I got back from Masai Mara in the afternoon and decided to take the midnight-bus to Uganda. So I said goodbye friends at the apartments and went downtown to the bus station. The bus left after dark. It was the longest 12-hour bus ride I've ever been on. The window next to me wouldn't close all the way and the cold wind kept me from getting any sleep. I put on my sweater, my rain jacket, and wrapped up in both my masai blankets but I was still freezing. I tried stuffing toilet paper into the window crevices to block the wind, but that only gave me a few minutes of calm before the wind sucked the paper out. I eventually ran out of toilet paper. Then I shivered. For 12 hours.
By morning, the bus finally got to Uganda and I was surprised to see it to be mostly like Kenya, with the exception of the taxi system, which is comprised of a horde of screaming, two-stroke motorcycles made in India (by the way, they only cost about $1,000 :) . To get a ride, you simply wave down a bike and hop on the back. It felt like I was a kid again getting a ride from my brother. I had some trouble balancing my backpack while my motorcycle driver dodged other motorcycles, cars, and pedestrians. Road-rage in these countries takes on a whole new meaning. He was somewhat impatient, so every once in awhile we would take a detour onto the sidewalk and make his own path through the crowd of pedestrians. My mom would not survive here, she hates motorcycles. Luckily we didn't hit anyone and I didn't somersault off the back.
At one point I almost lost my balance and my heavy bag almost pulled me off the back; the driver laughed and yelled, "I see you aren't used to motorcycles! ha-ha, It's OK, just hold on!" I had to smile a little, as I fondly reminisced about my beloved bike I had to sell in order to come to Africa and I wanted to say, "You call this a motorcycle!" But I didn't.
We finally arrived at a small bus outpost where I would wait for the next bus to Rwanda. The bus station was in a small courtyard, enclosed by high walls with barbed-wire trimmings. A single gate, made of a patchwork of iron scrap, controlled the flow of traffic in and out of the lot. The place resembled a prison yard.
A small cafe was tucked away in the corner of the property and everyone gathered there to wait. Buses arrived roughly every thirty minutes and whenever the gate opened, there was a rush of activity from everyone; men chugged what was left of their chai, women gathered their scattered children, and everyone lined up to get into the bus.
It seemed that everyone instinctively congregated according to their respective activities: the women lounged around the perimeter by the cement steps with their babies draped around their backs; men sat around the tables on one side of the café sipping chai or a local beer; restless children played next to the ticket counter; and all the taxis, with their little motorcycles, crowded together just outside the gate. They pestered every passerby--me most of all.
I wanted to get something to eat outside the compound so I walk over to the main gate. In a loud voice, I told the first motorcycle driver that I didn’t need a ride. I knew the others could hear me and saw my gesture of refusal, yet they all persisted, and I end up saying “No taxi” a dozen times in as many seconds as I wove my way through them to the main road. They smiled slyly as I passed, knowing in advance what my reply would be, but asking anyway. Maybe they just wanted to hear me talk, or maybe my constant grin invited conversation, or maybe they were actually hoping I would change my mind. Either way, I wasn’t annoyed. If I grew up here, I’m sure I would be just like them. The last driver I walked past didn’t say a word, but instead he offered a playful smile as he sanctimoniously unfurled his arm and waved his hand, leading me to the street and freedom as if I was royalty--his friends’ laugh echoed by my own. I smiled as I realized I am so much like them.
A few hours later, I was sitting at a small table in the open-air cafe. It was dark now and the compound was nearly empty. From my chair, I noticed a young taxi driver nearby, painstakingly polishing the paint and chrome of his little two-stroke motorcycle. He chatted cheerfully with his friend, who was momentarily distracted from their conversation by an attractive girl walking by. The boy with the motorcycle was too busy polishing his bike to notice the girl-- he carefully folded his cleaning rag in half and exposed a clean area of cloth for the finishing touches on the rim of the rear tire. He continued chatting away, unaware that his friend was on a mental vacation with the girl walking by. I had to chuckle at the scenario.
Suddenly he gasped and stopped wiping; he leaned in closer to his bike, eyes squinting in the half-light of evening. Intrigued, I also looked closer (my table was only a few feet away). There was a blemish in the chrome. Though the spot was miniscule, he was so familiar with his prized two-stroke that he knew it shouldn’t be there. He cursed under his breath as he polished in vain. Looking for sympathy, he pointed out the spot to his friend, who turned his head to the bike without taking his eyes off the girl. I smiled and almost laugh out loud--they are both just like me.
