It's going to take me awhile to finish parts V - VIII of Egypt.
In the meantime, take your time scrolling through parts ix--IV and these other posts dated accordingly.
My Old Testament teacher requires journal entries from the class--two people are assigned per day in an attempt to catalog the ultimate goings-on around here. I've had to write two entries thus far and I figured since they were already written I may as well include them here.
AND it's twelve thirty in the morning here and I have to get up for breakfast at six, so ta ta and goodnight to all!
-R.
Monday, October 15
Saturday, October 6, 2007
The sixth of October was a Shabbat unlike any other. For one, it was General Conference day. For another, we only had one church block meeting—fast and testimony meeting. We sang of Zion in our hymns as we looked out over the old city. It was awfully poignant, and not at all subtle.
A good many students bore succinct, powerful testimonies. You know, the kind that are short and sweet but knock you over with spiritual power? Yes. Those. Another member, not a student here at the center, shared the story of his conversion to Mormonism from Judaism. He spoke of his conviction that Jesus is the Christ.
My eyes are sore after focusing on the speaker in the Auditorium during Sacrament meetings; the white-light shining and reflecting off all of the limestone is rather bright. I remained after the benediction to write in my journal. It was a relief after the meeting to rest my eyes on paper instead of the city, albeit with much less of a view. After a few minutes I glanced behind my own chair. I was astonished to find so many people there, all writing in journals or reveling in thought.
I wondered then what each of us will take away from this experience. I wondered what succulent truths we will glean from the exposure to a new people, to the gospel, and to a land steeped in the ages of time. What will touch us most? What has touched us? Who will we remember? What have we done to merit such rich blessings? …and I wondered what everyone else was thinking.
At dinner we made bets on who we thought would be assigned as second counselor in the first presidency of the church and who might be called as the new apostle. Later that night we all piled into the forum, anticipation and expectation refreshing our souls. It was quite an experience, realizing that we had gathered in Jerusalem to hear the words of the prophets. Years from now I expect we’ll look back and recall that night in the Holy City when we sat among friends for an occasion we could never repeat—a night drenched in revelation and living water.
We were only allowed to watch one session live before it was “off to bed.” The words “unable to stay, unwilling to leave” came to my mind as I climbed down the stairs to my room, and although I had wished to stay and listen for two more hours, I did not regret sleeping early when my head plopped to my pillow.
It had been a pleasant day. Truly a day unlike any other.
A good many students bore succinct, powerful testimonies. You know, the kind that are short and sweet but knock you over with spiritual power? Yes. Those. Another member, not a student here at the center, shared the story of his conversion to Mormonism from Judaism. He spoke of his conviction that Jesus is the Christ.
My eyes are sore after focusing on the speaker in the Auditorium during Sacrament meetings; the white-light shining and reflecting off all of the limestone is rather bright. I remained after the benediction to write in my journal. It was a relief after the meeting to rest my eyes on paper instead of the city, albeit with much less of a view. After a few minutes I glanced behind my own chair. I was astonished to find so many people there, all writing in journals or reveling in thought.
I wondered then what each of us will take away from this experience. I wondered what succulent truths we will glean from the exposure to a new people, to the gospel, and to a land steeped in the ages of time. What will touch us most? What has touched us? Who will we remember? What have we done to merit such rich blessings? …and I wondered what everyone else was thinking.
At dinner we made bets on who we thought would be assigned as second counselor in the first presidency of the church and who might be called as the new apostle. Later that night we all piled into the forum, anticipation and expectation refreshing our souls. It was quite an experience, realizing that we had gathered in Jerusalem to hear the words of the prophets. Years from now I expect we’ll look back and recall that night in the Holy City when we sat among friends for an occasion we could never repeat—a night drenched in revelation and living water.
We were only allowed to watch one session live before it was “off to bed.” The words “unable to stay, unwilling to leave” came to my mind as I climbed down the stairs to my room, and although I had wished to stay and listen for two more hours, I did not regret sleeping early when my head plopped to my pillow.
It had been a pleasant day. Truly a day unlike any other.
Friday, September 21, 2007
The twenty-first of September. Yom Kippur Eve. Dawn’s gray light began dancing rainbows over the white limestone of the ” city of Gold” early that morning when nearly forty students from the Jerusalem center arose far earlier than necessary; each early riser wearing both modest clothing and a groggy expression. We met on the eighth floor to joint taxi to an orthodox-Jewish community in hopes of witnessing a kapparot ritual. Somehow in the wanderings in the city Amber Patterson, Rebecca Redd and I got lost. We had to call the center and admit that we were lost, but eventually the taxi-bus knew where to find us. We returned just in time for breakfast; which was a good thing because it was the first time chocolate muffins hit the menu, and everyone knows how tasty those are.
Later that day there was a rush on the laundry room. You see, the next day was Shabbat—when the laundry room is closed, and the day after that we left for Egypt. That meant that anyone requiring clean clothing for our week-excursion to Egypt was obliged to carry their clothes down to level two and perform the task—if they hadn’t done it already—which many of us had not.
The Jerusalem Center’s laundry room also serves as a bomb shelter. Only one way in and one way out. And not just for humans. For air as well. Ten washing machines with hot water, ten dryers effusing billowing clouds of steam, and a baker’s dozen of sweaty students soliciting the progress of their own clothing and/or hovering like buzzards over the next available machine. Three ingredients—a perfect recipe for sticky, sweaty, precipitous pandemonium. Add to that the incessant rumble of laundry tumbling within echoing metal drums and the endless shrill-squeak of that last dryer in the line and laundry becomes more than a chore. It’s a thrilling adventure with noise, a long wait in line, ping pong tournaments, and a 70% chance of heat exhaustion in the accidental sauna. Scratch that—bomb shelter.
One more thing about laundry at the center. Maggie Pertucci left her dryer sheets on the table on level two, and because it looked up-for-grabs the entire contents of the box were purloined in a matter of minutes. The poor girl had to organize a charitable institution entitled “donate-to-Maggie’s-dryer-sheet-fund.” At least everyone’s socks smell like Bounce now. And thanks to Maggie, we all had nice smelling laundry for our Egypt excursion.
Later that day there was a rush on the laundry room. You see, the next day was Shabbat—when the laundry room is closed, and the day after that we left for Egypt. That meant that anyone requiring clean clothing for our week-excursion to Egypt was obliged to carry their clothes down to level two and perform the task—if they hadn’t done it already—which many of us had not.
The Jerusalem Center’s laundry room also serves as a bomb shelter. Only one way in and one way out. And not just for humans. For air as well. Ten washing machines with hot water, ten dryers effusing billowing clouds of steam, and a baker’s dozen of sweaty students soliciting the progress of their own clothing and/or hovering like buzzards over the next available machine. Three ingredients—a perfect recipe for sticky, sweaty, precipitous pandemonium. Add to that the incessant rumble of laundry tumbling within echoing metal drums and the endless shrill-squeak of that last dryer in the line and laundry becomes more than a chore. It’s a thrilling adventure with noise, a long wait in line, ping pong tournaments, and a 70% chance of heat exhaustion in the accidental sauna. Scratch that—bomb shelter.
One more thing about laundry at the center. Maggie Pertucci left her dryer sheets on the table on level two, and because it looked up-for-grabs the entire contents of the box were purloined in a matter of minutes. The poor girl had to organize a charitable institution entitled “donate-to-Maggie’s-dryer-sheet-fund.” At least everyone’s socks smell like Bounce now. And thanks to Maggie, we all had nice smelling laundry for our Egypt excursion.
Sunday, October 14
EGYPT, Parts I - IV
ix. BE YE THEREFORE WARNED
I spent a week in Egypt. In all it’s simplicity that sentence is fraught with emotion--both positive and… ugly. This seven part saga is organized into sections and headings under the day of the week in question (September 23—30, 2007). If you’ve read my post before you understand that I am long-winded, very descriptive, and that a day can last several paragraphs. …I’ll do my best to keep this short, but you must remember the glory of blogspotting is that the audience to which one is writing is in control. That’s right, dear readers, you are in control. You are free to read or not to read. That means I can be as long-winded as I’d like and you can’t complain about it being too long. So if you have complaints about the length of my posts I don’t want to hear about it/ end of story/ forget about it/ keep it to yourself/ don’t ask don’t tell/ no ifs-ands-or-buts/ conversation finished—the end.
I. WALK LIKE AN EGYPTIAN
This section is the 411 on what a tourist sees of Egypt behind the scenes. Sure, Cairo has a population of over 13 million, and sure you’ve seen what the pyramids look like, sure there are tons of ancient artifacts, and you might even have a clue as to what the people are like there… but do you know that any group of tourists is required by law to hire a tour guide? Do you know that Cairo is by far and away more dangerous than Jerusalem? Did you know that in order to use a bathroom you have to tip someone for handing you one square of toilet paper (that wouldn’t do you a lick of good even if you DID use it?) And did you know that more Italians visit Egypt than any other nationality? Did you know that tourism is Egypt’s main commercial revenue—six billion per year—nearly 2/3 more than their cotton industry? Well you do now. As for the other things I’ve seen, I’m about to let you in on the other little-known secrets.
METAL DETECTORS: Every building has a metal detector in the doorway. Why? Tis a mystery currently studied and debated by the finest of American students. Why bother to have a metal detector when walking through it is an optional procedure? Why bother to have a metal detector when it loudly beeps every time someone goes through and they’re never asked to turn out their pockets? We currently believe the common-practice of metal-scanning in Egypt is no longer a matter of security but a simple test to determine whether or not you have money with you to spend. If you fail to set off the alarm on a metal detector you will not be permitted to pass. Of course air-port security checks luggage and personal items thoroughly. Several of us had to remove our shoes and belts and pass through the detector again and again until receiving a metal-free bill of health. Or so they thought. Case study: a hat with aluminum grommets set off the alarm. The pocket-knife residing in the carry-on owned by the same individual slipped through security without notice, however. Isn’t that nice?
VENDORS: Age range—5 to 65. Very aggressive and complimentary. Everywhere. Frankly I wouldn’t be surprised to find them waiting to ambush a tourist inside of a bathroom stall. Anyway. They’re everywhere, and not in the “chicken man” sort of way. They’re everywhere in a creepy, pop-up behind you unexpectedly, breathing down your neck sort of way.
HEALTH RISKS:
Bug bites like you would not believe. (I myself have 26 swollen cherry colored bites on my legs. Pray that I don’t get… malaria or something. Can you get “west Nile” at… the Nile?)
There is a line in the Emperor’s New Groove that says, “Don’t drink the water—it’s poison—muffgkle….(he makes a dead face)” I repeated it over and over on this trip. You can’t drink Egyptian water. It’s contaminated. Bottled water to drink, rinse your toothbrush, wash your face, etc. I had to rinse my toothbrush by swishing it inside my mouth filled with bottled water. Not easy. And can I add that trying to keep invisalign clean with that system is exceedingly difficult. And time consuming.
