C Benny C's Journal of Discourses

How to get people to come to my blog page

2011-07-03T05:23:00.000-07:00

I just discovered the "Stats" tab on my blog dashboard page, which keeps track of how many people view my blog and what countries they live in and what pages they are viewing. I was surprised to discover that the posting I made last year about my beard (click here) was BY FAR the most viewed page. It's not even that good.

When I found the "traffic sources" tab, however, I had an explanation. This link tells you what sights people come from when they are directed to your blog. For some it is not surprising: Facebook and email, as I put those up, as well as the blogs of friends and relatives who may have put up a link to mine.

However, the number 1 source of traffic for my blog BY FAR was google searches. Specifically, people searching for Zack Morris. Here was the breakdown of Google search terms that led to people coming to my blog:
I would like to thank Zack Morris for sending so many readers my way. Also a minor thank you to Crown Prince Hamdan and to Really Fat Santa (which likely leads them here) for their contributions. And to the 3.7% of readers who are going to the effort of googling my name.

Flat Stanley comes to Visit!

2011-07-01T09:27:00.000-07:00

My niece Grace sent me her friend Flat Stanley so that I could take some pictures of my life here in Dubai. Like a true consultant I put the presentation into PowerPoint and have uploaded the slides as JPG images. I had meant to post these pictures shortly after back in 2010, but never got to it (I have a large backlog of uncompleted posts). I figure every now and then it's good to have a second grade level reminder of what you're doing with your life, and lots of this was news to my sister and mom when they saw the Flat Stanley presentation, so maybe I should share it with anybody else who might care. The beard has since gone by the wayside as I recorded at the time (click here).

The Grand Camel Prix

2011-02-25T10:19:00.000-08:00

Camel racing is touted in most UAE tour guide books as a "must see" experience for any visitor to the country. However, it is next to impossible to get information about it from anywhere. There is no designated website, I couldn't find any blogs or anything that confirmed that anybody had actually ever been to one, let alone information about a scheduled race. My theory is that the people who are actually into camel racing (mostly UAE citizens) don't have much interest in making it a big public spectacle and they figure anybody who should be at the race will generally know when it's supposed to happen. I had made three trips out into the desert to see them, but each time I was disappointed when the workers at the tracks told me they weren't happening that day.

However, the third fruitless trip, I found a printed schedule in Arabic informing me of the race days. So on my fourth visit I finally saw the races, which kick off early in the morning on weekdays, and a glorious spectacle it was.

They line the camels up:

And off they go:

Now it used to be that they had small children be the camel jockeys, usually imported from some low income south Asian country or another (Bangladesh for example). However, this inhumane practice has been replaced by robot jockeys, which are just as awesome as the name implies. They're typically small boxes with a little whip that smacks the camel's hide:

Of course, the robot must be controlled via remote, which means along side the entire dirt track there is a paved road, where a fleet of SUVs follow alongside the race with all the owners, trainers, video crews, and general camel papparazzi. Which itself is a spectacle almost as fun to watch as the camel race itself. Because the track is too big to see the majority of the race (there's a 4 km track and an 8 km track, or 2.5 and 5 miles), the video crews in the cars film the race for the excited crowd of spectators. Meanwhile an announcer, who I can only assume is the Dubai version of Marv Albert, narrates the race excitedly. Afterwards the owners all jump out of their cars and hurriedly congratulate each other on the results (the most important victory went, to nobody's surprise, to the Crown Prince Sheikh Hamdan).

Then the next race begins, and at some point while the next heat is down at the far end of the track where no one can see them, the winners, adorned with flags and some kind of orange paint, are paraded out to everyone's applause:

The season is almost over for camel racing, but the nice thing about visiting the track is that on almost any morning, you can go see the camels doing their training and really get up close and personal with them.

Occasionally, you can even challenge them to a race of your own.

Coming soon to a track near you: Man v. Camel.

