Active Culture

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2010-04-29T15:26:00.001+03:00

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I'm still doing that other thing.

2008-03-04T09:55:00.001+02:00

500andcounting.blogspot.com

Go there!

Um. In other news, I forgot why I opened this site to post. Shit.

I think I'll call them Sparky, Motsy, Philip, Professor Wikipedia, Rex....

2007-11-21T10:20:00.000+02:00

I think we all know, I am not the classiest of girls. On any given day you'll find me wearing whatever I fell asleep in, which is usually what I was wearing the day before. (I'm kidding! I only fall asleep in my clothes 4 times a week, and I typically change in mornings. Though its getting cold and even that's starting to seem less important.)

So when I moved onto the boat of luxuriant hedonism, I expected it to be, well, a luxuriously hedonistic lifestyle. I assumed I would have to invest in a fur bathrobe and Paris Hilton-esque sunglasses, and spend my nights sipping Italian wine while coyly flirting with Arabian princes on the balcony. No luck, sadly no sheiks have made their way to the Imbaba slum district, surprising I know!

However, I quickly learned that houseboats on the Nile are buggy. Looking like I was raised in Canada by lumberjacks means that it didn't take long for me to not be bothered by the bugs. But this weekend I realized that comfortableness that has developed might be too extreme. I woke up and went out to the balcony to have my morning tea, only to see my roommate had dropped a tablespoon of peanut butter on the ground, my immediate thought was "I should clean that up." Then, I thought "Nah, the ants will get it."

Couple hours later, the peanut butter was just a slight oil stain.

That's right. I treat the bugs like they are the house dog. Well, I've always wanted a pet in Cairo, I suppose.

Coming up with names for all of them is going to be a hassle though.

School-yard rules

2007-11-12T11:21:00.000+02:00

A little behind the rest of the world, I've been reading Thomas Friedman's "From Beirut to Jerusalem," beyond being a wonderfully well-written insightful though obviously sided account of the 70s and 80s in the Middle East its gotten my wheels turning again about this region.

Friedman's Op-Ed for the New York Times this week makes an interesting argument- that democracy may not be as important diversity. Respecting others rights, after all, is a keystone of democracy.

The very essence of democracy is peaceful rotations of power, no matter whose party or tribe is in or out. But that ethic does not apply in most of the Arab-Muslim world today, where the political ethos remains “Rule or Die.” Either my group is in power or I’m dead, in prison, in exile or lying very low. But democracy is not about majority rule; it is about minority rights. If there is no culture of not simply tolerating minorities, but actually treating them with equal rights, real democracy can’t take root.

But respect for diversity is something that has to emerge from within a culture. We can hold a free and fair election in Iraq, but we can’t inject a culture of diversity. America and Europe had to go through the most awful civil wars to give birth to their cultures of diversity. The Arab-Muslim world will have to go through the same internal war of ideas.

Maybe instead of state-building we should worry a little more about "creating an environment of tolerance" as my high-school guidance counselor used to call it.

Better Thongs and Tassles

2007-10-24T09:43:00.000+02:00

Nothing has been happening in Cairo lately, well for me anyway. So I'm going to tell you a story about my mom.

A few years ago my mother's best friend, K, was diagnosed with terminal cancer. As she got ill, my mom took it really hard. I've learned it isn't easy to make close friends when you're middle-aged, and having lived in the city for only a few years, I was glad my mom had a friend she felt she could talk to. Near the end, when this friend was in the hospital permanently, my mom decided to bring K some of her favorite magazines to help keep her busy. This friend loved home decor magazines, Country Homes-esque glossies profiling beautiful living rooms and well-lit kitchens.

My mom on the other hand, finds these magazines to be, well, dull. Her approach- Who cares about looking at furniture? Let's give K something worth staring at.

So she bought a stack of interior design magazines, a stack of Playgirls and set to work. I came home for the weekend to find my mother, at the age of 53 with scissors and a glue-stick at the dining room table cutting out photos of naked men and meticulously gluing them onto the pages -- positioning the man wearing nothing but cowboy boots delicately on the expensive sofa, and perching a man in a silver g-string on the white granite kitchen counter.

She filled the pages of one of the Better Gardens & Whatever with naked, leering men, shoved it in the middle of the stack of magazines and headed to the hospital.

I should be so lucky to someday be the kind of adult she is.

The Great American (unwritten) Novel

2007-10-15T23:36:00.000+02:00

Whenever anything bad happened in my life, my mother always would tell me "someday you can use it as material for your novel." Until she had expressed it, I had never even considered being an author. The first time I had my heart broken by a musician, the first time I broke someone else's heart (an mechanical engineer), the medical scares (cancer, unknown), all the short-comings and failed auditions (Shakespeare), it was always the same reaction-- "your novel."

I thought she was insane. She probably is. The thing is, I don't feel a novel coming, and bad things are happening to me less and less often. Its been almost a year since the last bad thing found its way in and out of my life (XXXX). So that book that will never be written is getting thinner and thinner with each passing year of happiness, which I think would be a good thing. But my mom, so full of faith in my writing ability, might disagree.

Bowling as passion

2007-09-12T13:09:00.000+03:00

This weekend I finally had a chance to utilize my Midwestern up-bringing in some way that's more useful than not being squeamish about dead animals or eating off the floor.
Hold tight, we're getting there.
On Sunday night, I went bowling. On the Nile (why do I feel like every since I moved onto the houseboat, everything I do has a Nile-centric theme. Maybe I should walk around with a martini and fur wrap and respond to every party invitation with "well, I'm sure thats a very diverting idea, but I think I would prefer to attend if it was held on the Nile.")
It was actually someone else's genius idea to go bowling, but I was the one who set up the phone tree of invites. Let's be fair, the phone tree is a huge responsibility, Someone should be giving me some kind of medal. This was special bowling for many reasons-
1. Harrison, the silky Nigerian had never been bowling before. As I was about to leave for the bowling lanes, Harrison asked if he could come, I told him I was in a hurry, so he immediately decided to shower for 20 minutes. Now, I was understanding a non-American's first-time bowling must be what my christening was like, Harrison was getting a step closer to god (or at least a step away from burning in afro-heathen hell) and he wanted to look good. I don't know if Harrison was confused or what and somehow thought bowling was a real sport but he dressed up in the shiniest white sneakers I had ever seen, basketball shorts and matching t-shirt. Sure, I had been wearing the same skirt everyday for the past 3 weeks, but it was my Action Skirt, good for impromptu street soccer and climbing over things, so I guess I can relate to Mr. NBA over there.

2. I dominated. (by dominate I mean I bowled 104, while everyone else barely broke 95) Finally all those years feeling embarrassed because I was lame enough to join a summer bowling league at the age of 14, (age requirement 12-14) paid off. In Wisconsin I was the worst bowler in the league, but in Cairo, there weren't any 12-year-old farm kids to outdo me, and I was a powerhouse. The fact that I used a eight pound ball doesn't detract from the completely unstoppable force that is me at all, in any way. I swear. (That's right, being up-staged by 12-year-old girls is not a new thing that has only been occurring since I've hit my twenties, but pre-teen girls have been humiliating me for a decade.)
I learned an important lesson: All I need to do to be good at sports is find someone from the third world who has never seen said sport played before. I challenge them to the sport, then refuse to tell them the rules. Finally, I secretly use children sized sports gear to win... because I am weak.

Next up, I think I'll take on Harrison at speed sledding, I bet Nigeria doesn't see a lot of snow.

Love at the Big Top

2007-08-24T13:41:00.000+03:00

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

2007-08-23T14:42:00.000+03:00

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

2007-08-12T10:22:00.000+03:00

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

2007-08-09T11:41:00.000+03:00

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

2007-08-09T10:49:00.000+03:00

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.)

The downfall of a Cairo Champion

2007-07-31T09:43:00.000+03:00

After a year of living in the crowded, filthy downtown streets, I have earned my baladi credentials. When we moved into the Ahmed Shokry St. Apartment, nestled in the middle of the auto district, with the family of seven living in the one-bedroom flat across the hall, Kent and I decided to "zazz it up" by painting the living room neon blue. Kent got the paint from some guy down the road, and we painted until I inhaled enough blue to get a vicious cough that didn't leave for two weeks. The paint metastasized in my lungs right around the same time I was supposed to do the edgings (along with other gaping patches of primer). So we gave up, went on vacation, and promised to finish the job when we got back.

Since then I've moved to Israel and back, went to the USA and back, and finally, moved the hell out (Hello, houseboat on the Nile!). Kent leaves permanently on August 20. Kent's already brought in replacement tenants to tool around the neighborhood calling everyone basha, but all the same, I still feel the need to make a statement.

Kent Babin:
You are a disgrace to all that we stand for in Cairo. A job half done? Who do you think you are, The Cairo Metro planning committee? There isn't ever going to be a third line through Zamalek, but there sure as hell better be a completely blue room on the ninth floor of that building before you fly back to Canada.

All your months eating fuul, wearing your man-dress, and making our oven explode are meaningless if you don't finish the room. I won't be able to respect you once you're gone. The blue room is your last Cairo challenge. Go on, make the world a better place.

I may have sold out, but we all saw that coming. You on the other hand were meant to be baladi until the bitter end. Don't let down all those neighborhood kids who look up to you for your foreign passport and delicate white skin.
Paint the room.

A photo montage to remind you of your responsibilities to past and future residents:
(Former roommate Natasha, braving the unfinished paint job while sitting in the internet corner.)

(Kent, entertaining guests, amongst the fake-book TV stand, and giant hole in the wall. Please notice all the white spots, and hidden terror the guests feel.)

(Finally, me, sitting in the internet corner making a stupid face and wearing my favorite winter outfit. Hoodie, jacket, green scarf, thermal sleeping bag, unwashed hair. The tape is still on the windowsill for Kent to finish painting, and I am too depressed by the uneven wall color to breathe regularly. )

I'm calling you out, Babin. Yala ya Kent. Yala.

Welcome to Egypt

2007-04-24T11:22:00.000+03:00

I'm back in Cairo. Within the first 24 hours of being in town I ran into the fallen-saint Horreyia waiter. And stepped into a street fight involving a close friend, 4 punk kids and a giant stick. I actually threatened "What, what are you going to do ? You wanna fight? Fucking hit me, see how the cops like that."

Cairo makes me belligerent. God, it feels good to be home.

The Prodigal Son Gives Two Cents

2007-03-30T12:55:00.000+03:00

I refer to Egypt as home, and to returning to America as "going back to the states." I don't know exactly when I this happened. All I know is by the time I moved in with Kent, I was referring to my life in these terms. I am invested in that big mess of a country at the top of Africa.

I've been following the news closely this week, from BBC to activist blogs, to nomadlifers in Egypt's first hand accounts and feelings. I can't help but feel frustrated on two levels.