Heat. HEAT. Hot hot hot hot hot blazing sun. Over 100 degree temperatures. Very hot. Scorching. Most unpleasant. 500% chance of sunburn and dehydration, especially considering the non-tap water issue. Rule number one: always wear a wide-brimmed hat, preferably one with ventilation. Rule number two: bring a camelbak, and if you don’t have one with you, tote water at all times and DRINK IT. A note that some students should have paid more attention to—carrying water won’t keep you hydrated unless you actually drink it. Hello!
Food. Food is iffy. Mostly because of the water. Only hot steamy foods could be trusted. And bread. Not even yummy bread. The only trust-worthy thing I could think of eating for breakfast was a hard-boiled egg…and even with those I had to check to make sure the shell hadn’t been cracked. Nearly all food in Egypt was…how can I put this delicately… um, distasteful? It was really un-tasting. Meaning all available food was either bland, off limits, or gross. We stayed in nice hotels where the food presentation was top notch—everything looked fantastic… until it was off of your fork and behind your lips. Blicka.
Egyptians have a smell. You know how everywhere has a smell? Well, Egypt is nearly too hot to develop a real smell. However—the Egyptians themselves have a smell. Thus, Egypt smells. Several people said on the trip that they were starting to “smell like Egyptian,” not smell Egypt, or ‘I like, smell Egyptian…’ no no, they implied smelling like the Egyptians. It’s a perfect description. The old city in Jerusalem has a smell too, but that is mostly a smell of spices and herbs in the food that they’re selling on the street. The Egyptian bazaars don’t smell nice that way. They just smell like Egyptian. Of course the tombs have a smell—oh, do they ever—but I’ll get to that in a minute.
The EXAUSTION CYCLE: I wasn’t super prepared for tired I would get on this trip. I wouldn’t feel tired on purpose—I’m good at suppressing things like that. A family trait, I think. I’m used to working through severe exhaustion, but not getting up at the crack of dawn so you can sit for an hour, walk through blistering heat and blazing sunlight for twenty minutes, sit for half an hour as the bus rocks you to sleep like a baby, walk and stand in blistering heat and blazing sunlight 40 min, sit for ten minutes basking in the buses’ air conditioning, heat and light, shade and sitting, heat and sun, sit just long enough to get drowsy, heat and sun (no water to drink), sit some more, sun and heat, sit some more, lather, rinse, repeat. Again. Again. Again. Hot hot hot. Die die die. Thirsty, tired, pooped. More hieroglyphics? Oooh. Aaaah. Hot. Thirsty. Repeat. Sweat. Gross. Sit on the bus. Blazing sunlight. Again and again. More hieroglyphics? Oooh. Aaaah. Hot. Thirsty. Repeat. Sweat. Gross. Sit on the bus. Not. Much. Fun.
II. SUNDAY
Breakfast was early. I got up especially early to make sure I could reserve one of the peanut butter sandwich sack lunches as my own. We drove for a few hours. Our first stop was Tel Beersheba. It means “well of seven,” and there were ancient city ruins there. And a model of an ancient well. Way cool to see a place I’ve done research on.
Then we drove to the “Wilderness of Zin Overlook,” and Ben Gurion’s grave. A group of Israeli soldiers were training there. I’m told they are taken to historical sites so they can learn patriotism. I snapped some pictures of the grounds that they just HAPPENED to be in. Tee hee tee hee. I love seeing Israeli soldiers. The grounds were very pretty, too. We ate lunch there. Then we got back on the bus for a few hours.
On the bus brother Ludlow told us that he was going to let us bend the Jerusalem Center rules. While we were at the kibbutz, he said, we were each allowed one date. Dating of any kind is strictly prohibited at the Jerusalem center, so we were a tad surprised. I was really surprised when he kept going. He said, “dates here usually turn out to be the pits, but I hope yours will be sweet…” and then we all started to catch on—we were going to EAT a date. Ha. Ha. Ha. Okay, courtesy laugh is over. Back to the fruit. I thought…Dates. Psh! There are much sweeter and tastier things to eat; why waste time and calories on a date, anyway? Right? Nope. Mmmm. Dates. I can now appreciate dates, having been in a land where tastier things are few and far between. Dates are quite tasty. With a texture both pleasant and surprising. I love dates.
Where we got the dates? Ah, now that is the question. I can now say I have been to a date plantation. I suppose the Dole plantation in Hawaii might have a similar appearance, but just imagine a palm tree forest underneath a cloudless lapis sky. This is the visual greeting of the Yotvata Kibbutz. Yotvata means “place of rivers,” and the name is intended to be ironic. There are no rivers there. At least, there aren’t any above ground. There are several aquifers, but no water you can see. Acacia, tamarisk, and mango trees line the streets there. Now I don’t have the time to explain what a kibbutz really is, so look it up if you don’t know what I’m talking about. Brief summation: communal living farmland shared and operated by a bunch of people who choose to come, stay, and/or leave. Kibbutz Yotvata uses drip-line irrigation (which they claim was developed broad scale there,) and uses only mechanical picking technique. The mechanical picking means that they don’t have to hire out for workers, but it also means that they can only harvest certain types of produce. No tomatoes, cantaloupe, or peppers that could bruise, you see. The Yotvata kibbutz is famous for its dates (they’re shipped all over the middle east) but they also harvest onions and manage a dairy farm. Their ice cream, too, is famous. It was okay ice cream, I guess.
As an ice cream connoisseur I believe my statement of ice cream quality is accurate. It was all-right; similar in texture to soft serve—you know, that underlying watery graininess? If you really want good ice cream over here you have to eat a “NOC OUT” ice cream bar. Rich texture, lush flavor, and lickable chocolate topping. And substance. You feel like you’re really eating cream—real ingredients! Coconut Noc Out’s are very popular—I also enjoy the hazelnut-chocolate Noc Out. Ohhhh, the first bite! I discovered where it’s name came from—it knocked me over. I’m going to miss them when I come home… but not too much. Each ice cream bar costs 9 or 10 shekels—that’s close to two dollars. So my tongue will miss them but my bank account won’t. And neither will my waistline. Hee hee. Maybe I should limit myself…nope. Still worth it. ; )
Where was I? Oh, yes. Dinner at the kibbutz. The kibbutzniks layed out a nicely spread buffet dinner; and after the monotony of food at the center I was grateful for the change. This food was flavorful! And while it was mostly the same fare, the spices were a tweensy different. Yum yum. Then there was the ice cream, and then TA DA! Folk singing! About five people led us through a few popular Israeli songs and dances. We passed around sheets with the lyrics listed, and followed after we grew familiar with the chorus and tune. During a few of the up-beat songs the MC of the group suggested that a girl teach us “a simple hora.” My ears perked up, you can bet, because that’s a folk dance step! All we really did was dance a simple step over and over around a circle…but it was fun. The BYU students were really getting into it. I was glad of that—it helped my crusade to convert my fellow students to folk dancing. (So far I have four people that have promised to try some! Yay! And two that will come to audition for a team! I’m proud of myself.) Anyway… dancing. And then sleep.
First night sleeping at a kibbutz. I’m sure that each kibbutz is different, but from all the iffy descriptions I had heard I was prepared to be sleeping in a hole—but it was clean. Cleaner than some hotels I’ve stayed in. American hotels, mind you. So it was nice. I’ll say nothing about the fact that the shower had no walls and no floor, well of course it had a floor, it was just a drain. In the floor. That’s what I meant. It was nice. I declined the shower since I knew I’d get water everywhere. My roommates did. I just washed my hair in the sink. All in all, I was clean, dry, well-fed, and tired. Three of four bases covered. And I was tired, but not exhausted. I can handle just about anything. Especially if I know it’s coming. That’s why I was so surprised when I was exhausted after the trip was over. I’m guessing that this is due to the germs I undoubtedly was fighting off. And I bet I… nope I’m sure it was that. But that story, boys and girls, is not part of today’s saga. Further details cost ten Egyptian pounds and are available in the sixth installment of Rachel’s memoir. (Translation: you’ll have to read Friday’s entry for that thrilling tale. The tale of how I got sick. And it is thrilling. Well. At least it is when I tell it.)
III. MONDAY
I woke up and had to lug my luggage to the bus and then go to breakfast. (First time I really noticed that “luggage” is called such because you “lug” it everywhere. Duh.) But I didn’t know which way it was to the busses and I had no clue where we were eating breakfast, let alone how to find the place. Fortunately there are enough BYU students on the trip to be like ants swarming over the mound we inhabit. And one thing I know about ants—there are ants that know what they’re doing, ants that think they know, and ant’s that can follow intelligently. In Egypt I was an intelligently following ant; which is how I found breakfast. Following the ants who either knew or thought they knew where they were going.
Breakfast was good. This kibbutz was the last place we could eat all food and water without fear of contamination. And we did. There were scrambled eggs (which don’t resemble eggs that you cook yourself--they’re more like those fluffy yellow fake things, but you aren’t interested in that. [I’m only trying to explain the food (that I would otherwise like to forget) because I know my family is wondering what-in-the-devil I ate that week. I mainly stuck to hard-boiled eggs (with an un-cracked shell,) bread and butter, bottled water, and any meats that looked okay. And smelled…edible. Oooh! I almost forgot dessert. We all ate dessert at every meal because it was one of the only things we could eat. So breakfast? Pastries of some sort wit chocolate sauce, probably. That about sums up breakfast. If we were lucky (and I think this only happened twice) they had hot-chocolate and not just coffee. The kibbutz owners were a little surprised, I think, when their sophisticated coffee-bar was unfrequented, but like the good Mormons we are, we don’t touch coffee. …Except for me. Piqued your interest?
Here’s the story. The kibbutz had hot chocolate. But there were three bowls of brown powder. Which were coffee, and which was chocolate? The whole place smelled like coffee so the scent could not be trusted. Which was it? Rachel to the rescue! I put my little finger in turn on the side of each bowl and then licked it off as I announced, “coffee…good coffee…cocoa.” Some of the BYU students said I was a weirdo, but I noticed they didn’t complain as they drank their cocoa. Mmm. Oh—and my mother was right. Coffee may smell divine, but it does taste pretty nasty.
After breakfast it was off to the Taba border crossing. Or I should say two hours of riding on the bus and THEN the Taba border crossing from Israel to Egypt, followed by five to six more hours of riding a bus? Yeah, that sounds more accurate. Okay, we weren’t allowed to drive the Israeli bus into Egypt; so we took all of our stuff off of it and lugged it three hundred yards to the initial passport check. After the initial check, we got exit visas and lugged our luggage an additional two hundred yards to the Egyptian section. Passport checks two and three. We put all of our bags, hats, and anything else through a metal detector (the only one in Egypt that I know of with a legitimate screening process) and walk through a detector ourselves. A metal detector test we had to pass. I had to take off my belt and go through a second time until I was beep-free. That was passport check number four. Pick up all your stuff, fill out a visa request slip, hand it to the guar, try your best not to look suspicious, passport check number five. You think I’m kidding, but I’m not. They really look at your passport five or six times—and I don’t mean glances. They stare at it, look at you, stare at it some more, and then five feet later another guy repeats the process. I made it through that bit and lugged my stuff outside.
