, had only to ask me to sing a song, and I said yes. When I looked back on this event, I realized that I said yes not because I wanted to sing in front of people in a language I’m still trying to learn (even though this does not intimidate me), but I said yes because I didn’t know how to say no. Besides, how could it hurt me? The worst that could happen is complete embarrassment by singing words that make no sense at all. I’ve done worse in my life.

Five days before the party, my teacher gave me the words to a song by Umm Kalthum called Al Atlal written in Arabic and told me that I was practicing with a person who’d play the ­­­­­­oud to accompany me a few days later. I looked at the words and put them in my bag to not touch them until a few days later. How in world could I practice it without a recording or without knowing the pronunciation? On top of that, I really didn’t particularly care for Arab music mainly because I don’t understand its structure and I can’t hear the sound of it. It’s just not what I’m used to. Thinking that I was singing this simple song with a simple accompaniment without a lot of onlookers/hubbub/exposure, I arrived in the practice room a few days later with several musicians and onlookers present to have the main musician explain to me (in Arabic, nonetheless) that this song was one of Egypt’s most popular, well-known, and loved songs. He briefly explained the importance of Umm Kalthum and that everyone knows this song. Perfect! Now I can’t screw up.

After a brief hour-long session where I felt like my teeth were being pulled out, I was sent home with the music, told to download a copy of the song from the internet and do nothing but listen to it for the next two days before I was supposed to perform it. I would come to find out that Umm Kalthum was a twentieth century Egyptian singer whose songs, sung in Fusha (the Standard Arabic language, not the spoken Egyptian dialect), inspired the nation to unit during times of hardship and breathed life into the language of the people. The artistry and richness of the poetry of her songs would make crowds go crazy when she sung. At listening to her voice, I could hear why the deep, rich, almost jazz-like qualities of her singing captured people. The very same day I started practicing Al Atlal, I found a series of documentaries on NPR about Umm Kalthum. I learned that her funeral was one of the most attended funerals in all of Egypt; over four million people crowded the streets at her passing and even stole her coffin to bring it to her favorite Mosque. To this day she is loved, or at the least respected, by every Egyptian I’ve mentioned her name to.

So there I was at the party put on stage with an oud, a drum, a tambourine, long earrings, a sparkly necklace, and a scarf in my hand that I was told to compulsively wave around as I sung. Part of me hoped that the song would be so popular that everyone would start singing or clap along and drown out my voice just in case I did mess up the words (which, even to this day, I don’t quite know what I was singing about – something about a lover and walking in the moonlight; if it was any other Arab song I would guess that I was singing about “habibty” [trans. my darling] and her brown eyes). This didn’t quite happen, but right away I could tell the impact of Umm Kalthum and Al Atlal. People oohhed and aahhed just at the introduction of the song and sat with anticipation and a glint in their eyes. Immediately I felt as though I had in my hand a precious Egyptian treasure that it was my responsibility to deliver with power and conviction. This feeling was quite different than what I’d felt a few days before when I was wondering why in the world I had ever agreed to sing THIS song. Nevertheless, I sang.

I ended to an up roaring applause and grins of complete satisfaction on the faces of my teacher and the musicians that accompanied me. How ever I did it I don’t know, but for a few minutes, I, a foreigner whose exposure to such a rich language has been so brief, brought to life a voice that impacted a nation. I think that I did make an impact in that room that day. A teacher lives through his or her students. A teacher teaches to impart what he or she knows into another. He or she teaches to bring forth life and ability in his or her students so that the students can soar to heights even greater than those attained by the teacher. The teachers in that audience could relate first hand to what I was singing and also had the satisfaction to know that I was a product of their hard, passionate work: an encouragement to continue reaching toward their goal. And for me…I found Umm Kalthum. Though her music may still be strange to my ear, I too have been captured and long for the day when I can feel the richness of her words as well.

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On a side note (and to make proud the Rotarians who made my scholarship possible), I took first prize in the writing competition for the Elementary Arabic level. Woohoo! I won my first book in Arabic. I can’t wait until I can actually read it.

101 Reasons to Honk Your Horn

In an Egyptian vehicle, the signaling horn (referred to as a hooter in British colloquial) is usually the most used part of the vehicle; used even more than the brakes. This is a list compiled from direct observations made by myself and Huma the Great of the methods of communication on the roadway infrastructure in Cairo collected through the course of our stay. The following observations are subject to the prejudices and personal postulations of the aforementioned observers. All supposed conclusions and explanations have no direct bearing on the actual intentions of the motor vehicle operators.

1. Tired of waiting for the traffic police
2. Merging
3. Exiting
4. Singing along with music
5. Celebrate something while you're driving
6. Inform a pedestrian that you're coming
7. Ask directions from the car next to you
8. To say hello
9. To wave at a person
10. Accompany the curses of unjust doings
11. Encouraging the action of another driver
12. For no reason other than simple entertainment
13. Inform the donkey drivers that you are coming
14. Warn other drivers that you are going the wrong direction
15. To catch the attention of cute women
16. Find customers (Taxi drivers)
17. Request for another driver to get out of the way
18. When there is a build-up of cars in a one way street
19. To communicate how two cars going opposite ways on a one-way street will get around each other
20. Wake up the neighbors
21. The owner doesn't know how to operate the car alarm
22. Because the car directly in front of you just randomly stopped
23. Get the attention of a shop owner
24. Wedding celebrations
25. Soccer victories
26. The horn is used like Morris Code using beep patterns to communicate (i.e. affection, curse words)
27. Changing "lanes" (whatever that means)
28. Inform bus drivers that you are in their blind spot (which is every spot)
29. Simply beeping to let others know you have a cool horn
30. The horn is broken on your car and never stops
31 through 101. Variations on the previous thirty applied to specific situations.


DISCLAIMER: For those of you who do not know me all that well, I am adding this post-par tum disclaimer stating that all of the above information is purely out of jest simply for the fun of it! Enjoy (especially all of you Egyptians who know you honk your own horns)!