In the past the United States has stepped in and pressured Mubarak for democratic reform, and while changes were small, it showed promise. This time around Rice essentially bowed out, and the state department called the referendum a "domestic affair." Do I think the United States has any right to force democracy on countries? No. I think that often times the US assumes democracy is the holy path to political salvation and destroys a country's infrastructure trying to impose it. But while I don't feel the USA has a responsibility to convert the heathens to democracy, I know we have a history of shoving our nose in places that it doesn't belong. The constitutional amendment in Egypt is a prime example of a vote the United States would rush to the soapbox to condemn.

But our government didn't. What does this mean to me? That the United States is so afraid of another religious leader/party taking power in the Middle East that we are willing to abandon the "ever-important" mission of spreading democracy to the farthest reaches of the earth. Forget civil rights, the US is happy to encourage despotism where it previously supported self-determination, as long as the despot is less threatening than public will.

Beyond being obviously hypocritical, (we are good at that in the US) it makes me wonder what will happen to US foreign policy in the coming years. Is it possible that our mission of "spreading democracy" may finally be put to bed out of fear of unfriendly voters?

On a second note, while I was not surprised by the low voter turnout in Egypt. I was disheartened by the responses Egyptians gave me in regards to the constitutional amendments. I know some very intelligent, analytical locals; but when I asked how they felt about the protests or the constitution in general the answers were the same. They weren't concerned, it wasn't going to affect them. The government was too corrupt to care. They had better things to spend their time on.

Makes me wonder, beyond the United States' PR people, who really cares about democracy anymore? And as long as the elite possesses such a cynical attitude towards self-efficacy, could anything ever change for Egypt?

I don't know, but the second question really worries me.

Jerusalem

2007-03-22T17:15:00.000+02:00

One of the rewards of traveling is the people you meet. Over the past year I have been incredibly lucky, the people I've met have opened my world just as much as the things I've seen and the stories I tell.

Every child is taught 'Don't talk to strangers' and 'If someone offers you a ride, don't get in their car.'

We know life out there can be dangerous, but when you're a lone nomad in an ancient city, in a tension-filled country, you become a little more willing to take risks on people. Two weeks ago I went to Jerusalem alone, within 4 hours of getting off the sherut (service taxi) the ink had already worn away on my photocopied pages of the guidebook and I was trying to map a route to the Wailing Wall.

Out of nowhere, I was tapped on the shoulder by a 30ish guy, who asked me if I knew where the Mount of Olives was. I kindly explained to him that I was an idiot and he'd be better off asking the signpost if it had seen any dancing clowns lately than try and get directions out of me. Turned out he was Israeli, he and his two friends were playing tourist for the day. They had gotten bored with the old city and wanted to see if they could walk to Mount of Olives.

They invited me along. There's a backpacker culture when you travel; team up with other hostelers/hikers and make a day of it. But these people weren't backpackers, they were locals, locals inviting me to get in their car. I hesitated for a few seconds, but decided if I was ever going to make friends, I had to start somewhere.

It was a good choice. Biblically, Mount of Olives is famous as the mountain Jesus entered Jerusalem from, but now a days it offers a spectacular view over the old city as well as a more sobering view of the Israeli/West Bank partition wall on the other side of the mountain. The partition wall is called different things, based on whose team you're on. On the Israeli side they refer to it was the separation wall, while in Palestine it is the apartheid wall, the annexation wall, the racial segregation wall. One thing I've realized in this country is that the words you use to describe something or someone have a lot of meaning. (The importance of names in this country will, for the flow of the entry, be postponed for another day)

The section of the wall that I was looking at from the mountain cut a neighborhood in half. Adds a whole new degree of difficulty to borrowing a cup of sugar from your neighbor when you first have to cross a police check-point. The wall runs inside the West Bank, not on the border, "encircling Palestinian towns and villages and cutting off communities and families from each other, separating farmers from their land and Palestinians from their places of work, education and health care facilities and other essential services." (Amnesty International)

If the wall was built between the border of Israeli and the West Bank, along the Green Line, then the Israeli claim that it is a matter of security would seem more valid, and the wall would look less like an attempt at land-grabbing and oppression. One of the documentaries our sister company is working on is about a refugee camp in the West Bank, Aidia. In the documentary, the 'star,' an old man and ex-PLO member, travels two hours every other day to till a plot of land he has purchased for his sons, hoping it would ensure them a good future. The wall's construction has since cut him off from his land, and the documentary is looking for funding to be able to address the affects of this on the star and his family's lives. A report from Amnesty International gives more information on how the wall violates Palestinian rights.

It was one of the Israeli's who pointed the wall out to me as we stood on top of the mountain. She had disdain in her voice when she talked about it, but explained that three years ago Jerusalem was a ghost town, and while the wall was troublesome, it had stifled the bombing attempts, an unfortunate side effect was that it also stifled the Palestinian people.

But back to the fluffy stuff:

Afterward I was treated to an amazing picnic, with a ridiculous amount of food, brought home to play with a newly rescued and retardedly cute street cat, and taken out at night to some great bars. I slept in one girl's house, and ate leftovers from the picnic while I wandered around the city again the next day, and was sent home with a bottle of wine.

Amazing people. Sometimes I have all the luck.

(Karim, I expect more educational information in the comments on this one too. Get on it.)

In the family

2007-03-06T13:40:00.000+02:00

After the Purim party at the Kibbutz on Friday night, I went to stay with a friend's aunt. An entire set of extended family is all within a 10 mile radius, with three generations having houses on the same driveway. It's been a long time since I've been inside someone's familial house. It was pretty fantastic, and the whole Jewish-feeding-syndrome isn't exaggerated. All I did for two days was eat. Every conversation went: "Megan, are you okay? Do you want anything? a nap? some tea? a jacket? Do you want some fruit?" "No, no thank you." "Okay, so no fruit, how about an apple?" I liked it.

At the Purim party there was a little bit of a scene (not my fault) and my friend would wait until I was out of the room before telling the story to whatever family member was in front of her. Then when I returned to the room the questions changed slightly to "Megan, are you okay? Do you want anything? a nap? some tea? a jacket? Have you met any nice boys yet? I hear you were quite a hit at the party. They were shoving each other? It's that blond hair."

I went out for a drink with two of the twenty-something male cousins. While chatting, cousin #2 interrupts to tell me that cousin #1 is talking in Hebrew about me with a friend. They chat for a minute more, the friend walks off, and cousin #1 returns to the table’s conversation without saying a word.

Later on the friend I was traveling with told me this was the conversation I couldn’t understand:

“Hey, how are you? She’s American, right?

“Yeah.”

“Does she speak any Hebrew?”

“No.”

“My friend wants to meet her; can he come talk to her?”

“No, he can’t.”

“Oh.”

Absolutely hilarious.

I really have to get a handle on the language if men are ever going to get past the guards.

The Kibbutz Party

2007-03-05T09:48:00.000+02:00

[Me at the kibbutz this weekend, with my favorite hilltop of the Golan Heights]

I am doing Israel backwards. I entered the country at Eliat, hopped a bus to the Arab city of Nazareth and have since managed to go to a Kibbutz on the Sea of Galilee, and a very americanized area of small settlements created and supported by Edmond de Rothschild.

It's okay. So I have a warped understanding of Israel, a little more travel will fix that.

But the main point is, this weekend I was invited to a Purim Party. Purim is the Jewish holiday
that commemorates a story from the book of Esther, where the Jews were saved from Haman's plot to exterminate them. It's also an excuse to do all the things that are usually forbidden AND dress up in costumes. How could I not love this?

More interesting to me than the history of Purim was life on a kibbutz, technically its a collective. But to me it looked like a life-long summer camp.

Kibbutzim is one of the largest communal movements in history. It stems from the members Jewish population wanting to claim positions as farmers, move away from the stigma of the jews only having "clean jobs", but lacking the resources to do it individually. Supposedly they wanted to start a society free of exploitation, where all workers would be equal. Hell of a dream, it worked surprisingly well and 7% of the current population lives on Kibbutz's today.

The Kibbutz I visited was on the Sea of Galilee and besides being next to the Golan Heights (a whole other history lesson).* All the people there have grown up together in a community numbering around 300. At the age of 16 kibbutz members leave the family home and move into their own dorm style strip mall. If you're not married by the age of 25, again you get shifted to a different strip mall of apartments. People grow up with a whole lot of freedom, but not a lot to do with it.

The party itself wasn't as wild as Madison on Halloween, but its free alcohol and Jews dressed like 80's rock stars. All this on a banana plantation, pretty awesome.

I had a great time. Danced a lot, learned Arak tastes best mixed with lemonade and mint and served from a giant bucket.** Met some new people, argued terrorism with a special units soldier at 5 am after puking three times. All in all, a good party.

*back when Syria held the Golan Heights, snipers used to sit on the top of the hill and shoot into the Kibbutz. They killed a man inside his home once. I've been told it's a big part of the reason Israel is afraid to give the Golan Heights back.

**I kept calling it "jew wop" in my head, which is still hilarious, even now that I'm sober. So many racist implications, so close to 50's glib banter, fabulous.

Red Headed Step-Child

2007-03-01T17:16:00.000+02:00

So I've been doing a lot of photoshop art lately, and it makes sense to keep it off Active Culture.

so, there's a new comic up at www.thematteroffrance.blogspot.com

Enjoy. Or don't.

Coded messages and Immaculate conceptions

2007-02-27T11:15:00.000+02:00

I have a few wrap-ups to do about Cairo, and an introduction to my new life in Nazareth, Israel. But, I wanted to share a little of my Christian upbringing.

Last night, I drank a bottle of red wine sitting at the place Gabriel came to tell Mary she would bear the son of God. I got tipsy on a bench in front of Mary’s Well with an Irishman. I think everything is going to be okay.

it's all indie-morbid

2007-02-22T16:52:00.000+02:00

I deal with stress through photoshop.... I know it doesnt really suit my blog's style or tone, but art if for sharing. Print it out, put it on your fridge. Father's day is coming up, maybe turn it into a card to let daddy know how you feel.

The dance of the seven veils

2007-02-12T14:30:00.000+02:00

Last night I lived one of my biggest dreams. I saw skivvy belly-dancing. The Rough Guide outlines a handful of the cheap belly-dancing clubs in Cairo. Their recommendation was Palmyra, promising limited con tactics and a moderate amount of rhythm.

(Photo of the cafe we went to after the club)

Overall the experience was not dodgy enough for my tastes. The “hostesses” left us alone, focusing instead on the big spenders in the front row, no one tried to charge me for using the bathroom and only one person got thrown out for touching the dancers.