Northeast Egypt looks like New Mexico or Nevada—brown, dry, and mountainous. Mountains are a special treat for me, especially after staying in Israel for a few weeks. I missed them.
I was among the first in our group to pass through customs, and since I knew I wouldn’t have the chance again for awhile I decided to use the restroom inside. It was gross of course, but that isn’t the point. I came out of the bathroom, sat back down, and started chatting with my classmates. This is where the surprise came in. There are two sets of students—bus one and bus two, otherwise known as Ludlow’s class and Draper’s class. When I went into the bathroom Ludlow’s class was outside. When I came out of the bathroom Draper’s class was outside. I didn’t detect the change—to me there were thirty BYU students there when I went in and there were thirty there when I came out. It was ten minutes later when someone turned to me and said, “wait a sec, Rach—didn’t your bus already leave?” Cue panic mode.
Sure enough, no one in my class was anywhere to be seen—neither was “bus one.” Growing a little nervous, I gathered my by gag, backpack, hat, passport, and lunch and headed off at a trot to find my bus—hoping that it might be just out of sight on the other side of the gate. As I walked I argued with my own head. “They couldn’t have left,” I told myself. “There’s a head count on the bus! There’s no way that they left without me.” S u r e. I turned a corner and saw another customs gate and more Egyptian men in uniform, but no BYU students. And there was a bus. But there were three. Where was MY bus, and was it one of those? I walked faster. As I picked up speed, customs began to yell at me and ran over demanding to see my passport. Another passport check. Still no sign of anyone I knew. What if I got through customs and there STILL weren’t any BYU people to be found? What would I do then? I wouldn’t even be able to come back to the Israeli side without an exit visa from Egypt. What was I going to do? One last passport check later and I walked over the final border into Egypt. …and I saw my bus. A faculty member was just coming to look for me. At this point I wish I could say that I felt relief. On the contrary, I was still tense and anxious.
Mortified that I would be the last person on the bus (and by a wide-gap as well) I stepped on. Needless to say everyone had settled in—leaving no options for me to choose who to sit by or where to sit. I called to ask where there was a free seat. No one answered (and I knew they had heard me, I have a very loud voice.) It seemed that most people weren’t paying attention so I called again as I walked through the bus. All of the seats seemed taken. Finally I reached the back of the bus—where, there were no seats to be had, or if there were—no one was lifting a finger to make a space. I knew that Egyptian buses had four less seats than our Israeli buses, but I’d THOUGHT there were enough seats.
Growing more and more flustered between the mixed emotions of anger and hurt that no one would make room for me, getting held up on my own by Egyptian security, having accidentally grabbed the wrong lunch in my hasty getaway, and embarrassment in general…and being a very passionate person whose emotions are often close to the surface, I was on the verge of tears when I turned around (encumbered by my own luggage that I couldn’t set down.) Tears started flowing down my face—I couldn’t help it—and of course, FINALLY someone noticed that I was in distress as I was walking back to the front…you know, as soon as I wanted to NOT attract attention people started to pay attention. The only available seat was Bro. Huntington’s, but as he was nowhere to be seen I sat in it, eager to be out of sight. Bro. Ludlow came and saw me—the tears had stopped, mercifully—and he asked me to sort our student international cards…no doubt he noticed my distress and supplied me with a simple task to get my mind off things. –that’s why I love simple tasks…like cleaning. It’s mindless so all you have to do is work as fast and hard as you can while your mind is elsewhere. Then people started coming over to check if I was okay… and I put on a masterful show of being fine. (Props to Bro. Ludlow for providing me with that simple task, otherwise I would really have embarrassed myself.) Then of course, Bro. Huntington came back and I had to move. I sat in the middle of the bus in a seat that looked empty. …but of course it wasn’t. I moved again. Three minutes later (after interrogating people about who was sitting next to them) I reached the back of the bus without finding a seat. Again. Grrrrrrr. By then I was about ready to scream “IS THERE OR IS THERE NOT AN EMPTY SEAT ON THIS BUS?” someone said, “Hey, Rachel, you still need a seat?” Phew! Praise to Buddha someone gave me a seat. …of course it was in the rear of the bus and I have extreme motion-sickness, but beggars can’t be choosers. Attempting to cool down my emotions I pulled out my Ipod—“iClaudius” and started listening to Aida. Very Egyptian and all.
After a few more hours, yes hours, of driving we had our first Egyptian rest stop. It was very much like the rest of Egypt: coated in a dingy film, carrying an odd scent, Muslims praying just outside, men wearing “gal-ah-bay-ahs,” the dress-like Mumu-ish things that men wear, and feeling like your very presence is offensive and revolting…much like seeing a prostitute in a small American town would be. My HAIR is offensive to these people. Well, at least to the devoutly religious ones. The others I’m sure…”enjoy” the brazen display of my hair and figure a little too much. But of course, I am forgetting the most important part of a rest stop—it’s where you go, excuse me, when you wish to relieve yourself.
These are not the “restrooms” you are accustomed to. Have you ever heard of a “squatter?” If you have not, imagine a walk-in shower—the kind only large enough for one person with the glass doors—and replace the drain in the middle of the floor with a hole. That’s a squatter. No toilet. No seat. Just a tile floor and a hole. Hence the, uh, squatting. Now imagine a door that doesn’t stay shut on it’s own, and mold of many different colors. Grime, mildew, hardened blood spots and smears, mold, a mysterious pasty gunk, and last but not least—purple fuzz with spores. Ah yes! I do not lie! Oh, it was good. That’s a “rest stop.” Our hotel bathrooms were better. They at least had toilets. But do not underestimate the condition of the squatters. (Amber, my roommate, and myself have decided that the next time we go to Egypt we will bring plastic cups to pee in and forget the squatters altogether.) Oh and the sinks—some were…touchable. I usually would use the sinks to wash my hands—always with the requisite follow-up of hand sanitizer.
Then we had more hours of driving. Then we hit Cairo. Well, actually, then we hit Cairo traffic. I didn’t mind getting caught in traffic, as it were, because watching the traffic go by is plenty to look at on its own. First—method of transportation. Men riding donkeys, handcarts, Fiat’s, Mercedes, Volkswagens galore, tour-buses, carriages, camels, open trucks, cars so trashed you can’t believe they’re still rolling (and believe me, I’ve seen cars that were on life support—these were zombie cars—the living dead.) And the drivers and passengers either gawk or deliberately look anywhere but at you.
At one point we passed a bus full of locals. There were two teenage-girls giggling and waving and staring at us. Every time we passed them I would smile and wave back energetically—you should have seen their faces light up! Ooh, they would smile and wave back! Head scarves and all, I guess they thought American tourists were a sight to see—for the life of me I don’t know why… they’re everywhere in Cairo. Although it may have something to do with the fact that we are a large group of attractive, young tourists… together on one bus. Yeah, that was probably it. The only tourists I ever saw were middle-aged and older…and usually Aussies or Brits. Huh. Now that I think of it we probably were a sight to see.
Billboards are everywhere: on top of houses, on the sides of the road, all over the high rises, just plumb everywhere. You honestly can’t take a glance anywhere in the city without seeing five or six. And they’re enormous. For the first time I’ve appreciated that America has laws against billboards being that big and…frequent. Ick—they were all over! Of course, it’s rather fun to see an ad that says “TOSHIBA” that’s also littered in printed Arabic. And for some reason the streets are always crowded—well, not quite. I lied. On Friday—the weekly holy day for Muslims—the streets are less crowded. Heaven help you if you get caught in traffic just before the Ramadan fast for the day is coming to a close. Rush hour in America can’t compare, I should think. Well—maybe outside of DC. But whoo! MAN are there cars. And carts. And donkey boys. And camels. …All on the same highway. I saw the Egyptian Museum (aka the Cairo Museum) off the side of the road and felt my pulse start to race. But that was nothing to what happened next.
I sincerely hope that you have all read “The Polar Express,” by Chris Van Allsburg. It’s one of my favorite books. Going through Cairo for the first time—on a bus full of people my age who had never been there before—all of us waiting to see the “ancient wonders” so to speak, reminded me of The Polar Express because at one point when the children are riding the train through Santa’s city up at the North Pole one child sees something out the window and tells everyone about it and they all rush to see it. (you know… that part where it says: “Look!” shouted one of the children, “The elves!” Outside there were hundreds of elves…) It really was similar. Especially when a girl at the front of our bus shouted “Whoa! The pyramids!” and we all were scrambling to see them through the haze.
What a sight that was. There—hovering in the fog of a thickly industrialized city—ancient tombs from the first six dynasties of Ancient Pharaohs. It is a most peculiar landscape. One glance to the right and all is desert sands. One glance to the left—a tropical paradise with all the lush greenery water can provide; the smoky, reflective Nile slithering along just throughout the ages. And yes—there is papyrus growing on the banks. And yes—the sun is red. Red HOT.
Have you ever noticed the way sunlight is different wherever you go? I think I’ve mentioned this before, but in the western United States the sun is a lovely gold. It colors everything, making colors more vibrant. In Jerusalem the light is white—it washes out color. And now, the point. Ta ta tum! The Egyptian sun is a furnace of red-orange flame. It sears the landscape. …it also sears people. Haha! That reminds me. I took this awesome picture while I was in Memphis of three dogs all laying within two feet of each other. They looked dead. We all laughed and laughed when finally one started breathing—because we really had thought they were all dead. So take my word for it—the Egyptian sun is red. They call the Nile the “cradle of life” for a reason. Nothing in that place could ever survive without the water and fertile sediment the water carries. Without the Nile, all Egypt really is is sand and rock.
The rest of the peculiarity of the land is that there are high rises everywhere. Everyplace is more than one story and 87% of them have rebar sticking out the top of them. They have people living in them, but the tops of the buildings are constantly under construction. So you have three visual options in Cairo: city buildings, sand, and green. Of course, the irony is that the desert is the only clean thing in that list. The Nile is filthy, the buildings are filthy, and the desert is so bleached by the sun that it’s only danger is heat exhaustion. A few of us watched Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark yesterday. There’s a scene when Indy is in Cairo and someone calls it a “heavenly paradise.” I yelled, “Hah!” It’s a pick-your-poison place. I would hardly call Cairo a “paradise.” Ick. Just ick.
Just after sundown we finally hit our hotel. I couldn’t believe the look of the place. Marble floors and walls—no joke, it looked like something out of the movies. Or maybe the twilight zone. The bathrooms all had marble and alabaster flooring, and each had it’s own beday (I don’t know how to spell that, but you know what I meant.) It’s easily the nicest hotel I’ve ever stayed at—including the Marriott. Of course, the Marriott I stayed in had water you weren’t afraid of touching…but that can’t be helped. I asked one of my teachers how much a room at that hotel cost without a group rate. Get this—he said around two hundred dollars! Aack! He told me that in Egypt “the one thing we don’t do is skimp.” Why? Because the faculty noticed that the nicer the hotel the healthier the students. I see. (Then I asked how much the whole trip to Egypt was costing per-student. …he guesstimated $2,000. Two-thousand schmackers! That’s more than my tuition for a semester in Provo! Yikes. Well, at least I did it in style this time so there’s nothing lacking as it were.)