Curtis Goes Fashionista, Part 2

2010-11-23T07:25:00.000-08:00

On a previous posting I thrust myself into the hitherto unexplored world of fashion: http://curtcannon.blogspot.com/2010/03/curtis-goes-fashionista.html

By way of update, I would like to break the good news that, seven months after going public with the yellow pants purchase, I have gained my first convert to the world of yellow skinny pants. Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm round of applause for Bekah Ellsworth. Upon her brief (26 hour) layover in Dubai she could not resist purchasing the same "Original Military First Men's Jeans" that I had. Though, in the words of Will Smith, the difference between she and I is she makes this look good. For more details, you can visit her two postings on Dubai at:
http://chilebek.wordpress.com/2010/11/21/hello-dubai-a-k-a-the-tale-of-two-cities/
http://chilebek.wordpress.com/2010/11/21/dubai-top-ten-a-k-a-addendum/

For those of you who need to cool down a bit after witnessing the collective fireball of hotness which is encompassed in the prior four pictures, fear not, I offer some relief as we also managed to capture a more chill side of the Dubizz:

Why Can't I Quit You?

2010-10-28T12:13:00.000-07:00

I'm normally adverse to discussing my relationship issues on my blog. There's either too much drama or too little. Plus talking about my dating life can get tricky; people's feelings get hurt. Some day I will write my memoirs on the topic elsewhere. It'll be called "Sitting to the Left of Awkward." I have a knack for getting myself into awkward situations when it comes to dating. I've come to the conclusion that such situations should be embraced.

However, there's one relationship that I feel I need to be discussed openly, mostly because until recently it has never gotten awkward.

This isn't a relationship with a girl. No. This is a much more constant companion. One that gives it all and never takes anything. One that never complains or cancels. One that doesn't fade out when you try and push things to a new level nor freak out when you don't. One that looks good in the morning and great in the evening, with no need of makeup or touching up. One that supports me in my late nights and stands by me when the rest of the world is laughing. I'm speaking, of course, of the Real Thing: Coca-cola.

Good ole Coke has been with me through thick and thin and never failed to come through when it counted. I have savored it, cherished it, and loved it with all my heart. It has picked me up when I felt down and loved me when I felt lonely. As the following collection shows, it has been with me in literally every corner of the globe.

I should be a model for Coke. And no, in no way do I find it pathetic that in all of these pictures it's me and Coke, and not me and "some hot girl with whom I am in a relationship." This is a true love affair that has transcended time and place.

Not that I was addicted. I have taken breaks from Coke and had no noticeable impact on my body. I once stopped drinking soda altogether for 2 months, and kept a six pack of Vanilla Coke under my desk just to prove that I could do it even when it was staring me in the face. I proved two points by doing that: the first being that I could go without, and the second being that the only thing better than an ice cold Coke is an ice cold Coke when you haven't had one in two months.

However, recently I have had to grips with the fact that this is, literally, an incredibly unhealthy relationship. As I get older my metabolism is slowly turning the dial down. This became painfully obvious about ten months ago when I started receiving a strange question, one that I haven't ever heard in my entire life.

"Curtis, have you gained weight?"

The first three times it was sort of humiliating because it was a question that came from attractive females. Nevertheless I sort of found it a little flattering that they would notice. Then, however, I started having other people ask. Fat people. A real wake up call came when a very large Saudi man with whom I had been working said to me after not seeing me for a week, "Curtis, you are looking fat. You've been in Saudi Arabia too long."

All of this was shocking in that I didn't think such comments and questions were allowed. I NEVER ask people if they've put on weight. Taboo. Still, I had to reckon with the fact that it was true. I had in fact put on about 25 pounds in 4 months since I started visiting Saudi Arabia.

This caused a bit of an existential crisis. How could I leave my beloved Coke without betraying all that I stood for? I might as well renounce my citizenship. It would be like cheating on an old lover. Nevertheless, I had to face the music. I had to confront the fact that with all of these pictures of myself drinking Coke, I might indeed become a Coke advertisement, but not of the kind I had originally wanted to be:

So I switched. On April 19, 2010 I became a Diet Coke person.

It was traumatic. I couldn't believe it the first time I heard myself order one. People told me condescendingly that things would work out. "Give it a few weeks, Curtis, and you won't ever want to go back to regular Coke." Sort of like when you go through a break up and people spill out cliches about how there's "someone special out there for you" and other fishes in sea (why would I want a fish anyway?). However, they were wrong. I still maintain that the only thing better than a Coke is a Coke when you've been awhile without.