I attracted more and more attention as the café became less crowded. I sat next to the other men--they seemed less interested in my presence. I ordered cup after cup of chai as the evening turned in to a chilly night. Temperatures change quickly here, like back home. I lost my heavy sweater somewhere in Nairobi so I wrapped up like an Eskimo in my green rain jacket and red masai blankets. I hadn’t shaved in a few days. I bet I looked like an escaped convict or something. I was undoubtedly the subject of many conversations and the source of many smiles and giggles from the kids.
At one point in the evening, I noticed all the women gathered around a small T.V. on the wall, a locally filmed cooking program was showing. The women were transfixed; not because they wanted to learn, but because they wanted to point out all the mistakes the lady on T.V. was making. She was making dough for some sort of bread. I couldn’t see the finished product so I didn’t know if it was chapatti, maandazi or something else that I’d never heard of. It didn’t matter -- all the ladies in the café were grinning ear-to-ear. Occasionally, one of them would point at the T.V. and make a comment, upon which all the others would laugh uproariously and shake their heads in concurrence with the critique or smart-ass comment. I couldn’t understand a word, but I knew exactly what they were saying and I had to smile.
A waiter furtively knelt down in the café and briskly buffed his old, tattered shoes. I watched him and maybe he felt my gaze, so he glanced up then quickly looked down again in embarrassment. I felt for a moment as if I was him. He didn't look back at me, but forcefully stood up and resumed his duties of serving me and the other men chai and maandazi.
A few days earlier I was reading the paper, and discovered that, on average, waiters in East Africa make less than $40 a month and work at least 60 hours a week. That works out to 66 cents an hour. If he saved every penny, he would have to work more than 1,200 hours (or five months) to buy my $800 Nikon camera. Chances are, 90% of his wages go toward the very basic survival needs of him and his family, leaving him with 10% to spend on something nice, like a camera. At that rate, I figure it would take him 50 months to save enough to buy my camera -- more than four years!
Of course, I didn’t run these numbers while I was watching him buff his shoes and tie his shoelaces. No, I was thinking to myself how happy he seemed, but how shy he was at the same time; how his shirt was worn to threads in parts and yet, how immaculately clean it was; and about what sort of injury he must have had, to get such a large scar across his thin forearm (I wanted to ask about it, but decided not to).
I do remember tipping him generously though, and in retrospect I’m glad I did. 4 more hours until my bus arrives...
Friday, November 6, 2009
Kids spending time at Lake Naivasha, Kenya. They were playing jump rope with their school teachers.
Tire sandals, the Masai love wearing these.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
“My friend, my friend, buy from me a key chain!”
In a place where white sand beaches meet the warm blue waters of the Indian Ocean, buying a souvenir key chain or a refrigerator magnet from pushy hawkers is the last thing on my mind. I try to be polite, recognizing that they probably have families to feed, but their persistence tries my patience and eventually my only escape is to ignore them and walk away.
Each morning, in the half-light of dawn, I slip away from the lavish confines of our resort and go to the beach to watch the sun greet the flooding tide. Dinghies carved from tree trunks are anchored offshore. They bob in lethargic unison as the swells gently lift them up and down over and over again. Crabs, delicate and cautious, scamper away and disappear into their hidden homes as I approach; I am their first of many unwelcome guests today. I find a quiet spot beneath some palm trees and wait.
The clouds are gray at first, then, in an instant, the entire sky is on fire with a thousand shades of purple, orange, and red. The light and the waves rush to meet each other like old friends and their reunion is a reflection, a beam of happiness, which stretches from the shore where I stand to the horizon in the distance. It's perfect. But nature is often shy of her beauty, and the moment is gone as quickly as it came.
Everything is calm, but I am not alone. I look northward and see a solitary figure, barely discernible in the distance, steadily making it's way toward me.
I look away, hoping it’s not a vendor of key chains. A few minutes later, the figure is closer now, and my heart sinks as I see that its a man carrying a small plastic bag--a bag full of silly trinkets to sell to me, no doubt. I'm annoyed at the prospect of being heckled this early in the morning, especially after seeing such a wonderful sunrise.