The Mighty Nile: Source of Life, Source of Trash

When many people think about ancient Egypt, they get pictures of Queen Nefertiti with her servants bathing with crocodiles among the reeds of the mighty Nile. The Nile, which flows north through nine countries beginning in Uganda and Ethiopia stretching all the way to the Mediterranean Sea in Egypt, has fed and sustained innumerable cultures and peoples. Her temperaments have allowed some regions to flourish and some regions to famine. She has brought people groups together and caused wars. She is truly "mighty" as her epithet suggests. While riding in a taxi after my arrival in Cairo, I saw her for the first time through the cloud of pollution and exhaust which was choking the life out of my lungs, I truly felt a surge of historical relevance and kinship in gazing at her width and current. This is the Nile River. Wow! I couldn't believe I was actually looking at her.


After I'd settled into classes, I decided to try for the rowing team with my university. I needed some outlet for my physical stimulus in addition to the thought that the river would be as close to pure, unharmed nature as I could find in one of the most crowded cities in the world. Every other day, I would wake at 5 am and catch a taxi to the club from where our team was based. We'd begin rowing just as the sun was coming over the buildings throwing it's orange rays into the haze that descended on the city just a few hours before. These mornings we so serene, so exhilarating, so hilarious. Only a couple practices into our season, we were rowing slowly upstream practicing technique and coordination when I glanced down into the water to see half of a plastic chair floating by. I just laughed! A short time later I saw an empty bottle and a dead fish and something red whose origin I could not distinguish. This became the usual sight during our morning rows. These mornings produced numerous stories.


One morning a group had come back from practice boasting of running their boat into the carcass of a cow that was floating in the river, a story which I'd similarly heard from a former member of the rowing team. Before one practice I had noticed that the small garbage dump which had previously been an obstacle for us in docking the boats was all of a sudden gone. Then my friend and I looked at the club next door to see a man dumping a whole garbage can or trash into the river. That's probably where it had gone. One day I accidentally shored a double scull boat in some mud where the river had receded slightly. I got out of the boat and stood in the river up to my knees to hear my captain shouting at me to get back into the boat. After that I had to go to the doctor to get tested for this certain parasite that lives in the Nile which can bore into your skin and possibly be fatal. "Don't worry. All you have to do is take some pills to get rid of it." Amongst other things, we would frequently see people bathing in the river or tossing the remains of their breakfast over the side of the bridge.


That picture of Nefertiti and water overflowing its banks into the most fertile ground in the world was made extinct. Now I saw a moving, living garbage dump. One day as I was walking to a bookstore from school, I saw this large crane-like machine on a barge pushing itself through the river. I couldn't quite figure out what it was doing, but it almost looked as though it was pushing against the river bed to free itself from the entrapment of the mud and garbage. I asked another onlooker what it was, and he suggested that the machine was cleaning the river. Unfortunately, I saw no evidence of that whatsoever. I glanced over the side of the bridge right in front of me to see a collection of garbage that was outstanding. It looked like a transport on the way to the nearest supermarket had fallen over the edge and relieved itself of all of its contents into the river. My environmentalist heart almost had a coronary. Regardless, I still saw life standing amongst the colorful boxes and bottles. A beautiful, tall, white egret was looking for food amongst the trash.


This egret is one of many avian creatures that live on the Nile and continue to feast on the life which she brings forth. So maybe she is not as picturesque nowadays as she was in the past, or maybe this section of her banks from the full expanse alone suffers from the same urbanization which has transformed Cairo. This I had later discovered on a trip to El Minya which does boast of river banks with reeds and lush fauna. Nevertheless life is still present on the Nile: from the exotic birds to the simple families who I see fishing every day to the array of boats with lights and dancing which use the waters every night to draw both tourists and locals to her seductive flow. This is the mighty Nile.

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And for reference, my rowing team did decently in our competition this semester. I can boast that my four-woman boat took second place in our division, which was quite an impressive feat. Though I do thoroughly enjoy rowing, I am a climber and a hiker foremost. Nevertheless, I admit that that 8 minutes of my life was one of the most physically exhausting periods I've ever endured and almost as satisfying as a summit. Maybe I will greet those waters again.

Do You See the Orphans?

On the streets we see the beggars. We see the crippled and the poor. We see the random child begging or selling goods either for himself or for his family. But there is a group that we don't often see: the orphans. The population of orphans in Cairo is quite outstanding, and I have noticed a significant concern for this group of individuals, especially within the Rotary in Cairo. The first Rotary event that I attended in Cairo just two days after I arrived in the country was a project sponsored by my host Rotary club, the New Cairo Rotary club. They teamed up with clubs in a district in Germany to fund a significant project in a local orphanage for handicapped young women and girls. The built two greenhouses, bought looms and other craft devices, and hired men to teach these women useful life-skills. The smiles on the faces of the residents and the Rotarians alike held witness that the project was a huge success which will last quite a while. Additionally, I was invited April 4th to a function in Dream World for International Orphan Say at which Roteract students (a young version or Rotary) throughout the area volunteered their time.

Every club has its specific areas of focus and areas of contribution within their own and neighboring communities. The Heliopolis Sporting Club, which has so warmly welcomed me several times already, has a strong focus on the orphan community as well. This past Friday I attended a function that their club organizes every year. It was called Orphan Day and located at the Sporting Club which is a daily festival sprawling with people day and night talking, eating, swimming, diving, working out, playing backgammon and boule, playing on the playground, conducting business, etc. Even from the first time I went there I was impressed with the facilities. You almost feel as though you are walking into a different world when you go through the tall gate into the walled city of sporting and commingling.

This past Friday, I did walk into a different world. The function was held in the small stadium on the club grounds which had turf for the field, cement steps for seating, and a large canopy which cloaked almost the whole stadium to shield it from the tortuous rays of midday. I descended into the stadium and looked around to see over 200 faces of jubilant children painted with awe, thankfulness, excitement, and acrylics. These children had come from over ten different private orphanages within Cairo and surrounding areas. The Rotary club had gathered funds, supplies, and volunteers from a variety of local and international businesses, including Pepsi, to make this day happen, and it was happening.