Now perhaps after 6 months it is premature to pass judgment. They say that the time it takes to get over a relationship is half the time that the relationship lasted, which means I won't be able to truly distance myself from Coke until the year 2024. Still, after 6 months I can only say that I have grown accustomed to the Diet drinks, but it is a cold dispassionate relationship in which there is no love. We stay together because I like the cold fizzy feeling it creates in my mouth, but I feel no loyalty, no passion, no excitement in my stomach when I see the logo. I don't even care which Diet drink it is. To me they're all kind of the same.

I mean, they're ok. The one upside is that they are all equally unsatisfying. Diet Coke, Coke Lite, Coke Zero, even Diet Pepsi (I won't touch the regular stuff). But it's like making out with someone you don't care about in an attempt to mend your broken heart. It's sort of fun while it lasts but ultimately leaves you feeling empty with a funky aftertaste in your mouth.

Truth is, I'm still in love with Coke. Every now and then I go back and pay it a visit. And it's SOOOO good.

The other night, while up late working, I discovered at the restaurant in my compound in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, tha tthey serve Coke floats. I had to have one. And yes, ironically, that is a really really fat man in the background of this picture:

And so I struggle to redefine this new relationship. We can't go back to just being friends. We've progressed way beyond that. And even though I have started a new open relationship with its ugly cousins, my heart still lies with regular Coke. So I must declare it publicly.

"Coke, I love you. Even though we are sort of divorced, you will always have my heart."

Cooling Off, Dubai Style (Part 2)

2010-08-10T08:30:00.000-07:00

Oftentimes the best way to escape the heat in Dubai is to just leave. Most people get out of "Dodgebai" (ok it's a stretch but I make it a habit to play with my city's name as much as possible) for at least part of the hot summer, which lasts from end of April to around the middle of October. Usually that means heading to Europe or the States to really actually get out.

Counterintuitively, you can also head south, to southern Oman. There is a slice of the Arabian peninsula which actually gets part of the southwest monsoon which gets India. This creates a rainy season which lasts about 2 months from July to September, which turns everything lush and green. Of course, 30 kilometers inland the rain peters out and it is desert like the rest of the Arabian peninsula. But for the lucky peeps living by the sea, it's the best time of year. We were there in late July, which is fairly early in the green season. By end of August and early September it's probably amazing.

For those of you who are Mormon or into Mormon things, you'll also be interested to know that Book of Mormon scholars reckon this might be the "Land of Bountiful" spoken of in 1 Nephi 17. For those of you who aren't Mormon or into Mormon things, there is a story in the beginning of the Book of Mormon about a man named Lehi and his family who leave Jerusalem, travel through the desert for 8 years, then come to a Land of Bountiful on the coast, where they build a boat and sail to a distant "promised land." It was called the Land of Bountiful because it had much fruit. We enjoyed this fruit.

Here is a sheltered inlet fom the ocean where one scholar speculated that Father Lehi's ship might have set sail from. I don't know how accurate this is and am generally skeptical of such claims to places being "The Place" where something happened. It was 2600 years ago! But it was still a cool place and a good opportunity for some spiritual reflection.

We also found some old forts which, according to our guidebook, have no particular signifance. Tim, for some reason, decided that Oman would be a good place to don his green shoes (see my post about Dubai fashion); in combination with his red beard he looked like a giant Aussie leprechaun.

In any case, what's actually more interesting is what is happening here today. You know there's something wrong when you get excited about going someplace that's damp, rainy, and 40 degrees cooler than your current location. But I was absolutely thrilled to get out of Dubai for the weekend. And I'm not the only one who relished the rain. Despite the fact that it was a misty rain the entire time I was there, everybody seemed to be out. Picknickers everywhere, on the side of the road, on the beach, up the mountains. Just out in their lawn chairs hanging out... in the rain. Unfortunately I didn't get any pictures of the picnics.

We did, however, stumble across what turned out to be the party of the year in Oman. It was the 40th anniversary of Sultan Qaboos (the ruler of Oman) to the throne. We noticed they were blocking off the streets so we got out to check out what was going on, next thing we know there's just masses of people marching in a huge parade, waving Omani flags and pictures of the Sultan.

Men waving swords, chanting and dancing.

The women were out in droves too, mostly covered up by the niqab but still singing as cheerily as everyone else.