The man is walking straight toward me now. I know he's going to try to sell me something. His t-shirt is ripped and full of holes, revealing protruding ribs covered by skin that is weathered and worn from spending too much time in the sun. A strap on one of his cheap plastic sandals is broken, causing the sole to jut out to one side. I’m almost certain he’s a vendor, except he seems too old and frail.
I can see his white teeth gleam in the sunlight as he smiles at me. His eyes are kind, yet tired. I politely smile but quickly look away, just to make it clear that I don't want to be bothered by whatever it is he is selling.
When he is only a few feet away, he whispers “Hello.” I give him a short “Hi,” in reply and continue to ignore him, staring off into the ocean but fully expecting a persistent sales pitch. Surprisingly, he quietly moves past me and climbs up the small dirt embankment directly behind me. Stunned that he didn't try to sell me something, I curiously turn to see what this old man is up to.
“There are moments in every person’s life when our judgments of character are so far removed from the truth that the undressing of our silly ignorance shames the soul with such force that you never forget the guilt of that moment.”
This was one such moment.
The old man took off his sandals, knelt down in the dirt, and from his plastic bag removed not key chains and refrigerator magnets, but a small shovel and a bundle of wilted flowers. Tenderly, he untangled the stems, laid them out in a row, and started preparing the soil. His garden plot was small but well kept. Flowers, vegetables and other plants grew without any fences.
He looked up at me and smiled broadly again; I tried to smile back.
I wish now that I could tell you about my conversation with him; what words of wisdom he shared with me, or maybe an meaningful story from his past. He gave me no stories, but a lesson.
Geoffrey was 25 years old, but the way he talked about God, family and living made me think he was much older. We became friends while riding atop a cattle truck in northern Kenya. His smile was permanent and he never ran out of questions. When the dirt road was smooth, the truck would move faster and the wind blew loud enough that we had to yell into each others ears to hold conversations. In the rough places -- crossing streams, or winding around boulders and trees -- we could talk in our normal voices and relax a bit. At night when it was too dark to see we still talked. I was tired and became quiet, but Geoffrey still wanted to talk about everything. Because it was dark and he couldn’t see my face, he would tap me on the shoulder from time to time to make sure he still had my attention. I let the two other boys traveling with us, the Ethiopian and the Somalian, borrow my extra shirts to cover their faces from the dust. They didn't say very much at all, but smiled a lot also.
On the first day there was a huge sandstorm at sunset that combined with a thundershower and lighting. It was beautiful-- like a Joseph Turner painting. Sometimes we passed through small villages – when I say small I mean fewer than twenty thatch roof huts surrounded by thorn bushes to keep wild animals out and cattle in. Roofs were patched with plastic bags and whatever trash could be found and made useful. All the children would scurry to the doorways and peer out at us, cautious, but occasionally smiling and waving.
We continued through lonely, poorly guarded checkpoints every few hours. Usually there were only one soldier on duty, keeping watch in a small hut with a window, and spike strips on the road. As we went deeper into the rural territories, the locals walking on the side of the road would scurry into the bushes when they heard our truck approaching. This worried me somewhat, as it meant they were distrustful of outsiders.
Shortly after nightfall on the 3rd day from Ethiopia's Capital I lost my passport.
We got to Wajir, Kenya, around midnight and Geoffrey helped me find a nice cheap place to stay, had dinner with me, then came back in the morning to help me get my abstract (travel document). It was a small town, the largest we had seen in a long time. At the police station Geoffrey helped me explain to the officers what had happened. They all seemed very curious to see me and eager to help. One well-dressed officer, Laish, seemed polite but authoritative. He was friendly at first and studied all my travel papers carefully. As he read my papers he seemed to take a keener interest in my plight. He read every page of my program outline for the law classes in Nairobi.
After he finished reading, he was pensive and cautious. He took me outside and asked Geoffrey to wait inside. I walked with him for a while and noticed a changed in his attitude toward me. He showed me the jail and said I might be put in if I traveled without the proper documents. I looked over the dirt floors, the tin roof, and the two or three drunks sleeping on wooden benches. Not a place I wanted to visit for any amount of time. He then told me the normal process for obtaining travel documents was cumbersome and that I might be here a while. He was polite, yet firm, as he explained to me that a little extra money goes a long way in getting these sorts of problems resolved.
