What you need to run 100km on insufficient training:

*Lots of over-the-counter pain killer of choice
*Sweet blue headband
*Lots of carbs
*Vaseline to prevent blisters and chafing
*Ipod with killer desert running playlist
*Personal van and driver

Things better left behind:
*Common sense and a brain

What was I thinking when I set my alarm to 1:45 AM so that I could participate in the 100km “Pharaoh Run” on the outskirts of Cairo? In retrospect I probably wasn’t. Was I prepared? No. I’d been running on the treadmill and a 2km horsetrack. It’s probable that Cairo’s pollution actually renders jogging unhealthy. Nevertheless, “The Victorious,” would not defeat me. I would run the race, and declare myself Curtenkhamen and proclaim a new Pharaonic Era.

After meeting up with my friends, who were running the race as a relay team and each doing 20k, we caught a taxi out to the Intercontinental Hotel and were introduced to our drivers. I had my own van as I was going it alone and my driver, Samie, assured me when we arrived at the start line that he was a professionally trained masseuse. I wasn’t listening at that point, just staring out into the dreary desert landscape wondering where in the world we were.

At 6:30 AM the gun went off. The first 10 km were surreal. I was accompanied by U2’s Joshua Tree album, and it was the perfect soundtrack. A gorgeous sunrise, a chilly fog (both words I would previously never have used in describing Egyptian climate). Was I still in Egypt? The answer was certainly yes as I realized that the fog was actually smoke from the massive piles of trash being burned off on the sides of the road. Kms 10-30 were among the dreariest landscape I have ever seen. It was deader than Death Valley. There must be something out there, though, as there were lots of soldiers on patrol carrying rifles.

Near km 30 things began to get interesting as we passed a random graveyard out in the middle of the desert. Desert turned to green trees and a canal. Laughing children jogged alongside me and made me feel like Rocky, or the Gladiator as that was what was on the Ipod. For a while I took off my headphones and enjoyed the sounds of morning in small village Egypt. The splashing in the canal, the donkeys, the cheering children, the slightly weirded out adults. I got to run with my roommate for a while, though I wouldn’t see my relay team after km 40. It was also the last time I ran without pain. Some aspirin did the trick for a while as I coasted into the halfway point a little after 11 AM, stopped for lunch, and opted for the leg massage from my driver.

The second half got off to a decent start. I couldn’t help but put on Bon Jovi’s Living on a Prayer (Cheesy I know, but it worked). “Oh… we’re halfway there… woooah, livin’ on a prayer…” I ran the first 5k of the second half as fast as any portion of the race, finishing off by cruising in to the 55 km marker to the tune of Garth Brooks “Callin Baton Rouge.” I was going to rock this race.

Of course, that was the end of the good times. My driver kicked my confidence into the canal when he informed me I was in last place; shortly thereafter the pain killers began to wear off and I began to really know what running in pain meant. Then, at km 57 I grimaced into a new village and was greeted by another mass of children. Unfortunately for these children the novelty of running with cheering kids had worn off. Unfortunately for me they were not cheering.

As Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” ironically came blaring onto my Ipod they converged on me, grabbing at my shorts, grabbing at my Ipod, giggling and whacking me with their little bamboo shoots. “DON’T TOUCH ME!” I screamed. Eyes wide, they back off, more shocked at my Arabic than my anger. Like Michael Jackson I was turning into a monster. I felt as though these kids were zombies bent on eating me. Soon enough the whacking began anew. “DON’T YOU TOUCH ME AGAIN OR I WILL SMASH YOUR FACE!” They backed off, but I could hear their giggles. Next thing I know a rock whizzed past my head. Then another. I picked it up, whirled around catlike, and wound up ready to throw a fastball. The sea of zombie-children parted where the rock might have gone, but I chose to hang on to it and keep it prominently displayed in my hand. No more rocks were thrown. I started to feel bad when some friendly children tried to get high 5s but instead got my death stare and a good look at the rock. “Thriller” turned into “It’s Raining Men” (yes I have that song and I like it), and I found myself forcing my way through a crowd of men coming out of the mosque after Friday prayer. I wanted to scream at them that their children are monsters. Stop praying and discipline them!

Emotionally I had lost it. Over the next 20 minutes I bounced between anger, joy at catching another weary runner, pain, and remorse at my not quite attempt at murdering the Egyptian children. This turned to devastation when I finally reached km 60 and MY DRIVER WAS NOT THERE. Dehydrated, overheated, I desperately needed a break and some water to cool off. For the first time all day I walked. Where the hell was he? Had he gone AWOL? Would I have to quit because my driver bailed on me and stole my stuff? What would I do?

I walked for 20 minutes. Then jogged for a bit, then walked some more. Finally he came from behind and sailed past me. I screamed at him to stop, flailing my hands in the air but he continues to go. Didn’t he know that this was way past the 5 km mark? Just because I wasn’t waiting at km 60 didn’t mean I wanted to go all the way to 65!!! Fortunately he didn’t go too far, but when I caught up to him and found him chitchatting with the cops I was ready to give him an earful.