One cute part of the parade was a pack of younger girls dressed in red, green, and white (the colors of the flag). Behind them you can see one interesting sign was one with large pink Arabic script that said, "Thank you dear Sultan for your support for the Omani woman and her improvement."

It was fun, and we could have made it look quite scary:

Fortunately Omanis are super nice and down to earth and a lot of fun to hang out with in the rain. This turned out to be a great day, and we even got some great pictures of ourselves. See if you can play a little "Where's Curtis" in this picture...

Tim the giant leprechaun stood out from the crowd a little more.

Below was the best shot of the day I think. You have the two Pakistani men in the foreground holding hands (public displays of affection between men are quite common in this region and are not an indicator of sexual orientation). Then you have the marching Omani patriots and then in the corner, our favorite Australian leprechaun, trying to blend in.

We also made it up into the mountains, where we found some "sink holes," which are deep canyons where sometimes the water will create rivers and waterfalls. Again, we were a bit early in the year for the waterfalls, but was still pretty spectacular.

Past the sink holes we got above the clouds and rain, where we both found the end of the greenery, and some pretty cool views. Maybe cliche, but I thought these were both some cool shots of some local tourist women. Our final spot on our little trip was the Mughsayl blow hole, where the waves come in and crash into the rocky shore, which is very porous and so you have these random holes where the water will come crashing in and shoot up, geyser like, with each crashing wave.

The biggest one shoots up to 100 feet in the air. I got a video of some of the smaller ones to give a better sense of how it works. The best geysers are at the end of the video...

Cooling Off, Dubai Style (Part 1)

2010-08-03T14:14:00.000-07:00

So summer temperatures in the Persian/Arab Gulf region are regularly in mid-40s Celsius (~110 Fahrenheit), and sometimes jump up to the high forties (approaching 120). Back in June, after a visit to the US, I landed and the pilot announced that the outside temperature was 117 degrees Fahrenheit. It varies from place to place, but is usually inversely correlated to the humidity. Dubai is slightly cooler than inland Saudi Arabia, for example, but the humidity makes it worse. I have heard that southern Iraq and Kuwait are the worst because they're both humid and super hot.

The Gulf water itself reaches temperatures above 90 degrees so going to the beach and jumping in the water doesn't offer much relief. However, Dubai has in its ridiculous manner developed a solution: Snow. After all, snow can't heat up or it turns to water. So when things get too hot here, we just hit the ski slopes at the local Mall of the Emirates.

I recruited my friend Tim and we hit up the slopes so that I could fulfill my lifelong dream of learning to snowboard in July. (OK it's only been my dream for the last couple of months). It was strange putting on my running tights and long sleeved rowing shirt when it was 117 degrees outside! SkiDubai is, by actual ski slope standards, pretty small (think Chickadee at Snowbird then shrink it to a tenth of that size). However, it's indoors so it's an amazing hill. The entire thing is kept a few degrees below freezing all the time, and at night artificial snow is added to keep it snow friendly. Your lift ticket (around $50) includes the snowboard / ski rental, along with boots, snow pants, and parka. They also have a glove and hat store.

Now I've been skiing my entire life, and grew up in a house in Utah that was less than 30 minutes from about 7 different world class ski resorts, so even for the 2 hour ticket I was bound to get bored. However, in spite of always wanting to give it a try, I have never been snowboarding. Every time I've had the opportunity to try it in Utah I have always figured that I didn't want to waste a good ski day to learn to snowboard. So, ironically, I tried it out for the first time in the hot July desert heat.

Needless to say I thought this would be fairly easy. I have been wakeboarding before. I'm not used to feeling like I'm completely and utterly uncoordinated, but this was one case. The first attempt down the mountain was one constant FAIL, sometimes on my keyster and sometimes on my face. This, of course, was much to the amusement of the other 100 or so people in the facility. Unlike most ski resorts, where you can find someplace fairly isolated and away from the lift, at SkiDubai the whole hill is right under the lift, so you always have lots of witnesses to your falls to provide encouragement and / or mockery. At one point after a nice faceplant I looked up and saw between my snow-frosted eyelashes that the source of one particularly loud outburst of laughter was coming from four pre-teen Arab girls on the lift.

As if being a Utah boy learning to snowboard in Dubai wasn't ironic enough, being a Utah boy getting made fun of by some 12 year old girls in hijabs for not knowing how to snowboard took the irony to a whole new level. These girls weren't even there to ski OR snowboard! They were there to experience the novelty of snow, and never got off the lift!

