Monday, May 16, 2005
Cairo-Soccer & the desert-Nov. 17, 2002
A rush of cold, healing salve on my aching knee - such a familiar feeling in such an unfamiliar place. I'm sitting here with minor knee pain after playing soccer for the last two and a half hours and thanking God, Allah and Budda for the "beautiful game." What a savior it is. It reminds you who you are and where you came from and what power you have. I do not know where I would be without it.
Anyway, this entry is not about soccer. It's about whale watching in the desert and using fruit as metaphors for the world's religions. I'll start with the most transcendent experience I've had so far in Egypt. By sheer dumb luck I was invited at the last minute on a trip to the Western Desert by my rich neighbor who had just bought a big, fancy four-wheel Range Rover for such desert excursions. Irfan is a Pakistani national working for a French railway company in Cairo. He is engaged to an American Yale grad who will join him here after the new year. Irfan is one of those worldly, smart guys who knows what he wants out of life and sees no reason why he shouldn't have it. He exudes confidence and self-assurance without a trace of arrogance. Quite a feat. Anyway, Irfan and his work buddies - let's just call them the Frenchies - all have four-wheelers equipped with GPS maps via handhelds, satellite phones and an assortment of life-saving and sand-tackling tools to assure even the biggest Nancy boy that the chance of getting stuck or lost is remote to none.
We started out early - early according to the Frenchies' schedule. Apparently, Jean-Pierre and Monique wanted to present a clean Durango to the desert. After washing their truck, and making a last-minute stop for ... French bread of course, we pulled out of Cairo at 10 a.m. After about two hours, Cairo's smoky air, blaring horns and glaring masses were fading from sight, and from memory. We left the highway suddenly and there it is...miles and miles and miles of sand. Everywhere. Its sheer ubiquity is overwhelming and humbling. We tore into the sand like banshees. Holding onto the car's "Oh Shit" handle for dear life I could not contain the grin that creeped across my face. What incredible fun to be reckless and free under a huge blue sky and generous sun.
We made our first stop to gather shells and so the Frenchies could drink their pastisse (has anybody had this drink? It's a god-awful tasting, hugely alcoholic liquor.) We found the most amazing fossils and shells - some millions of years ago, this part of the desert was under the sea. Thus the whale watching. After another couple miles, we found the site of the whale vertebrae. Also near this site are remnants of a downed WWI airplane.
We stopped to eat some lunch down in between a couple of sand dunes, which provided nice shade from the sun and a cozy lunch spot. The Frenchies offered us some more pastisse, some white wine, some red wine and even some whisky. I passed. After finishing off a tuna sandwich, I laid back right there in the sand and promptly fell asleep. After my cat nap, we headed back to our cars and went in search of some particular dunes the Frenchies wanted to take their cars on.
After taking our time, stopping for photos, etc., more pastisse, someone mentioned the time. We had exactly 20 minutes to get out of the desert and to the Fayoum oasis highway before dark. We hauled some major ass. The three trucks trailing in each other's dust like cheetahs chasing one another across the plain, zigzagging across waves of sand.
We made it with about a minute to spare. Once we were back on pavement and the Frenchies polished off the pastisse, we reluctantly headed back to Cairo, promising that next time we'd spend the night in the desert.
The next story - about the fruit - is transcendent too, in a way. As you all know, this is the middle of Ramadan, a very holy time for Muslims. For us foreigners, things are kinda nice. Think Thanksgiving day or Christmas morning after the presents are opened. Quiet, family around, some big TV event. That's pretty much what it's like every day during Ramadan for Egyptians. Stores are closed. The work day starts around 10 and ends at 2ish, when the streets clog while hungry fasters rush home to eat iftar - the meal that breaks the daily fast. And guess what happens at 4:30? Nothing. No one is on the streets. Nothing is open. No one is walking around. The subway is near-empty. And we get to walk around and enjoy it. Ever wondered what it would be like if the world ended and you were the only one left?
