WestMeetsEast

I saw a great bumper sticker as I walked to work during my last week in Cairo. It read: "Don’t Hold Opinions About Things You Don’t Understand." So I decided that I have no opinion about this country.

During the same walk I saw and experienced two things that have dogged me since Day One. I saw a smashed, dead cat covered with flies and maggots by the side of the road, and I was harassed by a group of men in the back of a truck. Oh, and I was ‘welcomed’ by an Egyptian. All of which serves as a reminder of how little an impact I — all of us — truly has in a culture so enigmatically entrenched in its ways. As many foreigners who have come and gone for centuries, Egypt is still the same. It is probably the same as it was thousands of years ago, plus or minus a little pollution.

As much as we — particularly foreigners — like to think we have made some sort of dent or change, Egypt is a constant reminder of our own futility and mortality.

And then it struck me: This is what it feels like to be an Egyptian. This is what it feels like to be a mere number in a swelling, sweltering population. This is what it feels like to have no voice. This is what it feels like when the president is the same person in power as when you were born. This is what it feels like to have no choice. This is what it feels like to know that no one gives a damn if you live or die. ...And this is what it feels like to not care.

This is what I learned about Egypt. And as long as I live, I will not understand it.

I’ve been here for nearly five months now and already feel very settled. The shiny bling bling of Dubai has faded and left in its place a pretty decent place. It could be the cooler weather talking (it’s as low as 68 degrees sometimes!), but I am enjoying it. Dubai has proven to be a sporty city, something I was not expecting. Rugby is quickly becoming my new favorite sport. My teammates are all from New Zealand, Australia and South Africa. They are amazing athletes and a lot of fun. My team, the Dubai Dragons, came in first place among the Gulf region teams in a big tournament last month. I am still playing soccer, but the level of competition here is pretty low. There are 18 teams in the local women’s league, which itself is only a couple years old. The majority of the women are Irish. Each team has at least one Arab however, which is very encouraging.

The contradictions in Dubai are still vast, however. It boasts “Dubai Internet City” and “Dubai Media City” yet very few people have internet access in their homes. It has a massive number of English-language magazines, yet none of them are political or cultural in nature. A couple of months ago when a wall collapsed on top of construction workers, the police arrested our company photographer for taking pictures of the accident. My magazine is forbidden to refer to Israel as a ‘nation.’ Oh, and the one telecom company doesn’t put calls through to Israel.

In some ways the censorship is worse than it was in Cairo. The government blocks all websites having anything to do with sex, even innocuous dating websites, yet the streets in my neighborhood are crawling with Eastern European prostitutes being cruised by Arabs. I was searching once for “trailer trash” on Google Images because a British guy wanted to know what that term meant. Each time I tried to open a website, the message “This website contains images or words that do not meet the religious or moral values of the United Arab Emirates” blocked access.

Many of the stereotypes that Egyptians have of the Gulf Arabs have rung true. But I think it has more to do with the nature of “new money” than anything else though. Name brands are more important than style. This is true in all cases — clothing, cars, sunglasses, cigarettes, purses, shoes, and wallets. The amount of money spent on these items is simply amazing. And it’s really all thanks to Americans. The rise in the price of oil (and yes, the US is still the biggest consumer of oil, with China coming fast in second) has created an enormous economic boom. Not that I am complaining — this boom is the reason I am here. It translates into jobs, ones that don’t exist in the US.

The Gulf Arabs are a smart group. They realized a long time ago what they needed to modernize. They want what Americans have — big houses, big cars, a good education and safe place for their kids — but they don’t want the urban problems like crime, immorality, garbage and drugs.

So, because they do not have democracies here, their leaders can decide what to keep out. Therefore, the laws are very strict. In addition to any type of sex scene (even kissing) being cut out of all TV shows and movies, anyone who has AIDS is not allowed to live in the country (yes they test you); driving drunk will land you in jail for six months; gatherings of more than 15 or so people in an apartment will land the owner in jail; alcohol is not permitted in anyone’s home without a license; rude gestures to drivers will land you in jail; hanging your clothes outside your balcony is illegal; washing your car on the street is illegal; newspaper stands are illegal (they look too trashy); and in some areas, shorts are illegal.

So what you end up with is very safe, clean neighborhoods and no such thing as ‘road rage.’

The other smart thing the Arabs did was to import brains. Most of the Gulf states have made it very easy for Westerners to come and open businesses and ‘live the dream’ — cheap luxury cars, beach views, and non-stop entertainment. All for the very little cost of basic human rights. I recently read an article that stated it this way — “In Dubai, foreigners have one right: The right to make money.”

There are a couple of effects of this mandate. One, the type of Westerner that this attracts represents some of the worst the West creates: materialistic, near-alcoholic, workaholic, shopaholic, racist and shallow. They are mostly British, white South African, Australian or New Zealanders. Two, the other type of foreigner the Gulf attracts are those from countries where the economies are so bad they have no choice but to immigrate. And the abuse these people experience is some of the worst I’ve seen. They are mostly sub-Continentals (Indians, Sri Lankans, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis); Eastern European (Russians, Bulgarians, Hungarians, Ukrainians); and Asians (Filipinos, Chinese, Korean). The Eastern Europeans are either waitresses or prostitutes. The sub-Continentals are construction workers. The Asians work in the service industry or as prostitutes. And despite the government’s many laws that exist to protect foreign workers, the truth is that these people make slave wages and are treated as such. The construction workers are usually put up in labor camps many miles outside the city and are bussed in each day for more than two hours in some cases. There is no such thing as a 9-to-5-work day for the construction workers. They work seven days a week and they work through the night to build Dubai’s rapidly expanding skyline. Dubai has one of the fastest-growing populations anywhere (7% last year) and to keep up with the demand for housing, there are hundreds of housing and road projects going on at once.

I have seen photos of these labor camps from local journalists who have them but are not allowed to publish them. They truly resemble refugee camps or shantytowns. And the construction doesn’t slow in the summer when temperatures reach 120 F for weeks on end. I read a story some weeks ago about one Indian construction worker who hung himself after not receiving his salary for six months and being told it was rude to ask for it. Yes these workers make more money here than they would at home, but barely.

Another effect of such a young, new money culture is a dearth of arts or cultural creativity. There are two Virgin bookstores and a bookstore chain called MacGrudy’s, but it offers about a quarter of what you could find at a Waldenbooks, which itself is not a good chain. There are zero independent film theaters. There are no off-the-beaten-path art galleries. There are no local alternative musicians. There are two Western radio stations, but they only play Beyonce, Justin Timberlake and Britney Spears.

Having said all this, I do believe Dubai is heading in the right direction. The more the spotlight is placed on this emirate, the more improvements it will have to make. The more businesses that come here, the more the laws will have to be followed. And eventually, the cultural aspect will come. And censorship will have to be eased, etc. That’s just how cities grow.

I can’t end this diary entry without expressing my sadness about the state of affairs in my country. When the historic US presidential vote was announced I was at a party with a group of Britons. The comments were brutal and devastating, including this one: “If the American people were once excused for the bad actions of their government, this vote says that they approve of those actions. They have just lost any shred of sympathy they had. They deserve whatever they get now.”

I am asked over and over to explain the actions of fellow Americans. I have simply succumbed to shaking my head and letting people vent their anger. Recently, a South African friend asked a New Zealander and a Briton to stop bashing America in front of me.

It was one thing to hear anger against Americans expressed by Arabs and Muslims in Cairo, but trust me, the hatred by Europeans and other Westerners is far more bitter and unrelenting than anything I’ve heard from an Arab’s mouth.

Anyway, you all knew that.