I couldn't hold back a nervous smile as I tried to play dumb and innocently asked him, “You mean I should pay extra?”
“How much do you have?” he bluntly replied.
I think I laughed out loud out of nervousness, but really I was in awe that I should find myself in this situation; being threatened with possible jail time, in a run-down jailhouse in the middle-of-nowhere-Kenya if I didn’t pay a corrupt police officer a bribe with money I didn’t have.
“I think I have 2,000 shillings,” I lied. Really, I had next to nothing, as usual. I had stupidly thought I might find an ATM in northeast Kenya and had only a few hundred shillings to get me through to Nairobi from Ethiopia; basically enough for water and food for a week.
“Well, there is a bank in town and they might be able to get more money for you.” His helpful advice only confirmed that he was serious about getting something out of me. I told him I would go and see if they would take my card and that I would come back in a few minutes.
I walked around the building and saw Geoffrey standing there. He had a look of relief on his face as he strode up to me. I told him I had to go to the bank for more money for Laish. Geoffrey was livid and, for the first time, speechless. I explained the situation, after which he sputtered on and on about how horrible a person must be, to ask a lost traveler -- a student! -- to pay a bribe. Then he was sad, because he and Laish are in the same church. He kept say, “It’s not a Christian thing to do!” He stormed into the station and explained everything to the other workers. They were all obviously subordinate to Laish, because no one dared confront him directly, but they all seemed quietly resolute that I shouldn't pay the bribe. Laish came out of the back office and was very upset; especially at me for ruining his plan. The other workers disbursed and shied away at his presence—Geoffrey unleashed on him and would not back down. They conversed in Swahili but I could tell what was going on. It was very tense as they both stood their ground. Laish finally told me one last time to I needed to pay. Observing the support of the other workers and Geoffrey, I quietly told him I thought it was wrong to pay bribes. About that time, another high-ranking officer walked past the entryway with his entourage. Everyone was quiet for a moment. I could sense Laish folding.
He practically threw my papers at me and said, “Take your shit and leave! Just try getting an abstract the normal way, you will see!”
I was worried that he would make good on his promise to make things difficult for me, but, as it turned out, it wasn’t a big deal after all. After Laish left the office, everyone bent over backwards to repair the poor first impression of Kenya that he might have given me.
Things quickly calmed down and Geoffrey and I talked as I waited for my travel documents to be completed. He apologized over and over for the conduct of Laish and expressed how disappointed he was in him, since he sees him every week at church and thought he was a good person. I did my best to shrug it off and act as if it was no big deal, but Geoffrey took this as an opportunity to give me one last bit of advice and wisdom. As he had done on the cattle truck the day before, he shared scriptures with me, talked to me about God’s plan and gave me peace of mind about my upcoming journey. It was very comforting for some reason, almost hypnotic, even though the words were nothing new to me.
The theme of his discourse was that everything happens for a reason and nothing is done by chance; as long as we trust in God, everything will work out right. I didn't say much, mostly just listened. Sitting together on a worn wooden bench, a rough cement floor, waiting for paperwork to be completed, he helped me. I will always remember the meals we shared, our cattle truck ride through the dusty plains and his genuine kindness for a stranger in need.
-Waiting in the dirt on a small side street, I wait for the bus to Nairobi to pick me up – it will be another day and a half of travel.
-A small boy sitting next to me eyes me like a hawk. He moves away little by little, scared of me or suspicious. I offer his dad some water. He accepts but first wipes off the top of the bottle and pours some to the ground. Then he carefully takes a small sip and hands it back to me. I then offer some to the young boy; haha, he emphatically refuses as if I’ve offered him poison and moves to another sitting spot.
-There are donkey carts everywhere here. Hours later. Still waiting for the bus. It will come “Sometime today, we think.”
- I step into a small shop and talk with people for a while about life in their small town. They want to sell me things; old coins, shiny rocks, fossils, shells, cell phones, cell phone cases, cell phone SIM cards, etc. I refuse and refuse politely. Eventually they give up and we just talk and it’s quite nice. They all want to exchange phone numbers (I would amass dozens of numbers in my book by the end of my trip), but I know I will never call any of them, with the exception of maybe a few. (Email is less prevalent, but I still have quite a collection of those addresses as well.)