I felt so good about myself.

We had part of this run on video but it was too large to upload. Thanks to Tim for taking the pictures and providing me with some good coaching. Each run I gradually improved, and by the end of my 2 hour session could actually make it down the mountain without falling, though that was if I stuck to a "falling leaf" pattern on the heelside of the board. Toeside was a different story, as it usually ended in a faceplant, but towards the end I made a couple of toeside turns before running out of time. All in all though, I claim victory.

Perhaps the best part about skiing in the mall is that you don't have to deal with ski traffic when you leave. In fact, you just return your rented gear and walk back out to the food court and get TGIF or Chilis or whatever other you might get a hankering for. We ate, then marched across the hall to the cinema to see Inception. I wonder if this entire place is just one big dream and Leonardo DiCaprio is using it to steal something from my mind...

On Molestaches, Bed-Beard, and Saloons

2010-05-12T03:54:00.000-07:00

Periodically throughout the Middle East you see the posters of the leaders. In some places, like Syria, they're EVERYWHERE. At first it's kind of eerie, but after awhile, you start to become somewhat attached. During my month in Syria back in 2007, Mr. Bashar al Asad became like a father figure, a reassuring presence. You even want to emulate them. Not by becoming a mildly paranoid dictator, but through their style. I briefly flirted with copying the Syriastache:

Maybe it's the blondness, but I didn't think the molestache works on me. Of course, now I'm in Dubai, there's a different breed of leaders whose pictures adorn the freeway billboards. Here what's fashionable isn't molestaches but beards. Manly DuBeards like that worn by Sheikh Mohammed, or "Sheikh Mo" as we respectfully like to refer to our fearless leader.

Now I had never in my 28 years successfuly grown a full beard. I had pulled off the goatee and the Fu Man Chu "Trucker-stache," but never the full beard. But I wanted to give it a try. At first, I think I did okay:

Not bad, especially with magic aviator glasses which make anybody look cool. Cops pull over for ME when I put them on.

Now eventually beards outgrow themselves. However, having one is like being in a relationship which you know is not good for you. The longer you're in, the worse it gets, but the harder it is to emotionally let yourself get out. In your head you know you should cut the rope, but you can't bear to actually do it. The beard starts getting curly and gross, but you've put so much in and you keep hoping you can work something out!

Until one morning you wake up and look in the mirror and are so shocked by what you see that it spurs you to action. I didn't know one could get "bed-beard!" Maybe not as creepy as the "molestache" but still pretty bad.

Fortunately, I'm in Dude-bai, which is full of "Saloons" where you can go to get your (facial) hair done.

Now "saloons" in Dude-bai are not the seedy establishments of the Wild West where you can get in a shoot out and drink whiskey. No, these are places of high fashion, places that manage to combine tackiness and style in a way that the city excels. You can't help but be drawn in:

Of course the men's is wide open but the women's is covered. Anywhere else if you saw a "Ladies Saloon" with opaque windows you'd assume it a place of ill repute, but I actually think that the "Instyle Modern Ladies Saloon" is actually quality establishment to get one's hair done.

Let's just take a moment and admire the fine models they get to advertise these places.
Cuz you know the ladies want to get a haircut where they can't see through the hair. Let's get a close up on that bombshell, who vaguely resembles a brunette Lady Gaga.

Of course what I was interested in was not the women's hairstyles, I wanted to look like a man. Like this guy preferably, because who doesn't miss Zack from "Saved by the Bell?"Who knew that Zack Morris from Saved by the Bell had a doppleganger? This is awesome. Zack Morris, is, after all, a superhero.

Of course, that would mean I'd have to grow my hair out, and we all know how that worked out circa 2001:

No I didn't have time to go for the Zack look, but fortunately, at the bottom of my building, is the "Hair Fiesta." What better way to honor Cinco de Mayo?Fiesta indeed. Shaving's never been so fun and smooth as with a for reals straight blade razor.

So what's next? No Asad Syriastache and no Sheikh Mo DuBeard. Perhaps instead of the Sheikh, perhaps I should go with the "Chic" photos that adorn the major roads in Dubai. Crown Prince Hamdan, perhaps, the heartthrob of all Emirati ladies?