“Where were you? I nearly died!! You’re supposed to stop every 5 km!”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. The kids broke my window.”
“The ones with the rocks?”
“Yes. I have to file a report with the police.”

Speechless, I rubbed my hands with my face and staggered over to the car, emotionally crushed. I was toast. Leaning against the van (I couldn’t sit or I’d fall asleep) I had an internal argument, for the first time pondering the idea of dropping out. I had over 35 km to go, just shy of a full marathon. My legs were aching everywhere, my shoulder hurt, my back hurt, my stomach hurt, and I was as tired as I’ve ever been. But worse, I was on a pace that would not allow me to finish before the 12 hour cutoff: the previous 10k had taken me nearly 2 hours. I opened the bottle of Aspirin and popped three more pills. Was I doping? I was up to twelve pills, twice the daily recommended limit on the bottle (in the end I took eighteen). Who cares? I thought. I’m also running about 5 times the daily recommended limit. I instructed my driver to begin stopping every 2.5 km to check on me and doggedly pressed on.

I don’t remember much of the next 15 kilometers, just pain and the continuing argument of whether or not to stop. Two things kept me going: pride (I couldn’t allow myself to be beaten by some zombie children), and the thought of a respectable retirement from ultra-marathoning. If I didn’t finish I’d have to enter another one of these damn events to redeem myself!

The final turning point came around km 80 when I could no longer run. Not even my stubborn will was enough to endure the pain for more than 5 minutes at a stretch. After a silent prayer I decided to walk one song, run one song. My Ipod stepped up… Van Halen, U2, even Tamer Housny. Next thing I knew I was at 85 km, and had mentally already finished. I even started to smile again. It might have been enjoyable were it not dark, and were it not for the fact that the last 5 km were going against traffic on a divided highway. I seriously thought I might get hit by a truck and go flying off into the canal.

Once sundown came the police forced the race officials to shut down the road leading up to the Sakkara pyramid. So a group of race officials simply greeted me at some arbitrary point on the road (where there was an intersection to the divided highway and a sign saying "Goodbye") and told me I was finished. My time was 11:02:36.

Can you brag about something being the most challenging thing you’ve ever done when the reason that it was so difficult was that you were totally unprepared to do it? Previous mindless capers, including the Cannon brothers ‘guerilla race’ across Death Valley in 132 degree heat, and the 100 miler Massanutten trail run across the mountains, were perhaps more physically demanding, but I was also in better shape. This was my first “I willed myself to finish” event.

However, finish I did. And I’m proud of it.

Backpacking II: Daydream in Dahab (Aug 5-7, 2007)

After 2 months in Cairo and 2 days of the Sinai circus, I was ready for a breather. The little town of Dahab, situated on the eastern coast of the Sinai peninsula, provided such a haven of relaxation. It’s not even that nice of a resort town, but it seemed like the promised land to me after my 40 hours in Sinai.

The picture essentially sums up my time in Dahab: lots of lounging around, reading, sipping Coke or various fruit cocktail drinks, and gazing across the Red Sea at the coast of Saudi Arabia. Not a lot going on in town: the whole city is basically two parallel streets of shops and cheap backpacker hotels punctuated with a couple of nicer places that had their own pools. There are no real residents, no indigenous Dahabians, just transient workers and travelers. August is a particularly slow month for businesses, so I was pleased to find that going out for dinner involved playing the restaurants workers off one another to see who would offer me the best deal. One night I got 30% off the menu price plus free drinks, appetizers, and dessert. Not a bad way to live.

The highlight was the snorkeling; my third day there I paid the equivalent of about $5 for a package that included a jeep ride up the Blue Hole coral reef and snorkeling rental. Not a bad deal, even with the $10 overpriced lunch I ended up having to buy while I was there.

The snorkeling itself was unreal. It was like being on the Discovery channel. My youngest brother used to own a salt water tank, but even at its most exotic didn’t come close to touching this. Blues, greens, oranges, browns, pinks, neon shades thereof, colors I don’t even know how to describe. All I needed were some surfer bum sea turtles and I’d be on a live action version of Finding Nemo. It was like I was caught in an underwater fantasy world. There was one point where I had waxed into a dreamlike reverie of personal oneness with this submarine playground, when out of nowhere six beautiful Italian girls gracefully swam onto the scene, meandering through the clear blue in their cute little two piece swimsuits, their perfectly tanned skin providing a new color to the multihued panorama before me. I was dumbfounded. What was going on? I was torn between being annoyed that they intruded on my nature time and My Finding Nemo daydream had just turned into a Little Mermaid fantasy world. They even swam like mermaids: the curvature of their dives was almost as entrancing as the curvature of the bronzed skin. What was this place?

Unfortunately my little dreamworld disintegrated rather rapidly when the 6 Italian mermaids were soon followed by 6 Italian dudes all in Speedos. It then turned into a nightmare when they were followed by a pack of older, overweight, and slightly hairy Italian men and women, all as skimpily clad as their younger comrades. I almost threw up in my mouth. If I ever become world dictator I plan on imposing age and weight limits on two piece swimsuits and on banning the Speedo in all non-competitive situations.