“It was a fear of emptiness, fear of the desert. You did not want to cross the desert. All your life, the life of all Americans, is an effort to avoid emptiness. In your country, people work a lot, keep themselves busy, divorce a lot — all to avoid the fear, to forget that we’re born to be alone, that we travel alone, that we die alone. The desert is severe, extreme, ultimate. In the desert we cannot keep from seeing who we are. The desert brings us to our deep selfness.” — anonymous Bedouin, from “The Road to Damascus”

Severe and extreme — two words that rang in my ears as I entered the ultra modern Dubai International Airport after 19 hours of traveling. The third word — alone — came later when I settled in at my hotel apartment of Al Mas in the heart of this city of 1.5 million. Cairo never seemed this big.

The idea of the desert as the final, ultimate challenge is a powerful one. Something so seemingly soft from the air and yet harsh and dangerous up close. To conquer it must feel like beating death.

In Dubai, the desert closes you in at every turn. The Arabs, perhaps fearful themselves, have built every possible distraction to forget where they are.

The little I have seen of the city so far has met my expectations more or less. While Dubai doesn’t resemble any American city I know of, it has managed to out-America us in many ways. The automobile reigns supreme in this dustbowl. The thriving, smelly throngs of people in Cairo are nowhere to be found here.

Shopping centers as Mecca. In some ways it seems like the city grew up around the malls, as opposed to the other way around. Grocery stores on par or better than Publix or Kroger, SUVs and pools, and Chili’s, the Arab choice of favorite American fare.

In other ways it feels very foreign. The diversity is thick. In one day I met an Indian, a South African, a New Zealander, some Brits, an Aussie, a Jordanian and an Irish gal.

The call to prayer in the airport was a familiar and warm sound, reminding me of some of Islam’s comforts.

The mix in clothing styles is refreshing too, from traditional Gulf dishdashas and Eurotrash low-slung trousers to colorful Indian saris.

It’s also clear that the only fighting I will be forced to do in Dubai will be over sales racks. I have already trekked to a grocery store wearing shorts and a tank top. A colleague assured me that the locals have legions of Eastern European prostitutes at their beck and call to sate their needs, so run-of-the-mill Westerners like us are not bothered.

Wish me luck as I begin work this week — and start planning my first desert camping trip. I can’t wait to get out there and touch it.

How do I keep it all? I wondered while listening to the lulling call to prayer and watching the Mediterranean’s soft blue waves framed by a 7000-year-old Roman colonnade, all through a crack in the stone wall of a Crusader Castle at Byblos.

Our final travel destination before leaving this part of the world was Lebanon. We started in super-chic Beirut where the cars are Beemers and Porches and ended in Tripoli where the streets bubble with grime and human smells.

Beautiful, scarred Beirut couldn’t be more different from Cairo — from the openly liberal attitudes of its citizens to the smell of sea air and the plethora of international restaurants and designer shops.

Sadly, this beautiful city, which very much resembles San Francisco, is overly reliant on tourism and its port for revenue. Nothing much is actually manufactured or produced in the country and the years of civil war surely tainted its reputation as a place to invest. Only 4 million live here; some 12 million live outside the country. It is one of the largest displaced populations in the world. (For a great summary of the Lebanese Civil War, check out: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lebanese_Civil_War)

The city’s history is palpable and still raw. Modern, bright buildings are like preening birds with puffed chests next to bombed-out and bullet-ridden skeletons of the city’s old skyline.

The population is extremely literate, another opposite of Egypt. Bookstores with titles in French, English and Arabic pepper the main roads and alleys. I’d forgotten how easy it is to lose time engrossed in browsing bookshelves.

After two days in Beirut, we took a $1 bus ride to Tripoli, the much more conservative second city in the north. From there we took a bus ride up the snow-capped mountains to Bcharré and the land of the famed Lebanese Cedars. We visited the home of the poet, author and artist Khalil Gibran, whose thoughts on marriage Davin and I quoted in our wedding ceremony in 2001. The sleepy mountain town could have been in the middle of Switzerland or Southern Italy — up until the point where we were accosted by a persistent waiter who pestered us for advice on how to get a chef’s job in the US.

Once again, upon entering Lebanon, the psychological burdens of the past two years quickly washed away with the overwhelming beauty of the ocean/mountain scape of a tiny country that happens to suffer only because it is surrounded by evil regimes.

After touching down in Cairo, I was overcome with a mixture of sadness and gratefulness. Sadness that this intense two-year education is coming to an end — and knowing I have merely scratched the surface. And gratefulness that I was tested in a way I never would have been in my home country. Eighteen days from now I will be re-immersed in US culture, for better and for worse. Back to the land of Big Macs, reality TV and rigidity. Processing all I’ve learned, the places I’ve seen and the people I’ve met will weigh heavy over these next weeks.

How do I keep it all?

Where do I put it?

I accomplished one of the last things I wanted to do before leaving this country: A night hike up Mt. Sinai, the site of the Biblical story of Moses and the Ten Commandments, one of early Christianity’s monasteries, as well as the burning bush.

Not an overly difficult climb, Gebel Mousa (its Arabic name) does pose its challenges. There’s ample opportunity for a twisted ankle or busted knee, for example. One of the more popular things to do when you climb this famed rock-covered mountain is to start around 2 or 3 a.m. and reach the top in time to watch the sun rise. A romantic idea for sure — except when you forget to bring a flashlight. Needless to say, our climb was peppered with more than a few clipped curse words, numerous near-misses, and only one true spill. (Davin’s knee healed just fine, thanks.)

The best parts of the hike, unusually, did not involve the peak, which ended up being cluttered with noisy foreigners, supplicating nuns, camel touts and blanket-rental boys.

The best parts took place on the way up and the way down:

• Stopping a little more than halfway up and looking into the utter blackness and seeing nothing but bouncing beams of flashlights, modern-day pilgrims seeking a spiritual experience.

• The black-caped Spaniard who (magically it seemed) kept whizzing past me and then somehow would end behind me again, yelling “Hola!” His face was completely obscured by his long black cape and the dark night, of course.

• The overpriced Nescafe sipped at Chez Soliman’s next to the line of four resting camels while the sun slowly warmed us after teasing for an hour in the morning’s whipping winds.

• The singing, mustachioed Italian nun who must have been about 80 years old and insisted on wishing every new hiker a ‘good morning’ while they huffed and puffed toward the top.

• An image of Davin 20 feet in front of me, silhouetted between two rock walls, in the glowing blue light of 4 am, and disappearing into a turn.

We descended the mountain under a clear blue sky and spent the rest of the morning in a Bedouin camp, alternately drinking chai and napping, happy that the sleepy town of St. Katherine’s, reminiscent of a middle-of-nowhere New Mexican town, was so unapologetically dull.

***

Two other interesting incidents took place during our short stay. While waiting for Davin at a shop, I was invited by an older local man to play a game of dominoes. Halfway through the game, he asked me very nicely if I were Israeli. When I told him no, I was American, he heartily shook my hand. It was perhaps the first genuine gesture of welcome I have felt from an Egyptian.

The other episode was something Westerners may not be able to fully appreciate. Since Davin and I have lived here, we have both quit smoking, casually, seriously, in all occasions. It’s actually easy to do here because of the oppressive air and the gobs of chain-smokers all around. (The Egyptian government actually supports the habit by subsidizing tobacco; local cigarettes are about 25 cents a pack).

Cigarette smoke indoors is just something you get used to in the Middle East (Turkey is just as bad), as much as you may hate it. So, while on the six-hour bus ride back to civilization, there was a handful of Egyptian soldiers smoking in the back of the bus. When we stopped the get gas, the driver, a large, red-faced older man, stomped toward our end of the bus and released a tirade:

“There is so smoking on this bus!” he bellowed. “You are not fit to be soldiers! Shame be upon you! What would your mother do if she knew? You are not fit to represent this country!” And on…it lasted for nearly five minutes. It was loud, brash and melodramatic. And wonderfully satisfying to those of us who have sat there, uncomfortable, miserable, and quiet because it’s not our culture. Who are we to criticize?