Sigh...

Curtis Goes Fashionista

2010-03-30T13:13:00.000-07:00

Nobody has ever accused me of being overly fashion conscious. I mean, I hardly remember clothes. My mom gave me the same button down shirt three Christmases in a row because I kept leaving it my closet, unworn. Not that I didn't like the shirt, it's just that clothes don't occupy a very large spot in my brain.

However, just because I’m not into fashion generally speaking doesn’t mean that I don’t recognize AMAZING fashion sense when I see it. And Dubai is full of it. Just take this chap: neon yellow shoes with matching neon yellow shirt. I won’t even comment on the fact that he has a hoodie vest with fur lining on it, the matching yellow is enough to make me want to stand up and clap.

I mean, this is beyond stylish. This isn’t tacky, it’s “OMG is he serious or joking? Cuz I hope he is serious!” However, Mr. Yellow Faux Fur was one upped by the Bumblebee Twins with their matching neon yellow pants AND shoes. Twinners, just on a little man date, rockin’ out in skinny yellow jeans at the Mall of the Emirates.

Yellow is apparently in style here. Even some of the robes come in it:

Then, of course, there was The Man with Golden Pants and Golden Shirt and Golden Shoes and GOLDEN MULLET. That thing is Pure Money. You stud, with your yellow everything and your posse of women.

Of coures, it's not just yellow. It's anything colorful. This mulletman went with all white, except for the lime green shoes. I applaud him.

However, nothing compared to the breathtaking trifecta of matching shirt/shoe combos : a trifecta of matching shirt/shoe combos, Pink, Purple, Blue.

Inspired. All of these, with the exception of the Golden Mullet, were captured in about a five minute span at the Mall of the Emirates. I felt like I was witnessing a fashion revolution. But where do they get these clothes? Recently I found it: a ghettofabulous market-place-cum-shopping center called Karama. It specializes in being cheap, tacky, and good for a laugh. It is a place where East meets West to produce some bizarre twists on globalization. All the stores, for example, are named after Western cities:

Among the various treasures to be found in this amazing place are “Tough” handbags, Super Mario boxers, and vintage NBA jerseys from the 1990s:

Good to see Scottie Pippen lives on. My favorite, however, was the Obama Buckle. Who says Arabs hate America?:

Here, in this treasure trove, I found what I was a looking for. A veritable carnival of chromatic cornucopia. The colorful shoes:
The colorful pants: Of course, I soon discovered that the lure of the skinny yellow jeans went way beyond the aesthetic appeal. Read the label: “The Original Military First Men’s Jeans: Brand Good Feeling Let’s Have a Good Workout Super Design FM”

I mean, who can resist here? There’s something in that for every one: Design, Comfort, Working Out, implied Military strength durability.

I was hooked. Rarely do I feel the shopaholic compulsion to buy something where I feel like I have no choice, but this was once occasion. Then, of course, I had to complete the outfit, so I bought matching purple pants and purple shoes. Then I sat back and let the Original Military First Men’s Jeans work their magic.
It didn't take long.
Booyah! Who’s got a Brand Good Feeling now?

Rwanda Rweekend

2010-02-02T11:19:00.000-08:00

I know some of you felt sorry for me after my post last week, but rest assured, my life is pretty sweet. Exhibit A: What I did over the weekend on January 29-30, 2010. I only have 3 things to say about it:

1. Tracking wild gorillas in the mountains of Rwanda is INCREDIBLE

2. Baby gorillas are really cute while 800 pound Don Corleone Daddy Gorilla is freakin huge

3. To my mother: sorry I didn't tell you that I was going to do this, I didn't want you to worry and I only decided to go a few days before

Dude-bai

2010-01-24T23:00:00.000-08:00

So I knew coming out here that Dubai would be a bad move for my dating life. I checked out gender ratios on the CIA Factbook to discover that the male-female ratio of people between the ages of 15-64 in the UAE is 2.74. Meaning that there are almost 3 guys for every girl in the country. Further research revealed an even darker picture, as I discovered that the next highest countries on the list were Qatar (2.46), Kuwait (1.78), the Maldives (1.62), Oman (1.38), Bahrain (1.34), and Saudi Arabia (1.29). Meaning that not only does my new country have no girls, but neither does any of its neighbors.