The Club was one of those awesomely crap experiences that Cairo excels in. It was by far the best display of sad old men I have seen yet in Cair. They were eating cheese trays displayed in a tinfoil tree, petting street cats and holding hands with the “hostesses.” Every once and a while the sad men would get onstage with a dancer and “shower” her with a few five pound notes, as they pranced around her barely moving, incredibly bored body. It was more about the buxomy cleavage than any kind of dancing.

Onstage was chaos. All the dancers were less than enthusiastic and everything about the place felt like open mic night at the townie bars. The first dancer merely swayed side-to-side, sometimes stopping to blow her nose in a tissue she was carrying. She got a money shower once, earning her 3.75 LE. Nice catch. Another dancer dressed in silver sparkles got two showers, probably netting her twenty pounds and the dancer of the week award.

The hostesses would just wander onstage and start talking to the band in the middle of a song. The audio system was crap, and the MC unintelligible. The only words we could make out were when he would be introducing the audience to other members of the audience.

“This is Ahmed from Boub al louq.” “This is Mike from Pennsylvania.”

Gradually the dancers became more attractive, and the outfits more revealing, but while is failed to meet my sleaze standards, it outmatched my previous Sad Cairo experiences.*

Last night was also a right of passage for Karim. Many young Egyptian men check out a sleazy belly-dancing club as a pack in their teens, our sweet Karim did not. Leave it to us to gutter his tastes up a bit.

All in all I give it a 6/10. Averaging 2/10 for effort, 8/10 for last nights in town points and 5/10 for creepiness.

*Cairo is broken up into districts- Downtown, Islamic Cairo, Coptic Cairo, etc. I figure, Sad Cairo should be a official zone, and all the streets/building/rooms in the city that are filled with sad people entertaining themselves in sad ways should be pinpointed for easier navigation. Sad Cairo is most definitely my favorite place to spend a Sunday night.

And it's a Long Day, Livin’ in Reseda

2007-02-10T13:42:00.000+02:00

Living in Cairo has meant countless dinner parties and nights passed with guitar playing, and me belting out the wrong words while everyone around me is three-part harmonizing to sing a-long songs. My first month here, I got it into my head that we needed to sing Tom Petty’s “Free Falling.” It is the first song every college guy who’s teaching himself to play guitar learns because it’s so simple. I thought it would be a breeze.

Dody tried and failed to master the 3-chords, Ziyad had never heard it and couldn’t get the right tempo. We tried for a half hour before we gave up.

My second week here, I was lucky enough to meet Dody and Ziyad. They were the first to take me on adventures, mock me for thinking I wouldn’t let Cairo drama claim me and are counted among the few who really looked out for me. They’ve been the most under-appreciated friends I’ve had here. Friends I took for granted. Friends who I missed out on too often. Ziyad left in fall, and I missed him, Dody is leaving in a few days, and he too will be missed.

I’ve always been shy about telling people how much of an impact they had on me. But I want to tell someone about them, so I’m telling you. I count the two of them amongst the most important discoveries I have made in Cairo. I still ask Dody questions when I need to put things in perspective, and I think about all the long train and bus rides spent trying to explain to Ziyad American dating terms. Knowing them has made me a better person, and for that I am grateful.

Last night was my final dinner party with these friends, we stayed up singing until 4 am, and I swear this time I was hitting the right notes and everything about the night felt like my world felt eight months ago. It was a really good feeling.

We tried and nailed "Free falling," I guess that's as good of a sign as an it's time to leave.

I made modern day macaroni art

2007-02-06T18:05:00.000+02:00

I used to superimpose sexy Bond quotes on photos of my friends for fun. As today's lesson in unproductiveness, I turned last night's dream into a pathetic amount of time spent with Photoshop.

In search of Mohammad

2007-02-01T19:59:00.001+02:00

This is Gerardo Cavazos.

He arrived a few weeks after me, approached me at a party and drunkenly asked, “Who are you?” I gave him my name and country, but he wanted to take it existential. “No. WHO are yooou?” Drunkenly repeat. Every time I see him. For 3 weeks. “Who are YOU?”

Well dear Gerardo, screw me, I bet the state department really wants to know about you. Its just a matter of time before you cross their borders to become my illegal maid.

True things I know about Gerardo:
1. He was born in a Mexican city with a cement factory
2. He has pet names for his nanny
3. I never understand a damn thing he’s saying
4. Constantly is requesting for people to shower with him, offers soap
5. While dancing shoots uses his hands as pretend guns, shooting into the air like a cowboy. It’s beautiful.
6. Shares my love of Rilo Kiley, and will have to fight me to sleep with her
7. Every Egyptian company that has employed him immediately financially implodes.

Which leads me to believe:

8. Gerardo is involved in high-level embezzlement, CIA-like precision recon work
9. He can afford to buy me lunch every now and again. Cheapskate

The final true fact:

10. Gerardo is a total dude. And I will miss him.

As many readers may have noticed I am a girl, and for some reason Gerardo thought I would know what girls like. This led us on a trek to Khan Ah Khalili, the very touristy market in the middle of Islamic Cairo yesterday.

At the bar the night before, Gerardo tried to buy the chair he was sitting on. Horeyiah’s waiters intelligently refused to sell. The chairs are pretty cool, but they are the standard wood chair at every coffee shop in the city. Still a business needs chairs, I wouldn’t let it go without a fight either. The one Gerardo wanted had the seat with pyramids on it, and his little burrito-filled heart would break if he didn’t have it.

And so, the quest for Mohammad began.

The street leading to Khan Ah Khalili is filled with cookwares and furniture. The waiters had told us to look there. Within ten minutes we had found and purchased a Cleopatra seat, but Gerardo wanted the Pyramids. We were told to go down a dark alley to find more designs.

What followed was a treasure hunt that Cairo alone could provide. We walked around the Wood Beveling District (oh it exists) holding the Cleopatra Seat and asking “Where? “Where?” over and over again. Everyone kept directing us to “Mohammad”* but, just like with the real prophet, no one had a clear idea on his life and whereabouts.

At one store Mohammad was an easy third street on the right, turn left then left again.
At the place that sells doors, Mohammad was one right and an ala tuul (straight ahead).

Everywhere we went it went like this:
Gerardo, pointing at the seat “This, Where? Where?” (Arabic) “I want Pyramids!” (English)
Egyptian man: “Rapid-fire Arabic, Mohammad, Rapid-fire Arabic, left-right-right-left” (Wild but entirely unhelpful hand directions)

(A dedicated explorer)

Eventually we found a man who seemed to think he could help. Gerardo began speaking foreigner-using-limited-language-to-explain-a-complex-want Arabic. It looked like we were getting results.

The man started scribbling on scrap paper. I assumed it would be a map, but instead, he was taking our order. Gerardo had just accidentally bargained the price of four pounds per piece for this man to do something, What? We don’t know. Eventually the man got a better idea of what we wanted, wrote something in Arabic on a piece of paper and sent us off.

( Chair found during search, that is made in typical chair style. Note: Lacks Pyramids.)

We added the paper into our routine of asking, pointing and wandering, but had no idea what it said. Eventually I also drew the pyramids on another sheet of paper because we realized we didn’t know if “pyramids” was pyramids in Arabic.

After about two hours we found the man who made the designs on seat covers. MOHAMMAD! He could offer us flowers and Nefertiti, but no Pyramids.

(Looking for a cheap Kofta and Kebab place for lunch, it seems our friendship centers around heartbreakingly fruitless searches)

At Khan Khalili I convinced Gerardo his girlfriend would go crazy with lust if he bought her a rug made out of rabbit pelts as a souvenir. I’ll make sure to post the angry e-mails from her when they start rolling in.

*Mohammad is the name of every 1 out of 3 Arabs. Don’t believe me? Go to your nearest Egyptian embassy, scream out Mohammad and watch the staff stampede.

The call of the wild

2007-01-29T21:13:00.000+02:00

Yesterday I visited the Manyal Palace, built around the 1900’s for Prince Mohammad Ali, a monarch-hopeful who never made it to the throne. The interior is a fabulous display or Turkish influenced architecture. But we’re not here to talk fabric and tile.

By far the best part of the palace is the Hunting Museum. Created entirely from animals killed by King Farouk and his friends, it’s a long and narrow corridor on the side of the grounds. It is filled with over 300 gazelle heads, 35 ducks and many other dead animals.

I understand the collection of gazelles. I am from Wisconsin, it is not uncommon to enter a friend’s home and find decapitated deer hanging off their wall. But, Ducks? Sure, maybe a mallard and a lady duck on display. Come on, King Farouk, thirty-three ducks?

Ducks aren’t that hard to kill, I’ve watched Emily try numerous times with a spatula and some raid.

Watch out ducks, she once called me sobbing hysterically cause she thought she heard a bat in her bedroom, but she’s not messing around anymore.

Now if there’s one thing we know I love its dead animals. But the display had by some of the creepiest attempts at taxidermy I’d ever seen.

If loving bad taxidermy is wrong, then I don’t ever want to be right.

What is that thing? Supposedly it's a hermaphroditic goat. Which is awesome.

Now, I’m not a stickler when it comes to displaying animals or anything, but what exactly is so amazing about all those hooves. I get it, deer come in various sizes, and you’ve killed them all. Well done, let’s move on with our lives. Please note the especially unfortunate braided deer leg. Somehow I have nightmares of hipsters sporting similar examples at NY hot spots.

“This belt? Complete vintage. King Farouk, 3rd Dynasty. Natch.” (clearly, I have no idea how indie kids speak)

At the very end of that long hallway was the best part. Roped off so you couldn’t get closer than 5 feet, was the best display of Sahara animals, ever. Obviously, I wasn’t about to let arbitrary boundaries stop me.

An up close look showed some sad, sad road kill. Despite being covered in dust, the poor bastards who set up the display seemed to have no understanding of the natural world. Foxes were chilling with sea turtles, lions were spooning with salamanders, and birds, well, they didn’t even have wings.

Animals that in life would’ve been natural enemies were forced to spend eternity at an imaginary Egyptian tea Party.

My two favorites though was the ocelot made from a saddlehorse, and the lion fighting the deer to the death.

I was just waiting for the traffic cone wombat.

I don’t know about you guys, but my money’s on the deer. Clearly that little guy has a good grip on the Lion’s neck, while the Lion only has one foot in the mouth. What is that shit? Everyone loves when the underdog wins.

Upon closer inspection I learned why the deer was so obviously kicking ass. The lion’s body had been replaced with canvas. It wasn’t even a fair fight. The lion had no arms, or claws. Well at least that also means he didn’t have a central nervous system and couldn’t feel the pain. (Or the humiliation of losing to a herbivore.)

I think the curators need to spend a little more time in high school biology before they create their next display.

