Trilingual Bilateral Culture Exchange

Many people thought I was crazy for attempting to learn Arabic: a foreign language with a different alphabet, totally different grammar, and even different sounds that just don’t exist in English (or any European language).

Well now I am taking Russian, another language with another different alphabet.

So how crazy is it that I'm taking the third language/alphabet in the second language/alphabet. That is right, I am taking a Russian class explained in Arabic. It's left-to-right again, but explained in the right-to-left.

Needless to say it is quite an exercise in toggling. All the words we learn we get the Arabic translation for. However, Arabic is a terrible language to write down phonetics (how a word actually sounds). So I’ve taken to writing the Russian word down with the Arabic translation next to it, but then writing the phonetic version of how it is pronounced in English letters. It creates quite a headache sometimes.

EXAMPLE:

Преподавательница = مدرسة = prepadaVAtyilniitsa

“Teacher.”

OR:

Откуда вы приехали? = Otkuda Vee Priyekhali? من أين وصلت؟ =

Meaning “Where did you come from?”

However, the workout which is switching between my second language and third language while using letters from my first language to ensure pronunciation is nothing compared to the fascinating (and perhaps even more headache-inspiring) experience of being the foreigner in a class full or Egyptians. At first our teacher, as much to show off to me his own language skills as to help me, explained everything in both English and Arabic. This simply angered the other students who couldn’t understand his English. To be truthful I couldn’t understand much of his English either; his Arabic explanations were much clearer. I quietly pulled him aside after the first week and asked him to just explain things in Arabic, since I was trying to learn both Arabic and Russian. He laughed and agreed, though I’ve had to remind him a couple of times since then.

Yesterday he taught us a phrase that means “Repetition is the mother of learning.” The phrase rhymes in Russian so it sounds nice. The teacher explained what it meant in Arabic but then rendered an English translation in his thick accent, “Rreapeating is mother of educating.” I quickly said, “hey, no English” (in Arabic), and then thoughtlessly added (in Arabic) that “we don’t have a proverb like that, it’s better in Arabic.” Of course, in retrospect, we do (“practice makes perfect.”) but I was simply stating the literal translation sounded weird.

However, then my friend Ahmed jumped in, “Actually, that’s not a proverb, it’s more of a saying.” Then, he said (in Arabic) “in English you would call that an expression.” He said “expression” in English. This prompted Mustafa, another classmate, to wonder whether it would properly be translated as “saying” or “expression.” After about 3 minutes of discussing the finer points of how to translate the various terms for “idiomatic expression,” “pithy saying,” and “proverb,” with additional discussion as to which category “repetition is the mother of learning” fit into, we finally were able to move on to the next point.

Such is the nature of bilateral cultural exchange in a third language.

I’ve learned some about Egyptian students. Of course, I’m generalizing, but I think it’s a safe statement that observations which would be considered hurtful or lacking tact in the West are not that big of deal. Here are some of the things my classmates have said about me either to my face or to other people about me.

“Curtis does not have very good pronunciation in Russian.”
“Curtis, why do you not study very hard.”
“Curtis, you are not doing very well, you should consider dropping out so as to not waste your time.”
“Curtis is kind of lazy in Russian.”

It kind of cracks me up, because I’m actually not that worse than my classmates. I pronounce Russian terribly with an American accent, they pronounce it terribly with an Egyptian one. However, since the rest of them are Egyptian and so is our teacher, I’m the one that looks bad. As for the laziness accusation, it is true that I am a little bit less focused. I’m learning more Arabic than Russian from these classes, and am just hoping to pick up a few helpful phrases. The four of them want to become Russian tour guides by the end of the summer.

Of course, the whole tact thing doesn’t just apply to language. My friend Ahmed has also said, at various points to either me or my friends:

“Why does your hair always look so bad? Why don’t you brush it?”

“You eat more than any girl I have ever known.”

“Clay you are very weak in Arabic language.”

To him, these are just statements of fact, objective observations; no insult or shame is implied.

Nor, for the record, is any insult or shame taken. Doing trilingual bilateral cultural exchange can't allow for it.

http://www.egyptianmarathon.net/result%20Pharo%2007/Result-Solo%2007.htm

http://www.egyptianmarathon.net/Marathon%20Results%2008/Marathon%20results-Male%2008.htm

That's right. I rule.