-Wheelbarrows are made out of whatever is at hand. The wheel itself is made from the cross section of a large log. Judging by how they struggle to move the load, it seems it takes more energy to balance such a makeshift device than to actually carry it.
-In the wilderness we saw small depressed villages, not nice proper ones like in Ethiopia. At least the Ethiopian highlands had natural well-kept cottages, but many villages in this disputed region are very poor.
-Some students on the bus befriended me and we went to see some giraffes at a pit stop in the desert. The bus almost left us!
-We spent the night in a small town called Garissa. It was after midnight and everyone was tired. Old men lie down on small mattresses next to me and fall asleep immediately, snoring softly. Two young boys feed scraps of their meal to a lonely cat. Men sip chai and talk quietly at a small table. Young mothers attend to their sleeping babies. As I was lying there, staring up at the stars, I wondered at where I was in the world. Just a few short weeks ago I was in Las Vegas, unsure of what to expect from Africa. Now it felt like I was back at home, where I grew up, on a camp-out with my brothers or with friends, sleeping under the same stars. I slept so well that night.
-I made it through to Nairobi and was dropped off in the most ghetto part of town (Eastleigh). Potholes in the streets were 4 ft deep and 30 ft across. The small car I was in had to maneuver through them as if he was going off-roading.
-The first night rent at our apartments in Nairobi was 4400 shillings, about $55. I spent last night under the stars at an inn in Garissa; it was 100 shillings, or about $1.50. I greatly prefer the stars to the city.
-The different ways of greeting people are interesting. In Ethiopia they clasp hands and lean to each other and touch right shoulders with a hand on the others back. Egypt was often two kisses on the cheek. Northern Kenya was a shake of the hand then rotate the hand to hold each other’s thumb, then shake the hand again. Other Arabs shake hands, kiss on the cheek then touch their own heart. I used to do this in France; minus the kiss on the cheek. In Zimbabwe it was a hand shake, then clasp the thumbs, then snap the thumbs.
-. I feel like I’m in some creepy Alfred Hitchcock movie. What a freak. He followed me like a puppy, two feet behind me. Then followed me into my room and wouldn’t leave. He didn’t speak English, but smiled a sly smile the whole time, like he was about to pull some trick or rob me. He reached for my bag and I pulled it away. He motioned that he just wanted to see what I had. I decided maybe I was over reacting to this weirdo and opened up my bag and pulled out a few things. I didn't have much, nothing too expensive: a compass, a watch, cards, stuff like that. He saw the cards and wanted them. I told him he could have them if he would leave me alone. He hugged them and stood there. It was 1 a.m. and I was tired. I motioned for him to leave. He finally left, bowing a dozen times as he backed out of my room.
5-28-09
Walked around Alexandria today. Wow. There were open mosques and prayer speakers blaring in the streets everywhere. Open markets with fish, fruit, bread and everything else you can imagine. Huge markets that span half a mile along narrow streets covered with canopies--just like in Aladdin. When I wear normal cloths I fit right in and nobody looks twice at me. I saw a table of about 30 rabbits, no cage, just placed on top of a table about 4 ft. off the ground. They hopped all over each other like mice trapped in a mason jar. At any time they could have jumped off, but none of them did. They must have vertigo, because it was only a 4 ft drop to freedom. As I walked by, the butcher came out of his little shack wielding a large cleaver in one hand. With rough hands he snatched one up by the back of the neck, and carried the kicking rabbit back into the recesses of his shop.
There were so many rugs for sale, hand-embroidered rugs of every color and pattern, metal working shops, grain and spice shops, still using scales that look like they came from the 1800s.
One evening, I was feeling adventurous, so I decided to take a train across town (in a town of millions, across town takes a while.) I went to a small stop and let the first train rumble by, just to observe how things were done. I noticed nobody paid until the train started to rumble away, so no ticket was needed. When the next train came by, I jumped on. Just as it started to rumble away, I noticed that there was no one on the car except women and children. They were all staring at me, which was strange because normally I fit in very well. Something must be wrong. Just then, a man yelled at me and waved. He looked mad. At about this time I realized I must have got on a woman-only car. I jumped off as fast as I could and hopped on the next car just as the train was rolling away. Close call, but no harm done.