We settled into our hotel and the option lay before us. Do we go swimming? (It was a very nice pool, and I think only nine or so students—including myself, abstained.) Do we take a nap? Do we lay out our clothes for tonight and tomorrow and then re-pack, and then pack a smaller suitcase for the train and two-day trip to Luxor? …that’s what I did. Tee hee. I also wandered around taking pictures of the hotel. We ate dinner there, and the presentation was as upscale as the rest of the hotel. Glimmering dishes with heaps to eat. We all felt rather badly that we couldn’t eat any of the fruits and vegetables… partly because they looked so tasty, and partly because we knew they had been difficult to prepare and we were letting the handiwork go to waste. I also had to smirk when all 80 of us drank hot chocolate in the morning, but no one even glanced at the gourmet coffee bar. Made the waiters a little testy when no one ordered alcohol, too. Food was good. Lots of potatoes, meat, onions, and bread. Mmm. Bread. And, of course, dessert. I was particularly fond of a lemon torte that every hotel seemed to serve.
Here the great option lay before us. Sleep? Games? Or—pay a lot of money and risk your personal safety to see the city “night life,” in a land where night life hardly exists and is not appreciated. (“Night owls” really don’t exist in the Near East. Say that it’s due to poverty if you will, but they are a working people. They rise with the sun and sleep at night. …or it might have something to do with the fact that all of the nasty bugs come out at night. Hmm. You decide.) Back to the point of discussion.
I’d like to point out a serious mis-conception. Before I left Provo people would always say, “Jerusalem! Aren’t you scared?” I would flatly explain that Philadelphia is far more dangerous than Jerusalem. And now I can testify that that is true. It’s quite safe here---especially considering the size of the city. When I mentioned that I was also traveling to Egypt people would always say, “Oh, you’ll love Cairo.” No. no, no, no, no—OH, no no no. Anyone who thought that chase the thought straight out of your head. Even the quiet cities in Egypt are more dangerous than the big cities in Israel. Walking around Luxor a friend of mine turned to me and said, “Well, Toto, we’re not in Utah anymore.” And she was dead on.
Repeatedly before and during our Egypt trip our faculty gave numerous speeches about safety and discretion in the country, giving particular attention to the dangers of young women and personal safety. They told us that in recent travel studies a few of the girls had been groped. We were told that traveling at night was not forbidden, but strongly ill-advised. We were given explicit instruction for staying in groups, avoiding certain areas, to act only with certain behaviors, and to above all use our common sense. You can imagine my surprise then when near to sixty of the eighty students on the program finished dinner and immediately took taxi’s into the dark unknown of Cairo. It was 8:00pm. The sun had set more than an hour before.
Traveling in groups notwithstanding, I don’t care how careful you are or think you are—that does not smack of “common sense.” I have heard it said that ‘sense,’ as it is called is anything but common. It seems to me that anyone who disregards numerous blaring, blazing, flashing warning signs is UN-commonly stupid. It sickened me as I stood at the door of our hotel with Bro. Huntington, one of our teachers, with the check-out list…watching people scribble their personal seal of acknowledgement that they were exchanging reason for madness. Bro. Huntington asked me if I were going out. “I would rather know Egypt through it’s monuments and museums,” I said. “Besides,” I added, “I can’t imagine what my father would say if I told him that I had. He doesn’t like me out at night in front of our house in Provo! I can’t even imagine his expression.” I didn’t need to add that I wasn’t that stupid, either. Brother Huntington was so worried about everyone. *sigh* I was left with two options then. Go to bed early or play uno with the remaining few BYU peoples? Two good options, one better than the other. Greg and I both announced that we were going to bed, and so we did. He walked me past the pool and other outside buildings to the bank of apartments that was mine. I went inside, washed up as best I could with bottled water, and then I went to bed.
I woke up at 11:30pm, thinking that it was odd that my roommate for the night still had not come home. Curfew was 11:30, so she should have been back, but she wasn’t. I went back to sleep. When I got up and showered at 5:00am, my roommate was still zonked out. (Showering with my eyes squeezed shut and my mouth closed, hands plugging my and ears as I rinsed the soap off—focused on not letting water into any body cavity, all the while wearing flip flops so I wouldn’t pick up any horrible foot fungus, I might add.) After I had dried my hair I asked my roommate what she’d seen the night before and if she’d had fun. Then I asked when she had gotten to bed. She said “not until 1:30am.” Surprised, I asked why. She explained that she had been in Bro. Huntington’s room. Why? Answer: she was receiving counseling because she had been groped by her taxi driver and was very shaken up.
I don’t need to say anything more. I was sorry for her, certainly. No one should have that happen to them. I tried the best I could to help and console her, but could anything I said really have helped? I don’t think so. But I can speak for myself—asleep in my hotel room, ready packed for the next trip, and well rested for the excursions of the day, I was also preserved from the dangers she had encountered. The irony is the fact that none of the “night owls” from the J Center had seen anything special, anyhow. And so I ask, was that really worth it? Somehow I don’t think so.
[Thanks, Daddy for teaching me early in life that there are places a lady shouldn’t be after dark, and thanks Mom for reminding me that most everything will still be waiting for me after sunrise.]
IV. TUESDAY
In the immortal words of Riley from the movie National Treasure, “Who wants to go down the dark tunnel into the creepy tomb first?”
I repeated these words many a time in Egypt, but never were they more applicable than at Kafre’s pyramid. FYI the Pyramids were built as tombs for the ancient pharaohs. Imagine a steep crawl space leading to a small, dark room. You’ve probably considered that before. I doubt, however, that you have ever known about this detail: there is next to no ventilation. This means that every sneeze, every exhalation, every whiff of flatulence ever expelled inside that chamber is trapped inside—along with its humidity. That tomb has to be sitting in 78% humidity. It’s revolting! I hadn’t been in there 40 seconds when my clothes clung to me, and the sweat started to pour. I couldn’t breathe—I felt like gagging—how can you breathe water, anyway? (Heaven help me if I ever move to the South…I’ll be the first ever case of humidity asphyxiation.) I looked left, right, down, and up, saw the burial platform, and then announced “Okay, I’m done. Anyone else going out?” I tried as to get out get out get out as fast as I could, all the while climbing down a steep incline and holding my hat in front of my chest –protection from groping and pinching that often occurs when creepos hide in crevices and quick as a wink reach out and touch you. And then poof! [Gasp, inhale] I was out—drying instantly under the parched desert sun. The first words out of my mouth were, “Cool. Never doing that again.” I found Greg, Rebecca, and Brandon and started flashing as many pictures as I could, getting a bunch of myself, a few with friends, and obligingly taking shots of others.
It was a blast! Taking pictures at the pyramids is probably one of my favorite memories of Egypt. And hey, man—I’VE STOOD ON A PYRAMID! Whoo, yeah!
Then we loaded back onto the buses and drove a mile around the other side of the pyramids to the “overlook” point, where we took pictures of ourselves with the great three pyramids all behind us. …avoiding the uber-creepy old men that would suddenly appear with their arm around your shoulder. Or in my case, waist. I thought it was funny—no one at the center had done so before, who was is? I turned my head and Bluwayhahahahahahaha… scary scary dirty old man! Sicko! Honestly, I think the old men at the overlook point were the most brazen and filthy advancers of the whole trip. At least they were for me…. eeeeeew. I spent the next five minutes steering my girlfriends away from them, shifting them to the other side of me, and joining them as we scampered eagerly across to the camel caravan point saying, “Look! Mormon tourists! Lets-Go-see-them!.... now now now NOW,” and running as fast as we could.
And yes, you read the word “camel.” I rode a camel! Very fun. Archie and I shared a camel that I named “Benny the little stinkweed,” not because he smelled, but because he seemed like a mercenary sort of camel, and he reminded me of a movie character. (If you don’t get the reference, ask my friend Joni—she’ll be delighted to fill you in.) The next time you see a movie where people are riding a camel, pay attention to the dismount—IF they even show it. I’ve noticed that lots of movies edit it out because it is hardly a graceful procedure. The camel kneels down front legs first—and if you aren’t leaning back there is no way you’re gonna be upright when the back legs crumple in suit. They call camels the “ship of the desert,” because the rocking motion is similar to the way waves rock a sailing ship. It’s an apt description. I’ve never ridden a horse, but I can bet that it is far more uncomfortable than riding the traditional “ship of the desert.” …and yes, I’ve noted how odd it is that I’ve ridden a camel but never a horse.
We went and saw the sphinx—I got a schweet perspective-bending shot that looks like I’m kissing it… cliché, but oh, so enjoyable. Our tour bus, “bus-swan” that I will explain in a minute, took a group shot in front of the sphinx with the pyramids in the backdrop. Everyone bought a copy, so we each have an 8 x 10 picture of our class in Giza. SO great! Priceless material for sure.
Then we went to Memphis—and saw the sphinx of Rameses and the ridiculously well preserved statue of Rameses II—that’s right, likely THE Rameses. It’s laying on the ground inside a museum with an overlook deck, so I took some pictures and stuff, but I also walked over by his ear and said—of course—“let my people go.” Hee hee hee—it was great!
After Memphis, which is where I took the picture of the three dead dogs who weren’t dead but certainly seemed to be, we ate lunch and drove to Saqarra. Saqarra is there the step-pyramid of Zozer is found. It is the oldest pyramid known to man, and it was designed by: DA DUN DUN…. IMHOTEP! Chazah! Joni, you’ll appreciate this—as we passed the museum of Imhotep, where sadly we did not stop, half the bus was chanting zombie-like: IMHOTEP…Imhotep…Imhotep…Gaa hahahahhaha… and of course, I started it. Ooooh, it was so much fun. (Again, if you don’t understand who Imhotep is… watch the Mummy. And not the Boris Karloff version, although it’s great too.) Anyway, at Zozer I ended up getting 20 postcards for a dollar. Yay! –I collect postcards, so it was fun to get some. We walked around an ancient temple, the oldest of its kind, and stood in awe of the craftsmanship and ingenuity of the ancient architects, snapped pictures, avoided sunburns and dehydration and creepy-gown wearing old men, and then loaded onto the bus and headed across Cairo to dinner and… the train.
I’ve now waited on the platform of one of those train stations you see in movies—not like Chronicles of Narnia, or 9 ¾--I mean the filthy kind. The ones with litter and drunkards and filth and stench. If you’ve ever seen the true-to-life historical films set at foreign train stations… you’ve seen the type I mean. But it was so much fun. Greg, Rebecca, Brandon and I all set down our luggage and stood around making jokes and talking. We shared a bench with the Galbraiths (one of the J. Center service couples.) We let the gust of wind brought with the speeding train ruffle our hair. We stood near the edge of the platform and watched the “speeding freight train” rush past, zooming and moving like a bullet through a gun—hurtling along its given track. Greg and I were singing “snow, snow, snow, snow, snow” that they sing on the train in the movie White Christmas. (I wished that I had “held a cutted crayon” that I could write my “poem comprised of four letters” with…I dunno what four letter word… “math” or something like that. Ha ha…that’s a great song.) We counted the cars of our train as it slowed to a stop, 9—10—11—12—13… “this one’s ours,” and toted our things aboard. I rejoined my designated roommate from the night before, the molested one, whom I shall hereafter call Susie (to be more polite.)