The idea of shame and public humiliation seems like a harsh method of dealing with rowdies, but it works here. I have even resorted to it myself at work. We have a photographer, for example, who never identifies people in photos when there are more than two of them. I asked him very nicely every single month this problem occurred. I explained in great detail why it was a problem. I suggested simple ways of solving the problem. After Month Four of the same problem, I lost it. I yelled at him in front of the entire office:

“Wessam, do you hate me? Why do you treat me this way? You must hate me so much to continue to not do what I ask! Don’t you take any pride in your work? Don’t you care about these people? Don’t you care that they get angry if we get their names wrong? Do you care at all about what I ask of you?”

It worked. The next photo he brought me not only identified the people in the right order, he even got their business cards. He brought all this to my desk and said, “See, what I did for you?”

Davin wonders if the idea of shame would work in diplomacy. Imagine Ariel Sharon cowing to Yasser Arafat’s “What would your mother think if she saw you tearing down our homes?” Somehow, I think Sharon lost his sense of shame years ago.

***

I can’t say that I had a spiritual experience during our visit to the holy site, at least not in the classic religious sense, but I did have a curious dream in the wee hours before we started our climb. I dreamt of my friends and family.

You were all there, in the desert. It was misty and dark and I couldn’t see anyone or anything and suddenly, one by one, you all came out. It was as if I was expecting you all. Christy was there (with dreadlocks!); Jenny had a baby in her arms; Brian was carrying a ball; Erin, you were there. I waited until you were all there and then we all left to climb the mountain together.

I have been waiting to write because I wanted something to say something else other than nasty things about Cairo. And now I have something to talk about. Namely, my recent trip to Thailand.

I met my friend Tara in Bangkok where we had two days to see the sights. Not enough time for sure, but we still managed to see some beautiful Buddhist temples, eat some incredible Thai food, shop and witness up close the sad sex industry that seems to work for and against the country.

As taxis are fast, clean, air-conditioned and metered (the complete opposite of Cairo cabs), getting around the city is quite easy. In addition to cabs, the above-ground Sky Train system is also clean, accessible and very modern. Each station is like a mini-mall with music stores, 7-11s (which are literally on every corner) and juice stands. Thailand has the most amazing juice drinks. You can get Thai tea (iced tea with condensed milk and orange), iced coffee and (the best) cold melon green tea with milk.

The shopping is pretty spectacular, or maybe it just felt that way coming from Cairo where you can’t get anything. Remember all those T-shirts you had as a kid in the 80s (soccer shirts, YMCA camp shirts, etc.) that you probably gave away to the Salvation Army? Well, they all ended up in Thailand’s flea markets where you can buy shirts that say “Camp Rocky Mount” with “Megan” on the back. Remember Vans and blue and red Dr. Marten’s, Izod’s, Panama Jack and Dickies? Yep, they all landed in Thailand at rock-bottom prices. The other specialty which I didn’t have time to take advantage of — but I recommend others do — is the country’s ubiquitous tailors. Apparently you can show a tailor your favorite Ann Taylor or Hugo Boss suit and they will duplicate it with material of your choice for around $25.

The infamous sex tourism industry in Bangkok is alive a kicking although the city seems to have cracked down on other forms of sin. For example, there’s a big anti-smoking campaign going on. There is no smoking allowed anywhere there is air-conditioning and showing smoking on TV is not allowed. They blur out cigarettes in movies (although you can see the smoke).

There are a number of streets that are basically brothel after brothel, or strip clubs and massage parlors. Here you will find Thai girls that all look no older than 20 with numbers tagged onto the little clothing they do wear. Apparently they don’t allow customers to point out the girls they want to hire. It’s more polite to use numbers. It was pretty sick. All the customers, to a man, are around 50 and very, very white. We even saw a couple of father and son teams visiting one club after another. Since tourism is the country’s No. 1 industry, it’s not exactly in the government’s best interest to do away with it. They do have some rules. For example, no one under 18 is allowed in the clubs. Also, the prostitutes are not allowed to solicit business outside the clubs. One unfortunate consequence of this rule is that young homeless girls (age 10 or so) appear to be making money by flirting with white men on the prowl outside the clubs and luring them into specific clubs. We watched one such 10-year-old (wearing an oversized Osama bin Laden T-shirt) punching the arms of an army-looking guy and then pulling him by the arm toward one club.

Another interesting observation we made in Bangkok was the inordinately high number of gay men. First of all, Thai men are super beautiful and quite feminine looking, so it is no surprise that many of them look excellent in drag. But in addition to the numerous Thai men in makeup, there were plenty of Western gay couples present. I imagine the country has acquired a reputation for being gay-friendly, so it gets a large number of gay tourists. (All of this could also be a consequence of my living in a country where homosexuality is illegal, so perhaps I am making more of it than was there.)

After taking a short flight out of Bangkok to the one of the world’s most famous island clusters, the real fun began. We stayed for next four days on the island of Ko Phi Phi Don. We got a beach bungalow (with hot water and a flushing toilet) for $30 a night. The next days were filled with extreme sun, hiking, massages by the beach, amazing snorkeling, boat rides, superb food, fire shows, drinks by candlelight, fruit shakes, and more shopping.

The pictures speak for themselves. We visited the beach where Leonardo diCaprio’s “The Beach” was filmed. It is as stunning as it looks in the movie. The clear water offers the best snorkeling I have ever experienced.

By far one of the best reasons for going to Thailand is the food. At the islands restaurants catch fish that day and display it so you can choose the freshest filets. The typical Thai way of preparing the fish is grilled with whole garlic cloves, tomatoes, potatoes and pineapple. You can get lobster, shrimp, crab, mussels, scallops and squid year-round.

And the myriad of Thai curries are too tasty for words. One of the basic ingredients in just about all Thai dishes is chili pepper which means the food is super spicy.

The people are quite lovely. They are much more laid back than the Japanese or Taiwanese, but still relatively conservative (besides the sex workers of course!). We never saw one Thai in shorts. We had dinner one night with two young men who are friends of Tara’s brother. These boys were so polite and gracious. They pulled out our chairs for us, paid for the dinner, held doors open, you name it.

We also met fellow travelers, many from Canada. We never met or saw any Americans, but tons of Europeans of course. We determined the best way to decipher whether someone was well traveled or not was to ask them if they thought Bangkok was dirty or clean. The Canadians thought Bangkok was dirty; the Europeans thought it was clean.

All in all, nine days were not enough. Next time I go I will attempt to add Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos.

Tomorrow is the big day. My favorite Egyptian co-worker, Rania, whom I have written about before, will be married by this time Sunday.

She rejected three previous fiancés after a few months because she did not love any of them. She does not love this one either. But she is 31 and it is time. She cannot disappoint her parents again. They did after all, find someone who “looks good on paper.”

On Thursday she went to get her hair done and she freaked out. She cried and pleaded with her mom that she is not ready and that this marriage will be a mistake. Her mom and her friends calmed her down and told her it’s OK, all women freak out before their weddings and that it is normal to think that you are making a mistake. But you get over it. You accept your fate.

Of course none of us have met her fiancé. Her closest friends have met him once and they say is that he is a catch because he will allow her to keep his job. I have my doubts.

Thursday night I was invited to her henna party. A henna party is the Western equivalent of a bachelorette party — minus the booze and naked boys. An African woman is hired to paint henna designs on the women.