London, Madrid, and Morocco

So I am currently sitting in my budget hotel in the old medina in Casablanca, feeling a little bit disappointed that the weather is cool and mostly cloudy today. My travel companion, Mike Christensen, left this morning to return to the United States. I could not get a flight until tomorrow, the 24th. All week while we were wandering around Morocco I had just figured that on this last day when I would be by myself I would go to the beach all afternoon and then go to a movie. Well it is too cold for the beach and all of the movies are dubbed into French. Honestly, who still thinks dubbing is a good idea? Use subtitles!

Anyway, it has been a fun trip. We started in London, spent 2 days there, and then flew to Madrid for 48 hours before coming to Casablanca. We actually took a train from the airport directly to the city of Marrakesh, where we spent two days wandering the markets and looking at the old desert castles . The big square in Marrakesh is an amazing place, with the best orange juice I have ever had side by side with little open air restaurants serving goats heads (literally they singe off all the hair and serve it up with the skull as the bowl). There are snake charmers, dancers, and storytellers. They are a demanding group. We got charged for 2 minutes watching one guy play his little flute; another put his pet monkey on my back uninvited (totally scared the crap out of me) and then told me it was 10 dirhams. I told him to get the monkey off my back and that I would not be paying anything.

We took an overnite train to Tangier, seedy port of international renown, but decided we were more interested in seeing Gibraltar, so we took a ferry back over to Spain and then took 2 buses to get to Gibraltar. Gibraltar has the coolest flag in the world; a red and white one with a Super Mario Brothers castle on it. It is also a cool rock, towering over the ocean. We could see much of the coast of Spain and on a clearer day might have seen the African coast.

The next day saw us back to Tangier and up to Chefchouen, a little mountain town famous for its whitewashed buildings painted a unique blue color and for its marijuana farms. Unfortunately this charming little town was somewhat tainted by the annoying guide who followed us from the bus station offering to show us around and "protect" us from badgering locals. After 30 minutes of increasingly blunt declarations to go away he declared that he would only go away if we paid him. We told him we would do no such thing as we had told him from the beginning we would not pay him. He finally cussed us out and left.

That night we pressed on to Fez where we had similar experiences. Apparently calling somebody a Jew in Morocco is the worst possible epithet you can think of; we were called Jewish SOBs about 5 times that day as we refused to allow any of the "faux guides" to get their commission by taking us to any shops.

The next day; having successfully angered the guides we were more or less left alone to explore the massive medieval markets of Fez. We also got tours of an old school leather tannery and a pottery shop.

Finally we returned to Casablanca yesterday to see the Hassan II Mosque; the 3rd largest in the world and the biggest that any non Muslims will ever see anything of besides pictures (the other 2 are in Mecca and Medina which are closed off to non Muslims). This giant mosque which holds 25000 worshippers, in Mike's words, makes the Conference Center in Salt Lake City look cheap. It was marvelous.

Any way, I dont have pictures yet for this trip but will post them later. Other highlights included:

-Seeing "La Bella y la Bestia"; the Spanish adaptation of Broadways adaptation of Disney's Beauty and the Beast in Madrid.

-Cleanness. Coming from Cairo London was so SHINY

-Mike getting attacked by monkeys in Gibraltar. These beasts, the only monkeys in Europe, are very smart. While Mike was getting his camera out of his back they jumped across the road, climbed up on him, and snatched his bar of chocolate out of his bag. Another tourist we talked to had tried to feed them; she offered them a bite of her own chocolate bar. After observing her right hand with the bit of chocolate, the monkey darted in, grabbed the remainder of the bar from her left hand, leaving her with the little offered bit. Smart animals.

-Going to a Hammam. A real one. The tradition of public baths has become a tourist favorite in parts of the Middle East. However instead of going to an expensive tourist one we went to one the locals frequent. We walked in, paid, and were led to a dark room with puddles of soapy water still on the ground. Our scrubber proceeded to instruct us to fill our buckets and lay down. As we were getting scrubbed down with the steel wool mittens they use I look over at Mike who was absolutely horrified. He later said all he could think about was how many layers of other people's skin had probably been peeled off with the same steel mitten; and that he felt like he was laying down in what he called "a petrie dish of bacteria."

-Snail soup. Enough said.

-Bastillas. This dish is my new favorite. Essentially a chicken pot pie served with almonds and a heavy dose of cinnamon and sugar.

Anyway, I am very excited to travel back to the US of A tomorrow and see my family.