Later that night I was walking around the city and passed a section of barber shops. I figured I needed a decent haircut so I found one that looked clean and went inside. It looked fairly clean, and ended up being the best grooming I’ve ever had. For $3, I got my hair washed and conditioned, a very careful haircut, and even my nose hair trimmed (which was a little weird). The guy used an old school slapstick razor blade in some places and that made me nervous, but I could tell he was very experienced, so I relaxed after a bit. Initially, they tried to talk to me in Arabic, but they quickly realized I didn’t speak enough to communicate. Their English was meager as well, so we communicated in smiles, laughs and hand gestures.
I walked the streets for about 6 hours that night. I admit; I was lost for most of that. I was never really concerned though, as long as I knew which direction the Mediterranean was. I could tell by the direction of the sea breeze which way I was supposed to go. I wandered through busy areas that became more and more crowded as the night grew cooler. Around midnight everything was in full gear. I walked by so many mosques. I usually slowed and sometimes stopped to watch the devout in their prayers; but not for too long, I didn’t want to draw too much attention to myself. The prayers and songs blaring on loud speakers, echoing down the narrow streets made for an eerie feeling that you had been transported back in time to a different world.
I figured out that I could make most food purchases without even saying a word, thus taking the worry out of being ripped off. But being ripped off there is relative, paying a dollar extra for something isn’t a big deal to me, but it makes their day. Since I fit in so well, all I would have to do is act casual, hold up what I wanted or point to it and smile, then hand over the currency I thought would be sufficient. I could read Arabic numerals, but prices are rarely marked, so it took a while to figure out the appropriate value of certain items. But my silent method worked very well. If I didn’t give them enough, they would look at the bill and make a questioning face then wait for me to give them more. If the bill was big enough, I would just wait for my change. I had many conversations with people, generally young people in small cafes or stores. They always wanted to tell me how great Egyptians thought Obama was and how he would be bring peace to the world. Whenever it got out that I was American I would really attract a crowd sometimes. The girls seemed especially intrigued and everyone wanted to exchange email addresses.
If I wanted to travel anywhere that I couldn’t walk too, I used public transportation. I watched an observed people on the main route to see how it was done. Dozens of small minivans drive the main roads honking their horns. If you want to get on one, just make eye contact or wave a hand. You don’t pay until you are about to get off. There are always two people who work a van; the driver and the money taker. You don’t talk to the driver. Fifteen cents will get you a twenty minute ride. When you want to get off, just hand the money taker a bill, wait for your change, then hop off. Sometimes they packed them in really tight; it wasn’t uncommon to have someone sit on your knees for a few stops. Women had buses just for them and men couldn’t get on with them. Women, however, could get on any bus they wanted.
The Bibliotheca of Alexandria.
Apparently it is built close to the site of the ancient library from Roman times. It was here that I saw my first tourists in 3 days. There was a single, giant bus that stood out like an elephant among all the mini Peugeot and Korean cars. The tourists looked so scared and out of place! They huddled together like sheep and kept a wary eye out for anything that might hurt them. They all had full khaki gear; one older lady who looked particularly sour even had a full mosquito net draped over her head, despite the fact that I hadn't seen a mosquito all week. I guess she didn't get the memo that there is no malaria in Egypt. They looked pretty silly. They snapped a few pictures, listened to their tour guide give an explanation of the library, and then scurried back to the safety of their air conditioned tour bus. Because I looked Egyptian, I stood-bye unobserved. Although arguably less safe than their mode of travel, I couldn't help but wonder at how different my experiences in Alexandria must be from theirs.
5-29-09
I took the train to Cairo this morning. The ride was comfortable and slow. The computers from the 1980s at the train station in Alexandria weren’t working, so I almost missed the only train for that afternoon. I found a small place stay about 20 minutes' walk from Ramses train station called the African hotel. It is a hotel only in the broadest sense of the word. On the way there I stood out like a sore thumb because of my bag. A gentleman started talking to me and offered to take me to my hotel. When I got there he hung around because he wanted to take me on some tours. The attendant at the little hotel warned me that they had a lot of problems with this guy ripping people off, so I shouldn’t trust him. The guy did seem a bit dodgy so I told him I would be able to find my own way around.