I was the only foreign woman there and of course I showed up too early (I arrived on time; I should have known better). You could hear the Arabic music from the streets, pouring out from Rania’s upper-middle-class family flat.

The room was filled with female family members from newborns to grandmas. The moms and older women lined the walls and watched the younger girls dance. And dance they did, from about 9 p.m. to 3 a.m. They bumped, grinded, twisted, twirled, dipped and spun with wild abandon. Did I mention there was no alcohol?

They grabbed the bride-to-be. They threw her in the air. They spun her around. She was giddy with excitement.

If you were an outsider looking in with your Western eyes, you would have thought this was a lesbian party.

Imagine: Covered, veiled, draped women walk in, deposit their babies into the arms of the Saidi-born help, run to the closest bathroom and emerge sparkling, hair down and luscious, midriff bare, shoulders glittering.

And the dancing. Hips swaying, pelvic grinding. Hands touching, grabbing, reaching for each other.

The whole scene was extremely exotic to my eyes. But for these women who left as they came — covered, modest — it was a normal rite of passage.

And it occurred to me that maybe this is how they deal with the fact that they are entering a life-long union with a stranger, one to whom they will feel grateful if he shows leniency.

The henna party is a release like no other. Here they can display their sexual sides that they cannot show while married. A married lady is too respectful to dance this way for her husband. Who else can she be sexy for? Her friends, her sisters, her mom. The safest, most free place.

And Rania was radiant. She wore a sexy red dress and high heels. With her shiny, long black hair, she looked like Snow White. She said to me she has simply decided in her mind to stop fighting it and accept it, like so many before her.

Her friends made bets on how soon she would give birth, as they laughed about how they each got pregnant within months of the wedding night. Her boss is secretly looking for her replacement, despite her promises that she will keep working.

I am considering not attending this wedding out of moral objection. Not that it would matter.

I just don’t want to see her face smiling out of duty, not of happiness, and pretend it’s OK.

Don’t let the $100 visa fee scare you. While it’s true that the Turkish government raised the price of entry for Americans to $100 from $45 (which was already listed as one of the most expensive visas in the world) after Bush’s Iraq folly, we are hoping it won’t last. Brits and other Westerners pay less than $20. The US has retaliated, by the way, and is charging Turks the same.

People say when you live somewhere long enough you get used to its oddities and eventually they seem normal. This must be doubly true for those of us living in Third World countries. When we left the dirty, hot streets of Cairo on Aug. 29 for Turkey on our first vacation outside Egypt since we moved here, we were like kids in a candy store.

My reaction to Istanbul seems pretty funny to my husband. He thinks I have forgotten what it is like to live in a Western-style world. The people, the openness, the beauty, the cleanliness…the modernity. It is something to behold. This city of some 15 million or so has it all. It has an amazing (and long) history of ups and downs, mainly ups. The former palaces and mansions are certainly a testimony to the once all-powerful Ottoman empire.

Today’s Istanbul is thriving and complete with arts, culture, nightlife, academe, history, beautiful people, nice weather, good food, excellent urban transportation system… I could go on.

Picture San Francisco with its bridges, water and hills. Now subtract the high cost of living (a very good meal here runs about $10-$15; hotel rooms are no more than $20 a night), add cobblestone streets, a skyline dotted with some of the world’s largest and most majestic mosques, about 14 million people, and a heavy dose of Mediterranean-style joie de vive. That’s Istanbul.

I remember when I first moved to San Francisco and my new boss at the time was trying to justify the high cost of living there by saying that it was the cost of paradise, and it was a good way of keeping out the riffraff.

Wrong. Paradise is here. And the homeless problem is nil compared to SF.

And the most refreshing part … no harassment of women, foreign or local. There is some benign flirting, but nothing worse than you get in Italy. It’s hard to describe the feeling of letting go. Letting go of the tight knot in my stomach that twists when I am out alone in Cairo. Here I can walk with my head up, look people in the eye, and not worry if I might be asking for trouble.

We are perplexed that we didn’t know Istanbul was like this. Why isn’t Istanbul as much or more of a tourist destination than Paris or London? In my opinion, it has much more to offer than both of those cities.

One of the main reasons why Istanbul is the great city it is today is because of Attaturk. He is essentially the county’s modern founding father. Starting in 1919, he made bold decisions that influenced the way the entire country developed — in such a different way than other Muslim countries.

He established the government as secular republic, changed the alphabet to Latin, and set up a modern democracy. As a result, the country is modern yet retains good Muslim values. Women here are as free as they are in Western society. There are veiled women of course, but there is no backlash against those women who choose not to veil. There is no disdain of women who choose to wear what they want and work where they want.

Turkey still has some issues such as liberalization of some of its state-run companies, and the EU sites human rights abuses as well. But to be sure, Turkey is decades and decades more advanced than Egypt.

The best way to describe the attitude in Turkey is the way it was described to us by one of the many extremely friendly people we met: Freedom. Turks love their freedom and each person is responsible for him or herself. Hamed, who runs a moped rental shop told us this anecdote: For Arabs leading camel caravans, there is always a donkey that the caravan must follow. But Turks, he said, don’t need to follow a donkey. They go their own way. (It’s funnier if you live in Cairo where donkeys are a part of everyday life.)

The only reason we can surmise that Istanbul seems to be a hidden gem is that American fear of the unknown. I no longer buy the money or time argument. Americans have created that as a an excuse. If more Americans traveled to more far-off destinations, airline prices would dip. Look at how cheap it is to fly to London and Paris these days from the states. Once you are here, the prices are much lower than any US destination. And if Americans in general appreciated travel more than work, we wouldn’t be a culture that gives people a meager two weeks of vacation.

As we walked through the city streets of Istanbul and then headed for the countryside of Central Anatolia and the sandcastle-like cave laden valley of Cappadocia, we kept asking ourselves, what’s the catch?

The truth is, we never found one. You should all check it out for yourselves.

Back on the Cairo home front, there’s two interesting stories of late. First, our favorite grocery delivery boy, who’s about 23, has decided to venture out on his own. He is renting a spot right across the street from the vegetable stand where he now works to create a veggie stand of his own. He told us about the backroom dealings that went on when he announced the news to his boss. Mohamed, his boss, terrified of losing customers to Hany, offered the younger man 100,000 Egyptian pounds, about $16,000. Hany proudly told us “I turned around and offered him 200,000 to buy him out.” When we asked Hany how will he distinguish his vegetable stand from his old boss’s stand, he said: “Simple — by the name. I will call it … Pinky Ghost. You should see the logo I created on the computer for it!”

The second story is yet another cabbie story, but it’s a good one. Unlike the French, Egyptians love it when you attempt to speak their language. Even a simple “shukran,” or thank you, will get you a: “Bititkalim Arabic Kwais,” You speak good Arabic. So last week as Davin hailed a cabbie in front of a fancy hotel, he was quoted an insane amount of money for a short ride. So Davin starts yelling at the cabbie in Arabic: “What’s wrong with you? Do you think I am a tourist? Why are you trying to rip me off? Blah, blah, blah.” The cabbie yells right back in Arabic: “You are an idiot. You are a donkey, etc..” So they are literally both yelling at each in Arabic. The cabbie finally drives off in anger, but not before telling Davin: “Bititkalim Arabic Kwais.” You speak good Arabic!

Today I have been in Cairo for almost one full year. And I am spending my first week of vacation at the exact same place I was 13 months ago ... on the Nile. It’s both sad that I have returned here instead of somewhere more exotic and nice in a welcoming, introspective sort of way. In other words, a good place to reflect upon the last year and prepare for my last year in Egypt.