There were balloons on the canopy posts and bright colored streamers everywhere. At the time I had entered, the children were stuffing their faces (quite literally) with various goods they had plucked from a the box they were given. I would compare the scene to that of a child's reaction to the stocking hanging over the mantle on Christmas morning. The effect was not quite the same as that of opening presents, but comparatively it shared the joyous sharing of the gift of food in the spirit of celebration and jubilation. Before I had arrived, the children at experienced the magic of a puppet show, the artistic touch of face painters, and some games which involved a lot of organized chaos (I am sure).

We started handing out bottles of water, Pepsi, and Sprite, the later two being the preferred beverage of choice, and immediately I acquired the name shukran hadretic (Thank you, ma'am). In the process of becoming sugared up (which I always suggest child care workers do just before they send the children home), a small girl, probably around 6 years old, was invited to sing. My ear is becoming more and more familiarized with the Arabic way of singing, but regardless, this girl captured my heart as well as the hearts of almost everyone in that place. She was adorable! So confident, so content, so happy.

After this stunning performance, a young woman began singing and encouraging the children to join her in song and dance. She was obviously singing songs that they were familiar with. I could gather this as I watched child after child come up and sing and dance by her side grabbing the microphone out of her hand so as to show off their own vocal abilities. Some children required quite a bit of coaxing, but when they were down there the chains and bondages of the aforementioned dinning was loosed and the chaotic fun began again. I viewed this one small girl approximately four years of age wandering around aimlessly and quite shyly. I went up to her and encouraged her to dance and to sing. As I took her hand and led her toward the singer and the other children, as I could see that she longed to sing on the microphone, I was almost afraid that she would get trampled by the other children because she was so small. After a process of guiding her and encouraging her to join the brigade??????, she had the urge to push closer to the singer with but a few glances back my way. She did the microphone and sang more beautifully (in my ears) than the young woman who stood singing three feet above the girl. This continued until it was time for desert and awards.

I don't know how many of you remember the succulence and the rush of a cold, sugar-filled ice cream cone after a hot, busy day playing around with your friends, but try to picture this on a scale of over 200 kids. It was a sight to behold! Many of the children did not even wait to take the wrapper off the ice cream before they indulged intently into their campaign, so I took the motherly/teacher's responsibility of assisting some of the children in the seemingly unnecessary, mundane, moot task. One glance at the ice cream covered faces proved that the day had been a complete success. After the awards were handed out, the cheers subsided, and the remaining deserts began melting, the children began to file out of the stadium in the tow of their teachers and care-takers.

Several times throughout the event I looked at the faces of these children, not yet plastered in a vanilla-like substance, and considered the fact that they are orphans. They do not have parents of their own, a house of their own, a bedroom of their own, or certain freedoms and advantages that many children entertain. In this realization, my sadness and compassion for these children became a biting reality quite opposing to the tone of the festivities. The dancing and singing and eating and playing forbid these solemn emotions to be sustained. I suppose that for a similar reason as this Rotary holds this event. It is a day when even these children can put aside their sorrows, confusion, and anger over their present fate and focus on the day...on the colors and the giggles...on the love and the companionship.

It was a beautiful day which made me realize again the love I have for children ingrained deep in my heart. A love which no turning in my vocational direction can ever remove. This day also enlightened me as to how much one can learn from this beautiful race that we always look down on (sometimes negatively and most of the time as a simple matter-of-fact). They are living proof of resolve, overcoming strength, and joy in the midst of hardship. They are troopers, all 200 of those painted, smiling faces longing for a place in this world.

The Wonders of the Drug

This is Egypt, land of milk and honey and superfluous prescriptions for everyone. One doesn't need an insurance card or ID to purchase any type of medication here: from Tums to Klonopin and everything in between. Furthermore, there is no need to distinguish between over-the-counter and name brand drugs, because they all come over-the-counter and almost everything is written in Arabic so I can't distinguish what is 'name brand' and what is not. It's great! This is not the best part, though. The most outstanding part is that one doesn't even need any kind of license or education to prescribe these drugs! I love it! Of course you must take into account that I come from a country where one needs an "Over 21" license to buy a white-out pen (this is a slight exaggeration). Nevertheless, I do find this altruistic, curative practice to be a little unorthodox but quite convenient in a time of need.


That time was this week. I must admit that I have seen more of Tabib (Doctor) Mohammed since I've been in Cairo than I've seen of my roommates. I have been to the school clinic for everything from a muscle spasm to a cold to falling in the Nile River and being warned of these little worms that can burrow into your blood stream and give you a hectic time. If you truely know me, you know that the later bit of information is true and only such events are common to me. But anyways...After a bought of dehydration (which an ensuing story will discuss), I visited the doctor and was given several different prescriptions to combat the symptoms of that particular ailment and sent home with the order to drink as much as possible. Later that night I was awakened and called to the bathroom by a mysterious yet all too realistic force which, henceforth, grumbled in my stomach the entire following day.


Not until after I attempted my own remedy did I realize that maybe these doctors and pharmacists who so readily prescribe a wealth of pills and medicinals know what they are doing. I thought that eating some type of food which would absorb the fluid in my stomach would cause the grumbling to, in the every least, subside. I chose this wonderfully filling, inexpensive, native Egyptian dish called Kushry. What once was a wonderful fast-food is now the bane of my stomach's existence. This dish is comprised of small bits of pasta with a covering of hummus/chick-peas, lentils, and a patina of unidentified fried stuff accompanied by a small amount of tomato dressing. Just delicious! This splendid meal did bring my stomach to rest for a while, but subsequently expanded in that small cavity producing pain in my whole abdominal region into the lower reaches of my back. This is a sensation which caused me to almost double over in the street outside our downtown campus library. Indeed, it was not a pleasant feeling.


After calling as many doctors that I know, only to realize that most doctors are still working or in meetings at 8 pm at night, I finally got in touch with a gynecologist. This wasn't as much help as I had hoped, but shortly after a dear friend of mine who is an intern doctor (at the age of 23-imagine that) texted me the names of some prescriptions I should buy. If only life were that easy in the states! I probably would have been a lot less tentative about admitting sickness and pain if I didn't have to put down a $50 co-pay every time I wanted to hear the doctor say, "Drink more water and take some Ibuprofen." As I walked back onto the campus, the lovely security guards, some of whom know me and others who just pretend they know me, asked me what was wrong. I told them my situation. (It is lovely convenience that my vocabulary lesson for the week is about going to the doctor with pain in the stomach - I know how to say diarrhea in Arabic!) He immediately called the school clinic, which closed five hours prior, and then directed me to the on-call doctor. El humdu allah! Thank God!


