Love at the Big Top

Remember when I left Egypt in June, telling everyone that when I returned I would be a different, better Megan (read: wash my hair more than twice a week, wear mascara). I had met Injustice Megan in the week before I left and it terrified me. I saw what my life would be if I somehow veered horribly off my righteous path of awesomeness. Injustice Megan has all those unfortunate tendencies that I know I possess but try to avoid: loud, unfunny, unkempt hair, dresses only in t-shirts and jeans, talks too long about things no one wants to be listening to, and on the job front, over-dedicating oneself to something completely lame, not realizing its lame. And so, to prevent this horrible future I made a declaration: I, Megan E. Detrie, am going to get classy.

I went back to the USA for a month, got a haircut, bought a couple new shirts and my first set of decent heels. I was ready for Classy Megan to start making its way into my lifestyle more often.

Sadly, it’s been over a month back in Egypt and twice this week I went to work wearing the same clothes from the day before, I slept on a floor Tuesday, and I ate some spilled oatmeal off a coffee table. Today, I’m not even wearing my clothes, I’m wearing my co-workers, whose couch I passed out on after a party. I started out strong, but I’ve slipped. I’ll say it now, washing my hair is a lot of hassle, I know its chin-length and everything, but man, shampoo, who needs it? You have to lather and er.. condition. Hassle! I still haven’t mastered eye make-up or anything, but I didn’t think I looked so bad. Sure, I’m a little scruffy (read: homeless looking) but I own a skirt from the Banana Republic outlet, that should count for something.

But the continued un-classiness was made painfully clear to me last night. I went to a party in a dress and heels. Did the whole eye makeup thing, styled my hair (it takes three minutes, but somehow I still can’t bother) put the bottle of whiskey in the purse (just in case, you know) showed up and people started crying. Yes, I was that beautiful.

I knew about 70% of the partygoers, and I couldn’t pass a person without getting spun, complimented, or flat out told I asked by I always look so bad if I can look like this. I think I’ve backed myself into a corner. Now the nice-looking thing is no longer a fantasy, but an expectation. Sadly, while I proved I can look good, I’m still a loud, obnoxious drunk. So, I guess unless you define classy as “challenging an Ethiopian to a wrestling contest” or “opening beer bottles with my teeth” or “being really, really sweaty” I still have a ways to go before I make good on my declaration.

I figured I’d try out some of that old Megan charm, but now with heels!, and sidled up to one of the more attractive men at the party, a British guy. It immediately became clear that I had made a mistake when he told me “Well, you know the Egyptian circus? I’ve been living with them for the past four months.” The circus. Not just any circus, but the Egyptian circus. Judging from what the rest of the country’s entertainment in that price bracket looks like (unenthusiastic belly-dancing, the pyramid rides on horses with open sores, bribing the guard at the zoo to let you hold a tiger or vulture) I can only imagine living at the circus would involve a lot of accidental deaths, and spending time with bearded, but hijab’d, women.

To be fair, I bet it’s pretty awesome. Imagine inviting a girl back to your place: you make her some coffee, while your roommate brushes the lions. It sounds sexy. Ultimately the guy was more interested in me for my job contacts than my, ahem, other assets.

Leave it to me to go out, try to pick up a carnie ... and fail.

I’m wearing makeup today, so I’m awarding myself +6 classy points for wearing makeup to work, but I’m taking away 4 classy points from my overall classy score for the makeup being makeup I slept in and then left without washing it off.

World Press Photo

The World Press Photo exhibit is in town. If you're in Cairo, go and see it. It runs until August 29 at the Sawy Culture Wheel.

Never in my life have I felt so insignificant just looking at pictures. There are a lot more stories in this world that are barely being told. Sometimes I think we all get caught up in our immediate reality, and forget about just how fascinating, horrific, and amazing the world really is.

The exhibit was a sharp reminder of why I'm in Cairo, working where I work. There are stories I want to be a part in telling, the present is just step one.

If you're not in Cairo go look at the gallery. Even on a computer screen, it's powerful.

Injustice Day

I've always said, Egypt has a gift of kicking you while you're down. Somehow, on a bad day, Egypt just knows... The cab drivers will scream at you, the kids will grope, the shops are out of everything and everyone is miserable to you.

Last night I went to bed early in hopes of getting a full 6.5 hours sleep (the most I would have had in weeks). Sadly, Egypt figured out my plan and proceeded to send a swarm of hell-hath-no-fury-like-a-mosquito-scorned army to my bedroom. I woke up in the middle of the night because I itched so badly, my arms, shoulders, legs and back covered in bites. I showered, hoping it would reduce the itching, and then in 32 degree celsius (90 degrees fahrenheit) I dressed in a t-shirt, long pants, socks and crawled back into bed. I changed the bug device, lit a outdoor de-bug flare in the corner of my room and tried to get some sleep.

All of my efforts were met with limited success, somehow, the bugs, impervious to my intense chemical cloud, and 5 layers of clothing still managed to attack.