As for being on the Nile, its beauty is never a disappointment. In fact, I think it’s even more beautiful to me now that I know more about her and her tenacity. Like mountains or any other of nature’s wonders, rivers like the Nile are so much more impressive in their ability to give life and withstand harm and abuse than buildings or other man-made monuments. The sound of water (so gentle and yet dangerous), the lushness of the palm trees, the women washing clothes on the shore, the air, with its 110-degree temps, hugs your body in oven-like breezes. And somehow I am so happy and so comfortable.

My first visit was filled with visions of tourist police, the inside of pharamacies (we got badly sick last time), fear, trepidation, wonderment, anxiety, expectation…none of which allow for much relaxation.

We are here with both sets of parents, showing them the nature’s side of this country. They seem to be enjoying themselves — minus a little (expected) sickness. They have found themselves to be minorities here as Americans. A sign of more bad times ahead for the tourism industry. We hope they will spread the word to their friends about the affordability and safety of Egypt.

This coming month, July, will be my first month as editor of the magazine where I started as an assistant last July. I am excited and conflicted. Working in Cairo has proven to be much more difficult and with so little payoff at the moment. Ideas like teamwork, constructive criticism, efficiency just don’t mesh here. What ends up happening with many foreigners working in Egypt is that the work ethic of Westerners is taken advantage of. So to make up for the fact that the journalists I work with don’t have the same great training as they do back home, I am required to do a lot of the work the reporters should have done in the first place — therefore making my job all the more difficult. Not to mention the fact that little things — such as getting paid on time and having access to the best equipment — is a long, lost luxury. Once you become accustomed to such things as not having enough petty cash to order toilet paper for the office, you have let it in. Those who never let it in — for better or for worse I am not sure — leave.

Speaking of leaving, we have said goodbye in the past month to many good friends we made here. An expat community is such a transient mixed bag of people and summer is a time to say goodbye to many of them and prepare for the next wave. Like an adult summer camp. Many of the reasons for leaving are consequential — teachers don’t work summers; university students don’t attend classes; oil companies give their foreign employees the entire summer to visit their respective homes.

Other reasons aren’t so tidy. We know one woman who is actually so completely frustrated with the culture that she headed to Virginia for the next nine months to learn Arabic (in the middle of her two-year degree program where she is required to take a test in Arabic.) A journalist friend left because he can’t get the American media interested in any of his articles on Egypt. A group of about eight local journalists have left to start an English-language newspaper in Baghdad. Two teachers left mid school year because they could no longer stand the Egyptian classrooms where they were being verbally and physically abused (one was called “Mrs. Sharon” when the kids were angry at her; another got a pencil in the thigh). Another journalist friend is leaving partially because of an overall malaise she blames on Cairo.

This “malaise” seems to crop up in relation to Islam. We met teachers in Alexandria who blame the religion on the lack of a lust for life, or a listlessness not necessairly seen in other developing countries (Mexico was mentioned as a developing country where one religion dominates yet the people are famous for their ebullience.) Karen Blixen, in her diairies of which “Out of Africa” was based, writes about Muslims:

“From what I have observed there is on the whole something remarkably dry about the Mohammedans I know despite their passionate nature; but I don’t know whether this is due to their religion or the race, or perhaps due to the fact that they never drink wine. I wonder whether a nation which is never intoxicated comes to be lacking in the lyrical element in their emotions, and also for instance that corresponding in their sense of humor to what we call conviviality?”

A little too simple perhaps to blame it all on teetotalism, but she also wrote:
“I think that Mohammedanism makes the people who embrace it or have been brought up to it clean and proud and gives them a kind of heroic or stoic view of life, but also that it makes them, to us, quite intolerably doctrinaire and intolerant. As a whole, in my view, it is a dry religion or philosophy of life, and its dangers lie in either becoming purely external and consisting of an endless number of formal rules and ceremonial, or else in leading to fanaticism.”

This was written in 1914 or so and is still remarkably spot-on.

Another reason I haven’t written a diary entry in so long (besides work encompassing far too much of my time), is that this malaise has gotten to me some too. I’m not ready to blame this culture or its religion, though. In my case, it could be the company I work for. But there are bad, bad days for sure when I close my eyes and think of San Francisco and even Atlanta and remember simpler times. Like the day I was grabbed three times all before 11 a.m. Like the day I was told my phone etiquette was “too American and offensive.”

We were also recently treated to some amazing experiences thanks to our last visitors prior to our folks. These good friends from California treated us like royalty for a week since for them things in Egypt were ridiculously cheap. From fine food and wine to a hot-air balloon ride over the ruins in Luxor, we were literally wined and dined.

It was perhaps one of the most luxurious weeks I have experienced in my life. And it’s amazing the conflicting feelings a week of luxury can conjure in a person. On one hand, I feel any expression of gratitude for my visitors’ generosity won’t ever be enough. On the other hand, I learned a valuable lesson — and I think my friends did, too.

In America, money solves lots of problems. From the government down, Americans believe throwing money at a problem will fix it. And why not? Money can put more computers in schools. Money can put more policemen on the streets. Money can buy food to feed the hungry. But even in America, the human urge to cheat the system, to get more than your share, is more than prevalent.

Our friends were discouraged in Egypt when, attempting to put smiles on rural Egyptian children’s faces, by giving them money they watched the kids steal from each other and tell lies. Their display of generosity turned into a feeding frenzy and ended in a swarm of children grabbing and begging and following us.

Money is all so relative. It most certainly comes with strings. I have yet to add to my life the massive responsibilities of children, a house, college fund for the kids, etc., so perhaps I am speaking out of extreme inexperience and naivete. But I learned last month that I am free. I have no debt. I have no financial responsibilities. I can move where I want, I can adjust, I am flexible. Financial freedom. I have always thought that financial freedom meant having enough money to alleviate — if not obviate — financial worries. But it’s much more complicated than that and I think my friends leaned the same thing.

As for when we will leave? Another thing Egypt has taught me is that some planning is pointless. Things do sometimes happen for a reason and by some other hand, someone else’s plan, perhaps. We will start answering these questions ourselves in six months or so and ponder the next adventure.

On my TV on this third day of war around 2 p.m.:
• Fox News: Reports that Saddam Hussein’s body may have been taken out of a bunker on a stretcher. Reports that Iraqis are kissing the hands of their “liberators.”
• BBC: An in-depth analysis of statements made by Donald Rumsfeld that have been proven to be inaccurate and the erosion of Western credibility. This debate is interspersed with photos of the bombing from Friday night in Baghdad, surrendering soldiers and injured women and children in a Baghdad hospital. Reports that the coalition forces are targeting Iraq’s major forms of communication.
• Dubai’s Channel 33 (major Arab channel): “Animal Miracles With Alan Thicke.”
• Middle East Broadcasting, Channel 2 (also out of Dubai; a news channel): “Saved By the Bell 2” and a commercial for “Beavis and Butthead do America” — to be shown next week.
• Iraq TV (state-run, only channel in the country): Covered-Iraqi women dancing, smiling, chanting, waving guns, knives, soup ladles and even a cheese grater. After this “show,” Iraqi TV showed scenes of my city, Cairo, yesterday. The most extensive footage I have yet seen of hundreds of men (not a woman in sight) flooding the streets near Al-Azhar University and mosque and being beaten and bloodied by the Cairo police. I watched as the injured were being dragged from the scene — both bodies of protestors and of police.

The protests in Cairo yesterday were intense for sure. We knew it was likely to happen. The warning signs were everywhere. Thursday I had to take a taxi from my office to downtown. I must have passed some 400 riot police waiting to “quell” any protestors. Earlier in the week, I experienced the first harsh words directed at me. I was a couple of blocks from my apartment when someone said “Hey you American…you better be careful.” A pretty benign statement really. Fridays are prayer days and from what we heard from Egyptians, the sermons would be about war and American aggression. Davin’s appointment to get his computer repaired on Saturday — by one of the few locals in the country who work on Sonys — was cancelled because we are American. The guy said he wanted to make a stand and refused any business from Americans, Canadians and Englishmen. (Even the Canadians aren’t off the hook).