Four different prescription drugs and a full-night's sleep later, I feel much better. This is just to prove that DRUGS DO WORK! Of course the little bacteria in my colon, most likely from some kind of food poisoning, didn't stand a chance after I pushed so many potent pills into my system. Nevertheless, the pain is gone. I still am an avid non-believer in pills, but yesterday I was almost converted to the dark-side. Almost.

The Secrets of the Desert

After spending a summer in the lush, green forests and towering mountain faces of the Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming, I was not enthusiastic about coming to the desert barrenness of Egypt, but I looked on it with a child-like anticipation of new experiences and a whole new ecosystem to learn about. The Sinai is a desert. From the outside it looks simple, straight forward, harsh, maybe even unbearable. Have you been to the desert? It is so much more than that. I’d already had one very memorable stay in the desert town of St. Katherine before I joined some friends from my church on a desert hike from St. Katherine to Dahab. Even just the mention of such a feat to one who is familiar with the Peninsula brings accusations of insanity and questions of reasons. Nevertheless, for a pioneering, adventuresome spirit such as mine, this feat is a necessary feast for my physically intense personality.

The common Egyptian riff, "Just wait until you get there," was prevalent on this trip as well. Starting from when my friend initiated it until we crammed eight young adults into a rented minivan and arrived on the scene in St. Katherine not even knowing when we were to start our adventure, this theme hung above our heads creating a childlike anticipation of the soon coming challenge. Amidst talks of politics, economics, religion, and coffee, I tried with no avail to both rest and study on the ride to the Sinai, but the fellowship of friends kept distracting me. I realized quite early on that my interaction with these new found friends was a much needed oasis to revitalize me in the current 'desert-like' time in my life. I only knew a handful of our group, but within two days time, we all had many memories to share. So we rode jammed into this van as if we were on the Indianapolis Speedway to arrive at the Fox Camp in St. Katherine at 11 pm. We were anticipating just a couple hours of sleep or less before we began our cross-desert hike in the light of the high moon so as to avoid the heat of day. At 9 am the next morning, we were still waiting at the camp not quite sure of when we were going to leave. The night before, we had quite an adventurous sleep that tested our individual abilities to stay warm under the stars with few resources at hand. We woke to a refreshing breakfast of leaf thin pancakes, jam, and eggs. And this was the start of our trip.

After another car ride to about 20 km outside St. Katherine, the conditions of which I would liken to a cattle car, we were introduced to our guide who randomly volunteered on the spot to hike with us across the desert to Dahab. I do not know too many people who are just waiting around to volunteer last minute without any preparation to walk for miles on end through the blazing sun leading a bunch of crazed youth into the desert. Atiya, our guide, wore a long white robe with short pants underneath, a blue head wrap (which I became jealous of later on wishing that my handkerchief was approximately three times its size), and Velcro sandals meant for a 12 year old causing his ankles to hang off the edge at least an inch and his feet to collect a thick, protective layer of sand and dirt. All that he carried was a one liter bottle of water in a red carry case. I was concerned, interested, surprised, and yet impressed. By the end of our trip, he was quite exhausted, but throughout the course, he was a wonderful, mysterious guide.

We began our hike at 10 am the first day. While crossing the first stretch of dessert, seemingly aimlessly, the barren hills rolled out in front of us with a very distinct base separating them from the desert floor. All of my knowledge of “Leave No Trace” (an environmentally conscious concept for outdoor sportsmen) went out the door as our group just spread out and left tracks in multiple locations. Throughout our hike, we would alternate hiking alone and with others; it was a wonderful opportunity to not only get to know each other but also to spend time alone and reflect. Several times I reflected on the LNT ideals: whenever I saw a random sandal camping in the sand, looking at the remnants of our rest spots which would be found years later by some archeologist, trying to dig holes in the sand to use for waste products which would only go two inches deep before they hit solid rock. These were all little reminders that we are in Egypt, not an American National Forest.

We soon left the rolling hills behind and entered the classic wadi: tall rock walls on either side with a narrow pathway scattered with boulders…the obvious signs of former water movement. I was delightfully surprised to see a small oasis with a palm tree nuzzled in the middle of this Wadi. GREEN! It was a refreshing sight, but instantly out of sight again. Nevertheless, the rocks (which have captured my heart for some time now), the sand, the desert plants (far and few in between) were beginning to take shape in my mind. I was beginning to distinguish the shapes, colors, and characteristics more. The desert was coming more alive! In a short time, the scenery changed again, and we came across a tree. I can’t begin to tell you how beautiful one tree can be. What was even more surprising was the truck with all of our gear in the back parked by the tree. I had to question where the vehicle came from and how in the world the driver drove all the way out there. Granted much of the time we were hiking on what seemed to be a dirt road, but we hadn’t seen anything except desert for hours. Nevertheless, we had an amazing meal comprised of beans, fruit, salad (which is almost always cucumbers and tomatoes), halawa (a sesame desert), and some meat like substance which might have been a relative to either spam or tuna at some point in time. After the meal and partaking a wonderful cup of tea (loaded with sugar as is most appropriate in Egypt), we departed from under the shade of our umbrella-like tree.

The scenery changed again several times throughout the course of the day. The rolling rock piles, which I would liken to small mountains, grew closer and closer until they coalesced into single walls that towered on either side of us. Again the walls opened and the mountains appeared and slowly disjoined eventually leading us into a delta-like area which I imagined to be similar to the Sub-Saharan deserts farther south in Africa: umbrella-like trees sparsely planted, large expanses of flat, desert land, a hard ground which looked as if water had washed it in a single direction, mountains spaced some distance apart and cut on the edges looking almost like short towers. I was in an entirely different country. At this location, we began to see life, and there was quite a bit of it. We were greeted by a group of young Bedouin children whose only word in English was “banana.” There were several caddy-shack type houses built in a slipshod manner with whatever rocks and materials were at hand and short stone fences bordering them. In the distance I could see these beautiful buildings in comparison with yellow and red bricks standing out more than a giraffe in crowd of lions. I asked Atiya what these were (in broken yet understood Arabic), and he said they were government built schools for Bedouin children. I smiled, and pictured classrooms equally full of students and goats. We passed a woman dressed completely in black from head to toe gathering water into pots from a well outside her house, the locus for all the plant life within a half mile radius. After we passed her, we headed back into the enclosed area of the wadi and headed toward out campsite for the night. Eight hours and 25 km down, only 35 more to go!