Grossed out, I decided to escape this daydream gone awry by going to the surface. I was rewarded by a comic spectacle: coming my way behind the pack of scantily clad Italians were a large group of Asians. The funny part was that they were all snorkeling in life jackets. I laughed out loud and asked myself, “what is the point? Just save your money and swim at the hotel pool.” It was a good reminder that, even in this relaxing dreamworld, I was, after all, just witnessing another act in the great Tourist Circus that is the Sinai Peninsula.

Backpacking I: The Sinai Circus (Aug 3-4, 2007)

So I'm finally getting around to publishing my stories from my recent venture up through the Levant, and I figure I might as well tell them chronologically, even though some of the later stories are better. So I'll start with Part I, which was the journey across the Sinai desert.

I was quite excited for the journey; it was to be a sacred experience. I was going with a group of friends from church. We had a lesson on reverence that morning before we left. It was appropriate, so I thought. After all, I was going to be treading the same ground (possibly) that Moses trod. The Exodus. The 10 Commandments. I felt like the Israelites, fleeing from the Egyptians for the promised land. If only there were some way to arrange a redux of the parting of the Red Sea.

The actual experience was far from spiritual. It was closer to a Circus. The Sinai Circus.

It started with our driver(s). I thought we had just hired a van and driver to take us, but when it pulled up there wasn't just a driver but 5 Egyptians. The main driver, an assistant driver, an "English speaking assistant," and 2 baggage boys. Where the hell were we all going to sit? Fortunately the baggage boys weren't coming with, but apparently the law required us to have the other 3. They were there for our safety and their hotel rooms were included in our bill. Good thing too... During the 3 days the English speaking assistant gave us all of about 45 minutes worth of information on what we were seeing, and the two drivers were apparently not intended to spell each other off as we took a break every 30 minutes on the way out to the hotel so the drivers could "rest." The 5 hour drive ended up taking 8 hours. I secretly hoped they we would get to drown them in the Red Sea like the Egyptians of old.

Finally we arrived at St. Catherine, the little monastery/hotel center near the base of Mt. Sinai. We pulled in around 8, had dinner, and then promptly went to bed so we would be rested for our 1:30 AM wakeup call. The idea was that we'd hike the mountain in time for sunrise. It sounded so romantic; I got especially excited when I found out we would get to exchange our English speaking guide for a Bedouin who didn't speak anything but his own rural dialect of Arabic. However, when we got to the base of Mt. Sinai, that was where the circus really got started. We weren't going to be hiking the mountain in peaceful solitude: there were THOUSANDS of tourists going with us. And also HUNDREDS of camels, each with their own tout who would beg us to try and ride them. "Want to ride camel? I give you good price!" "Want a camel ride? Very good price, just for you." I wanted to hike the mountain: Moses didn't ride no camel!

In retrospect I should have taken the camel, if just so I could avoid the harrassment of people trying to get me to ride. It continued the whole way up. Every 30 meters was another camel and its guide. "Want to ride camel?" "Want to ride camel?" "I give you good price. Why you no want to ride camel?" People were offering camel rides up until the last 100 meters. Meanwhile, because so many other people do ride camels, you have to share the pathway with them, which in some spots means patiently staring at the camel's rear for several minutes until the path widens out so that you can pass.

If you're not dodging camels you're weaving your way amongst the army of tourists on foot armed with flashlights. I felt like the entire 12 tribes of Israel had gathered to join me for my trek. From afar it looked kind of eerily cool: from higher up you could look back and see the winding trail lit up by the slowly moving flashlights of the thousands of people who were behind you. Up close the flashlights were obnoxious. They might have been good on a moonless night but with the moon nearly full you could actually discern shadows better without one. However, when you're blinded by someone else's flashlight you can't see a thing. At one point I nearly kissed a camel kneeling on the ground in front of me because I had been brighted by someone and didn't see the damn thing until I was nearly liplocked with it. It was all puckered up and ready to go too. I warily backed up and went around. I swore it smiled and winked at me.

I thought the top would be better, but it only got worse. The camel touts were replaced by people renting out pillows and blankets and selling all kinds of stuff from $3 Cokes to shells and rocks (Why would you hike a mountain and then buy a rock at the top????). The tourist mass, previously strung out over the several mile trail, was now all concentrated in one spot. The poor people who got there first to get a good spot were perturbed when other people promptly staked out a spot just EAST of them. (The sun had yet to rise at this point). There was literally no place to sit. The picture here gives you an idea of how crowded the place was.

The closest thing to a religious experience to be found was the bathroom ("WC" for water closet). I don't know why paying 5 LE ($1) to use the bathroom was so great, but it was amazing... it was neatly built just over a ledge so the waste just disappears into a long drop which is just shielded enough so you don't get vertigo. It was a miracle.

The trip down was slightly better, only because my Bedouin guide didn't feel like waiting (most of our group took the camel option anyway) so he and I basically took the short cut, which meant cutting straight down the mountain instead of sticking to the well worn and graded trail. I couldn't believe him. He was the acrobat of the Sinai Circus,

Needless to say, my Sinai experience wasn't quite as revelatory or spiritual as I had hoped. I did, however, gain a new appreciation for the Biblical text in Exodus that put it all in humanizing terms. THIS is where they wandered for 40 years, with nothing to eat but manna and quail? No wonder they were ready to go back into slavery. And poor Moses. I would have been smashing some stone tablets too, just for sheer cathartic release. I can't imagine spending 40 years in Sinai. After 40 hours I was done with the place.