It’s hard to comprehend the protests, honestly. Why aren’t they protesting here, in my very American neighborhood? Why aren’t they looting the American- and British-owned shops and businesses? As it is, it is Egyptian vs. Egyptian. The common man vs. the government. The only comparison I can think of is the LA riots and how the anger there resulted in internal damage. It was supposed to represent anger vs. the white man and the establishment, yet the protestors looted and destroyed their own neighborhood. Why does this seem happen with the frustrated and disenfranchised? Is it ignorance? Or is it misplaced anger? Is it possible that the Egyptian protestors, like the LA rioters, are truly angry with themselves, at their leaders, at their own inability to change their station in life? Do they feel angry with each other for taking it? For not trying to change things?

Perhaps the most frustrating part for us, being here, in the middle of a city violently opposed to what is going on, is the lack of good, reliable information. As you can see from above in my intro, the lack of news from the Egyptian community is appalling. If this were an American city, news crews would be crawling all over the place, offering minute-by-minute updates on which streets were blocked and which neighborhoods are safe and which are not. The Egyptian government — at least on the English-language channels — is pretty much ignoring the war and the internal situation. I realize the government wants to retain control of the city and will crush any riots, and maybe they think that rumors — as opposed to real news — helps their situation. Rumors, always more dramatic than actual events, inevitably grow and mushroom. Maybe it’s by design then. The government realizes the effect the escalated rumors of protestors being beaten and subdued will have on the population so why would they bother elucidating the truth?

March 28

I wrote the entry above last weekend but I never sent it because I was waiting. Waiting for the war to be over by now. Waiting for some major development to change things for the better. Waiting to be able to defend my what country is doing.

I am still waiting. And things have only gotten worse. The casualties are growing. Incidents of “friendly fire.” The murdering of civilians. The capture of American soldiers. The injuring of thousand on both sides. The damage of misinformation. The irresponsibility of the media on both sides. Rising oil prices. The war’s enormous economic price tag. And so on.

My grandmother sent me an email inquiring about my thoughts on the war and asking me to send an objective diary about it. I can’t. I wish I could. But as I said to her, no one can be objective in a war.

Here’s how I responded to her request: “Surely you must understand that no one can be objective in the face of war. No one wants war. And here, in the Middle East, I can see the boiling undercurrent of future problems stemming from this US-led attack. No country wants to be told what to do. Period. No country wants the “benevolent” aid that comes at a high price from the US. We are surely ignorant to think that the Iraqis have forgotten how we broke promise after promise in 1991. Do you really think the Iraqis see the US as “liberators?” The Iraqis are not stupid people. Of course they hate Saddam and with good reason, but having the US bomb their cities, kill their people and then control their government? All under the guise that we are just doing them a favor and that it has nothing to do with oil? No one in the Middle East is that naive. And no matter how much TV airs photos of US soldiers bringing in food and medicine, etc., no one in this part of the world will ever believe that the US is not a self-serving country with illusions of grandeur and imposing its will by force.... I wish it were different, but trust me, it’s not. These people will only hate the US even more after the end of this war.”

Like the rest of the world, we are just waiting to see what happens. And we are very afraid of what’s next. So to answer the one question I seem to get constantly from Americans: Yes, starting on March 20, 2003, I started to feel uncomfortable in the Middle East, the day the US declared itself God.

******

The following is completely off topic, but nonetheless an interesting tale, and will maybe make up for the depressing nature of my war entry. When I started my job at Business Today magazine, our office had a sweet, older receptionist named Madame Selwa. Madame Selwa was a complete sweetheart, always ready with a smile — but was completely incompetent. At least once a week, she would mess something up, lose something or be caught leaving two hours early or whatever. These episodes lead to more lost productivity as inevitably, tearful crying/shouting sessions followed whatever scolding she received.

She was finally let go, but not without drama. There was lots of yelling and crying as she was escorted out of the building. Since that day, we have had no less than four secretaries in and out of our doors. Each of them — young, some covered, some not — quit for similar reasons. One said her parents would no longer let her work so far from home (about 35 minutes from home); one said her family didn’t like her working so late (until 4:30 p.m.); the other two said they got better jobs that were closer to home. These girls were all “good Muslim girls” — conservative and presentable. One of my American colleagues jokingly said, “It must the curse of Madame Selwa.” The Egyptians in the room all looked at each other with big nervous eyes and one of them said, “Um, Madame Selwa did put a curse on the company.”

Our fifth receptionist started last week. Her name is Jasminta. She is the first Egyptian punk rocker I have ever seen. She has a nose ring, multi-colored braids in her hair and that bored look of teens and punks the world over. I guess management decided to fight eccentricity by more eccentricity.

Yesterday on the way to the gym, I dodged pools of blood. Sprawling pools creeping their way from driveways out into the streets. Here and there, a lamb skin. It was the first day of Eid Al Adha. The day before I spoke to three lambs awaiting their destiny. I told them not to be afraid, enjoy the immediate sunshine and that things are the way they are meant to be. Then today I saw the site of their demise. I wasn’t there for the actual slaughter but I stood there, staring at their bloodied coats, imagining how it all went down.

The ritual of the lamb sacrifice has survived for 14 centuries. My unease is moot, irrelevant. The story behind the sacrifice is one of the most famous stories from Biblical times, the story of Abraham and his son Issac. The moral of the story, or at least the moral that has survived so keenly in Islam, is obedience. Because Abraham was willing to kill his son, his loyalty to God was rewarded when his son was saved and God provided a lamb to sacrifice instead.

The morning of the sacrifices, which take place all over the city regardless of socio-economic classes, Muslims wake early and walk to the mosque chanting “We hear you calling; we are coming.” Over and over. Then they pray for a couple of hours and return home for the sacrifices. Most of the meat is given away to poor families.

According to some of my Egyptian friends, the symbolism of the slaughter is pure, unadulterated, unquestioned obedience. None of them particularly like it. They all expressed the same distaste for the idea of slitting the throats of the lambs, and sometimes calves.

By no means I am a vegetarian. I eat red meat about twice a year, but I eat plenty of chicken and fish. I, like any American, have deluded myself into thinking these animals suffer less in a processing factory. Here, where life is in your face, we have cut down on our meat consumption even more.

Part of me admires a tradition that has survived so many centuries. How many American “traditions” even exist? What is uniquely American? Not much except the diversity of our traditions and our differences. Maybe that’s exactly what being American is all about. Being different. Totally different from the rest of the world. Going our own way, global opinion be damned.

Egypt certainly is homogenous. It’s one of the reasons for Egyptians’ fascination with foreigners — we simply look, talk, even walk different. And different from each other even. But there is a certain security in sameness. When I walk the streets of Cairo, I know I am safe. I know that I can generalize about these people enough to say that in general, this city is the safest city I have ever been in. I can generalize enough to say that Egyptian men will almost always back off when talked back to by a foreign woman like me. I can generalize enough to say that Egyptians have an unspoken caring nature and go out of their way to help people.

The downside to all this sameness is that it seeps into areas where free thinking has served Western nations well. Think technology, science, medicine and philosophy. The lack of innovation in this part of the world is dismaying at best.

So why question the slaughter? You can’t. It simply is and always will be part of the religion, part of the culture. A culture of immutability, stagnancy.