The building was partially unfinished, like most of the buildings in Egypt. It seemed as though in their recent history, there was a prosperous era of quick construction, which somehow suddenly stopped. Judging only by the architecture, I would say this era of prosperity came to an abrupt stop sometime in the ‘70s. This comports with history and the war with Israel which devastated the economy here. I thought it was interesting how simply observing the architecture of the city could tell a person about its history.
Other things:
-It made me smile to see super conservative women dress with the full veil and gloves, but then they sport fancy sunglasses. Goes to show you even they want to look good, even if no one knows who they are.
-Sometimes I would be walking down the street and see a lady with her veil on, completely covered in black, from her head to her feet. The veil was done so well, you can’t see any part of the eyebrow, eyelid, or bridge of the nose; just the dark shine of an eye. Every once in a while I would lock eyes with one of these ladies. Sometimes I could tell she was very pretty and it felt strange that I could sense that she was attractive without seeing anything but her eyes.
-All the small restaurants and shops play MTV. Rappers with fancy cars and half-naked women dance around the screen. Guys throw money into the air like its confetti. If this is what they think of Americans, then I don’t blame them for thinking us people of poor moral fiber. (MTV would be played on most TVs throughout my trek across Africa; and every time I cringed.)
-The train stations have separate lines for men and women.
-At prayer time, the men press their thumbs against their foreheads or prostrate themselves on the ground such that a mark is permanently place in the center of their forehead. I talked with several people, and they told me that any man with this mark must certainly be a very faithful man.
-For all the fertility in the peninsula, I was surprised to see so few tractors. Most of the plowing was being done with cows.
People live and act partly according to their own ideas, and partly because they are influenced by the ideas of others. The extent to which they do one or the other what differentiates men. Some people mostly play at thinking: their minds are like a fly-wheel that has had the belt removed and spins freely but drives nothing. Their actions are determined by other people’s ideas- by custom and social norms, tradition and laws. –Resurrection pg. 473.
I saw something today that gave me hope in humanity. I’ve been in Cairo several days now. I found a group of backpackers to hang out with. Two are from Germany and two from Canada. Walking around with them is a major drag because they stick out like a sore thumb. I can’t go anywhere with them without getting hounded to buy something from somebody. They are constantly getting ripped off because they are so obviously not from here. I keep silent when we go buy stuff and that helps them out because shop keepers think I’m Egyptian and assume I’m actually their tour guide, and not a part of their travel group.
$1 = 8 Egyptian Pounds
One Canadian girl was particularly distraught by the perceived lack of honesty in business transactions. We argued many times about it. I was always defending them and saying that bargaining is part of the culture, and bargaining requires that one party try to maximize profit, while the other party tries to minimize their cost. Unfortunately most tourists aren’t very good at the negotiation process. I argued that the “ripping-off” of tourists doesn’t have anything to do with the morals of the Egyptians, but rather a divergence in the business norms between two cultures. Well, one day, I was getting some lunch at a local shop that I had been to several times and trusted. The shop owner was a jolly old man that always greeted me warmly and said, “America! Obama, good! Bush, bad!” He would give the appropriate thumbs up or thumbs down for each president. I smiled and had small broken conversations with him about what I had seen that day and he would politely pretend to understand me. He always made it a point to shake my hand whenever we said goodbye. One particular evening, I stopped by his shop and to my surprise there were two young foreigners in the store trying to buy a bunch of food items. I was surprised to see them because I was far from any touristy neighborhood and foreigners were a rare site, especially in this small store. They were Canadians and were convinced that they were being cheated and were trying to bargain with the owner. They insisted that their LonelyPlanet guidebook allowed them to bargain wherever and whenever they wanted, and that they should never trust an initial price quote. I tried to convince them otherwise, and explained that only certain sizes of shops participate in the bargaining game. This shop was big enough that prices were fixed and marked. Being familiar with the numbers and prices, I then acted as intermediary between the Canadians and my friendly shopkeeper. He was desperate to defend his prices to me and I could tell he was sincerely hurt by their assumption that he was being dishonest with them simply because they were tourists. The shopkeeper frantically scribbled down the price of each item on a piece of paper, I translated the numbers for the Canadians. They asked me if it looked right to me - I verified it - it looked OK and everyone was happy; especially the shopkeeper, mostly because his reputation as an honest man was now preserved in the minds of two young Canadians.