Of course, when I see the pictures that we took I am reminded that there actually are some really beautiful views there. Even in the most forsaken corners of the planet God made some gorgeous scenery.

Running in Cairo's Pavement Jungle

August 2, 2007

So this week I strapped on my running shoes and became the third jogger that I have ever seen in Cairo. Cairenes in general don’t exercise: there’s basically the expensive gyms at the nice hotels, and a brand new Gold’s Gym which runs around $120/month, well above my budget. During school time I use the gym at the university but it’s closed during break, so I have to find an alternative. After some careful research on the subject I discovered that the only time one can jog in Cairo is between 4 and 6 AM as these are the two hours when the streets are not packed with people and traffic; there is actually room to run and the pollution isn’t as bad, and the number of people looking at you/laughing at you in your silly shorts is significantly lower.

So I ran out, enjoying the relative morning calm and running down the riverside past the Nile to the sound of “Fantastic Dream” by Alphaville coming through my I-pod. The Nile is not as romantic as people imagine it. It’s a good thing Moses wasn’t living today, because if his mom hid him among the reeds of the Nile he’d have a lot more problems than being “slow of speech.” That river is nasty!

One of the first songs to come on my I-pod was “Smells Like Teen Spirit” by Nirvana. How appropriate. Even at 5 AM Cairo is a discordant cacophony of smells. It’s hard to know what is producing what, and even in the rare stretches where I couldn’t see litter I’d pick up a whiff of something that was definitely decomposing. It’s hard to judge whether one is improving his health by jogging in Cairo. However, the mental high of actually getting some exercise is worth whatever price my respiratory system is paying.

The never-changing Nile and ever changing smells aside, Cairo at this time of morning is definitely different. First of all, I did see some joggers. 2 others, in fact, bringing the total number including myself that I’ve seen using the vast expanse of pavement in Cairo for exercise up to 5. I thought I saw a 6^th, but it was just a man sprinting in sandals and his “galabiyya” robe down the street for some unknown reason. He probably would have been embarrassed had he known that I saw him, though not as embarrassed as the other “galabiyya” clad man who was asleep on one of the benches. His robe had ridden up beyond his waist, inadvertently exposing his more private parts. Not a pleasant site at any time of day.

The few joggers and bench sleepers weren’t the only novelty: I also saw dogs. In 2 months I had only seen 1 dog on the streets of Cairo. I was kind of excited when I saw the first one, until he started chasing me. Fortunately he didn’t pursue for long. However, I encountered a whole pack of dogs later: 6 in a row walking up the sidewalk. I stopped running and slipped into the road to give them the right of way on the sidewalk. Not because I feel like street dogs are higher up on the Cairo social totem pole than I am but because, well, they were dogs laden with who knows how many diseases and fleas.

Dogs are a rarity in the feline empire of Cairo. Cats rule supreme, living on every street and in every nook and cranny. One jumped out of our trash disposal just outside my apartment the other day. Scared the tar out of me. I am terrified of cats. I avoid them just like I avoided the dogs, though I usually return their defiant stares to show them that despite my inner fears I will not be intimidated by them.

As I grew used to the smells and morning air (still hot) I gradually began to pick up my pace, particularly when “Hot Stuff” from the Full Monty soundtrack comes on. Soon I was going close to my old pace of 7.5 minute miles, flashing a smile at the bewildered street guards who would me warily until they realize that I’m just a crazy foreigner running down the street. Some would smile and flash a thumbs up, others just continued to stare and nervously grip their rifles. The most confused of all were the rich Saudis who were hanging out in front of the Hyatt hotel. “Material Girl” was an appropriate song at that point, I amusedly thought to myself. Don’t ask me why “Material Girl” is on m I-pod. I have no good answer.

My wildlife encounters continued throughout the morning. This is really an urban jungle. The strangest meeting was with a weasel. Arabs call this animal “Ibn ‘irs”, or “son of the bridegroom.” Strange that this animal would come from the same root as the word for wedding. But I digress. I also ran into a bird. Yes. I was going that fast. The bird flew out of the tree and actually hit me. It, needless to say, startled me but I must not have hurt the bird too bad as it kept right on flying. I felt a rush of pride that I had hit a bird and outran a dog. My next animal victim was a donkey. To the donkey’s credit he didn’t know we were racing, and he did have a cart full of vegetables and a driver to pull. And he didn’t have Guns n’ Roses playing in his I-pod. However, I still destroyed him in our race.

Even at 5 AM people laugh at the crazy foreigner in shorts. They’re even more bewildered when I answer their comments in Arabic. “He’s American, but he speaks Arabic!” is a regular comment from young men whom I pass. As I said, I don’t’ know if this is actually helping my health or hurting it. However, I’m determined to participate in at least 1 marathon this year in Luxor; and perhaps a second either in Athens or the “Pharoah Run” amongst the Pyramids. So laugh away, Egypt.