Theresa and I walked to the subway station last week instead of taking a cab - something we've never done. We stopped and looked into store windows. We noticed nooks and crannies we'd driven past hundreds of times. It's quite eerie and yet gratifying to see the streets emptied of their 16 million inhabitants. And all because of the Islamic holiday.
Which brings me to the fruit story. So far we have been invited to two iftars. The first was forgettable. It was the least Egyptian as it was held at Davin's university, which boasts of the best catering in town. The food was great, but there was no camaradie or conversation after dinner. Most people took off or sat in corners, smoking.
The second iftar was given by our grocer. This is the same vegetable and fruit stand that I have mentioned before. It's not exactly a stand, nor is it a modern grocery store. They sell fresh vegetables and fruit, and that's about it. The guys who work at the stand are some of the sweetest guys you could ever meet. And last week, they invited Davin, Theresa and I to partake in their iftar. A carpet of green turf was laid out on the sidewalk, and served as our table. The store owner's wife (whom we never met) cooked some 15 dishes for about eight to 10 men and us. We sat, shoes off, and ate mostly with our hands and shared bottles of water. The meal consisted of dates, rice and noodles, potatoes, meat, beet salad, green, orange and yellow peppers, zucchini and fresh fruit for desert.
After the meal, one of the men asked if he could chat with us a bit. He said he wanted to tell us something. He picked up a pear, a date and a strawberry. He said, "See this strawberry, this is Budda. This date is Islam. This pear is Christianity. Each one is different but each one still has vitamins. We are all different, each one, but we are all good." He then went on to explain why he loves his particular God. He says Islam is good because there are systems, which instruct you on how to live your life. "You have questions about parenthood or an illness or some other problem, Islam has the book that has answers. It has the answers. I love my God."
He went on quite a bit longer and tried to get more philosophical but his English was too broken for us to understand him. As simplistic as his explanation of Islam was, it was informative nonetheless. This man could have been anyone in America talking about God and Jesus and why he loves Him. In fact, he sounded like many Southern people I have come across in my life, believers. For the masses, this is Islam. It informs them in this life, how to be a good person. Nothing more, nothing less. Modern references to Islam extremists are cultural manifestations that have much more to do with socioeconomic circumstances than any religion. In my mind, this man with his fruit metaphor is Islam.
Anyway, this entry is not about soccer. It's about whale watching in the desert and using fruit as metaphors for the world's religions. I'll start with the most transcendent experience I've had so far in Egypt. By sheer dumb luck I was invited at the last minute on a trip to the Western Desert by my rich neighbor who had just bought a big, fancy four-wheel Range Rover for such desert excursions. Irfan is a Pakistani national working for a French railway company in Cairo. He is engaged to an American Yale grad who will join him here after the new year. Irfan is one of those worldly, smart guys who knows what he wants out of life and sees no reason why he shouldn't have it. He exudes confidence and self-assurance without a trace of arrogance. Quite a feat. Anyway, Irfan and his work buddies - let's just call them the Frenchies - all have four-wheelers equipped with GPS maps via handhelds, satellite phones and an assortment of life-saving and sand-tackling tools to assure even the biggest Nancy boy that the chance of getting stuck or lost is remote to none.
We started out early - early according to the Frenchies' schedule. Apparently, Jean-Pierre and Monique wanted to present a clean Durango to the desert. After washing their truck, and making a last-minute stop for ... French bread of course, we pulled out of Cairo at 10 a.m. After about two hours, Cairo's smoky air, blaring horns and glaring masses were fading from sight, and from memory. We left the highway suddenly and there it is...miles and miles and miles of sand. Everywhere. Its sheer ubiquity is overwhelming and humbling. We tore into the sand like banshees. Holding onto the car's "Oh Shit" handle for dear life I could not contain the grin that creeped across my face. What incredible fun to be reckless and free under a huge blue sky and generous sun.
We made our first stop to gather shells and so the Frenchies could drink their pastisse (has anybody had this drink? It's a god-awful tasting, hugely alcoholic liquor.) We found the most amazing fossils and shells - some millions of years ago, this part of the desert was under the sea. Thus the whale watching. After another couple miles, we found the site of the whale vertebrae. Also near this site are remnants of a downed WWI airplane.