When we arrived at camp, our group all fell into a series of stretching and message techniques to relieve our bodies. Our wonderful Bedouin guide and cook just lied down on mats by the fire and starred at us with what seemed to be an amused glance. No, we are not from the desert. We need to stretch. Our dinner, cooked over the fire, was an amazing mixture of vegetables, potatoes, and chicken accompanied by the traditional cup of tea flavored sugar. Than we lied down in our sleeping bags on these thin, cloth-covered pads and fell asleep looking at nothing but stars expanding in every direction dotting the black dome above our heads.

I woke to the sun before the rest of my group and watched the Bedouin woman prepare bread for our meal. She alternated forcefully kneading the dough in a large bowl with beating the sand out of the surrounding mats. Of course there was no hand washing in between these tasks, but I thought nothing of it later on as I set myself to the all too challenging undertaking of eating the board-like bread with jam and cheese which provided necessary carbohydrates. We set out again after a cup of tea and a slathering of sun block lotion. One thing I did learn on this trip is that the sand provides an amazing cup holder! Though the sun wasn’t much of an issue at 7 am in the morning, we still wanted to prepare in advance. Ramy, one of the people in our group, put on enough lotion (which he’d borrowed from one of our female hikers) to turn his Middle Eastern skin white and cause him to smell like a perfume shop. We departed to jokes about Ramy’s new skin color, Tae bo, and Billy Blake and the sly comment of our faithful leader, “Let’s make like shepherds and get the flock out of here.”

Immediately we hiked upward into an area which reminded me of a set from Disney’s Lion King or the surface of the plant Mars: many small, scattered boulders, a few desert bushes here and there, and what looked to be holes in the surface. From this area, we descended into another valley over the large, smooth, rounded boulders of granite, which would make the floors of the Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri Basilica in Rome, Italy, look cheap. This change in scenery happened too many times for me to journal on this website, but if I ever write a book about my experience, there will be much detail. Around every bend was a new, spectacular sight beyond belief and imagination! Our second day brought a whole new series of adventures: the scat discovery game (I found the scat of sheep, goats, more sheep, and more goats – this game is not as fun in the desert as it is in Wyoming); the sign of life in the desert…flies enough to populate a rainforest; we ran out of water, and ‘yours truly’ (me) was the only member to suffer from stage three dehydration; we walked on the ground that we most likely one of the crossing places of the Children of Israel from Biblical times. After a 12 hour day of walking into the dark hours of the evening, we crammed (as turned out to be our usual state of vehicle travel) into the back of the truck which had supplied us through our hike, and it dropped us just outside Dahab to return again to society.

Sitting in a restaurant by the sea just an hour and a half later after two days of hiking 70 km, I was ready to give my feet, which had developed several foreign growths over the course of the hike, a little rest. Nevertheless, I was already looking for the next opportunity to get into the desert to do some more hiking and climbing. Granted, I dearly miss the luscious, refreshing, invigorating flora and fauna of more humid climates, but there is something mysterious, something alluring, something enrapturing about the desert. You should try going there. Just lay out a mat and sleep under the stars. Take care of the scorpions and all the other little bugs which love nothing more than sneaking around under your mat, but they don’t care about you if you don’t bother them. Treat the camels with such revere as well and you’ll have a lovely time. There is something spectacular around the next bend if you just take the effort and have the courage to make the approach.

Culture Exposed

This evening I quite a challenging conversation with a young woman who was born and raised in Egypt but is half Lebanese. Our discussion was challenging in that it made me question why I care about the Arab culture, what I find attractive in it, and how (in a slightly accusative sense) can I pledge my support for it. She began by asking me why I wanted to study Arabic. I replied, "Because I love the culture." Then she asked me why I loved it, and, with as honest a voice as they come, she began to criticize her own culture as being aggressive, manipulative, naive, ignorant, and unreasonable. As I listened to her testimony, I could concur with her observations and assumptions, but I also looked past them.


I looked past the harsh nature of the culture bred from a history of waring and an unrelenting environment. I looked past the stigmatizing communal ideas of "each man for himself" and "blood is thicker than water" acting concurrently. I looked past the seemingly squelching social standards which can produce a virulent, nescient adherence to command. I saw the individuals: the woman behind the veil who watched her baby take his first steps today, than man in the galabaya who rushed home with excitement after an enlightening sermon at the mosque on Friday. Every people group has its flaws, as does every individual person, but every individual has his/her own story as well. Each one of them is worth the attention of God. Are they not also worth my attention and your attention?


I told her that I loved the Arab culture, especially the parts that make me laugh (which are many). I love how very different it is from what I've ever known. I love the history which is ever present in it. I love the intensity of its emotions and interactions. I simply love the people, and I can't always explain why.


Upon her mention of the negative aspects of her culture, I mentioned some of the positive aspects; the freedom women have in comparison to the assumed lack there of; the beauty and wealth in riches, goods, art, language, food, and music which the culture has produced; the spectacular infrastructures which, though not as congealed as the West in many areas, are quite advanced. She told me that I need to see the "real" Egypt. I need to go south to some of the cities which have not been touched by the West. There I can find the real Arab culture, and then I can know what it is really like. "Though," she said, "more than 70% of the people there are illiterate." "Than I need to know the language," was my reply.


Already I admire the culture that I see, because I see the people through the eyes of compassion and understanding. I am certain that in the future I will grow in admiration toward the culture that I cannot yet see. This is not because I have taken it upon myself to expose and analyze the flaws, but it is because I simply love the people. They are beautiful, and I want to know them through their own words.