My strategy in Egypt was to accept everything without question or complaint and keep my eyes half shut to the conditions and state of filthiness and keep my eyes wide open where Arab men were concerned. If only more of the girls had had similar thoughts they could have saved themselves (and me…who had to put up with it) a lot of anguish. My roommate “Susie” made a big deal out of a lot of things, but—and I grant that after getting molested she had reason—she was paranoid of the train car waiters. I took the responsibility of herding her out of the way whenever one was coming (ours in particular…he really scared her to death) and made sure she never said a word to him—I did. I hadn’t even noticed that I was doing it, but she did, and it was nice to be noticed I suppose. Especially when she told everyone I was rescuing her. (All I did was listen in on what he had said to each room in turn so that when he got to ours I repeated it all before he could say anything, said “No, shukran” forcefully and shut the door on him.) (and just by the way in Egypt that is NOT rude, in fact, if I do say so myself it was rather smooth.) So Susie walked with me when I had to use the train’s WC—an experience in itself, I rather wished I had had a plastic cup—and I protected her from scary train waiters and dingy door handles.
If you don’t allow yourself to think about bed bugs, sanitation, or anything else that might be occuping your bedclothing the train was kinda fun. I’d never been on a train before, but Greg and I both agreed that riding a train across the US would be really fun. And not exhausting, because you could sleep. But still expensive so there’s really no point I suppose. Anyway, random tangent… I was having trouble concentrating on falling asleep when I remembered the words of Lucy in CS Lewis’ “Prince Caspian,” ‘the best way to fall asleep is to stop trying.’ So I pulled out my ipod; and laying on my stomach I watched the rising moon’s light glimmering off the surface of the Nile from out my window. I listened to Enya and the soundtrack from “the Mission,” and the music made the scene before me quite picturesque. (Despite the dried blood smears on the wall near the light switch.) Heh. Heh. ; )
Wednesday to Saturday still to come…
I DID warn you that it was a saga. What's that? You didn't believe me? Shame on you! You ought to know I am always in earnest.
I spent a week in Egypt. In all it’s simplicity that sentence is fraught with emotion--both positive and… ugly. This seven part saga is organized into sections and headings under the day of the week in question (September 23—30, 2007). If you’ve read my post before you understand that I am long-winded, very descriptive, and that a day can last several paragraphs. …I’ll do my best to keep this short, but you must remember the glory of blogspotting is that the audience to which one is writing is in control. That’s right, dear readers, you are in control. You are free to read or not to read. That means I can be as long-winded as I’d like and you can’t complain about it being too long. So if you have complaints about the length of my posts I don’t want to hear about it/ end of story/ forget about it/ keep it to yourself/ don’t ask don’t tell/ no ifs-ands-or-buts/ conversation finished—the end.
I. WALK LIKE AN EGYPTIAN
This section is the 411 on what a tourist sees of Egypt behind the scenes. Sure, Cairo has a population of over 13 million, and sure you’ve seen what the pyramids look like, sure there are tons of ancient artifacts, and you might even have a clue as to what the people are like there… but do you know that any group of tourists is required by law to hire a tour guide? Do you know that Cairo is by far and away more dangerous than Jerusalem? Did you know that in order to use a bathroom you have to tip someone for handing you one square of toilet paper (that wouldn’t do you a lick of good even if you DID use it?) And did you know that more Italians visit Egypt than any other nationality? Did you know that tourism is Egypt’s main commercial revenue—six billion per year—nearly 2/3 more than their cotton industry? Well you do now. As for the other things I’ve seen, I’m about to let you in on the other little-known secrets.
METAL DETECTORS: Every building has a metal detector in the doorway. Why? Tis a mystery currently studied and debated by the finest of American students. Why bother to have a metal detector when walking through it is an optional procedure? Why bother to have a metal detector when it loudly beeps every time someone goes through and they’re never asked to turn out their pockets? We currently believe the common-practice of metal-scanning in Egypt is no longer a matter of security but a simple test to determine whether or not you have money with you to spend. If you fail to set off the alarm on a metal detector you will not be permitted to pass. Of course air-port security checks luggage and personal items thoroughly. Several of us had to remove our shoes and belts and pass through the detector again and again until receiving a metal-free bill of health. Or so they thought. Case study: a hat with aluminum grommets set off the alarm. The pocket-knife residing in the carry-on owned by the same individual slipped through security without notice, however. Isn’t that nice?
VENDORS: Age range—5 to 65. Very aggressive and complimentary. Everywhere. Frankly I wouldn’t be surprised to find them waiting to ambush a tourist inside of a bathroom stall. Anyway. They’re everywhere, and not in the “chicken man” sort of way. They’re everywhere in a creepy, pop-up behind you unexpectedly, breathing down your neck sort of way.
HEALTH RISKS:
Bug bites like you would not believe. (I myself have 26 swollen cherry colored bites on my legs. Pray that I don’t get… malaria or something. Can you get “west Nile” at… the Nile?)
There is a line in the Emperor’s New Groove that says, “Don’t drink the water—it’s poison—muffgkle….(he makes a dead face)” I repeated it over and over on this trip. You can’t drink Egyptian water. It’s contaminated. Bottled water to drink, rinse your toothbrush, wash your face, etc. I had to rinse my toothbrush by swishing it inside my mouth filled with bottled water. Not easy. And can I add that trying to keep invisalign clean with that system is exceedingly difficult. And time consuming.
Heat. HEAT. Hot hot hot hot hot blazing sun. Over 100 degree temperatures. Very hot. Scorching. Most unpleasant. 500% chance of sunburn and dehydration, especially considering the non-tap water issue. Rule number one: always wear a wide-brimmed hat, preferably one with ventilation. Rule number two: bring a camelbak, and if you don’t have one with you, tote water at all times and DRINK IT. A note that some students should have paid more attention to—carrying water won’t keep you hydrated unless you actually drink it. Hello!
Food. Food is iffy. Mostly because of the water. Only hot steamy foods could be trusted. And bread. Not even yummy bread. The only trust-worthy thing I could think of eating for breakfast was a hard-boiled egg…and even with those I had to check to make sure the shell hadn’t been cracked. Nearly all food in Egypt was…how can I put this delicately… um, distasteful? It was really un-tasting. Meaning all available food was either bland, off limits, or gross. We stayed in nice hotels where the food presentation was top notch—everything looked fantastic… until it was off of your fork and behind your lips. Blicka.
Egyptians have a smell. You know how everywhere has a smell? Well, Egypt is nearly too hot to develop a real smell. However—the Egyptians themselves have a smell. Thus, Egypt smells. Several people said on the trip that they were starting to “smell like Egyptian,” not smell Egypt, or ‘I like, smell Egyptian…’ no no, they implied smelling like the Egyptians. It’s a perfect description. The old city in Jerusalem has a smell too, but that is mostly a smell of spices and herbs in the food that they’re selling on the street. The Egyptian bazaars don’t smell nice that way. They just smell like Egyptian. Of course the tombs have a smell—oh, do they ever—but I’ll get to that in a minute.
The EXAUSTION CYCLE: I wasn’t super prepared for tired I would get on this trip. I wouldn’t feel tired on purpose—I’m good at suppressing things like that. A family trait, I think. I’m used to working through severe exhaustion, but not getting up at the crack of dawn so you can sit for an hour, walk through blistering heat and blazing sunlight for twenty minutes, sit for half an hour as the bus rocks you to sleep like a baby, walk and stand in blistering heat and blazing sunlight 40 min, sit for ten minutes basking in the buses’ air conditioning, heat and light, shade and sitting, heat and sun, sit just long enough to get drowsy, heat and sun (no water to drink), sit some more, sun and heat, sit some more, lather, rinse, repeat. Again. Again. Again. Hot hot hot. Die die die. Thirsty, tired, pooped. More hieroglyphics? Oooh. Aaaah. Hot. Thirsty. Repeat. Sweat. Gross. Sit on the bus. Blazing sunlight. Again and again. More hieroglyphics? Oooh. Aaaah. Hot. Thirsty. Repeat. Sweat. Gross. Sit on the bus. Not. Much. Fun.
II. SUNDAY
Breakfast was early. I got up especially early to make sure I could reserve one of the peanut butter sandwich sack lunches as my own. We drove for a few hours. Our first stop was Tel Beersheba. It means “well of seven,” and there were ancient city ruins there. And a model of an ancient well. Way cool to see a place I’ve done research on.
Then we drove to the “Wilderness of Zin Overlook,” and Ben Gurion’s grave. A group of Israeli soldiers were training there. I’m told they are taken to historical sites so they can learn patriotism. I snapped some pictures of the grounds that they just HAPPENED to be in. Tee hee tee hee. I love seeing Israeli soldiers. The grounds were very pretty, too. We ate lunch there. Then we got back on the bus for a few hours.
On the bus brother Ludlow told us that he was going to let us bend the Jerusalem Center rules. While we were at the kibbutz, he said, we were each allowed one date. Dating of any kind is strictly prohibited at the Jerusalem center, so we were a tad surprised. I was really surprised when he kept going. He said, “dates here usually turn out to be the pits, but I hope yours will be sweet…” and then we all started to catch on—we were going to EAT a date. Ha. Ha. Ha. Okay, courtesy laugh is over. Back to the fruit. I thought…Dates. Psh! There are much sweeter and tastier things to eat; why waste time and calories on a date, anyway? Right? Nope. Mmmm. Dates. I can now appreciate dates, having been in a land where tastier things are few and far between. Dates are quite tasty. With a texture both pleasant and surprising. I love dates.
Where we got the dates? Ah, now that is the question. I can now say I have been to a date plantation. I suppose the Dole plantation in Hawaii might have a similar appearance, but just imagine a palm tree forest underneath a cloudless lapis sky. This is the visual greeting of the Yotvata Kibbutz. Yotvata means “place of rivers,” and the name is intended to be ironic. There are no rivers there. At least, there aren’t any above ground. There are several aquifers, but no water you can see. Acacia, tamarisk, and mango trees line the streets there. Now I don’t have the time to explain what a kibbutz really is, so look it up if you don’t know what I’m talking about. Brief summation: communal living farmland shared and operated by a bunch of people who choose to come, stay, and/or leave. Kibbutz Yotvata uses drip-line irrigation (which they claim was developed broad scale there,) and uses only mechanical picking technique. The mechanical picking means that they don’t have to hire out for workers, but it also means that they can only harvest certain types of produce. No tomatoes, cantaloupe, or peppers that could bruise, you see. The Yotvata kibbutz is famous for its dates (they’re shipped all over the middle east) but they also harvest onions and manage a dairy farm. Their ice cream, too, is famous. It was okay ice cream, I guess.