Total War

The war for my kitchen opened a new front this week as Bug-Qaeda hit my stove. It was unbelievable. The little cockroach dodged my attempted smash and went right into the little hole under the stove top. Which wouldn't have been that unbelievable except that the stove was LIT. I thought it was a dumb move, or perhaps a suicide maneuver, until about 60 seconds later the little bugger EMERGED from the lit stovetop. Of course he wasn't able to dodge me again, and I took particular pleasure in crushing him between my paper-towel covered fingers. Still, it worries me that I am fighting an enemy that can apparently walk through fire.

The first incidents happened about a week after we moved in as we discovered a couple of little cockroaches that liked to crawl around the garbage can. I had recently learned the Arabic verb for smashing bugs and excitedly put it to use as I eagerly grabbed a wad of toilet paper and began "Dooss"ing the three that I saw. When I didn't see any more for a couple of days I figured that was the end of it. My roommate and I instituted a "take out the trash every day" rule, so that no food would accumulate in the trash can.

But the incidents began to happen more frequently. At first I simply used their appearance as an opportunity to indulge my Napoleon complex and exert my authority over them. It feels really good to "Dooss" bugs. Still, I realized more thorough security techniques would have to be installed to protect my American way of life in Cairo, especially when I woke up one morning to find that my roommate had left a couple of unwashed dishes out in the sink. There were at least 5 bugs enjoying the feast of scrambled egg remnants, the most I had ever seen at one time. With swift fury I did away with them and washed the dishes. When my roommate returned that night I informed him that I had unilaterally imposed a new law: all dishes must be washed before going to bed and before leaving the house. If you don't have time to do the dishes, you don't have time to eat in. He ratified the already in-force law to save face, though it would take another deadly battle for him to realize the seriousness of the matter: two days later he again left out some dishes (this time with the remnants of his Nutella sandwich). This time after driving off the scavengers I took three of the casualties and left them in his favorite tea-cup to greet him when he got home.

However, I also realized that other, more aggressive, counterinsurgency measures would have to be taken, so I began to look for patterns on when they appeared and where their hideouts were. I noticed that they came out in droves whenever I turned on the hot water: as the water began to heat they would emerge from small little cracks in the wall where the hot water pipe came through. They were fleeing the heat from the pipes! Haha, I thought with a jolt of glee. I know how to flush them out. I set traps: I would turn the hot water on, plug the sink, and then simply sweep them as they came out straight down into the water: they died on contact with any water hotter than 50 degrees Celsius. I could get 5-10 at a time this way.

Nevertheless, this wasn't a war I was going to win in this matter, killing a couple of bugs here, and a couple there, so I invested in more serious weaponry, buying a canister of bug poison. This is a problem lots of people struggle with in Cairo, so it was not difficult to find the anti-bug stuff. In fact, they had several different kinds at the store. One for flying bugs, one for cockroaches, one for ants. I returned home and stuffed the tube into the area where the hot water sink pipe came in and sprayed away. Next I thoroughly doused the area below the sink as intelligence sources had shown this to be a favorite entrypoint as well.

The War on Bugs continues, though I have definitely learned the most important techniques and measures to take so that the bugs will never threaten my freedom and values. In fact, I am becoming a cleaner person because of the war. Never before have I bought so many items to keep everything clean: brooms, mops, squeegies, marble sanitizer. So don't worry mom, in spite of the fears reading this may cause you, take comfort in knowing that your son now sweeps and mops his kitchen on a regular basis of his own free will and choice.

I keep trying to search for an "authentic cultural experience" but keep wondering if such a thing really exists. The world is blending everything. You can order in McDonalds from anywhere in Cairo. But then you can also get "fuul" sandwiches on any block for less than a dime apiece. The large "khan al-khalili" the massive marketplace in Islamic Cairo, still sells spices and cloth for whatever price you can bargain, but at the same time you have motorcycles cruising through the narrow streets, and the nicest blankets have the discrete label "made in China" on them.

Such cultural blending comes out even in so-called "high culture." The last two weeks I've been to two concerts: the first an "oud" concert where a man played the guitar-esque instrument of that name backed by a 15-20 piece orchestra consisting of violins, guitars, cellos, synthesizers, drums, and flutes. The second was a Sufi dance. Yet in both cases they seemed to be targeted at foreigners. The first had a lot of upper-middle class Egyptians in attendance but the second had almost no Egyptians. It made me realize that the average Egyptian probably knows no more about the "oud" or the Sufi dance than the average American knows about classical violin or ballet. The only ones that know anything are the educated, and even those only go to such events on occasion.

Nevertheless, that being said, these were definitely unlike anything I had ever attended. The first was a weird mix of the classical and the modern, the popular and the elitist, the Egyptian and the foreign. The whole band was dressed to the nines, wearing suits and tuxedos. Many in the audience were as well, but my fears of being underdressed in slacks and a collar shirt were allayed when a group of teenager boys came in wearing sleeveless t-shirts. The instruments were half Egyptian, with the "oud" being the centerpiece, but amidst the drums and flutes were violins, cellos, and a synthesizer. In spite of the relatively formal nature of the concert, the silent reverence assumed at symphonies in the West was never present. People would talk and laugh during the song, get up and leave in the middle of a piece. The sound system was so loud you could hear anyway. Every now and then the crowd would spontaneously start singing the words to the song, even though nobody on stage was singing. Apparently they were playing instrumental versions of well known songs from Egyptian legends like Umm Kalthoum.