Language Acquisition: Some Days I Feel Like a Nut, Some Days I Don’t

Several years ago, I participated in a trip with my church to Madrid, Spain. The brief immersion into the Spanish language was one of the first stimulants of my desire to know a foreign language. There was young man in his twenties from California who assisted our group throughout or stay. His command of the Spanish language was outstanding! Native speakers commented on his perfect accent and the flawless fluency with which he spoke. True he had studied Spanish in grade school and had been living and working in Spain for five years, but I regarded this as a moot consideration. At the time, I felt indubitably clever for being able to bargain with the gypsies and find the location of bathrooms quicker than my co-travelers. Little did I know how truly difficult it is to fully acquire a second language.

Arabic…How enrapturing it would be if I could wake up one morning and, as Nike so simply promulgates, just speak it. To hold this lofty expectation is not only an unreasonably fanciful dream, similar to my dream of looking like Keira Knightly when I wake up in the morning, but it is also simply impossible. This language is a complex system of words and phrases combined in such a way as to emphasize certain ideas and words and convey specific emotions and requests. For example, a method of adding prefixes and suffixes is employed rather than attaching pronouns and direct pronouns to a verb, thus lengthening the verb and causing that one word to encompass the subject and the direct object. Try speaking that in a split second. Even harder, try listening to that in a split second.

I envy those who learned multiple languages as they were growing up. A child learns more in the first eight years of his life than he learns throughout his remaining years on the earth. As a teacher in Jerusalem, I had a student who knew four languages at the age of eight. Though he was still learning and didn’t use all four of them equally as much, it still amazed me how his mind could process all four languages: English, Arabic, Hebrew and Swedish. I do not recall learning English as being a tortuous experience, but as I sit back and think about it, how my mind commands the language at present without having to continually process it is a staggering feat. How did this happen? How did my mind acquire such a skill without me really knowing and recognizing it? The final end of language acquisition (which I do believe is a never ending process) is to actively produce the language without thought: without having to sit back and form the words and phrases. “Just do it,” I am told. “Teba3n (Of course) it will come if you just listen, repeat, and speak.”

As an adult, to try and learn another language, which is leagues different from your native tongue, is like having an eternal root canal. Because spoken Arabic is a bit different from the written language, it is like having a root canal on both sides of your mouth…without an anesthetic. Of course the degree of torture is relative to the degree to which one wants to learn. I want to learn it…very badly.

Every day I get out of my bed, I am humbled by how little I know and pressed even harder to study. Though I don’t remember being two years old, I feel like I am two years old again. I long to communicate, but I can’t. I have ideas I want to convey, but I just don’t know how. I stand and stare having little to no idea what the people around me are saying relying mostly on the looks in their faces, tones of their voices, and gestures of their hands. I stammer and embarrass myself on a daily basis as I test the patience of my friends and teachers while trying to speak in Arabic. As I look back at all of the unbelievably embarrassing moments I’ve had through my life, I realize how truly great it is that I am able to make an absolute fool of myself with little to no care. Daily I make a fool of myself. Daily. Anxiously I look for new words, and with a child-like excitement, I conjugate them and attempt putting them to use. If I don’t use them repeatedly, I entirely forget them. With exuberance I rejoice when I understand what a person is saying, even though I only understand maybe 10% of what was said and usually that 10% can be translated “yes,” “no,” “left,” “right,” “Praise God.”

*I must take a step back and convey to you some of the initial frustrations and hilarities in learning Arabic. Have you seen the movie The God’s Must be Crazy? I won’t take the time to discuss the plot, which is relatively doltish but amusing at three o’clock in the morning, but I want to address their language. The characters use not only English but also Afrikaans and Ungwatsi. While watching the movie, all one really hears are the cool clicks and unfamiliar inflections in the sounds of their voices. These clicks and inflections are actually words. Can you hear it? Probably not. Now back to the Arabic…When, as a person who doesn’t speak Arabic, you listen to the language, you can’t automatically distinguish the sounds nor hear when one word ends and another begins. The initial phase of acquiring a language is adjusting your ear to that language. Unfortunately, I have a self-imposed aversion to watching television (which supposedly is a wonderful way to learn a language), so I practice listening by hovering around Arabic speakers with my eyes wide open, yet focusing on nothing, and a more attentive ear than that of a professional eavesdropper. It works well. Don’t try it unless you have developed an instinctive technique of acting as though you were not paying attention when the people turn around and stare at you with accusative look.

Despite the frustrations, I can already see a change, and it is the little satisfactions that provide the incentive to continue on. I don’t think I’d put my transformation on the same level as baptism or genuine repentance, but shwya, shwya (little by little). I hear from the taxi drivers, “Bitikelm 3raby kuwyis.” (“You speak Arabic well.”) I find myself speaking mixed Arabic and English, even though it may simply be a word here and there (this my father in the states finds entirely annoying). Additionally, I find myself forgetting to use capital letters in English and having to spend a significant amount of time producing some English words, even basic ones. I repeat verb conjugations and phrases while I’m walking the streets and riding the metro. I can only image how this sounds to the people riding next to me. I wouldn’t blame them for assuming I had aphasia or dementia, but I definitely find the sounds and words coming a bit easier. “Just do it,” I am told. “Teba3n (Of course) it will come if you just listen, repeat, and speak.”

I have been considering going all the way and learning the language to the point where I can teach it. After speaking to several linguists and professors of the language, the only thing I could see were the dollar signs flying by my head in light of the amount of schooling it would require, but Insha’Allah (God willing) we will see. In my language heaven, I dream of learning everything I can about Arabic, including the vocabulary, and then just waking up one day speaking, reading, writing, and using it fluently. This is language heaven: a surreal, euphoric existence which cannot be attained, even after the confession of linguistic sin and the acceptance of proper conjugation and morphology. I can visual my goal, but only time, practice, and usage will get me there. I do believe that I can learn this language, and I want to…very passionately. If only to communicate with the young boys I see sleeping on the metro, I want to learn this language. Some days I get it; some days I don't, but it will come if I just do it.