As an ice cream connoisseur I believe my statement of ice cream quality is accurate. It was all-right; similar in texture to soft serve—you know, that underlying watery graininess? If you really want good ice cream over here you have to eat a “NOC OUT” ice cream bar. Rich texture, lush flavor, and lickable chocolate topping. And substance. You feel like you’re really eating cream—real ingredients! Coconut Noc Out’s are very popular—I also enjoy the hazelnut-chocolate Noc Out. Ohhhh, the first bite! I discovered where it’s name came from—it knocked me over. I’m going to miss them when I come home… but not too much. Each ice cream bar costs 9 or 10 shekels—that’s close to two dollars. So my tongue will miss them but my bank account won’t. And neither will my waistline. Hee hee. Maybe I should limit myself…nope. Still worth it. ; )
Where was I? Oh, yes. Dinner at the kibbutz. The kibbutzniks layed out a nicely spread buffet dinner; and after the monotony of food at the center I was grateful for the change. This food was flavorful! And while it was mostly the same fare, the spices were a tweensy different. Yum yum. Then there was the ice cream, and then TA DA! Folk singing! About five people led us through a few popular Israeli songs and dances. We passed around sheets with the lyrics listed, and followed after we grew familiar with the chorus and tune. During a few of the up-beat songs the MC of the group suggested that a girl teach us “a simple hora.” My ears perked up, you can bet, because that’s a folk dance step! All we really did was dance a simple step over and over around a circle…but it was fun. The BYU students were really getting into it. I was glad of that—it helped my crusade to convert my fellow students to folk dancing. (So far I have four people that have promised to try some! Yay! And two that will come to audition for a team! I’m proud of myself.) Anyway… dancing. And then sleep.
First night sleeping at a kibbutz. I’m sure that each kibbutz is different, but from all the iffy descriptions I had heard I was prepared to be sleeping in a hole—but it was clean. Cleaner than some hotels I’ve stayed in. American hotels, mind you. So it was nice. I’ll say nothing about the fact that the shower had no walls and no floor, well of course it had a floor, it was just a drain. In the floor. That’s what I meant. It was nice. I declined the shower since I knew I’d get water everywhere. My roommates did. I just washed my hair in the sink. All in all, I was clean, dry, well-fed, and tired. Three of four bases covered. And I was tired, but not exhausted. I can handle just about anything. Especially if I know it’s coming. That’s why I was so surprised when I was exhausted after the trip was over. I’m guessing that this is due to the germs I undoubtedly was fighting off. And I bet I… nope I’m sure it was that. But that story, boys and girls, is not part of today’s saga. Further details cost ten Egyptian pounds and are available in the sixth installment of Rachel’s memoir. (Translation: you’ll have to read Friday’s entry for that thrilling tale. The tale of how I got sick. And it is thrilling. Well. At least it is when I tell it.)
III. MONDAY
I woke up and had to lug my luggage to the bus and then go to breakfast. (First time I really noticed that “luggage” is called such because you “lug” it everywhere. Duh.) But I didn’t know which way it was to the busses and I had no clue where we were eating breakfast, let alone how to find the place. Fortunately there are enough BYU students on the trip to be like ants swarming over the mound we inhabit. And one thing I know about ants—there are ants that know what they’re doing, ants that think they know, and ant’s that can follow intelligently. In Egypt I was an intelligently following ant; which is how I found breakfast. Following the ants who either knew or thought they knew where they were going.
Breakfast was good. This kibbutz was the last place we could eat all food and water without fear of contamination. And we did. There were scrambled eggs (which don’t resemble eggs that you cook yourself--they’re more like those fluffy yellow fake things, but you aren’t interested in that. [I’m only trying to explain the food (that I would otherwise like to forget) because I know my family is wondering what-in-the-devil I ate that week. I mainly stuck to hard-boiled eggs (with an un-cracked shell,) bread and butter, bottled water, and any meats that looked okay. And smelled…edible. Oooh! I almost forgot dessert. We all ate dessert at every meal because it was one of the only things we could eat. So breakfast? Pastries of some sort wit chocolate sauce, probably. That about sums up breakfast. If we were lucky (and I think this only happened twice) they had hot-chocolate and not just coffee. The kibbutz owners were a little surprised, I think, when their sophisticated coffee-bar was unfrequented, but like the good Mormons we are, we don’t touch coffee. …Except for me. Piqued your interest?
Here’s the story. The kibbutz had hot chocolate. But there were three bowls of brown powder. Which were coffee, and which was chocolate? The whole place smelled like coffee so the scent could not be trusted. Which was it? Rachel to the rescue! I put my little finger in turn on the side of each bowl and then licked it off as I announced, “coffee…good coffee…cocoa.” Some of the BYU students said I was a weirdo, but I noticed they didn’t complain as they drank their cocoa. Mmm. Oh—and my mother was right. Coffee may smell divine, but it does taste pretty nasty.
After breakfast it was off to the Taba border crossing. Or I should say two hours of riding on the bus and THEN the Taba border crossing from Israel to Egypt, followed by five to six more hours of riding a bus? Yeah, that sounds more accurate. Okay, we weren’t allowed to drive the Israeli bus into Egypt; so we took all of our stuff off of it and lugged it three hundred yards to the initial passport check. After the initial check, we got exit visas and lugged our luggage an additional two hundred yards to the Egyptian section. Passport checks two and three. We put all of our bags, hats, and anything else through a metal detector (the only one in Egypt that I know of with a legitimate screening process) and walk through a detector ourselves. A metal detector test we had to pass. I had to take off my belt and go through a second time until I was beep-free. That was passport check number four. Pick up all your stuff, fill out a visa request slip, hand it to the guar, try your best not to look suspicious, passport check number five. You think I’m kidding, but I’m not. They really look at your passport five or six times—and I don’t mean glances. They stare at it, look at you, stare at it some more, and then five feet later another guy repeats the process. I made it through that bit and lugged my stuff outside.
Northeast Egypt looks like New Mexico or Nevada—brown, dry, and mountainous. Mountains are a special treat for me, especially after staying in Israel for a few weeks. I missed them.
I was among the first in our group to pass through customs, and since I knew I wouldn’t have the chance again for awhile I decided to use the restroom inside. It was gross of course, but that isn’t the point. I came out of the bathroom, sat back down, and started chatting with my classmates. This is where the surprise came in. There are two sets of students—bus one and bus two, otherwise known as Ludlow’s class and Draper’s class. When I went into the bathroom Ludlow’s class was outside. When I came out of the bathroom Draper’s class was outside. I didn’t detect the change—to me there were thirty BYU students there when I went in and there were thirty there when I came out. It was ten minutes later when someone turned to me and said, “wait a sec, Rach—didn’t your bus already leave?” Cue panic mode.
Sure enough, no one in my class was anywhere to be seen—neither was “bus one.” Growing a little nervous, I gathered my by gag, backpack, hat, passport, and lunch and headed off at a trot to find my bus—hoping that it might be just out of sight on the other side of the gate. As I walked I argued with my own head. “They couldn’t have left,” I told myself. “There’s a head count on the bus! There’s no way that they left without me.” S u r e. I turned a corner and saw another customs gate and more Egyptian men in uniform, but no BYU students. And there was a bus. But there were three. Where was MY bus, and was it one of those? I walked faster. As I picked up speed, customs began to yell at me and ran over demanding to see my passport. Another passport check. Still no sign of anyone I knew. What if I got through customs and there STILL weren’t any BYU people to be found? What would I do then? I wouldn’t even be able to come back to the Israeli side without an exit visa from Egypt. What was I going to do? One last passport check later and I walked over the final border into Egypt. …and I saw my bus. A faculty member was just coming to look for me. At this point I wish I could say that I felt relief. On the contrary, I was still tense and anxious.
Mortified that I would be the last person on the bus (and by a wide-gap as well) I stepped on. Needless to say everyone had settled in—leaving no options for me to choose who to sit by or where to sit. I called to ask where there was a free seat. No one answered (and I knew they had heard me, I have a very loud voice.) It seemed that most people weren’t paying attention so I called again as I walked through the bus. All of the seats seemed taken. Finally I reached the back of the bus—where, there were no seats to be had, or if there were—no one was lifting a finger to make a space. I knew that Egyptian buses had four less seats than our Israeli buses, but I’d THOUGHT there were enough seats.
Growing more and more flustered between the mixed emotions of anger and hurt that no one would make room for me, getting held up on my own by Egyptian security, having accidentally grabbed the wrong lunch in my hasty getaway, and embarrassment in general…and being a very passionate person whose emotions are often close to the surface, I was on the verge of tears when I turned around (encumbered by my own luggage that I couldn’t set down.) Tears started flowing down my face—I couldn’t help it—and of course, FINALLY someone noticed that I was in distress as I was walking back to the front…you know, as soon as I wanted to NOT attract attention people started to pay attention. The only available seat was Bro. Huntington’s, but as he was nowhere to be seen I sat in it, eager to be out of sight. Bro. Ludlow came and saw me—the tears had stopped, mercifully—and he asked me to sort our student international cards…no doubt he noticed my distress and supplied me with a simple task to get my mind off things. –that’s why I love simple tasks…like cleaning. It’s mindless so all you have to do is work as fast and hard as you can while your mind is elsewhere. Then people started coming over to check if I was okay… and I put on a masterful show of being fine. (Props to Bro. Ludlow for providing me with that simple task, otherwise I would really have embarrassed myself.) Then of course, Bro. Huntington came back and I had to move. I sat in the middle of the bus in a seat that looked empty. …but of course it wasn’t. I moved again. Three minutes later (after interrogating people about who was sitting next to them) I reached the back of the bus without finding a seat. Again. Grrrrrrr. By then I was about ready to scream “IS THERE OR IS THERE NOT AN EMPTY SEAT ON THIS BUS?” someone said, “Hey, Rachel, you still need a seat?” Phew! Praise to Buddha someone gave me a seat. …of course it was in the rear of the bus and I have extreme motion-sickness, but beggars can’t be choosers. Attempting to cool down my emotions I pulled out my Ipod—“iClaudius” and started listening to Aida. Very Egyptian and all.
After a few more hours, yes hours, of driving we had our first Egyptian rest stop. It was very much like the rest of Egypt: coated in a dingy film, carrying an odd scent, Muslims praying just outside, men wearing “gal-ah-bay-ahs,” the dress-like Mumu-ish things that men wear, and feeling like your very presence is offensive and revolting…much like seeing a prostitute in a small American town would be. My HAIR is offensive to these people. Well, at least to the devoutly religious ones. The others I’m sure…”enjoy” the brazen display of my hair and figure a little too much. But of course, I am forgetting the most important part of a rest stop—it’s where you go, excuse me, when you wish to relieve yourself.
These are not the “restrooms” you are accustomed to. Have you ever heard of a “squatter?” If you have not, imagine a walk-in shower—the kind only large enough for one person with the glass doors—and replace the drain in the middle of the floor with a hole. That’s a squatter. No toilet. No seat. Just a tile floor and a hole. Hence the, uh, squatting. Now imagine a door that doesn’t stay shut on it’s own, and mold of many different colors. Grime, mildew, hardened blood spots and smears, mold, a mysterious pasty gunk, and last but not least—purple fuzz with spores. Ah yes! I do not lie! Oh, it was good. That’s a “rest stop.” Our hotel bathrooms were better. They at least had toilets. But do not underestimate the condition of the squatters. (Amber, my roommate, and myself have decided that the next time we go to Egypt we will bring plastic cups to pee in and forget the squatters altogether.) Oh and the sinks—some were…touchable. I usually would use the sinks to wash my hands—always with the requisite follow-up of hand sanitizer.