Travel Tips: Being a hated American

2007-01-28T16:23:00.000+02:00

By the time December hit I was restless. I was exhausted from all the quirks and oddities that make my love affair with Cairo as much of an abusive marriage as a youthful romance. When Simon offered to let me tag along on an 18-day trip to Syria I jumped on the chance. I immediately called my company and worked out the details- I would play editor from the road, I would see Saladin’s citadel, and I would eat an endless amount of schwarma. But, as we began researching, bumps quickly emerged on the road to Damascus.

Unsurprisingly Syria’s government isn’t the fondest of travelers with American passports. The consular section in Cairo laughed in my face when I asked for a visa and told me Bush causes 'all the world's problems'. After multiple drop-ins at the Syrian Embassy’s Cairo office, chats with the Syrian consular and calls from my father to the Syrian embassy in the USA, I had it figured out. There was no way for me to get a Syrian visa in Cairo.

Simon, on the other hand was luckier. Being Australian, he had a 90% chance of entering Syria. But, according to the visa office, he’d get through if, and only if he flew to Lebanon and entered through the land border.

This left us with the question What exactly do we do with the American? We had two options- I could risk it and hope the guards felt like letting the little blonde girl over the border with the big aussie, OR I could play it safe and take advantage of the filthily expensive Fed-ex international priority mailing.

So I sent my passport off to America, leaving me unable to prove my nationality or visa possession in Cairo. My darling, wonderful and only-getting-more-handsome-as-he-ages father happily helped out stateside, and arranged all the details to get my passport back to me.

By the next week I had in my possession a much coveted multi-entry visa to Syria. And, with visa in hand, we booked a departure date, December 21st, two days away and prepared for Beirut.

We bought an electric cooker, and a few metal bowls; packed sweatshirts and shitty mittens. I was off.

The Last Month

2007-01-17T11:20:00.000+02:00

For the past month, I have been on the road. For most of December and a bit of January I was traveling. We flew into Lebanon on the 20th, then I did the Syria, Jordan trek back to Cairo. Every night I wrote down a few bullet points of the worthwhile things that happened that day. It started as a system for remembering, but by the end I had made a promise to myself- I will blog it. No matter how long it takes.

I arrived back in Cairo on Tuesday, January 9th at 1 am. At 12 am I received a phone call, taking me to a very old stomping ground, London. I was off on the 13th and back early on the 16th. There's a lot going on in my life right now, it seems like as good a time as any to start talking about it.

Souk Al Goma'a

2006-11-26T14:02:00.000+02:00

People say you can find anything in this city if you know where to look. A month or two ago we decided it was time to see where Cairo’s poorest bought their best dresses and new furniture. City of the Dead itself is a Cairo Phenomena, when Israel invaded the Suez in the 1960’s thousands from Port Said fled to Cairo. They took up residence in the vast cemeteries, built by fallen empires, at the foot of the Moqattam Hills. Over time those too poor to afford housing joined them. Today, over 5 million live in the tombs, some of which are outfitted with electricity and running water.

Souk Al Goma’a (the Friday Market) is located under the overpass that cuts through City of the Dead, and every week it draws tens of thousands of Cairo's poorest residents to haggle over broken alarm clocks, homemade num-chucks, bathtubs, endangered animals, and clothes- both designer and used. Supposedly, the used stuff is stolen off the bodies of the freshly departed, and judging by the smell I’d believe it.

The market starts a little past dawn and is usually over by mid-afternoon. We arrived so early that many of the stands on the fringe were still setting up. But already the train tracks and the tables that ran across them were filling with eager shoppers. While there were stalls with items for sale, people were more than content to rummage through the unending piles of garbage that completely covered the ground. Somehow the scattered refuse became a bargain outlet for broken Nintendo controllers and phones.

The market itself is divided into sections. The tracks were just the “Junk,” and we had to fight our way in to get at the interesting antiques. We were able to find a few gramophones. The owners were more than happy to fire up the players and put on scratched records of French singers that sounded more like cats mating than the original recording. While tracing my hand along the shelves in one of the shops I grazed an ornate metal syringe, from back in the days where injections were so common a decorative syringe was a sign of prestige. The box of needles was still intact, half full of syringes waiting to be used and re-used.

Nearby Kent stumbled onto his dream find. A trophy that read “USSR-Income Sports Day 1980.” We quickly convinced him, this was something he needed to own. But, like many other places in Cairo, the shop owner truly believed a sucker is born every minute and quickly sized Kent up to be a complete chump. The owner’s opening offer was 100 LE. We didn’t even bother with bargaining.

Prices seemed to be a recurring issue for us. One shop owner attempted to sell us a used gallabeya (man dress) for 60 LE, when we could get a brand new one, that had never even touched a corpse, much less been stripped from one for 30 LE. Regardless, purchases weren’t our main objective, so the only real losers were the shop owners who were looking to make an easy buck and failed.

As we headed further into the market, it quickly became a shoulder-to-shoulder trek. You had to push to move forward, push to turn left, and so on. I couldn’t stay still for too long without attracting admirers, who made me incredibly nervous. Still, after six months in a country that loves to kick a foreigner when she’s down, throwing a few elbows felt good. At times the crowd was overwhelming, and downright physically dangerous. It wasn’t just the numbers alone; I saw a man push through a standstill crowd carrying a couple of rifles with shiny bayonets over his head.

During one intense period, while browsing old coins and bills from the former Soviet Union and Reich marks from post-WWI Weimar republic, Kent was literally crushed on top of the display table, bracing himself against a pile of sharp metal pieces with unidentifiable uses. The table almost buckled under the weight of people pushing against it. In order to shop and survive the volume of people pushing around us, Kent and another vendor built a human wall around me. It was a lot of effort just to look at a couple dollars worth of money. But I kept hoping to get a great find. Supposedly most coin sellers have two sets of coins: the ones on display, and others that were pilfered from archeological digs. Our seller only seemed to have a big stick, which he jabbed at people when the crowds’ surging that threatened to destroy his stall.
Other areas of the market were no calmer. While looking at stolen cell phones, some guy pushed violently past us, so violently we immediately knew something was wrong. He ran up to another guy and began choking him. The crowd’s response was immediate, punches were thrown and someone jumped in and beat our pushy friend with a chair.

Once the spectacle ended we accidentally headed into No-Womans-Land: the men’s fashion market. Now, I bet none of you would guess this given the rampant homophobia in this country, but Egyptian men are complete metrosexuals. The pants here are tighter than any screamo boy back home. These boys take their femme fashion seriously, and the market was frantic. Kent and Simon managed to deliver to the young Egyptian fashionistas the one thing they were missing- a foreign girl to molest. All of a sudden, as we pushed into the market, hands were everywhere. It wasn’t just the typical ass pinch. Men put hands on me like I was Jesus healing the lepers. We made this sort of Ken-Megan-Simon Sandwich to protect me as we shoved through the crowds. But it was probably the most intense experience I’ve had so far in this country, and it only lasted two minutes.

Soon enough we hit the breeding market at the back of the clothing section.
We smelt the dogs long before we saw them. As we made our way around the stacked cages and Persian cats, we came to a cement-walled enclosure. Inside, tiny cages held litters of puppies that had been bred and were being poked and prodded by their potential owners. Large dogs quite clearly with Doberman, Great Dane, and Labrador blood in them were chained to the walls. A group of idiot teens had gathered to watch, they divided their time between joking with each other and harassing a particularly vicious looking dog into a mad frenzy. Each dog was unchained one by one and paraded around the enclosure. Most of the dogs seemed pretty calm, but that didn’t stop the Egyptian men from screaming like small girls, clutching their pigtails and scattering any time they came anywhere near a dog.

The breeding pen was weird enough, but only the tip of the animal iceberg. Further under the overpass cages were packed with rabbits, ducks and chickens being examined as possible dinner by hungry Egyptians. Some of the animals were lucky enough to live in proper pens; little kids were selling the less fortunate out of plastic bags. The pigeons and parakeets gave way to cages of parrots, exotic tropical fish, and overflowing tanks of poisonous snakes.

In the surrounding cages hawks, turtles, crocodiles, hedgehogs, chinchillas and bats were all packed in and stacked one on top of the other. The animals that survived the long journey from Eastern Africa now fared poorly in the market. I once owned a chinchilla in middle school. I was a really neglectful pet owner, but my chinchilla never looked anywhere near as pathetic as these. Chinchillas can’t lick themselves clean like other rodents, they need to roll around in a fine dust to keep their coat healthy. It took me ten minutes to figure out that these animals were the South American pet I once kept. Their fur was matted down and greasy as they laid unmoving in a pile at the back of the cage. But the rodents weren’t the worst of it. Dead hawks were left to decay in the cages amongst the living. The handler divided his time between showing off his prized commodity to us, a severely depressed-looking owl and yelling at people for trying to touch the more dangerous specimens through the bars.

We had been told you could buy guns, so we made it our personal mission to figure out where. Eventually we learned the weaponry dealer and the illegal animal dealer were one and the same. So, I could’ve gone home with either a gecko or a handgun. Sadly, I didn’t want to interrupt the gecko’s fight to the death with a newt, and the vendor was out of guns. I returned from the market without any new purchases.
Still, I fervently believe, had things been different, I could’ve trained that gecko to use the gun and kept him on me at all times as an enforcer of my personal bubble. I would never need a Simon-Megan-Kent sandwich again. Imagine it.

2006-11-20T14:18:00.000+02:00

One of the reasons I haven’t been writing is because I’ve been in a weird place lately. I’ve started trying to find the meaning in what I am doing. It’s harder than I imagined. I’ve waffled at exploring the culture, and researching Arab history. I know less Arabic than I did in July. I can’t seem to make simple things work, things that should be so easy, and were easy for me back in the US, are the biggest challenges I’ve faced in years.

All of this has made me a bit quieter, a bit more introspective. It’s also made me try to search out meaning in other places.

One of the things I keep returning is Oblivio. Michael Barrish had the first blog I ever read, as my first blog love, his posts are more literary than worldly. He updates rarely these days, but still, when I’m struggling for perspective I always reread him. At one point in my life, years ago, when I was going through romantic issues, I had a sex dream about him. I still haven’t figured out why.

All the same, he’s got the right blend of truth and lies that fascinates me. “Potatoes” is the one entry I keep returning to; I find it comforting when I start to get overwhelmed by life as it unfolds.