I woke up at 7:30 am covered in welts, exhausted and moody.

Then, the day began. I went out to catch the bus downtown only to find, overnight, for no apparent reason, the bowaab (doorman) changed the padlock on the front gate. I tried all four of my gate keys and none of them fit, I walked up to the bowaab's shed and shouted, knocked on his door, and generally acted annoyed.

Obviously, because this is Egypt, and I was having a bad day, he didn't answer.

I went and woke up my roommate to ask if he had given her a new key for the lock, she said no, but told me the second gate can be forced open with a lot of pulling. I went to the side gate, and sat there jabbing at for ten minutes, nothing happened. I looked at my options, I could not go to work, call in sick, go back to bed and wait for it to be tomorrow (this would've been the right choice) or I could scale the wall in my already slightly too short for the neighborhood skirt, get covered with Nile dust and jump the gate.

So, I did what any foreign girl dressed a little bit too trampy for the extremely poor and conservative neighborhood across the road would've done- I jumped the fence, got covered in grime, and flashed Imbaba.

That's right Imaba, the underwear is red today. I know you all were wondering, well, now you know.

I figured a latte would fix all of this, and while I don't normally indulge in the more expensive prospect of proper coffee, I thought it was my only shot at salvaging the day. I got off a metro stop early, walked to the American-style coffee shop Cilantro and ordered what turned out to be the weakest latte ever.

Warm milk, and more warm milk.

Sigh.

It's only 9:30 am.

Some kind of Egypt justice and then complete injustice America-style

Let's give Egypt a hand: despite the unbelievably frequent use of torture in police stations, the invincibility that has led officers to video tape tortures and sodomize prisoners, and share the tapes with friends (and unintentionally youtube), it seems the cronies are finally getting something right.

Look! The justice system at work! Police enter a home, throw a man from the balcony, man dies, police investigated. It's beautiful.

"Gadallah's family alleges that police broke into the apartment and demanded he withdraw a complaint 39-year-old plumber had filed against one of their colleagues for stealing money from him about week before. When he refused, they threw him off the balcony, the family said Wednesday."

Functioning on the side of the righteous, just this once, the official response was to detain and investigate the officers.

"It's rare you get all the information right after the incident takes place," said Gasser Abdel Razeq, the director of regional relations for Middle East and North Africa of the New York-based Human Rights Watch. "Usually people are tortured and die in police custody and it takes a long time for people to find out what happened."

"Prosecutors are under increasing pressure to act quickly after several reports of police brutality were published on blogs and in local media over the past year, Abdel Razeq said."

Considering the severe oppression of political and religious reformers, its nice to see the common Joe Egyptian having a chance at due process, though sadly post mortim.

You can't help but hope, while being detained the officers get a little of what they are dishing out.




AND BACK IN THE LAND OF DEMOCRACY

...things are barely any better.

God, I really can't pick a winner, can I? A solid reminder of everything that is wrong with Milwaukee:

"Milwaukee police said a 3-year-old girl found a gun inside a home near Teutonia Avenue and Chambers Street and pulled the trigger. Investigators said the bullet hit the 6-year-old in the stomach.A 32-year-old man who lives in the house told police he stores a loaded gun behind the stove and that the girl got a hold of it somehow and walked into a room where two 6-year-old boys were playing.

The gun accidentally fired, striking one of the 6-year-olds in the abdomen and bicep, police said.

According to police, the adults in the house fled with the exception of the 32-year-old man, who was arrested on charges of being a felon in possession of a firearm and leaving a loaded firearm within the reach of a child.

Police recovered the weapon -- a .32 caliber semiautomatic."

Where do I even begin on this one? A loaded semiautomatic behind the stove. Adults fleeing the scene. What the hell is wrong with you Milwaukee?

There is something fundamentally messed up with the freedom to bear arms translating into keeping a semiautomatic in the kitchen.

Lucy does America

I'm taking things a little personally today. Well, I guess that's a lie, I'm taking things incredibly personally today. The fact that I almost welled us with tears when I read that Lucy was being moved to the United States for a ten-year tour lets our readership know I desperately need a nap.

I'm calling it now, those bones will never see Ethiopia again in the next 50 years.

What got to me was that the Smithsonian was against moving the bones, and the government went "Um, well, look, I'm sure you're very qualified to make that call and all, but we'd like to draw in a few more Safari adventure tourists, so... um. yeah."

Hey Ethopia, you're Ethiopia, Americans think Cancun is exotic and Canada is still frontier territory, sending your most precious scientific discovery on over isn't going to make Midwesterners drop their beer and hop a plane to the Horn of Africa. Newsflash, you're in Africa, Americans aren't coming.

(I'd come, I'd love to. But I also own a passport, unlike 79% of the population. Look. I'll make you a deal, Federal Democratic Republic of Ethiopia - You get the plane ticket for me, and we'll have Christmas at your house. I'll bring my mom's 7-layer salad.)