In the Midst of the Mountains

This past weekend I took a trip to St. Catherine in the Sinai Desert with a couple friends. This was a long awaited trip as my climbing friend Nick and I have been trying to get out there to for several weeks. I must admit that he has been trying more than I, primarily because he is more willing to sacrifice class time in case of the "random happenings" which can never be anticipated.


**One side note of interest is our preparation for travel. First off, it had included the attempt at getting a bus schedule. Our investigation usually ended with the casual mention that a bus might leave from a certain station at such and such a time, but who really knows. Furthermore, you can never be too sure whether this information is completely accurate, nor can you confidently be reassured that there will be a bus present to return you to your place of origin. Secondly, in our attempt to actually find climbing routes and places to sleep, apart from a couple decently reliable sources, we were usually told to “just wait until you get there” (a recurring theme in this country). Thirdly, a lot of trips and outings amongst locals and foreigners (specifically AUC students) are usually planned last minute without specific details, figures, directions, etc. These details usually remain obscure throughout the course of the trip. Talk about an adventure.


After a few God-ordained meetings and a couple “leaps of faith,” I was on my way to St. Catherine with my friend Omar, in his amazingly beautiful car with a private driver, to the desert to meet Nick who’d traveled via a hired mini-bus with four other students the night before. Once the city melted out of sight (which, like Las Vegas, happens quite quickly; once you’re out of it, you’re out of it), the Red Sea came and left, and the mountains started to rise like brown giants before my eyes, my heart leapt with anticipation! This anticipation drained significantly when, four hours into our drive, I realized that I had forgotten the second climbing rope. With only one rope only two people can climb. This doesn’t much help a climbing group of three. This heart wrenching cognizance prepared me even more for the “just wait until you get there” mindset. Sometimes one can only throw preparation to the wind and go with what he has. Learning to keep a solid, optimistic mindset in such circumstances is one of the intents of the desert.


St. Katherine is truly a place of wonders and relief. It is a small, quiet, quaint little town nestled amongst the brown giants that stretch across the peninsula welcoming visitors, tourists, those seeking rest and refuge, and pretty much any living thing (especially cats, which are quite prolific at the Holy Valley Hotel). This little town rests upon the theme, “Let’s just take what comes our way, and the rest we’ll leave behind.”


Whereas Nick was much too relaxed to remove his tent and it’s contents sprawled out on the ground from the Fox Camp (which is a lovely, cheap little camp where you can sleep on the ground, smoke shisha in a Bedouin tent, eat meals under a little grass hut, and wonder what all those green plants on the edge of the property are), Omar, the driver and I decided to stay at the Sheik Moussa Camp. Contrary to popular thought, Sheik Moussa is not presently owned by Sheik Moussa. It’s owned by a lovely British man named Mark who just recently bought it from the Sheik and renovated the kitchen (always a good decision). We slept in a room with four rug-clad mats on the ground, pillows that had covers which looked as though they had been there since the early 80’s (either that or the cats bit all the holes in them), an adorable white window with shutters which was definitely worth the picture, and a wide mirror on the opposing wall. A king could not have asked for a more lavish space.


In the nights, we ate homemade meals of curry chicken and rice with rum and Coke (I drank water), sat around the dinner table with talk of politics and stars, moved to the fire with it’s burning coal embedded in a round metal bowl, sat on mats on the ground underneath the Bedouin tents talking and singing and drinking and smoking until we each drifted to our personal mats to sleep with not a sound outside our windows.


Though I could go on and on about the wonderfulness of St. Catherine, I will sum up as many of the main points as I can. We climbed, and we climbed well. Omar, Nick and I had to be a little creative in delegating who was to climb what for how long, but it all just fell into place. “Just wait until you get there.” Omar didn’t quite make a record for climbing Mount Moussa (the possible location of Mt. Sinai and the manifestation to Moses) in approximately an hour, but I think I beat the record for hiking up the mount in a state of dehydration in less than one and a half hours. That was fun, in a half-sarcastic sort of way. I missed the sunset, but I enjoyed a lovely cup of tea with two Bedouins (one of them our guide) at one of the candy stands on the mountain.


The following day, as Omar and Nick attempted another climb in the mountains, I rested under the sun on a rock high above the dirt path where camels carried their masters and their master’s goods to who knows where. I heard a group of woman and children below, and decided to assess the scene. As I carried out my reconnaissance, I was invited to join the women who were sitting in the shade of a rock off the beaten path caring for children, chatting, cooking, sewing handicrafts and looking at the two M&M spectacles (Omar & Nick) dancing on the rock above them with disbelief and a mother’s “I can’t believe you are doing that!” attitude. I quite enjoyed partaking food with them and watching them interact in such a relaxed atmosphere as if there was nothing that mattered more than sitting under that rock with each other. They hold such a beautiful culture that knows how to cherish the rest, the silence, the simple, the fellowship. I recall one conversation with a Bedouin man who managed the camp where we stayed. I asked him if he’d ever been to the States. He said no, but he would someday. “I am a Bedouin. I can travel anywhere. Insha’Allah.”

Even the Unnoticed are Desired

As I am sitting on the top floor of the library, I glance into a barren area enclosed by a worn, tattered wall. There are a few metal and stone shacks in this area which obviously house very poor families. This little plot of land seems to stand out so significantly when looking down from the skyline. I would almost equate it with a mini dump amongst the giants. Even a few of the adjacent buildings reflect the degeneration of the plot to an equal degree: the upper walls are crumbling, there are holes in the outer shell of the building, a missing window would not be regarded as out of the ordinary. I see a boy kicking a box. He is dressed plainly in dirty clothes. The natural course of thoughts goes through my head asking if he is educated, what his parents do, how he is being raised, how many siblings he has, what kind of future is available for him. As I watch him I realize that even he has the innate desire to interact with his environment, to produce some kind of result. Would the result of his action be positive or negative for his surrounding society? This boy has the capability to effectively influence society, but only if he is provided the appropriate means, encouragement, and direction. Will he get that? Will he find his place?