Then we had more hours of driving. Then we hit Cairo. Well, actually, then we hit Cairo traffic. I didn’t mind getting caught in traffic, as it were, because watching the traffic go by is plenty to look at on its own. First—method of transportation. Men riding donkeys, handcarts, Fiat’s, Mercedes, Volkswagens galore, tour-buses, carriages, camels, open trucks, cars so trashed you can’t believe they’re still rolling (and believe me, I’ve seen cars that were on life support—these were zombie cars—the living dead.) And the drivers and passengers either gawk or deliberately look anywhere but at you.
At one point we passed a bus full of locals. There were two teenage-girls giggling and waving and staring at us. Every time we passed them I would smile and wave back energetically—you should have seen their faces light up! Ooh, they would smile and wave back! Head scarves and all, I guess they thought American tourists were a sight to see—for the life of me I don’t know why… they’re everywhere in Cairo. Although it may have something to do with the fact that we are a large group of attractive, young tourists… together on one bus. Yeah, that was probably it. The only tourists I ever saw were middle-aged and older…and usually Aussies or Brits. Huh. Now that I think of it we probably were a sight to see.
Billboards are everywhere: on top of houses, on the sides of the road, all over the high rises, just plumb everywhere. You honestly can’t take a glance anywhere in the city without seeing five or six. And they’re enormous. For the first time I’ve appreciated that America has laws against billboards being that big and…frequent. Ick—they were all over! Of course, it’s rather fun to see an ad that says “TOSHIBA” that’s also littered in printed Arabic. And for some reason the streets are always crowded—well, not quite. I lied. On Friday—the weekly holy day for Muslims—the streets are less crowded. Heaven help you if you get caught in traffic just before the Ramadan fast for the day is coming to a close. Rush hour in America can’t compare, I should think. Well—maybe outside of DC. But whoo! MAN are there cars. And carts. And donkey boys. And camels. …All on the same highway. I saw the Egyptian Museum (aka the Cairo Museum) off the side of the road and felt my pulse start to race. But that was nothing to what happened next.
I sincerely hope that you have all read “The Polar Express,” by Chris Van Allsburg. It’s one of my favorite books. Going through Cairo for the first time—on a bus full of people my age who had never been there before—all of us waiting to see the “ancient wonders” so to speak, reminded me of The Polar Express because at one point when the children are riding the train through Santa’s city up at the North Pole one child sees something out the window and tells everyone about it and they all rush to see it. (you know… that part where it says: “Look!” shouted one of the children, “The elves!” Outside there were hundreds of elves…) It really was similar. Especially when a girl at the front of our bus shouted “Whoa! The pyramids!” and we all were scrambling to see them through the haze.
What a sight that was. There—hovering in the fog of a thickly industrialized city—ancient tombs from the first six dynasties of Ancient Pharaohs. It is a most peculiar landscape. One glance to the right and all is desert sands. One glance to the left—a tropical paradise with all the lush greenery water can provide; the smoky, reflective Nile slithering along just throughout the ages. And yes—there is papyrus growing on the banks. And yes—the sun is red. Red HOT.
Have you ever noticed the way sunlight is different wherever you go? I think I’ve mentioned this before, but in the western United States the sun is a lovely gold. It colors everything, making colors more vibrant. In Jerusalem the light is white—it washes out color. And now, the point. Ta ta tum! The Egyptian sun is a furnace of red-orange flame. It sears the landscape. …it also sears people. Haha! That reminds me. I took this awesome picture while I was in Memphis of three dogs all laying within two feet of each other. They looked dead. We all laughed and laughed when finally one started breathing—because we really had thought they were all dead. So take my word for it—the Egyptian sun is red. They call the Nile the “cradle of life” for a reason. Nothing in that place could ever survive without the water and fertile sediment the water carries. Without the Nile, all Egypt really is is sand and rock.
The rest of the peculiarity of the land is that there are high rises everywhere. Everyplace is more than one story and 87% of them have rebar sticking out the top of them. They have people living in them, but the tops of the buildings are constantly under construction. So you have three visual options in Cairo: city buildings, sand, and green. Of course, the irony is that the desert is the only clean thing in that list. The Nile is filthy, the buildings are filthy, and the desert is so bleached by the sun that it’s only danger is heat exhaustion. A few of us watched Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark yesterday. There’s a scene when Indy is in Cairo and someone calls it a “heavenly paradise.” I yelled, “Hah!” It’s a pick-your-poison place. I would hardly call Cairo a “paradise.” Ick. Just ick.
Just after sundown we finally hit our hotel. I couldn’t believe the look of the place. Marble floors and walls—no joke, it looked like something out of the movies. Or maybe the twilight zone. The bathrooms all had marble and alabaster flooring, and each had it’s own beday (I don’t know how to spell that, but you know what I meant.) It’s easily the nicest hotel I’ve ever stayed at—including the Marriott. Of course, the Marriott I stayed in had water you weren’t afraid of touching…but that can’t be helped. I asked one of my teachers how much a room at that hotel cost without a group rate. Get this—he said around two hundred dollars! Aack! He told me that in Egypt “the one thing we don’t do is skimp.” Why? Because the faculty noticed that the nicer the hotel the healthier the students. I see. (Then I asked how much the whole trip to Egypt was costing per-student. …he guesstimated $2,000. Two-thousand schmackers! That’s more than my tuition for a semester in Provo! Yikes. Well, at least I did it in style this time so there’s nothing lacking as it were.)
We settled into our hotel and the option lay before us. Do we go swimming? (It was a very nice pool, and I think only nine or so students—including myself, abstained.) Do we take a nap? Do we lay out our clothes for tonight and tomorrow and then re-pack, and then pack a smaller suitcase for the train and two-day trip to Luxor? …that’s what I did. Tee hee. I also wandered around taking pictures of the hotel. We ate dinner there, and the presentation was as upscale as the rest of the hotel. Glimmering dishes with heaps to eat. We all felt rather badly that we couldn’t eat any of the fruits and vegetables… partly because they looked so tasty, and partly because we knew they had been difficult to prepare and we were letting the handiwork go to waste. I also had to smirk when all 80 of us drank hot chocolate in the morning, but no one even glanced at the gourmet coffee bar. Made the waiters a little testy when no one ordered alcohol, too. Food was good. Lots of potatoes, meat, onions, and bread. Mmm. Bread. And, of course, dessert. I was particularly fond of a lemon torte that every hotel seemed to serve.
Here the great option lay before us. Sleep? Games? Or—pay a lot of money and risk your personal safety to see the city “night life,” in a land where night life hardly exists and is not appreciated. (“Night owls” really don’t exist in the Near East. Say that it’s due to poverty if you will, but they are a working people. They rise with the sun and sleep at night. …or it might have something to do with the fact that all of the nasty bugs come out at night. Hmm. You decide.) Back to the point of discussion.
I’d like to point out a serious mis-conception. Before I left Provo people would always say, “Jerusalem! Aren’t you scared?” I would flatly explain that Philadelphia is far more dangerous than Jerusalem. And now I can testify that that is true. It’s quite safe here---especially considering the size of the city. When I mentioned that I was also traveling to Egypt people would always say, “Oh, you’ll love Cairo.” No. no, no, no, no—OH, no no no. Anyone who thought that chase the thought straight out of your head. Even the quiet cities in Egypt are more dangerous than the big cities in Israel. Walking around Luxor a friend of mine turned to me and said, “Well, Toto, we’re not in Utah anymore.” And she was dead on.
Repeatedly before and during our Egypt trip our faculty gave numerous speeches about safety and discretion in the country, giving particular attention to the dangers of young women and personal safety. They told us that in recent travel studies a few of the girls had been groped. We were told that traveling at night was not forbidden, but strongly ill-advised. We were given explicit instruction for staying in groups, avoiding certain areas, to act only with certain behaviors, and to above all use our common sense. You can imagine my surprise then when near to sixty of the eighty students on the program finished dinner and immediately took taxi’s into the dark unknown of Cairo. It was 8:00pm. The sun had set more than an hour before.
Traveling in groups notwithstanding, I don’t care how careful you are or think you are—that does not smack of “common sense.” I have heard it said that ‘sense,’ as it is called is anything but common. It seems to me that anyone who disregards numerous blaring, blazing, flashing warning signs is UN-commonly stupid. It sickened me as I stood at the door of our hotel with Bro. Huntington, one of our teachers, with the check-out list…watching people scribble their personal seal of acknowledgement that they were exchanging reason for madness. Bro. Huntington asked me if I were going out. “I would rather know Egypt through it’s monuments and museums,” I said. “Besides,” I added, “I can’t imagine what my father would say if I told him that I had. He doesn’t like me out at night in front of our house in Provo! I can’t even imagine his expression.” I didn’t need to add that I wasn’t that stupid, either. Brother Huntington was so worried about everyone. *sigh* I was left with two options then. Go to bed early or play uno with the remaining few BYU peoples? Two good options, one better than the other. Greg and I both announced that we were going to bed, and so we did. He walked me past the pool and other outside buildings to the bank of apartments that was mine. I went inside, washed up as best I could with bottled water, and then I went to bed.
I woke up at 11:30pm, thinking that it was odd that my roommate for the night still had not come home. Curfew was 11:30, so she should have been back, but she wasn’t. I went back to sleep. When I got up and showered at 5:00am, my roommate was still zonked out. (Showering with my eyes squeezed shut and my mouth closed, hands plugging my and ears as I rinsed the soap off—focused on not letting water into any body cavity, all the while wearing flip flops so I wouldn’t pick up any horrible foot fungus, I might add.) After I had dried my hair I asked my roommate what she’d seen the night before and if she’d had fun. Then I asked when she had gotten to bed. She said “not until 1:30am.” Surprised, I asked why. She explained that she had been in Bro. Huntington’s room. Why? Answer: she was receiving counseling because she had been groped by her taxi driver and was very shaken up.
I don’t need to say anything more. I was sorry for her, certainly. No one should have that happen to them. I tried the best I could to help and console her, but could anything I said really have helped? I don’t think so. But I can speak for myself—asleep in my hotel room, ready packed for the next trip, and well rested for the excursions of the day, I was also preserved from the dangers she had encountered. The irony is the fact that none of the “night owls” from the J Center had seen anything special, anyhow. And so I ask, was that really worth it? Somehow I don’t think so.
[Thanks, Daddy for teaching me early in life that there are places a lady shouldn’t be after dark, and thanks Mom for reminding me that most everything will still be waiting for me after sunrise.]
IV. TUESDAY
In the immortal words of Riley from the movie National Treasure, “Who wants to go down the dark tunnel into the creepy tomb first?”