The story doesn’t end there. In the “hotel” I was staying in, there was a worker named Ibrahim that seemed envious of the guests and was always looking for a tip. If he had been a nice guy, that would be one thing, but he wasn’t. He was lazy and made the other workers do most of the work. With a greasy grin, he would hungrily stare at the girls in the hotel and make them feel uncomfortable. Two of the girls told me that they were having a few drinks one evening in the lounge when he came in and sat on the couch across from them. He didn’t say anything, but just watched them for a while. They were shocked when they noticed that he wanted to make it very obvious to them that they excited him. Nobody liked him; not even his co-workers. I asked him once how much it was to do a load of laundry and he said 20 pounds! I asked another worker later on and he told me the rate was no more than 5 pounds. Not only was he rather disgusting, he was dishonest and greedy as well. In my opinion I think it’s safe to say that Ibrahim was more or less a bad character.
One morning I was down at my favorite shop getting some food for the day. After exchanging the usual cheery greeting with my friendly shopkeeper, I noticed Ibrahim was also there, buying some supplies for the hotel. He immediately recognized me and smoothly feigned his friendship (he did this well). I almost cringed as he shook my hand and offered to help me buy whatever it was I needed. I told him I didn’t need his help, but thanks anyway. He insisted, so I told him all I wanted was the two croissants I was holding in my hand. Ibrahim slyly held up my croissants to the shopkeeper and told him a price to charge me. No sooner had Ibrahim said the price, than the shopkeepers face turned red with rage and he slapped Ibrahim hard across the face. My shopkeeper changed in an instant from happy and cheerful to a man on fire with anger. I was stunned as I watched him berate Ibrahim like a child. Ibrahim in turn could only stand there and look at the ground, embarrassed and scared to be so humiliated in front of all the people in the shop. Finally, after the shopkeeper calmed down a bit, he turned to me, his face still puffy with the residue of his wrath, and held up four shaky fingers. He looked me straight in the eye to make sure I understood, then with a heavy accent and quivering voice he said, “Four pounds only!”
In an instant, I knew what had transpired and no explanation was needed. Unbeknown to Ibrahim, I had bought these croissants many times before, and knew their price to be two pounds each. Ibrahim had invited the shopkeeper to be dishonest, perhaps hoping for a cut of the overcharge. The shopkeeper was insulted, to say the least. I looked quickly at Ibrahim- he had tears of embarrassment in his eyes and shuffled his feet but didn’t dare leave the shop. Even I was slightly unsure about what to do after seeing such a spectacle. I quietly gathered my croissants and took the correct and full change from my shopkeeper. I smiled and gave him a respectful nod of gratitude. He made sure to give me an especially strong handshake and reverent bow as I left his small shop and stepped out into the bright Egyptian sun.
-Our tour guide for the Pyramids was a young man. He had horses and somehow some random policemen got in a big argument with him about his horse. They pulled out a gun. We stepped back. Then our guide pulled out his gun. We took a few more steps back. They argued a bit more and five minutes later they were laughing like friends. Welcome to Egypt.
-I’m transcribing this from my journal in chronological order. At this point, I’m about to go in to Ethiopia and I write a note, stating that there is an important journal I’ve been keeping about my life back home on my computer; just in case I die. (Looking back, it sounds kind of morbid, but I really thought there was a small chance it could happen).
In the airport leaving Cairo I watch parts of Obama’s speech on TV. Most people are crowded around the TV as well, eager to see what he has to say about Egypt and America’s relationship with the Muslim world. It must not be that interesting to them, as after a while they lose interest and move on to other things.
In Ethiopia I arrive without a map and would be without a map the entire trip across the country. I’ve been known to be a poor planner, and I suppose if not having a map was a real concern I would have found one, but it wasn’t a big deal. I needed to head south to Kenya, and that was all I really needed to know. I was going to get one while in Cairo, but nonessential things are a bit harder to come by in the market places and I never took the time to find a modern bookstore so I never bought one. My hand and a pen work just as well.
June 5, 2009, I arrived in the capital city of Ethiopia, Addis Ababa. I like the sound of that; it sounds like it’s from Aladdin.