“I have to do something different, but I don’t know what. It may be everything or it may be something small that changes everything. I remember standing in the room where the coats were, debating what to do. Change is pressed upon one. That was her translation from the French. The question was about change, about whether change is possible, and she quoted this from the French. When she arrived, she smiled and waved to me. Had she come over and talked, I would have welcomed it, but since she didn’t, I stayed where I was. It wasn’t a game. I was sitting on the couch, and there was room to my left, although in fairness to her, there were also some pillows there, which she would have had to move aside. Later, as people took their seats at the table, I saw an open seat beside her and almost sat down but instead went to the kitchen to get my potatoes. By the time I finished transferring the potatoes to a serving dish and placing the dish on a side table, the seat was taken. Each thing has its momentum. In the room with the coats I decided she wasn’t who I wanted, and vice versa, and that I would leave. I may have been wrong, but one must decide based on what one knows. You cannot divide yourself into two people and live two lives to see which is better. There is another world, she said, again quoting the French, evidently she spoke French, but it is in this one.”

My other long-standing infatuation is Riley Dog. So world, if I can’t share my stories from here right now because I’m blocked, you can at least be reading what I’ve been reading.

The Absence of Me

2006-11-12T11:50:00.000+02:00

I know it seems like I've effectively abandoned the blog. It isn't true. There are still adventures to tell you about, but they seem to get more and more detailed. And I seem to be running out of time to kill.

Recently I've made a major switch in my life, I've gone from working full-time to part-time and have since spent the extra hours making myself happy. Its an amazing opportunity- do have the work flexibilty to find what you need to improve your life.

Unfortunately it's allowed me to ignore many of the 'big life decisions' that caused me to quit in the first place.

A tiny 'big decision' will come into effect next week. I will once again become homeless.

Also: On an even more personal note, there is an aspect of travel I thought I had a grip on but I'm starting to realize I overestimated my ability to say goodbye. The time is creeping up where a few of those who've got a place deep down in my heart are leaving, and I am no good at letting go.

A Public Apology

2006-10-23T10:15:00.000+02:00

Dear Kent's Mom,

Hope all is well. I wanted to reassure you that a post on Souk Goma'a is forthcoming. Unfortunately, my other responsibilities, a magazine about to go to print and a trio of middle aged family members who didn't bother looking at a guidebook before arrival, have taken up more of my energy than I had anticipated. These circumstances have caused an upset in my professionalism as a blogger. I would like to wholeheartedly apologize for any inconvenience.

An entry describing my experiences at the "Friday Market" will be posted soon.

Sincerely,
Megan E. Detrie

of MISERY!!! and Jesus

2006-10-15T13:20:00.000+02:00

As many of you have heard me whine about, in person, on the phone, in e-mails, office memo's and to beggars on the street, I have broken my camera and I am pretty upset about it.

I lose a lot of motivation to post without some sort of visual alongside the text. Let's not lie here, the plotlines to my life are pretty thin, and just Katie Holme's Disturbing Behavior, I need a whole lot of bright colors and fast cuts and quirky camera angles to hide the complete lack of character or story development that is me.

I have found a way around the lack of a camera.

And so, I am proud to announce this weekend I went to Coptic Cairo for the second time(I bet you that's three years off my purgatory sentence right there). While on the adventure I lied a lot, making up the reason why Catholics bury their dead in Mausoleums, took the lord's name in vain and did not honor my neighbor. (Probably adding four years).

I did stiff the mosque I toured a little on my donation. Sorry Mosque, I feel bad, but not Old Testament bad, so you're not getting more from me.

Either way, I have visuals. Expect more posts soon.

I think it's safe to say I blended in about well as the Japanese do in this country, so really, no harm no foul.

For the a further understanding as to why I was ever wearing a giant orb, as well as an explanation to that empty hollow feeling deep in your heart, Strindbergandheluim.com have all the answers.

those who are the last to be defeated

2006-10-01T14:44:00.000+02:00

One of my first entries focused on the type of harassment I received in this country. I also wrote about how an older gentleman silently took me under his wing on the way to work and protected me from the barrage of sexual comments.

While I'm sure this entry was a darling feel-good story. It has rarely been repeated and after 4 months in this country, I am sad to say, Egyptian Self-Policing has essentially been revealed as either hypocrisy or a myth.

I have been ass-grabbed while walking, felt up in crowded sidewalks, and had my thigh molested by an 11-year-old boy who looked me in the eyes and leered in English "I like sex!"

I've chased every man who's laid a hand on me and yelled "Haram Aleek" (Shame, shame on you) and done my best to batter them in any way I can.

According to AIESEC, guidebooks and people who have their heads up their asses, this sort of reaction on my part should produce a flood of kofta-eating knights in shining armor stepping in and stopping the molesters. No Luck, I chased a kid on a bicycle for a block after he grabbed me, and all the adults did was crane their necks to stare at the white girl running in flip flops.

Last night, was probably the low point of my time here in Egypt. I was walking from Downtown to Dokki, in the early evening, on a fairly bustling street through a nice part of town and a man came up behind me, wrapped his arms fully around me like a bear-hug in order to grab my ass. I shrieked in surprise at being demobilized and he got spooked and ran.

I chased him, beating him with my purse, yelling as loud as I could. The groups of people around me just kept walking. A taxi pulled to the side of the road to see if the recent harassment has dissuaded me from walking, and maybe would I prefer the comfort of an overpriced cab?

At that point, I gave up. I sat down on the side of the road and had myself a good cry.

I am sorry, but I am tired of this country treating me like its own personal dry-hump doll. I punched that child who told me he wanted to have sex with me, I've spit at people, I've yelled, I've ignored it. It doesn’t do any good.

Egyptians still fail to step in when they see it happen, but pat themselves on the back because all the guidebooks give them credit for taking care of foreigners. The treatment of Western women in this country is a serious problem, and one I don’t know the solution to. All I'm certain of is it doesn’t rely on the population punishing the offender. A better measure has to be taken. While there have been a few times someone has tried to help stop overpricing in shops or cabs, not once has someone stepped up when I have been assaulted.

The treatment I receive simply for being female and white is dragging on me. It makes it hard for me to fulfill the mission I was supposedly brought here to do- bridge the gap. Sexual assault isn't a cultural misunderstanding. It is about a lack of respect. It is about treating people as objects, and fundamentally regardless of age, race, background, these men who touch me know it is wrong.

Claiming it’s a cultural issue is essentially saying as a woman, I lack basic human rights, but its okay, because you know, this is Egypt after all.

It makes it hard to want to open myself up to a culture that makes me feel so threatened that I always walk on the traffic side when passing people on the road because I am afraid of being pinned against cars.

It's hard to respect the people when the majority of my interactions with Egyptian males involve some kind of intimidation.

For every man that gestures at me or gropes me, there are 300 who walk by peaceably. But these fellows just don't leave an imprint the same way a guy who corrals you against the walls of a mosque in order to leer and gesture at your breasts with his hands does.

While I understand that the behavior is a representation of only a segment of the overall population. It happens often enough and has enough of an effect on me that I am always on the offensive. And I have yet to see that Egyptian alpha male take on the "someday my prince will come" void.

What makes me sad is that the bad is starting to eclipse the good in this city, and when I leave, there is a chance all I'll remember is how often I wanted to attack, not the great adventures (which have slowed to a non-existent halt) or the many times I felt welcomed and included.

I am actively trying to reignite my love affair with this city, and hopefully in a couple weeks, I will have a couple more cute stories about break dancing under my belt, and everything will be fine again.

The International Language

2006-09-26T21:43:00.000+03:00

Its end of the month, and while for some it means dreams of how that monthly stipend will be spent, for me it translates into Croc Print Week. I become chained to my office, frantically editing, organizing and fielding questions about things that fell through the cracks. Then after the clusterfuck that is the last call for the Croc, I sit around the office for hours because our layout guy has an overwhelming fear that the second I leave, things will go missing, the building will burn to the ground, he might injure his hand and be unable to cut and paste, and My God, We'll Miss Deadlines!

While being trapped in the office tonight, I received my first true Ramadan moment. I was street Iftar'd. Right at 5:50 pm, I gave in and accepted I wouldn’t be leaving the office in time for dinner and ventured out in search of takeaway.

The hours before Iftar are probably the most beautiful time in Cairo. The sun slowly descends, casting a reddish glow through the smog, dropping behind skyscrapers. From the vantage point of my twelfth story office, this city is beautiful, and for the first time since I arrived four months ago, serene. The usually frantic traffic lulls into near silence. The streets unclog as everyone settles in to break their fast. Taxi's don't honk at the presence of every pedestrian, the street vendors stare sedately instead of screaming out their wares. It becomes a different city.

I usually use my ipod to drown out the cacophony of hassling that faces me every time I step onto pavement. Music allows me to keep my distance from the parts of living in this city that drag me down- the sexual harassment, the begging and the physical bull-rush attacks Egyptian males are prone to. But today the music was more of a soundtrack than sound proofing.

I walked down what is usually a busy road in the shopping district that surrounds work, my head phones wrapped tightly around my ears. I planned to stop at the grocery store to pick up sodas before heading to GAD, the Egyptian equivalent of McDonalds. As I walk I pass a long table set up on the sidewalk, there is room for about twenty people at this table, and most of the chairs are already taken. An old woman in black veil gestures for me to stop and sit down, but with my headphones blaring, I simply smile and keep walking.

At the end of the table, a young man in stylish clothes is pouring drinks. He starts talking the usual street harassment "Hey, you, where are you going? Wait, wait, wait." Only his tone is different, it's not that of a merchant, a sleaze or even someone who is overtly nosey. His tone is welcoming. He follows me a few steps to grab my attention, juice pitcher still in hand.

"Where are you going?" "I have to get dinner for myself and a co-worker." "Come, sit. Eat." "I really have to get…" "Eat. Eat."

I take my place at the end of the table. Besides the old woman, a security guard sat, across from him a dirty little street child. To my left, men in fashionable clothes were digging into soup as my host explained that he and those around me worked at the men's clothing store next door. I had been told that during Ramadan people just settle in anywhere during Iftar, and eat without paying, restaurants included.

Styrofoam cartons full of rice and salad appeared from a van parked in the street and everyone, myself included, quietly dug into their meals. Every time I tried to open one of the plastic containers at least two of the fashion boys would grab it out of my hand and take the cover off for me. At one point, unsatisfied with my slow eating progress, a young fashion boy took my soup container, picked out the chunks of meat and placed them on my rice. They literally shoved the desert, a rice and yogurt mixture in my lap, repeating 'sugar,' and gesturing emphatically at me with spoons.

Whenever someone finished they would simply stand up and leave. I was probably the slowest eater at the table, the first time I have ever been the restrained one, by any standards. As the meal wound down I chatted a little and started to get ready to leave. Eventually the man who originally flagged me down told me he was looking to get married. All he wanted was a nice wife who was a 'moza.' He then subtly mentioned that he's here every day during Ramadan, if I ever want to stop back.

Being a pretty big 'moza' on the streets here in Egypt, I felt it was my duty to teach him the English equivalent of the word, you know, in case he wants to let another white girl know he's looking to get hitched.