The second event was, in content, even more non-Western: no western instruments or dress styles. However, the crowd was almost 100% tourists from Europe and America. The Sufi dances are not necessarily Egyptian: Sufism is a school of thought (or multiple schools of thought) within Islam that tends to emphasize a more spiritual side of Islam and personal relationship with God. They are respected (or sometimes reviled, as in Saudi Arabia) for their closeness to God and are known for their dances. The term whirling dervish comes from the "darwiish" who spins as part of the dance.

Anyway, as I was wandering through the crowded market at Khan al-Khalili (itself a classic example of the blurred line between Egyptian and international), a man yells at me in English that he has good prices on his cloth. I reply in Arabic that I appreciate it but am not interested. He then asks if I would like to see a Sufi Dance. I was in automatic "no thanks" mode at that point, not even listening to what it was he was offering, but my friend Ibrahim was interested, so he replied yes. We were directed to a free Sufi concert in a hidden concert hall down one of the back alleys of the Khan.

Once in there, it was a sight to behold. A multiple piece "band" playing away on their drums, flutes, and other instruments for which I don't have a name. One man singing what I can only assume to be Quranic verses or other hymn-like praises into the microphone. Seven dancers in the front dancing in circles. Then out comes the "dar-wiish" who spins non-stop for about 15 minutes. Sometimes going slow, sometimes fast. He is wearing a colorful outfit with 3 "skirts" that flare out as he spins, creating a kind of saucer. Midway through the first piece he unhitches one of the skirts and raises it over his head; it is now simply a large doughnut shaped cloth that he spins, sometimes with one hand, sometimes with two. The thing is massive. It is amazing that he is spinning himself but spinning the cloth at an entirely different speed, yet all in rhythm to the drummers and flutes who sometimes speed up, sometimes slow down. After a while he, still spinning, folds up the circular cloth and hands it to one of the other dancers who discretely disposes of it to a backstage hand. During the second song this is repeated with the next "skirt," which is removed over his head as he whirls it.

Following this act the finale was a triple set of "whirling dervishes" who all spun in sync but would do the same dance, spinning ceaselessly for probably 15 minutes with no sign of dizziness or fatigue. The central on of the three was the only one out of the entire group, including the instrumentalists, who was not wearing a distinctive white scarf on his head that is emblematic of one who is "taSowwuf" (Sufi). He had long stringy curly hair that would flap into his face every time he spun. Almost the entire time he had this silly grin on his face that seemed to come not as a sign directed at the audience that he was entertaining them, but a grin that seemed to come from the fact that he had no idea anyone was watching him, but was simply having an intensely pleasureable experience.

However, the strangest part of all this was that there were very few Egyptians present. The hall was full of people who were obviously tourists. How bizarre, I thought. All of these people must be going home and telling stories about how they went and saw a "real" Sufi dance, but at the same time, the whole thing was set up as entertainment for visitors. I kept expecting them to have an "exit fee," since there was no charge for admission. There had to be some catch.

Perhaps I was simply skeptical because less than an hour before my friend and I had gotten herded into a different tourist trap where they served us each a can of Sprite that cost 10 LE. That amounts to $1.80 for a can of Sprite, a price you only see at expensive restaurants and out of the way resorts. I couldn't believe it; it was 5 times more than I'd ever paid for such a product in Egypt and 10 times more than what I usually paid. I was furious, but they brought out the menu and sure enough, that was the price.

Such a trap was not waiting for me at the end of the Sufi dance, but as I walked out, still in awe of how those dancers could spin those heavy cloth skirts, and spin themselves, and not die of dizziness, I was left wondering: is there such a thing as "authentic culture" anymore?

Sunday, July 1, 2007



Irony. I experienced it on so many levels yesterday.



After a month in Egypt an American style barbeque sounds amazing, so I pony up and take a taxi ride out to Wadi al-Degla, a valley just outside the rich suburb of al-Maadi. And what a spectacle it is. An American Independence Day celebration,being held at a British (yes, British) International School in Cairo. The school compound is located way out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by gigantic desert hills that have absolutely no sign of life on them, except for the random pieces of trash and litter, indications that somebody at least had seen fit to walk there. It actually reminds me of the Salt Lake County dump that I used to drive out to when I had to empty my truck full of branches and weeds after a day's worth of yard cleanup. But this isn't a dump. This is the outside edge of Cairo.