We stopped to eat some lunch down in between a couple of sand dunes, which provided nice shade from the sun and a cozy lunch spot. The Frenchies offered us some more pastisse, some white wine, some red wine and even some whisky. I passed. After finishing off a tuna sandwich, I laid back right there in the sand and promptly fell asleep. After my cat nap, we headed back to our cars and went in search of some particular dunes the Frenchies wanted to take their cars on.
After taking our time, stopping for photos, etc., more pastisse, someone mentioned the time. We had exactly 20 minutes to get out of the desert and to the Fayoum oasis highway before dark. We hauled some major ass. The three trucks trailing in each other's dust like cheetahs chasing one another across the plain, zigzagging across waves of sand.
We made it with about a minute to spare. Once we were back on pavement and the Frenchies polished off the pastisse, we reluctantly headed back to Cairo, promising that next time we'd spend the night in the desert.
The next story - about the fruit - is transcendent too, in a way. As you all know, this is the middle of Ramadan, a very holy time for Muslims. For us foreigners, things are kinda nice. Think Thanksgiving day or Christmas morning after the presents are opened. Quiet, family around, some big TV event. That's pretty much what it's like every day during Ramadan for Egyptians. Stores are closed. The work day starts around 10 and ends at 2ish, when the streets clog while hungry fasters rush home to eat iftar - the meal that breaks the daily fast. And guess what happens at 4:30? Nothing. No one is on the streets. Nothing is open. No one is walking around. The subway is near-empty. And we get to walk around and enjoy it. Ever wondered what it would be like if the world ended and you were the only one left?
Theresa and I walked to the subway station last week instead of taking a cab - something we've never done. We stopped and looked into store windows. We noticed nooks and crannies we'd driven past hundreds of times. It's quite eerie and yet gratifying to see the streets emptied of their 16 million inhabitants. And all because of the Islamic holiday.
Which brings me to the fruit story. So far we have been invited to two iftars. The first was forgettable. It was the least Egyptian as it was held at Davin's university, which boasts of the best catering in town. The food was great, but there was no camaradie or conversation after dinner. Most people took off or sat in corners, smoking.
The second iftar was given by our grocer. This is the same vegetable and fruit stand that I have mentioned before. It's not exactly a stand, nor is it a modern grocery store. They sell fresh vegetables and fruit, and that's about it. The guys who work at the stand are some of the sweetest guys you could ever meet. And last week, they invited Davin, Theresa and I to partake in their iftar. A carpet of green turf was laid out on the sidewalk, and served as our table. The store owner's wife (whom we never met) cooked some 15 dishes for about eight to 10 men and us. We sat, shoes off, and ate mostly with our hands and shared bottles of water. The meal consisted of dates, rice and noodles, potatoes, meat, beet salad, green, orange and yellow peppers, zucchini and fresh fruit for desert.
After the meal, one of the men asked if he could chat with us a bit. He said he wanted to tell us something. He picked up a pear, a date and a strawberry. He said, "See this strawberry, this is Budda. This date is Islam. This pear is Christianity. Each one is different but each one still has vitamins. We are all different, each one, but we are all good." He then went on to explain why he loves his particular God. He says Islam is good because there are systems, which instruct you on how to live your life. "You have questions about parenthood or an illness or some other problem, Islam has the book that has answers. It has the answers. I love my God."
He went on quite a bit longer and tried to get more philosophical but his English was too broken for us to understand him. As simplistic as his explanation of Islam was, it was informative nonetheless. This man could have been anyone in America talking about God and Jesus and why he loves Him. In fact, he sounded like many Southern people I have come across in my life, believers. For the masses, this is Islam. It informs them in this life, how to be a good person. Nothing more, nothing less. Modern references to Islam extremists are cultural manifestations that have much more to do with socioeconomic circumstances than any religion. In my mind, this man with his fruit metaphor is Islam.
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