"In the states, we call a 'moza' is a babe." "Baby? Okay." "Er. Babe." "I would like to marry a baby, then. A nice baby." Oh, don't we all, Ismael. Don't we all.

High Standards

2006-09-05T14:39:00.000+03:00

Tom Gara (tomgara.nomadlife.org) and I are on the hunt for a new home. While Pam and Brian's place is amazing and I could stay in their spare bedroom until I die, eventually I think they will want to be able to come home in the evening to an apartment that doesn’t smell of shirtless Australian and drunk American. Just a guess.

We've begun screening potential lifemates for the dream house. Really though, what criteria do you look for in a roommate, and how can you really fact-check if someone is clean, quiet and neat (promises promises). References alone aren't enough. An ex-flatmate has pretty shaky credibility. People are willing to say just about anything to get rid the guy who has no problem napping naked in a roommate's bed spooning with a large bowl of spaghetti. It's especially hard when all the possible bunker buddies are still on different continents.

But never fear! Tom Gara and I are pure genius.
We managed to figure it out in a four second MSN conversation over CANDIDATE #1 (kent.nomadlife.org). We've outlined what's really important to us in a roommate, and a flawless way to test said standards:

Megan: says
I like to screen all my potential roommates for wit, culinary skills, and makeout-ocity.
tom - throat-clap, or baby-tummy? says:
yeah. get him to "pin the tail on the donkey" - send through a jpeg of a vagina, have him mark the special spots
tom - throat-clap, or baby-tummy? says:
we'll see if he is a good as Dody claims....

Foolproof.

Home, sweet spare bedroom

2006-08-31T14:35:00.000+03:00

I'm sorry if in the previous post I didnt make it clear, I'm pleased as punch to be homeless. I mostly think its pretty funny.

After arriving last night I drank Pam's duty free vodka, smoked her cigarettes then fell asleep on her couch, she woke me up and put me in the spare bedroom. Come 8 a.m. I walked around the house in my underwear singing at the top of my lungs to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Pam and Brian don't mind. I make an awesome house guest.

We started exploring the apartment after I packed up all my stuff. We found tons of clues to the previous tenants, including a photo of a ugly chubby 20 something white dude bouncing on his knee an even uglier baby wearing deluxe headphones, a gulfie towelhead namebadge, a picture of a creepy looking girl, scary stuffed animals, then the goldmine.
--the previous roommates left a bag of old clothes in the corner of one room, and a slutty dress behind a chair in my room. (oh, and five pairs of slutty underwear was found throughout various rooms in the house Hot.) The best part about the pile of old clothes was the thigh high hooker boots in the middle of the bag, my size no less. I snagged some clothes for pam, left the underwear for the cleaners and high tailed it out of there.

I'm debating about wearing the anonymous slut outfit tonight to our secret Surprise Flip Cup Party for Pam. Yay or Nay?

"Bakshish, mister" my new life mantra

2006-08-30T12:21:00.000+03:00

As many of you know I have been apartment searching my heart out with AIESEC. We've tried hard, and sadly fallen short.

As of tomorrow morning:

I am officially a vagabond.

That's right. I have no home.

What it comes down to is I can't afford put a deposit down and first months rent on a 3-bedroom apartment without 2 roommates, no matter what district of Cairo I chose to live in. (that's right, I'm probably going to have to give up on the dream of staying downtown)

Who cares really, its all semantics. Despite my and AIESEC's best efforts I will spend a little time sleeping in people's spare bedrooms, getting ready in their bathrooms, using their hair spray, eating their ice cream when I think they can't tell.

In the end, there aren't any really good options for me at the moment with housing. I can wait and hope for a sublet to come up, or I can sit tight and wait for the new AIESEC trainees to arrive. Either way, I have to be out of one place tomorrow, and I have no permanent home yet.

(Even this horse has a home. Sadly, there is no room at the inn for Megan, and this stable is a little far from work for me to roll like Jesus.)

Luckily, I know some amazing people here, who have offered an empty half of a bed for as long as I need, and more excitingly, complete strangers saying I can stay in their spare rooms, and friends risking hellish Egyptian mother-in-lawesque landlord screaming matches in order to put me up in their extra room.

Thanks all of you, I appreciate it. And I will promise not to leave my underwear on the bathroom floor more than twice a week.

Welcome visuals.

2006-08-29T12:35:00.000+03:00

Picture 097
Originally uploaded by feralcats.

As you all know, the kind of nerd I was in high school didn't involve being in the AV club.

I was the kind of nerd who dated a guy for two years who only wore jean shorts and black t-shirts with WWF celebrities on them. I still remember the first day I saw him at drama club, with his "The Rock" t-shirt and his chubby pasty legs. Oh, I was also the kind of nerd who wore the same pair of $5 drawstring Walmart pants 5 days out of the week. What? They complimented my spikey bleached blond lesbian hair. (You should see my passport.)

What this means for you, loyal readers, (mom & dad*) is that I started a flickr account in June, didn't add photos until July and just now decided it to tell any of you about it.

the address is easy to remember:
www.flickr.com/photos/detrie_megan

I went to an Island of poor people, carnival games and starving horses with open sores. It was probably the best day of my life. I got to ride bikes.

* I can't do the old blog "A Readership of One" gag of directly addressing Pat Hayden in every entry, because sadly, he's sold me out to adulthood. Boo! Pat Hayden!

A Wisconsin Girl and Egyptian time

2006-08-08T13:34:00.000+03:00

One thing I was warned about before I came to Egypt was that Egyptians aren't very good with the concept of "on-time." I was told to prepare myself for constantly waiting an hour or two every time I had plans. Based on everyone's comments, I'm sure that this is true and I've just been lucky that my co-workers and AIESEC Cairo University are such diligent people.

Regardless, the reality of "Egyptian time" accidentally got me drunk yesterday.

I had an hour or two to kill before dinner plans with Nisrin, my Arab American friend, who has managed to absorb all of the worst quirks of both cultures. She's mastered the "American Bitch" concept, while also adopting "Arab Scheduling." Not only will she fall asleep for six hours and leave you waiting at a coffee shop, but she'll remorselessly chew you out when your eighth phone call wakes her up. God Bless her.

For those of you non-American readers, I come from the homeland of beer. Wisconsin produces most of the country's cheap, dirty and delicious beer. And our people reflect it. It's pretty normal to finish a pitcher or two with friends after work, go home and nap, then meet those friends for after-dinner drinks.

As a Wisconsin native, sometimes, I just want a beer. Yesterday was one of those days.

I went to our favorite downtown (and damn near only) drinking spot: Horeya. Its got that right mix of cheap prices, cold war-inspired interior design (pale yellow walls and dirty mirrors) and sad middle-aged Egyptian men. Needless to say, I love it.

I figured I would have a beer or two while waiting for Nisrin's call. This is where Egyptian time screwed me. 7:00 p.m. turned into 8:30 p.m. and I had drank four beers on an empty stomach. The waiter kept telling my friend in arabic that he loved me while I poured beer from my bottle into my friend's and flicked these little yellow beans at other patrons.

Every time my friend would suggest we get food I'd yell "No, Nisrin and I are gonna eat soup. I made it myself!"

8:30 p.m. rolled on into 9:30 p.m. and Egypt time had gotten me hammered.

Nisrin never called, I never ate any soup. I turned my phone off out of fear someone might call and discover how drunk I was at such an early hour. (May caught me anyway)

Sorry, there's no real moral to this one. Well, maybe: never trust Nisrin.

In the club lookin' so conspicuous

2006-08-07T16:22:00.000+03:00

I know I've said it a million times, and most of my posts focus solely on this theme: Egypt is a random and endearing place.

Things happen here that would never happen in the United States. Even if they only happen because I am foreign, there is a lot to be said for a culture that is so willing to share their most meaningful moments with strangers. Especially when most Western strangers rarely try to learn anything about customs or tradition before they begin their tourist safari.

Last night I went on a typical evening event for me, yet another "lame adventure." We try our best to get lost, then unlost, then have tea and shisha in a back alley.

The adventure started around 10 p.m. and in our typical lazy fashion, we took a left randomly off the main road and walked. Eventually we passed what looked like a cozy restaurant or bar. I knew it was something else; no restaurant would play such loud Egyptian music on such a shitty speaker system. They would lose all their tips after the customer's eardrums burst. And let's be honest, there are about five bars in the city. I would know if one was this close to home.

We started peering in the windows from the sidewalk, and my friend accidentally catches the eye of a 14-year-old Egyptian kid. The kid comes out of what is shaping up to look like a dance hall, grabs my friends hand and pulls him inside. I follow them without being invited. I'd rather be somewhere I wasn't invited with a hulky looking white guy than standing alone on the sidewalk late at night in a place I don’t know.

Weddings are very extravagant events in Egypt. I've been told by an Egyptian friend that many people remain unmarried simply because they can’t afford the wedding ceremony part of the process. Some poorer people get around the lack of money by having street weddings, others become legally married with a document, but it isn't recognized by society until there is a ceremony. This leads many couples to marry in secret and continue living in separate houses, never telling their parents that they are married.

It took us a while to figure out what exactly is going on- it was a wedding celebration. There were only around 30 people in the room, mostly dressed in street clothes. The kid that brought us in sat us down in the corner next to the speakers making our sad attempts at broken Arabic conversation even more impossible.

There was a circle of men dancing in the middle of the room, and women in the back part of the dance floor simply watching. The young Egyptian friend pulled my companion onto the dance floor and gestured for him to watch and repeat an intricate dance focusing on a lot of wrist flopping, hip jutting and leg spazzing.

My friend's reaction- the most embarrassing display of white middle-class man dancing I've ever seen in my life.

You know that guy at the club, feet glued to the floor, a little movement of the shoulders and a facial expression of complete defeat. That was him, in the middle of a bunch of rocking Arabs. Awesome!
Our young host eventually ran back to the chairs to retrieve me. He pulls me onto the dance floor and gestures for everyone to circle up. I knew what he wanted. It's what all men want when they get a chance to see Megan Detrie on the dance floor. I was being challenged to a dance off!

I was all set to go, and all of a sudden the music switched. No longer was I listening to what I affectionately call "Habibbie Rock," no, suddenly it was something far more familiar and terrifying.

Usher featuring Little John and LudaKris.

Those of you that know me know I have a secret love for dance club music. Those of you who've seen me at a dance party know I dance best when I'm shaking it like an overweight Mexican is shoving a five dollar bill down my top.

(Last weekend I playfully hit a male companion in the side while we were walking down the street in a ritzy part of town. The action worked up a group of five or six Egyptian men into such a frenzy they immediately broke into cheers and "Hello! Whoo!, Whoo!" Which almost made me fall down laughing.)