I digress. Oh yeah. Did I mention that this Independence Daycelebration is at a British school? Didn't we get our Independence byfighting a war with Britain? Then again, I think to myself as I look back out the taxi window tothe trash ornamented desert hills, we are in Egypt, and we might as well celebrate together. The freedom we Americans cherish is, after all, an idea we inherited from Britain. We pull in to the first check point of hired Egyptian security, who request that the driver leave his license as collateral and have me show my American passport. A hundred yards later there is another check point, who have me once again show my passport and have the Egyptian driver show some other means of ID. Finally we pull up to the entrance of the school, heavily guarded by various branches of theEgyptian armed forces. I jump out, hand my taxi driver the fare, and walk in. I am asked to show my passport two more times and pass through a metal detector. I think, what the hell kind of celebrationof freedom is this? There is more security here than at the airport!



After getting past the guards I find myself in a surreal, almost dreamlike celebration. There is a huge American flag draped down theentire wall of on of the compound buildings. Under the giant tent there are families eating away on hot dogs, BBQ sandwiches, potato salad, and "Dominos Arabia" pizza. The tables are decorated withred,white, and blue tablecloth and dozens of mini-American flags. Aloudspeaker is set up playing various patriotic tunes. There aregiant blow up slides and a bungee cord trampoline set up to entertain people. All of a sudden I was back in America.



Of course, I'm not, as the giant sign labeled "PORK" reminds me that I the food is from the US State Department Comissary (pork, forbidden by Islam, is largely unavailable in Egypt). I walk past the food to theedge of the compound and look through the giant iron bars to see acouple of Egyptian soldiers standing on the road outside the complex, smoking their cigarettes and tossing them out to join the desert trash. How bizarre.



Needless to say I thoroughly enjoy myself. Before the night is over I stuff myself full, eating a couple of burgers, at least an entirepizza worth of Dominos Arabia, and at least trying a little bit ofeverything. After a month of being quite cautious about mosteverything I eat, it's nice to be able to enjoy a little "freedom."



I'm surprised to discover as I peruse the program that I know the lady in charge from church. Ah, I think to myself. No wonder this has the feel of a Mormon Ward BBQ. I scan the list of thank yous and realize that some 60% of the people in charge of planning the event go to church with me. My entire church community is here wearing the distinctive volunteer T-shirts and running all the games. The Brunets are incharge of the kid games. The Bartons are in charge of Bingo. The Gerbers are handing out raffle prizes to the people whose wristband number is randomly selected. After eating I stroll over to check itout and am surprised to see my number up there. Congratulations, Sister Gerber says and she hands me a bag. I look inside. It's a bright pink "Rock Angel" T-shirt from the Hard Rock Cafe in Cairo. Awesome. I'm really excited about it, especially since I didn't winanything in Bingo. I show it off laughingly to a couple of friends, but then I am asked by the parents of a little girl whether I want to trade, as she is a little bit disappointed at having won a big black Hard Rock long sleeve T-shirt with flames going up the sleeves. I am ashamed to realize after a short inner debate that I don't want togive up the pink shirt: I will actually wear it more often than I will the black one. However, the girl is clearly distraught, so I reluctantly part with the Rock Angel shirt for the long sleeve black one.



I'm of course recruited to help out, and am asked to man the admissions desk. Which is sweet because I get one of the volunteer shirts with the big red white & blue flag on it. Just the sort of thing you want to wear around Cairo. However, this is my first time being a real security guard, so I'm kind of excited. I eagerly ask for people's passports and wristbands as they come in. Then Matt, the ward clerk who is in charge of admissions informs methat if I see any guys that walk confidently in and look like they'refrom the Egyptian mafia to just leave them alone, especially if they know any of the 10 or so Egyptians with guns standing just inside themetal detector. It's only the confused looking foreigners who don't look like they know where to go that we need to check their ID and make sure they don't sneak in.



I'm joined at the security desk by Frederic, a Parisian Mormon who hasreceived special dispensation to join us, and Pita and Tasi, the NewZealand couple who took me in for a few days while I was searching for an apartment. We're like the Mormon mafia, in league with the Egyptian mafia to protect the American expat community.



As I'm sitting there I look out at all the Egyptian security forces that we've hired. All told there are probably 100 of them spread outbetween the metal detector and the outer security checkpoints. Then suddenly it occurs to me that this isn't a celebration of freedom. This is a celebration of American wealth. The only reason we're having this party is because as Americans we can afford to hire 1 Egyptian security person for every 3-5 people in attendance at the party. We can afford to bring in an all you can eat meal consisting entirely of imported American staples. We can afford to rent theBritish International School (probably chosen for its remote securelocation) to throw a party celebrating our independence from Britain. I forget: are the British trying to win their independence from us now?



The evening concludes with me riding the metro, stuffed to the brim with pizza, pondering the irony of what I have just witnessed. A 4th of July party in a British School in Cairo, guarded heavily by Egyptian mercenaries. I drift off to sleep with the smell of BBQ still in my nostrils.



However, the irony is not finished, as I am rudely awakened a couple of hours later by an intense an urgent need to go to the bathroom. I end up spending the majority of the night perched upon my porcelain throne, staring sleepily at the white tile and pink bathtub below me. I have never experienced such diarrhea. Yes, after a month in Egypt, I have finally gotten sick. Who knew it would be from the food from the American Comissary?