How many people do you know who hate their job or their boss or their company, but enjoy the company of their co-workers? And more often than not, they stay longer at a job they hate simply because they like their co-workers? Imagine a country like that. Where everyone understandably hates their government — leaders whose every word is a lie. (A government that regularly lies about the temperature outside because it can.) So in this atmosphere, what do you do? You turn to your neighbor. You are all in this together. You take care of each other, despite it all. Loyalty to each other and what makes them the same – Allah. Where else to turn for guidance when you can’t turn to your leaders? You don’t have role models such as successful athletes, poet laureates, scientists looking for medical cures, university professors. Who do you have? You have Allah. God, who undoubtedly provides the answers to all questions.

Many of us Westerners look at Muslim women and wonder why they don’t stand up and change things. How? Why? When everything they are taught, everything in their lives informs them that things cannot, are not supposed to, change. And what kind of example do we set? In their eyes, Western women are more degraded and disrespected than any other class of people. The media. The media shows Western women in skimpy outfits, women whose good looks are their meal ticket. Even TV shows with smart women … they are still attractive, skinny and sexy. Think “Law and Order,” “ER.” What kind of role model is this? That in America, women are judged solely by their looks. Is this the kind of freedom they want? Of course not. And unfortunately, inevitably, TV is their teacher. The good female role models American women do have are not featured on shows like “Bachelorette” or “Baywatch.”

One of the best cultural critiques I read before moving here was Thomas Friedman’s “The Lexus and The Olive Tree.” I’m sure many of you have read it. I thought some of his examples of globalization were spot-on. And I have witnessed them firsthand, the mobile phone user sitting in traffic next to the farmer riding a donkey. However, after having lived here for seven months now, even I can see how oversimplified Friedman’s book is. Yes, globalization is inevitable. It is wholly unavoidable; it’s not an issue of pro or con. It is simply the ever-moving train of change. However, globalization hasn’t brought diverse cultures any closer to understanding each other. What was the number-one question on the lips of every American after September 11? It was why..Why us? What did we do? Why do they hate us? Only now have I learned what a stupid and irrelevant question that is.

And frankly, the more attention that the West has focused on the Middle East, the more confused average Americans have become. We were watching Fox News the other day (God help us) and Cavuto said something to the effect of ‘We will stop helping you if you don’t support us.’ He was referring to other nations’ rejections of war against Iraq. His dumbed-down message was basically that America pays for everyone else and if other countries don’t fall in line, the money will be taken away. In other words, he was scolding the world for biting the hand that feeds. Is this the America we want to show the rest of the world? Are we that arrogant to think that the rest of the world wouldn’t survive without us? That people (nations) shouldn’t speak up if they expect to remained favored by the good ole’ USA? What happened to the value of Free Speech? Isn’t that what America is supposed to be about? Or does that not apply when people are speaking against the US? You’d expect this message from politicians, but from the “free press?” Isn’t that what the media is about? Speaking up and speaking out?

This sham of a “news organization,” Fox News thinks it’s cute for its talk-show hosts to joke about how to pronounce Iran. The same week of Cavuto’s comments, some bubbly blonde Fox reporter giggled about how she can’t remember how to pronounce Iran. Tee hee. Aren’t Americans smart? Shouldn’t a society that slaughters lambs in the name of obedience learn from us? Or as Cavuto thinks, shouldn’t the rest of the world be obedient and fall in line with the US?

We’ve had two visitors since I last posted. And the two experiences couldn’t have been more different. One visitor is well-traveled and fairly adventurous; the other had never left North America until this trip. It was interesting for us to see our chosen city through the eyes of these very different people, particularly since our culture shock has more or less worn off.

Our first guest has even got the bug, as they say here, and is considering moving here in about six months or so. She is Jewish and believes in order to be a better Jew she should learn about Islam from within. She fell in love with the people here who befriended her immediately. She also is simply in search of a truly foreign experience.

The second guest, well, let’s just say he will think twice about making a trip to the Third World again. I spent some time analyzing why some people take to Cairo right away and why some people are initially repelled by it and I think I have come up with some conclusions.

One thing our second guest kept repeating and would not accept is the fact that Cairennes do not use the lines on the streets when driving. He also very accurately observed that the lack of driving within the lines was somewhat of a metaphor for the whole society — meaning nothing here is done in a straight line, nothing is efficient and nothing seems very logical. And although this is all very true, I think it says more about American society than it does about this society. American society is so rigid and caught up in its rules and regulations that Americans begin to assume that the way it is done in America is the logical way, is the straight and most efficient way. But who ever said driving from point A to point B is the most interesting way? Getting lost or meandering is the sweetness of life. Think how much more you learn about yourself when you are lost or powerless. Americans think only about the most efficient way, the fastest route with the least distractions.

And the sheer fact is that America is in the minority in this instance. Go to Mexico City, Rome, Moscow, Shanghai…there are no lines in those places either, no American sense of logic in the way the government is run or the way society functions.

Another reason why our guest had such a hard time functioning is another result of Americanization, or maybe suburbanization. He said that he couldn’t imagine driving here because when he drives at home he uses the time to relax and tune out. But here the notion of tuning out or getting lost in your own thoughts is a complete impossibility unless you are traveling outside of Cairo. You must be engaged in what is around you at all times in this city. Be aware. Be alert. Your life depends on it. And if you are the kind of person who cannot engage in the world around you and prefer to live in a world of your own making, this society will eat you up.

It’s partly just the age-old difference of city vs. small town. There are people for whom chaos is an inspiration. And there are people for whom chaos repels. And on the other hand, there are people who live in rural areas who find peace with the simple life while city people who visit rural areas have a hard time finding creative and thoughtful ways of entertaining themselves.

I think our second guest did manage to find something redeeming about the city after his 10 days: the people. In a city with 20 million of them, you cannot avoid them; you cannot dismiss them and once you allow them in, you will not regret it. Our guest learned this with the help of two young local boys. After one afternoon with them, all the things he had hated about this place seemed to dissipate and he announced that he might even miss it.

Speaking of locals, Davin and I recently had an amusing experience with one. We have made friends with Egyptians fairly unabashedly, against the advice of some of our Western brethren who prefer the company of their own. One such acquaintance, an 18-year-old grocery boy named Yahia, took our friendliness a little more to heart than we had wanted. We met him some months ago at a grocery store that we frequent. He talked a lot with Davin in Arabic and the result was that after asking Davin for our phone number, Davin gave it to him not really expecting to hear from him. Some weeks later, I was at home sick and had ordered groceries to be delivered (it costs 20 cents for delivery!). The phone rang about 10 minutes before the delivery boy was scheduled to show up. The caller was young, male and spoke only a tiny bit of English. I didn’t know who it was and, assuming it was the grocery boy, I said “are you from the store”? He said “yes, yes, from the store.” Then he asked what I was doing now, which I heard as “where are you now,” which I interpreted to mean he had gotten lost. So I gave him our address in Arabic to which he asked “Now?” and I said in Arabic, “Taban, delwattie.” “Of course, now.”

Some five or ten minutes later, the doorbell rings and I open the door and in walks Yahia who I don’t recognize as Yahia and assume is the right grocery boy. But he has no groceries. So there we are in the corridor of my apartment without my husband home (hugely taboo in this culture) staring at each other trying to communicate. I am starting to freak out because I have no idea who he is or what he wants. He mentions Davin’s name, and the Egyptian Museum. After about five minutes, I just say to him in Arabic “call Davin later but please leave now.”

Turns out he had recently run into Davin and told him he wanted to take us to the Egyptian Museum. So when he called here he meant to invite us to the museum, but in my confusion over who he was, I basically said … “Here is my address, come over now.”

Within the next week, he was calling here constantly and late at night — even after Davin said to him “don’t ever come to my house again unless I am home.” So Davin finally decides to visit Yahia at work and politely let him know that we appreciate his friendliness but that we will call him when we are free to visit the museum.