I knew my club-ho dancing was out of the question, and I was at a loss of how to move. Luckily I was pushed aside within seconds to clear room for my dance-off opponent, a teenager who could breakdance like he was grandmaster flash.

The boy laid out some head-spins, a couple flares, a "Thomas" or two. His skills were mad fresh.

Dance competition over, music returned to the Arabic variety and eventually we snuck out.

All in all you're typical night.

Wine Experts

2006-08-03T11:28:00.000+03:00

Americans in Egypt, you feel a little homesick?

This week I've learned to recreate your favorite cheap drinks purely by accident.

Tuesday night, I learned the recipe for Boon's Farm.

3 parts Green Apple Miranda soda
1 part Gin.

Tastes exactly like apple Boon's. Fellow Americans agreed.

Friday Night, I've given us the one thing we all don't miss: Boxed Wine.

There's a drink here called Kirkadee, its sweetened hibiscus tea, and it's delicious. Friday night in the middle of a party, I spent an hour in the kitchen brewing up a batch of this tea with my friends. We then managed to defrost the entire freezer trying to cool it, then mixed it with egyptian vodka (tastes like rubbing alcohol). the result:

Cold: Franzia's Red Chardonay.
Hot: Plum Wine (actually not terrible, though not reccommended)

so, after two hours of effort I managed to create not only boxed wine, but the worst flavor of all boxed win. Red Wine. I'm a fucking champion.

an unlikely 'Anything you can do I can do better' battle.

2006-08-01T11:48:00.001+03:00

Yesterday Wisconsin reached a heat index of 110, while Cairo held its usual heat index of 95.

I never thought I would come to Egypt to escape the July heat. Hope all of you back home have installed air conditioners and are comfortable looking at your roomate sitting naked on the couch.

Atta boy Midwest, way to prove you can threaten me with sun stroke just as well as the Middle East.

Week 7: Near Death. yours and mine

2006-07-30T16:47:00.000+03:00

Congratulations me, I finished my diving certification.

I'm not going to lie; I've been freaked during all of the classes. Each of the classes involved some kind of panic attack on my part.

Last Friday, I "learned" the remaining necessary skills needed before our open sea dive. This translates as I faked one of the breathing skills, and was taught the rest of the skills by an Egyptian pool boy with no English speaking skills.

Quite obviously, come Saturday's open water dive my confidence was high.

I arrived an hour before my dive mates and waited. The water was choppy, the current was ridiculous, and the visibility was zero until 2 meters below the surface.

We were motored out past the bay on this dingy wooden boat, which handled the waves by throwing us from one side to the other.

I'm pretty sure the instructor, Mahmoud, decided he had enough of being in charge that day and spent most of his time focusing on sitting on the bow smoking, then yelling "Yala" (Let's go) and "Be Strong!" at random times.

A friend* who is a certified dive master tagged along to make sure I didn’t die. He kept trying to go through safety protocol, like "Hey guys, check your gear, make sure it works," "If you get lost, look around for one minute, then surface," and "Do actually know how to swim at all Megan? My god, you’re going to die."

Every time he started a sentence Mahmoud would drown him out with a "Yala, Yala” and throw in a "Be Strong" here or there. I heard about four words of my friend's safety instructions. Clearly, when things malfunction while I'm submerged in 8 meters of dirty salt water, all I need to do in order to breath is be strong, then Yala it to the surface.

Mahmoud is the diving equivalent of an Evangelical preacher or faith healer.

No Food? Jesus will provide. No legs? Jesus will Carry you. Herpes? Jesus has a cream for that. No air coming through your safety reg? Be Strong!**

We all eventually tumble into the water. No surprises here; Dody's vest isn’t quite working and his normal regulator isn't allowing air in. Mahmoud yells and disappears below the surface leaving Dody struggling against the tide. Finally the little risk-taker is all set up, breathing off of his safety regulator instead of the primary one. He and Ziyad grab the rope leading down to the contingent of divers below and disappear.

Suddenly, it's time for me to follow. I'm the last one left on the surface. Being me, I can’t even eat a meal without spilling, I don’t know why I thought could manage myself underwater.

Of course my mask leaks and my fin falls off in less than a minute. My highly trained response was to flail around for a little while and swallow some salt water.

A pretty good sign that I will likely die.

The divemaster friend gets me outfitted with a better mask, Mahmoud's below the surface signing to everyone to "be strong,” and I’m off.***

To be honest, the underwater museum was meh. The historic points were all chunks of ruins, indistinguishable from the chunks of rock surrounding them.

Still, it was pretty awesome, mostly because I felt just like I was the little mermaid. Which as we all know, wearing a seashell bra and communicating with crayfish has been a longtime ambition of mine.

Now, if only there were some underwater musical numbers or actual marine life in Alexandria my dream would finally be complete.

It was exciting all the same, and though I am poorly trained and am as likely die while diving as I am playing with cleaning solvent (chances of death are high on both counts given I eventually try to eat everything), I am certified.

It's time to start flashing that C-Mass card at networking events and see if I can't land myself a nice power-broker.

*I wasn't sure how to handle names on this site, I don’t know who would care about me using their name in the blogosphere, so my rule of thumb is this. If your blog is on nomadlife, I will use your name. If you don’t have a blog, I'll refer to you by stereotypes based on nationality (its racist in me, can't help it) or defining characteristics (ie. Kate = this one girl I know who won $50 in a pole-dancing contest)

**Fuck you Mahmoud. I'm sorry it had to be said. Oh, and girls don't like to be looked up and down then told they need a bigger weight belt because "While you are small, I think you weigh alot. Yes, you are small but heavy."

*** I have no proof of this. I was on the surface ignoring the divemaster telling me to go back to the boat and forget diving. That’s what I envision was going on down below, Mahmoud, sly little bastard. (Some divemaster you are, Aussie! I’m American, we don’t quit just because it’s highly unsafe and we have no idea what we’re doing. Have you ever heard of the Bay of Pigs, chump!)

Story Two, I witnessed a kid get run over by a bus. We're not sure whether he fell off the bus, or stepped off the sidewalk and the bus ran him over. But his foot was definitely swollen. The street vendor who dropped his tray and rushed to watch, walked back a few minutes later to pick up all the donuts he dropped under the wheels of the bus, put them back on the tray, and sell them. Oh, Egypt

Never good at goodbyes

2006-07-30T16:38:00.000+03:00

Hey, I left without telling any of you.

Sorry about that, I guess I'm half-assed living every ugly middle school girl's fantasy about moving without saying anything at school and have everyone feel really bad that they didn't invite her to the popular kid parties.

That or the one daydream where our unrequited crush saves us from a terrible downhill skiing accident, and we ride the ski lift down together cuddling. What? That was just me? Oh.

Anyway it's all going down at

activeculture.nomadlife.org

Biting into the Upper Crust

2006-07-13T12:07:00.000+03:00

So I have officially moved to nomadlife.org, an elitist little project started by Dody under the veil of "keeping in touch." It has now morphed into something the State Department uses to keep tabs on us Salaam Trainees.

Don't worry Condoleezza, your government provided health insurance remains untouched by me.

Either way, I'm moving up a step in the world of blogging fame by actually allowing people who aren't my parents to know the URL.

Hello Nomadlife! I hope you're ready for daily posts listing everything I've eaten so far that day and what I hope to name my future babies. (Pendleton!)

City Limits

2006-07-09T15:23:00.000+03:00

This weekend's activities were mostly inspired by lack of sleep, rooftop sunrises, sing-alongs and long talks. All these things sound lovely as long as we leave out the details, so that's what we're going to do.

In actuality it was a tough and emotional weekend for me, but it had some worthwhile moments.

On friday afternoon I embarked on a metro adventure.

the rules are: get on the Metro and just go. We picked the blue line, and headed out of town. My friend told me to count the number of stops from Sadat (our stop) to Shubra (the end), I gave him the option 1 to 10; he picked 9.

Around stop number 7, a young Egyptian with limited English approached us and said "I think you are heading the wrong way."
How do you explain to someone you got on the metro just to go somewhere? That you have no idea what kind of neighborhood you're heading to and you don't really care?

We didn't bother. We just told him it was okay, and asked his name.

We got off and started wandering. In Cairo proper people are jaded, they see tourists all the time, and to them we are walking dollar signs. It's all about the profit. Out in Koliet El-Zaraa we were the only non-Egyptians there. Little kids ran up to us and asked us our names, where we were from, if we wanted to play. Everyone said hello and no one tried to sell us anything. At one point one man laughingly shouted "tourists" in Arabic after us as we climbed a unused rickety overpass leading no where.

Eventually we found a little concrete loading dock along the Nile. We sat down next to two boys fishing and watched a few older girls gut fish, while their male counterparts worked on a partially constructed boat.

The young fisherman offered to let my friend borrow his rod, and one of the girls came up to ask our names, and tried to force cigarettes on me. My favorite part is that was I wasn't smoking, and it's atypical for Egyptian women to smoke. I wonder where she got the cigarettes from; since it's unlikely they were hers.

About 5 yards away, 70-some people were loading themselves onto a river boat and a large sailboat. Women boarded the river boat, and the men climbed onto the sailboat. As the boats filled up and the dock emptied, the sailboat took notice of the two white kids sitting along the Nile. One guy started waving, which led to seven guys waving, which led to someone pulling out their taba (an Egyptian drum) and starting up a call-response song for all twenty of them. The boat was singing to us.

I watched the riverboat pull the sailboat across to the opposite shore of the Nile.
There were two teens swimming in the Nile, which you do not see downtown. The Nile is filthy. One of them started talking to us, you could tell he was making fun, everyone else was giggling. A lot of people tried joking with us. The intent was evident, but the punchline was lost on the two foreigners who spoke twenty words of Arabic between them.

Eventually the riverboat came back, still dragging what was now an empty sailboat, and I would've liked to ask where the men had gone, but with no language, there was little chance that we could've figured it out.

It wasn't until later on when I was recounting my day over dinner that I realized it was the first time I've been in Cairo and seen people engaged in an activity that wasn't selling me something. In the immediate Cairo, everyone is a vendor of everything. I had forgotten that boats are made somewhere. It served as a nice reminder.

Week 5: Extreme Sports, I guess.

2006-07-03T15:40:00.000+03:00

Dody is an Indonesian with a knack for convincing me to take up extreme sports I'm bad at as hobbies and Ziyad, is a Moroccan who dances straight out of John Hughes' movies, and only understands one-eighth of the things I say. (In my defense, Wisconsin, I've taught him the 'Boo.. Hiss!' How's that for cultural assimilation?)