Thursday night for the first time I felt the thrill of passing for alocal. On the phone anyway. I was sitting in the passenger seat ofmy taxi driver, Ziad, at around 12:45 AM. It's a longer ride, from the shadow of the pyramids back to downtown. I am hoping to get some practice in so I make several attempts at conversation; however, Ziad doesn't really seem to by talkative. After a short conversation about how he has been to Boston but wasn't really impressed, we both fellsilent and that seemed to be it. He doesn't seem to be intrigued that I speak Arabic, and I am too tired to continue to press him. So I turn to the right and gaze out at the poor neighborhoods we are passing and then the Nile as we turn north onto the Corniche running right along the river.





Then his phone rings. He picks it up, looks at the caller ID, grunts, and ignores it. A minute later it rings again. Again with a huff he presses ignore. After the third time he checks his watch and turns to me.





"Do you know how to answer the phone?" he asks in Arabic.





"Yes, of course I do," I respond, thinking how Americans invented the telephone.





"What do you say?"





"You pick it up and say, 'hello?'" I say, wondering where this is going.





"OK. She's going to call again in exactly 10 minutes. I want you topick up my phone and tell her I'm asleep."





"OK," I say, my curiosity still not quite satiated.





"If she asks who you are, tell her you're my cousin and that I'll call her back in the morning."





I think to myself, "Are you serious?" But then say, "So who is this that I'll be talking to?"





"My fiancee."





"Why don't you just answer and talk to her?"





"We're mad at each other."





With a chuckle I inwardly reflect that I'm not sure how I feel about this. On the one hand, I find it quite amusing that I am being asked to pose as my taxi driver's cousin. On the other, I don't want toget involved in this domestic dispute.





Sure enough, 10 minutes later the phone rings again. The taxi driverturns to me.





"You ready?"





I nod and take the phone from him. "Hello?" I speak into the phone.





"Who is this?" an angry sounding female voice shouts into the phone in Arabic."This is Ziad's cousin." I respond quickly, trying hard not to giggle. I feel like a little kid who is prank calling the neighbor girl on whom he has a crush. I look over at Ziad, who shows no sign of amusement.





"Who?"





"This is Ziad's cousin."





"What's your name?"





I momentarily freeze as this wasn't part of the game. "Khalid." I mumble. She doesn't hear me. "Khalid," I repeat again. "My name isKhalid."





"Give me Ziad," she says, still clearly unimpressed but apparently buying it.





"I'm sorry but he's asleep," I say, wondering if she can hear the sound of the wind rushing in my window as we cruise across the Tahrir Street bridge going past Zamalek.





"He's asleep?" she says, sounding skeptical.





I again look outside, gaging our speed to be around 90 km/hour. I almost have to yell it to be heard. "Yeah, he's sleeping. He'llcall you back in the morning." Heck, it wasn't my problem.





"Where are you?" she asks.





Gulp. "Um, my apartment." Right then one of the passing cars decides for no particular reason to punctuate his passing with a loud horn.





"Where?" she repeats. I have to cover my ear to hear her.





"My apartment. I live downtown and I'm outside on my balcony." Nice recovery! I inwardly congratulate myself.





"OK. Tell him to call me in the morning."





"OK. Thanks, have a good night."





"Bye."





"Bye." I hand the phone back to Ziad, who nods in approval.





"You told her Iwas asleep?"





"Yeah, I told her you were asleep and that you'd call her back in themorning."





"And you told her that you were my cousin?"





"Yep. And that my name was Khalid."





"Khalid?" he says, looking at me for a moment.





"Yeah, I told her my name was Khalid."





For the first time a trace of a smile once again steals across his face as he nods in approval, then he returns to his frown and the heavy silence within the car resumes. I turn back and notice that another car has passed us while Ziad slows down to avoid a rough patch of road. I find myself thankful on the one hand that for once I actually have a careful driver,though I'm also annoyed because I'm kind of tired and want to get home quickly.





"How long have you been engaged?" I ask.



"A year."



"And when's the wedding?"



"End of July." Wow. Hope he gets whatever this problem is worked out.



"Congratulations in Shaa Allah," I say, adding the obligatory phrase"God willing" always used for any future event in Arabic, though this time I find in being additionally meaningful and appropriate.



"Thanks," he says.T he next 5 minutes are spent in silence as I ponder his impending marriage in gloom, reflecting on how I hope never to use random strangers to avoid speaking with my fiancee.



Then all of a sudden, as we pull up to the corner where I need to get out, I think to myself: Wait a minute, I just pretended to be an Egyptian, and kind of got away with it. Is this cat thinking my Egyptian's good enough to pass on the phone, or was he so desperate to just have his fiancee get off his case for the night that he just didn't care that the lie would be so obvious since I was clearly not even Arab. Before I can ask, we are there, and with the rush of Cairo traffic I have to hurry to get out of the car and pay him my fare. He drives away and I'm left alone standing in the midst of the midnight crush in Midan al-Tahrir (Freedom Square), amidst thousands of Cairenes just getting their Thursday night started. After a moment I turn and start walking towards my apartment, which is mercifully tucked away in one of the sidestreets a couple of blocks away from the main square. Within ten minutes of walking into my apartment I am fast asleep.