So Davin goes to the grocery store but Yahia isn’t there. He approaches the orange juice guy and asks about Yahia and says he will tell Yahia’s boss if he doesn’t stop calling us. Davin says “In our country, it is customary to call someone’s home only after many months of knowing them.” The orange juice guy says “yes, yes, it is the same in our country. You call someone only after knowing them well….Oh and if you have any more trouble or need anything, here is my number.”

Davin had another interesting run-in (no pun intended) with a local a couple of weeks ago. He was jogging down a one-way street and thus he didn’t look both ways when he crossed the street. Boom! He got hit from behind by an old guy in run-down Fiat. He went up on the hood of the car and then slid off. Luckily, he didn’t break anything. While he was on the ground, very shocked and in pain, the driver rushed to his side and began furiously kissing Davin’s cheeks. Davin yells at him to stop kissing him and then in Arabic yells, “You look. You must look. You drive bad!” — which were not the words he really wanted to use. His scrapes and bruises have gone and he has finally learned much stronger language to use in case something like this happens again.

I saw a bumper sticker today that read: “SURVIVE CAIRO: The rest of the world is easy.” This past weekend I had my own little game of survival. The weekend was the Eid, which comes at the end of Ramadan and is basically a two-day feast. However, Eid has really come to mean a day or two off of work and leaving town.

I had no plans to leave town and was growing increasingly envious of those who were taking off to the Red Sea, Cyprus or to the desert. So while complaining about my lack of plans at soccer practice, one of my teammates got the hint and invited me to tag along with his mates to Siwa Oasis, one of the five big oases and one of the furthest away — about 65 km from Libya in fact — on the other side of a land mine-riddled desert. Davin was stuck home all weekend with papers to do, so I accepted.

We were 11 and took up four Jeep Cherokees. The group consisted of nine Brits, Andy, Ian, Barnaby, Stuart and Becky, James and Nicky, Andrew and Sarah; one Scot, Simone, and me. The group all work for British Gas, most of them geologists.

The excursion started off with a bang, er, a flat, rather. Watching the boys in their linen pants and boat shoes change a tire was fairly amusing — and frankly took way longer than it should have. Anyhow, after that first bump, we were off without a hitch and arrived at our first campground in Bahariya Oasis before sundown. The first night we grilled out lots of meat, took a wonderful dip in some of the hot springs the area is known for, and listened to the drumming and chanting of the locals celebrating Eid. This was also the night of a thousand questions. It was like “All the questions you wanted to ask an American but where afraid to ask” night. It dawned on me how much the world truly revolves around America. I had always thought the British could care less about America and thought of us as uncultured and uncouth. And, well, they do. But they really care about what we think of them and why we don’t think of them as being just like us. One of them told me most British consider themselves more American than European. So many of their cultural references are the same cultural and generational references I have with my peers.

The next day we went in search of a permission form to drive across the so-called military road that connects Bahariya to Siwa — through the Western Desert. We found a tourist office where the guy promptly sent us to the police station, which sent us to another office with no sign where we followed some guy to another unidentified office where we handed our passports over to some guy and voilá, after 45 minutes, we had a piece of paper in Arabic saying we could traverse the military road. (Side note: None of the Brits have bothered to learn Arabic — leaving me as the best speaker of Arabic in the group … very sad.)

It was also here in Bahariya where my personal troubles begin. I apologize now for those of you who may be grossed out by some of the things I will mention. If you are easily grossed out, just stop reading now. OK, after my disclaimer, I will carry on in indecent detail. I started my period unexpectedly early. This was not supposed to happen until after the trip. I found a pharmacy in Bahariya easily. Explaining what I needed was not as easy. I told him “woman problem” in Arabic and I gestured with my hands what a tampon does. He handed me a box of condoms with a very embarrassed look on his face. I said ‘No, no, mish qwais, no good.’ Apparently, there are no tampons in rural areas because they are known to break hymens. And a woman (read: girl) who gets married and has a broken hymen will be divorced immediately and shamed into spinsterhood or worse since she has no proof of her virginity. So I settled for a box of maxipads.

Off to Siwa. The military road was the scariest, rockiest, craziest road I have ever traveled. The asphalt was so incredibly torn up, it was like driving on shards of glass. Therefore, we had to weave on and off the road the entire time to avoid flats. At times the road would disappear completely and become sand. And we passed NOT ONE SOUL in four hours. The only signs of life were the checkpoints where the faces of young boys in uniforms would light up upon our arrival so seldom do they see people. These boys are posted at the checkpoints for two months at a time. There are two or three of them at five checkpoints. And there is literally nothing for them to do out in the middle of absolute nowhere. And forget long walks at lunchtime, there are landmines all over the place. We brought them Arabic newspapers and bags of goodies. They also gave us packages to take from their checkpoint to their buddies at the next one.

We reached Siwa finally and were exhausted. We stayed in a really nice hotel and hit the hay. The next morning after exploring the town of Siwa via rented mountain bikes and buying some of the tasty dates which the area is known for, we met up with the guide we had hired to take us into the Great Sand Sea.

Amazing. The sand dunes of this desert are so smooth and truly do resemble waves. Driving over the dunes is both exhilarating and scary. Andy made me take the driver’s seat for a while and I nearly froze when it was my turn to drive straight down a really high dune with a 90-degree drop. The guide was at the bottom yelling something at me and all I could do was shake. I finally just went…and we basically slide the whole way. The guide is still yelling and I realize I have the brake and clutch in when I am supposed to be accelerating. I just couldn’t do it. It was so hard not to brake while going straight down. I finally managed. One of the Brits has a picture of me with my head between my hands after leaning safely. I will see if I can get ahold of it. The guide left us off at a place where we could camp out and took off. Another great sunset and star-filled skies.

The next morning we were met up by the guide who led us on more excursions and finally out of the desert and back to Siwa. We ate a local lunch (foreshadowing here) and got back on the road to Mersa Mutrouh, a seaside town a couple of hours west of Alexandria. The town was practically boarded up and we had to find a place quickly. We drove down a road that had empty and half-built resorts all located on the beautiful torquoise water and white sand dunes. We were losing sunlight fast so we ended up pitching our tents in between some empty resorts. We stole some plywood from a construction site for a fire. This was right about the time when I started experiencing some pretty intense stomach cramps. Ignoring them, I drank a beer and put on many new clothing layers as the temperature had now dropped fast and the wind off the water was fierce.

Food – some kind of corn-beef hash – was prepared and as soon as I smelled it – you got it – I got very sick. I threw up about 5 or 6 times. I thought all would be fine after this, but about an hour later came the next wave. Diarrea. It’s very cleverly called iz’haal in Arabic (get it? is hell?). So I spent the entire night getting out of my tent once an hour, trekking up a huge dune to get as far away from the campsite and my newfound friends as possible and trying to rid my body of this scourge in the freezing cold and whipping winds — oh, and praying there were no land mines left on this particular slice of land.

The next day I was no longer nauseous, but still ill. We had about a six-hour drive ahead of us and I was not excited. We stopped at an interesting war memorial and museum and then headed back to the city.

All in all, a really exciting weekend even though I am now stuck with a bad cold from the exposure. My new friends were very understanding and not at all off-put by my sickness. I also learned a spate of new words from the Brits.
Here are a few:
Sunnies = sunglasses
Sannies = sandwiches
Footie = football
Pissed = drunk
Boot = car trunk
Jumper = sweater
Overtake = passing (as in a car)
Cool box = cooler
Totty = a hot girl
Brilliant = awesome or good or great or cool or nice (used often)
Mad = same as brilliant
Sod = a jerk
Daft = a dork
Cheeky = smartass