Every actor is necessary for the proper functioning and betterment of the society be it the street sweepers who so boldly pull their trash bins with their wicker brooms along the precarious streets, the women who wash the cars and leave the wipers protracted, the humanitarian workers who laboriously give aid to those in need, the homeless and helpless who provide the recipient for that need, and the dignitaries who pave the way for the freedoms and restrictions that navigate the society. It is so easy to heedlessly continue on in one's day and not look down from the rooftop to see those below who are supporting those who are above. In Egypt, I can see these people as plain as day. I cannot go anywhere without noticing them and feeling a wave of gratitude for their work, curiosity into their lifestyles', sometimes sorrow for their unceasing redundancy of production.

I have noticed some particular means of acquiring income which add a unique touch to Egyptian culture. The aforementioned street sweepers with their brooms and industrial trash bins clad in orange jumpsuits faithfully and for very little pay clear the curbs, sidewalks and streets of the remnants of peoples’ lunches. The women who wake at early hours every day to wash the cars along the streets lined like cattle tightly fit into stalls display content in their simple yet greatly appreciated occupation (greatly appreciated in a country where dust and dirt is as much a part of the atmosphere as is oxygen). The trash collectors come around with carts, some the size of a wagon being pulled on foot and some as large as trucks being pulled by donkeys, and gather the trash to be transported to who knows where. The potato salesmen stand on the corner in the afternoons calling people who are going home for the day to partake of his goods which have been baking on his cart. The fishermen, who often times call on the assistance of their wives and children, spend long days traversing the Nile in simple wooden boats with oars so narrow that one wonders how they catch water. Are there actually fish for them to catch?

All of these actors are necessary for the society to function. Even though their occupations may not be desirable, they are desired in a culture that would lack if they were not present. That boy down there kicking the box is desired and needed. Even if he is not able to function, in my eyes he is desired and needed. He is just as human as I and a precious being. Will he find a place? Do the people passing by outside those dilapidated walls even know that he is there?

Residence upon Residence (Jan. 30, 2008)

Looking for a place to live in Cairo is always an adventure. Unaware of this, I spent way too much time trying to establish this before I came here. I emailed former Rotary scholars, spoke with other contacts in the country, looked on the internet; all to no avail. The prevailing comment was, "Just wait until you get there." This doesn't jive to well with my philosophy of being as keenly prepared as possible for every expected and unexpected occurrence. The best form of preparation I could hope for was to reserve a room at a hotel for a few nights until we (two other Rotary scholars and myself) could find an apartment.

With a very limited budget, I sought after the cheapest hotel I could find. Of course these types of hotels do not have websites, nor can you find ratings or comments about them. It’s just one of those “let’s see what happens” type of situations. I thrive on the excitement of these, yet I wriggle in how uncomfortable it is until the moment of exposure is at hand. I, unfortunately, did not get this moment of exposure. One of my roommates, Huma, did get that moment a few days before I was to arrive in Cairo, and she passed through that moment very quickly into a more reasonable hotel which cost us approximately three times as much as the hotel I had chose. After listening to stories of a heatless room (which heat is definitely a plus in Cairo in January), old, dilapidated sheets and blankets, a standing shower, uncarpeted floors, and a telephone without number buttons, I was quite sad to have stayed in the luxury of the Cosmopolitan Hotel and missed out on the adventure of Tulip Hotel.

In Cairo, the bowab is your best friend, unless you have the guts, language capability, or contacts to search for an apartment yourself. This man has several buildings or individual flats in various areas of the city that he finds tenants for and thus receives compensation from the tenant (and I believe from the building owner as well). I cannot stress to you how large Cairo is! Of course there are many buildings and properties for businesses, schools, organizations, hotels, etc., but the coinciding amount of space needed for housing is unbelievable. Everywhere you look there are buildings upon buildings of residences. The closer to downtown you are, the larger these buildings are. I often wonder about the extreme fitness of the families that live on the top floors of these buildings.

* Here I must insert something I observed in my own neighborhood. While sitting on the patio studying, I noticed a basket of food being lifted to the fifth floor of the building adjacent to my house. I stared in amazement realizing the frugality of this action. Seriously, who wants to carry bags of groceries five floors up? Why not just tie a rope to a basket and hale it up through the window? Such ingenuity! No more need for elevators. We can all use the exercise anyways.

Back to the apartment finding…Praise God, we had contacts to help point us in the right direction. We tried to look for something on our own, which simply led us to this random apartment in Garden City which was the residence and the office space for a woman who runs an organization which gives legal aid to refugees. It was a lovely encounter which led to some good friendships and an enlightened eye on the situation of refugees in Egypt, but I think the doorman directed us to that apartment simply because he knew they spoke English there. From this point forward, we solely used the aid of a dear friend of Huma’s by the name of Adel. He wasn’t in town but directed us to a bowab who had one flat in mind for us: the lower floor of a two story private residence in the area of Cairo known as Mohandeseen. After careful investigation of the house, area, and distance to the nearest market as well as the approval of our adopted father, Adel, we chose this flat.

It is slightly awkward looking down our side street (which is relatively quiet, surprisingly) and seeing many large ten story buildings and then this one two sided, two story house with lovely gardens stuck in between. I must admit, though, that we are living in luxury. Of course Cairo luxury is on a different level than any other type of luxury (at least on this side of town it is): second-hand dishes which lend to quite adventuresome dinner-making processes and food storage methods, a toaster that we are too afraid to use because of the fireworks restrictions in our house, the absolute resolve we attained in realizing we’ll never be able to regulate our water temperature in the bathroom, the daily task of trying to figure out the logic of which light switch turns on which lights.

This is our little heaven on earth in Mohandeseen. Our three bedroom flat with one and a half bathrooms, a large sitting area, living room, dining room, kitchen, patio, two porches, and two gardens is a haven of rest and a tremendous blessing for the price that we got it for. I don’t know how long this poor student will be able to afford this flat, but Insha’allah my language capabilities will improve enough to be able to speak with that lovely doorman in Garden City and actually look at an available room in that building. Until then, we will live in our little heaven listening to the man hitting the gas cans as he rides his bike down our road, waking to the sounds of the birds in our trees, occasionally hearing the heated discussions from one of the hundreds of households that towers above our own, and daily weaving through the maze of cars which have made our side street their own personal driveway.