Since meeting these two people, my weekends have gotten exponentially more interesting. I've been introduced to the Egyptian late-night equivalent of "make-out point" except it involved more veiled girls silently staring out at the city and sexually frustrated men holding their hands than the USA version. Oh, and poor children selling flowers and raver glow sticks. You don't see that at America's make-out spots. I've eaten the head of shrimp, beans in a sauce of cheap oil, sat bitch in a car while 4 men over the age of 25 sang along to All for One's "I swear", they knew every word to the second verse long after my middle school memory failed me, took horse riding lessons where the 'gentlest' horse in the stable totally kicked my ass, ran the Alexandrian cornice at 7:30 a.m., got stale shit-ridden toilet water splashed on my heels courtesy of a three hour bus ride, slept in a office chair with no arms and ate really good mango ice cream.

This weekend they talked me into their latest adventure- Scuba Diving.

I don’t know if you know this, but Scuba Diving is scary.
The first two hours of the lesson consisted of some very simple points of information.

If you hold your breath your lungs will explode.

If you go down too quickly your sinuses will explode.

If you rise too fast, your lungs and sinuses will explode.

All in all, it sounds pretty fabulous doesn't it? While completely terrified, I'm also extremely excited at the idea that I can walk around and flash my scuba diving certification to men at parties.

"Hey there handsome, you want to dance with a girl who can breathe regularly and evenly, ensuring the necessary amount of oxygen reaches her lungs at even intervals?"

Okay, maybe it won't be as useful as I thought.

At least I'll be able to see the ruins under Alexandria. I might be sobbing with fear and trying to claw off my suit while submerged in 16 meters of dirty salt water at the time, but there will be a decrepit lighthouse!

A little bit of jungle in all this concrete

2006-07-03T12:35:00.000+03:00

I spent last night sitting in a room, giggling with people whose only link to each other was they had all met me at least once, and they showed up when I invited them out.

At 3:30 a.m. everyone dispersed from the host's house, and I found myself walking home on what is usually the most crowded square in the city. But, at this early in the morning it was deserted. There are few green things in Cairo, but this block has an amazing climbing tree. Whenever I travel outside the city, I am always surprised by how amazingly fertile the Nile is. Over time, you forget what vegetation looks like, just like you forget that there are constellations somewhere past the light pollution.

But at 3:30 a.m. in a city of 22 million people, there was nothing. It was just us, three police officers and this tree. My friend stops and laments, and just stares longingly at the tree. Eventually we start walking again and the police officers flag us down. We don't speak Arabic, they have guns. It always makes me a little uncomfortable. Eventually through some gesturing on their part of binoculars and some climbing pantomime from us, it's been worked out- we can climb the tree, if they can watch.

Within minutes I am in the branches of one of the few trees in my neighborhood, and it felt good.

There I was, 50 yards from the Egyptian museum on a sidewalk usually packed with more than a hundred people, gripping bark and breaking twigs as I scramble to get just a little higher, and all I could think was "only in Cairo."

Week 3: On Manners

2006-06-19T11:37:00.000+03:00

For noticeably foreign females harassment is typical in Cairo. No one has ever tried to touch me, or harm me. But when you walk past you get a lot of comments, usually they can be broken into two groups:

The Welcome to Egypt! Group: usually said by shopkeepers, small children and assholes.
The shopkeepers want your attention, because they want to sell you shoes, water, airline tickets, fake papyrus paper that they hope you'll think its real papyrus paper. Small children are either beggars, or just kids who know a couple words of English and want to try it out, repeatedly, while following a foot and a half behind you. Finally the assholes- this is a chunk of the male Egyptian population… "Welcome to Egypt.. okay! What's your name! What's your name! Where you from! You are Beautiful! Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me. Sex-ay! Welcome!" Pick any 6 of the 9 phrases and shout them at blondes who walk down you're street and you are re-creating a traditional cultural experience right there in your home town.

The other group is the:

Arabic Shame/ Arabic Asshole : these are old men who glare and say things as you walk by, the young men who inch a little closer when they pass you on the street and say something half to themselves half to you. I can't understand it so it doesn't bother me much. They are just doing it to make themselves feel better and go ahead old man, scream "Shame! Shame!" At me from your car as you drive past, I can't tell. I'll probably think you're just warning me to watch out for the giant holes in every sidewalk in this city.

Why am, I telling you this? Because it's true, it's also an interesting juxtaposition to another aspect of Egyptian culture: genuinely kind people. Last week, we went to one of the grocery stores in the city (there aren't that many). Around 45 minutes after returning home there was a knock on the door. One of the friends we had gone with had left her wallet in the cab, and the cab driver was there to return it. A few months ago, my roommate left her laptop and all her DVDs in the back of a cab, within two hours the cab driver had realized it was in his back seat and driven back to where he left her off to return them, apologizing for taking so long to see the black bag on his black seat. There is a certain understanding of goodness here that I don't think a lot of foreigners recognize. Yes, a cab driver will try to charge you more because you are foreign, but they would rarely steal from you. There is a high degree of self-policing amongst Egyptians. They want to protect the people around them.

This morning, I took the metro to work for the first time. It is a 15 minute journey by cab, and a 3-stop 20 minute walk (45 minutes in all) by Metro. I was dressed pretty conservatively; sunglasses, pants, a shawl, but had already received some Welcome to Egypt commentary on my way down to the train. Once leaving the metro I began my trek and wound up following a middle aged man who was walking briskly down the same street. The first time someone said something in Asshole Arabic to me, the middle aged man glanced behind him. The second time he did the same. Soon enough I realized he slowed his pace so he was walking a little closer to me, and kept it at that easy-to-match stride. Every time we approached a stranger, I saw him look the stranger in the face. From that point on comments stopped. We passed trio of young men standing a few feet away and I braced myself knowing they were going to say something. He shot them a look and they kept quiet. There was nothing exchanged between him and me, no words, we didn’t even look at each other. But still, I realized that he was taking a measure to protect me.

People say Cairo is one of the safest cities in the world, and I'd believe it. It's not the tourist police on every corner that make me feel particularly safe, but the way I see people help each other out. While I'm sure I'm getting ripped off for being foreign, I've never felt threatened or scared yet. I also am not foolish, if I don't know an area I go in daylight, I take all the typical stranger in a strange land precautions. All in all I can say my parents shouldn't be worried about letting their idiot of a daughter move out here, I've done okay.

Next tales of adventure which were not written about today because I have pictures! :
A) My battle of Horse versus Megan versus Small Horde of Egyptian School Girls.
B) A proper introduction to Kaitlin, my roommate.

2006-06-06T11:49:00.000+03:00

The Cairo Chronicles

2006-06-06T10:54:00.000+03:00

Today marks the one week point from when I stepped off the plane in Cairo, jetlagged, confused and a instant foreigner. It was obvious to the tour operators and cab drivers that I had no clue what I was doing. As I stacked my bags they attacked from each side "Hello!" "Is someone here to meet you?" "Do you need ---".

I was picked up by my in country AIESEC manager and driven directly to meet my new bosses. I am working at a company in Egypt called Sarmady Communications. At the time I accepted the job, I wasn't expecting much. Turns out Sarmady makes the Egyptian equivalent of "Time Out," a pocket sized monthly called "The croc." Suddenly, my job made me a big deal in Cairo. I don't actually work for The Croc however; I edit sports articles for an affiliated online magazine. Saying I write for ARTsportsTV.com doesn't really go as far. But still, my increasing sports knowledge and lack of faith in the USA team's ability in the world cup has won over numerous wait staff.

Back to the original timeline- I was dropped off at a co-worker/fellow trainee's house where I was to stay for a few days. There I slept and read and starved.*

A group of about 9 people showed up at the house for a trip to the beaches on the Sinai Peninsula. They were supposed to leave at 1:30 a.m. true to Egyptian measurement of time, they finally moved towards the door at 3. By then I was awake and nervous about being stuck in the city alone. I grabbed a swimsuit, a towel and went out to the minibus with them. After a 14 hour flight, I had chosen to ride in the back of a tiny bus for 7 more hours.

I spent the next two days lying on the beach, starving and sleeping in a hut. I had traveled there with a Mexican, two Portuguese, three Spaniards, a Romanian, Indian, Aussie and a Turk. I spent a lot of time listening to people speak in Spanish and staring at the ocean.
I didn't tell any AIESECers I was leaving, and I guess no one thought if I wasn't with the set of roommates who stayed home, and then I probably was with the set of roommates who left. AIESEC was ready to call the embassy until a kind stranger pointed out maybe they should call one of the other roommates first.

Then it was time to return to Cairo. We were supposed to leave at 8pm. When the driver arrived he came in a station wagon for 6 and if you do your math correctly, there were 12 of us. He left and returned later to tell us taking us home was against the law.** So a Bedouin was able to take us home a mere 5 and a half hours later. I arrived back in Cairo at 8 am. Which left just enough time to go to work.

My job is fabulous, I am busy all day and my bosses are fun, kind people. I am actually not terrible at writing sports news.

I was warned time and time again that I would be harassed for being a blond sexy female in a city of sexually repressed Muslims. So far- Nope. I went for a walk last night and all I got was a really old guy sitting on a chair mumbling "Welcome to Egypt" to himself when I walked past. I appreciated the effort, but I could tell his heart wasn't in it.

Today marked the first day I had to take a cab to work by myself. I had my co-worker write down the words I needed to know to get to Sarmady. I pronounced the Arabic words entirely wrong. They have heavy "H" sounds, like they are spitting the word. I can't master it, not with my lame Wisconsin accent.*** Cab drivers will try to rip foreigners off left and right, more than once my co-worker and I have gotten out of cabs mid-way to the destination because the driver started demanding triple the price once I sat down. Well, this morning, I got my cab, slaughtered the Arabic language handed him five pounds and scurried off. He angrily stalked me for a block, but I wouldn't get close enough to the cab for him to demand more money.

Arabic words I've mastered: NO "La"
Arabic words I try all the time, but never say quite right: YES "iwa"
SURE SURE: "Meshi" THANKS: "shukra" ENOUGH ALREADY, FUCK OFF SERIOUSLY:" halas"

*The starving has turned out to be a common theme in this country. We get off work at 6 p.m. and everyone complains of being hungry. Then for some unknown reason we don't eat until 10:30. Sleep however remains scarce. Every night so far I've been brought out at 11 p.m. to play pool, watch people smoke shishas, sit in a bar drinking a LE 36 beer (a ritzy meal at a nice restaurant costs about LE25)and generally making jokes no one understands.

**What? I still don't understand.

*** However, I've accidentally used Spanish an embarrassing amount of times. More then once I've asked shop keepers "Cuantos Questa?" I'm American. Aren't all foreign languages the same thing. Seriously.

----- Sincerely, Megan who is currently shaken, but not stirred

by Micheal Barrish, I find it comforting to think about-
http://oblivio.com/archives/06031401.html