Rain

January 9, 2008
I've been here in Cairo for 7 months and a week. Today it rained for the first time. It had sprinkled before, and were I in any other city I would have thought it would rain. But today it's raining. For real.

Arabian Holiday I: Yemeni Christmas

For the most part I didn’t think about Christmas on Christmas. After all, I was in Yemen, six time zones away from my brother Chad in Japan and ten time zones away from my parents in Salt Lake City. My celebration of the holiday consisted of finding the only 24 hour Internet café in all of Yemen to participate in our 6 way teleconference Christmas call. It was a miracle that a 6 way teleconference call that included participants in Fukouka, Nashville, Washington DC, Salt Lake City, and then myself in 4000 year old Sanaa was even conceivable. It was a miracle that I found a 24 hour internet café in Yemen. It was a miracle that it worked. It was a great way to wake up on Christmas morning, better than any present.

The call ended around 7 AM, and at 8 our driver picked us up. We had scheduled a 2 day trip to a remote mountain village known as Shaharah, which had not been conquered by any military power ever until the 1960s when they could use air power. Perched atop a 3000 meter peak (9000-10000 feet), the village was only accessible via very steep dirt roads. As it was sympathetic to the rebel cause in the on again off again Yemeni civil war, tourists were only allowed to visit with a military escort. On this day, we were the only tourists. Our caravan consisted of the Land Rover with myself, my companions Aatif, Raha, and Khulood, and our driver Ali. Behind us was a cannon mounted jeep with five rifle armed soldiers. The soldiers and our guide didn’t seem to think it was strange: they did this everyday. The only thing unusual about the trip today was that the tourists spoke Arabic and 3 of them were Muslim. When I told them my name was Abu Saifayn (a nickname meaning “Pappy Two Swords”), they assumed I was Muslim too. I did not try to dispel them of the notion.

Off we went, 3 hours on pavement, then 2 hours off roading until we got to base camp, at the foot of the mountain. At the top we could vaguely make out the buildings that made up Shaharah village. Here we had to switch vehicles and leave behind our cannon and our guide Ali. A new guide, Yahyah, and one of the soldiers, got into the pickup truck that would take us up the steep switchback trail that led to the village. We rode in the back.

Amidst the stunning views and hairpin turns and cliffs that took our breath away, I was struck by how much this reminded me of Utah. Except in Utah there aren’t villages at the top of the 10000 foot mountains, just the little house thinger that marks the top of the ski lift. There aren’t centuries-old stone bridges built across gigantic chasms that make you think of the scene in Lord of the Rings where Gandalf fights the balrog. There was such a stone bridge in this village, built to connect two villages that, though just a few hundred meters from each other, were completely isolated from each other until the bridge was built.

Also, the entire mountain was terraced. Terraced and landscaped to allow crops to grow on the entire mountain. Or rather, to make one crop grow: qat trees.

Qat is a drug that is indigenous to Yemen and Ethiopia. As far as I know it is also only legal in those two countries, though it may also be legal in the UK and Amsterdam. It is illegal in Saudi Arabia and the United States as it is mildly addictive. It is consumed by simply popping the qat tree leaves into ones mouth and chewing. Much like chewing tobacco except you don’t spit until the end. All Yemenis chew qat. All of them. Everywhere you go the Yemeni men carry two pouches of qat: one in a plastic bag beneath their jacket, and one in their mouth, stuffed away like nuts in the mouth of a squirrel. The average Yemeni is very easy to caricature: a galabiyya (white robe), a traditional dagger in his belt, a pair of sandals, a western style suit jacket or sports coat, and a huge protruding cheek full of qat.

It’s a national pastime, this qat-chewing. Yemenis purportedly spend 20% of their family income on it. Millions of man hours are wasted daily because of time spent putting the leaves in their mouths (they don’t take time off work to chew, they just put so many leaves in their mouths while they work). 55% of the nation’s water supply (in a desert country that rains only a couple of months a year) are used in watering the qat trees. Entire mountains, including the one we were climbing, are devoted to growing the plant. We asked the guide if they grew anything else on the mountain, since every part of the mountain seemed to be terraced to grow something. “Nope. We used to grow food. Now we just grow qat.”

At least, in addition to being a caffeine like stimulant, it is also an appetite suppressant.

Anyway, back to the qat-terraced cliffs. We finally reached the town just before sunset, and checked into our little hotel. We were served dinner, given a brief moonlit tour of the area, and went to sleep.

“Merry Christmas,” I said to Aatif.

“Merry Christmas.”

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.