I repeated these words many a time in Egypt, but never were they more applicable than at Kafre’s pyramid. FYI the Pyramids were built as tombs for the ancient pharaohs. Imagine a steep crawl space leading to a small, dark room. You’ve probably considered that before. I doubt, however, that you have ever known about this detail: there is next to no ventilation. This means that every sneeze, every exhalation, every whiff of flatulence ever expelled inside that chamber is trapped inside—along with its humidity. That tomb has to be sitting in 78% humidity. It’s revolting! I hadn’t been in there 40 seconds when my clothes clung to me, and the sweat started to pour. I couldn’t breathe—I felt like gagging—how can you breathe water, anyway? (Heaven help me if I ever move to the South…I’ll be the first ever case of humidity asphyxiation.) I looked left, right, down, and up, saw the burial platform, and then announced “Okay, I’m done. Anyone else going out?” I tried as to get out get out get out as fast as I could, all the while climbing down a steep incline and holding my hat in front of my chest –protection from groping and pinching that often occurs when creepos hide in crevices and quick as a wink reach out and touch you. And then poof! [Gasp, inhale] I was out—drying instantly under the parched desert sun. The first words out of my mouth were, “Cool. Never doing that again.” I found Greg, Rebecca, and Brandon and started flashing as many pictures as I could, getting a bunch of myself, a few with friends, and obligingly taking shots of others.
It was a blast! Taking pictures at the pyramids is probably one of my favorite memories of Egypt. And hey, man—I’VE STOOD ON A PYRAMID! Whoo, yeah!
Then we loaded back onto the buses and drove a mile around the other side of the pyramids to the “overlook” point, where we took pictures of ourselves with the great three pyramids all behind us. …avoiding the uber-creepy old men that would suddenly appear with their arm around your shoulder. Or in my case, waist. I thought it was funny—no one at the center had done so before, who was is? I turned my head and Bluwayhahahahahahaha… scary scary dirty old man! Sicko! Honestly, I think the old men at the overlook point were the most brazen and filthy advancers of the whole trip. At least they were for me…. eeeeeew. I spent the next five minutes steering my girlfriends away from them, shifting them to the other side of me, and joining them as we scampered eagerly across to the camel caravan point saying, “Look! Mormon tourists! Lets-Go-see-them!.... now now now NOW,” and running as fast as we could.
And yes, you read the word “camel.” I rode a camel! Very fun. Archie and I shared a camel that I named “Benny the little stinkweed,” not because he smelled, but because he seemed like a mercenary sort of camel, and he reminded me of a movie character. (If you don’t get the reference, ask my friend Joni—she’ll be delighted to fill you in.) The next time you see a movie where people are riding a camel, pay attention to the dismount—IF they even show it. I’ve noticed that lots of movies edit it out because it is hardly a graceful procedure. The camel kneels down front legs first—and if you aren’t leaning back there is no way you’re gonna be upright when the back legs crumple in suit. They call camels the “ship of the desert,” because the rocking motion is similar to the way waves rock a sailing ship. It’s an apt description. I’ve never ridden a horse, but I can bet that it is far more uncomfortable than riding the traditional “ship of the desert.” …and yes, I’ve noted how odd it is that I’ve ridden a camel but never a horse.
We went and saw the sphinx—I got a schweet perspective-bending shot that looks like I’m kissing it… cliché, but oh, so enjoyable. Our tour bus, “bus-swan” that I will explain in a minute, took a group shot in front of the sphinx with the pyramids in the backdrop. Everyone bought a copy, so we each have an 8 x 10 picture of our class in Giza. SO great! Priceless material for sure.
Then we went to Memphis—and saw the sphinx of Rameses and the ridiculously well preserved statue of Rameses II—that’s right, likely THE Rameses. It’s laying on the ground inside a museum with an overlook deck, so I took some pictures and stuff, but I also walked over by his ear and said—of course—“let my people go.” Hee hee hee—it was great!
After Memphis, which is where I took the picture of the three dead dogs who weren’t dead but certainly seemed to be, we ate lunch and drove to Saqarra. Saqarra is there the step-pyramid of Zozer is found. It is the oldest pyramid known to man, and it was designed by: DA DUN DUN…. IMHOTEP! Chazah! Joni, you’ll appreciate this—as we passed the museum of Imhotep, where sadly we did not stop, half the bus was chanting zombie-like: IMHOTEP…Imhotep…Imhotep…Gaa hahahahhaha… and of course, I started it. Ooooh, it was so much fun. (Again, if you don’t understand who Imhotep is… watch the Mummy. And not the Boris Karloff version, although it’s great too.) Anyway, at Zozer I ended up getting 20 postcards for a dollar. Yay! –I collect postcards, so it was fun to get some. We walked around an ancient temple, the oldest of its kind, and stood in awe of the craftsmanship and ingenuity of the ancient architects, snapped pictures, avoided sunburns and dehydration and creepy-gown wearing old men, and then loaded onto the bus and headed across Cairo to dinner and… the train.
I’ve now waited on the platform of one of those train stations you see in movies—not like Chronicles of Narnia, or 9 ¾--I mean the filthy kind. The ones with litter and drunkards and filth and stench. If you’ve ever seen the true-to-life historical films set at foreign train stations… you’ve seen the type I mean. But it was so much fun. Greg, Rebecca, Brandon and I all set down our luggage and stood around making jokes and talking. We shared a bench with the Galbraiths (one of the J. Center service couples.) We let the gust of wind brought with the speeding train ruffle our hair. We stood near the edge of the platform and watched the “speeding freight train” rush past, zooming and moving like a bullet through a gun—hurtling along its given track. Greg and I were singing “snow, snow, snow, snow, snow” that they sing on the train in the movie White Christmas. (I wished that I had “held a cutted crayon” that I could write my “poem comprised of four letters” with…I dunno what four letter word… “math” or something like that. Ha ha…that’s a great song.) We counted the cars of our train as it slowed to a stop, 9—10—11—12—13… “this one’s ours,” and toted our things aboard. I rejoined my designated roommate from the night before, the molested one, whom I shall hereafter call Susie (to be more polite.)
My strategy in Egypt was to accept everything without question or complaint and keep my eyes half shut to the conditions and state of filthiness and keep my eyes wide open where Arab men were concerned. If only more of the girls had had similar thoughts they could have saved themselves (and me…who had to put up with it) a lot of anguish. My roommate “Susie” made a big deal out of a lot of things, but—and I grant that after getting molested she had reason—she was paranoid of the train car waiters. I took the responsibility of herding her out of the way whenever one was coming (ours in particular…he really scared her to death) and made sure she never said a word to him—I did. I hadn’t even noticed that I was doing it, but she did, and it was nice to be noticed I suppose. Especially when she told everyone I was rescuing her. (All I did was listen in on what he had said to each room in turn so that when he got to ours I repeated it all before he could say anything, said “No, shukran” forcefully and shut the door on him.) (and just by the way in Egypt that is NOT rude, in fact, if I do say so myself it was rather smooth.) So Susie walked with me when I had to use the train’s WC—an experience in itself, I rather wished I had had a plastic cup—and I protected her from scary train waiters and dingy door handles.
If you don’t allow yourself to think about bed bugs, sanitation, or anything else that might be occuping your bedclothing the train was kinda fun. I’d never been on a train before, but Greg and I both agreed that riding a train across the US would be really fun. And not exhausting, because you could sleep. But still expensive so there’s really no point I suppose. Anyway, random tangent… I was having trouble concentrating on falling asleep when I remembered the words of Lucy in CS Lewis’ “Prince Caspian,” ‘the best way to fall asleep is to stop trying.’ So I pulled out my ipod; and laying on my stomach I watched the rising moon’s light glimmering off the surface of the Nile from out my window. I listened to Enya and the soundtrack from “the Mission,” and the music made the scene before me quite picturesque. (Despite the dried blood smears on the wall near the light switch.) Heh. Heh. ; )
Wednesday to Saturday still to come…
I DID warn you that it was a saga. What's that? You didn't believe me? Shame on you! You ought to know I am always in earnest.
Saturday, October 6
COMING SOON
...the seven part saga of my experience in Egypt (with pictures!) followed by the back-logged stories of two field trips and the two-day field trip I leave on tomorrow in the Galilee.
Oh yeah--and the story of the original flight to the Holy Land... clear back at the beginning of September...that my mother jovially reminds me that I have not yet written. So sorry that I haven't otherwise written in a long time. I am trying to catch up, I promise.
One last word-- pray for my email. I say this because there were many screw ups in the administration areas of my BYU account lately, and then they were fixed. Just in time for me to not be able to log in at all. So I can't get any of the emails that I have been getting, and I get no news. #@%^$&#. I mean... uh.... grumble grimace... whine. Yeah, that's what I said. Ah huh.
Also, pray that I'll get rest. Not sleep--REST. There's a difference. And I need rest. Badly.
P.S.
....okay, for those who've been trying to reach me, go through your sent files and forward the letter's you've already written and forward them to EMPRESSJADIS_OF_SNOW@HOTMAIL.COM and if anyone makes fun of my junk-email adress I will flail you! There will be much smiting and persecutions at my hands to those who mock me! (okay, maybe not, but I figure the false intimidation might at least grant you a few chuckles.)
P.P.S. If I don't know who you are and you try to send an email to my hotmail account, I won't open it... unless you write something clever in the subject line like "I read your blog, and promise only nice things are written in this email," or "I'm praying that your regular email gets back online" etc. Or something else that's clever. Use your imaginations. To my family-- please write me, and I'll write you back. And hey, Heather-- if you could invite me to a Google account I'll totally take it. That way I won't need my stupid BYU office account, I can still keep in touch with everybody, and we'll all be happy. Yay. There will be much rejoicing.
Oh yeah--and the story of the original flight to the Holy Land... clear back at the beginning of September...that my mother jovially reminds me that I have not yet written. So sorry that I haven't otherwise written in a long time. I am trying to catch up, I promise.
One last word-- pray for my email. I say this because there were many screw ups in the administration areas of my BYU account lately, and then they were fixed. Just in time for me to not be able to log in at all. So I can't get any of the emails that I have been getting, and I get no news. #@%^$&#. I mean... uh.... grumble grimace... whine. Yeah, that's what I said. Ah huh.
Also, pray that I'll get rest. Not sleep--REST. There's a difference. And I need rest. Badly.
P.S.
....okay, for those who've been trying to reach me, go through your sent files and forward the letter's you've already written and forward them to EMPRESSJADIS_OF_SNOW@HOTMAIL.COM and if anyone makes fun of my junk-email adress I will flail you! There will be much smiting and persecutions at my hands to those who mock me! (okay, maybe not, but I figure the false intimidation might at least grant you a few chuckles.)
P.P.S. If I don't know who you are and you try to send an email to my hotmail account, I won't open it... unless you write something clever in the subject line like "I read your blog, and promise only nice things are written in this email," or "I'm praying that your regular email gets back online" etc. Or something else that's clever. Use your imaginations. To my family-- please write me, and I'll write you back. And hey, Heather-- if you could invite me to a Google account I'll totally take it. That way I won't need my stupid BYU office account, I can still keep in touch with everybody, and we'll all be happy. Yay. There will be much rejoicing.
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