The reason for this is that these countries import a lot of laborers from various South Asian countries to do all the blue collar jobs, but don't want the workers to actually settle so they don't let them bring their families. So if Pakistani construction workers is your target dating demographic, you're in business. If your target dating demographic is, well, female, then the odds are stacked against you.

I thought I had mentally prepared myself for this. After all, it was an adventure, and I have spent most of my 28 years being fairly content with my single dude status. Plus, gender ratios aren't necessarily a good or bad sign of somplace being a great place to move to: 2 of the top 3 countries with the most favorable ratios for men are Zimbabwe (0.81) and Chad (0.85), not exactly paradisiacal locations to cruise for chicks.

However, I underestimated the strange behavioral difference it would make in me to not have a proper gender balance. Not having girls around you start doing strange things. After about a month in Dubai I found myself on ITunes doing something I thought I would never do: downloading Britney Spears. At first just a few songs, then when I saw that I could have all 17 songs to complete her Greatest Hits album for only an additional $4.44, I went ahead. Then in a flurry of activity, I started downloading Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, Rihanna. In the space of about 15 minutes I ended up spending around $40 on songs that I think were written with a target audience of 15 year old girls.

Not that this was entirely unprecedented in my life: I have previously admitted on my blog to listening to Madonna's "Material Girl" and the disco classic "It's Raining Men" (click on the titles to go to confessions). In high school I may or may not have purchased a Spice Girls T-shirt and may or may not have stolen leotards from the dance team for my Halloween costume. But those things were done in a perhaps misguided attempt to get laughs. When I made the Backstreet Boys spoof video it was entirely tongue in cheek: I didn't actually start listening to the band with any regularity. I never actively sought out or bought any Madonna music, it came on a compilation album. But this time, I'm not into Britney Spears to be funny, I'm into it for reals.

All of this has prompted a lot of soul searching. One day, while at the gym on the rowing machine with "P-p-p-pokerface" pulsing in my ears while at the same time falling in love with Sarah Bareilles whose "Lovesong" was playing on the television on mute, I started to wonder if the Middle East was really messing me up. After all, gender relations are notoriously complicated or backward, depending upon your perspective. Your "gay-dar" can really get thrown off: men hold hands and it's not a sign of anything other than friendship. It was in Egypt that I started reading the "Modern Love" column in the New York Times and dropped my "must be with a cute girl" rule for watching romantic comedies. Could it be that I am compensating for the shortage of female contact? Am I trying to create a 1 to 1 gender ratio within myself?

I don't really have any answers, nor am I getting better. I now have Lady Gaga on three different playlists for my Ipod. Last month, however, I reached a new low. The Dubai International Film Festival was in town: dozens of international films playing, a chance to get cultured. Instead, I went with my [male] roommate to see "Twilight: New Moon." It was the only movie playing after 11 PM, so when I finished my work at 10:55 I literally raced sprinted to get there to make it on time. I pushed my taxi driver to drive recklessly so that I could make my man-date to see the biggest chick flick ever made.

As I came in to the theaterI told my roommate: "I hope you'll be flattered to know that going to see Twilight with you may be the gayest thing I have ever done." Then it occurred to me that we may have actually had a stroke of genius. I mean, could there possibly be a better place to meet girls? Based upon the descriptions I had read, the movie theaters everywhere else in the world were packed with young, attractive, single, lonely women. This is the crowd that reads Twilight, and aside from the confused looking woman at the front it looks like my target demographic:

Yet it was not to be. With a mixture of amusement and disappointment I ended up sharing a row with my roommate and three Egyptian men. Only in Dude-bai can you go to see Twilight and have there be more men than women in the theater. Go Team Khalifah.

Litter-Free Propaganda

2009-10-04T22:24:00.000-07:00

Growing up in the States I was exposed at a young age to clever trash-free slogans like "leave nature cleaner than you found it." And man did this propaganda ever work. When I came to Cairo in 2007 I found myself paralyzed by the trash disposal system there, which is that you throw your garbage into the street. Unable to throw my food scraps or plastic bags, I would carry my trash in my hands for HOURS, just out of habit, thinking that maybe a garbage can would appear like some shimmering mirage in the desert. Inevitably some well-meaning merchant would take the trash off my hands, only to chuck it into the traffic-clogged street. I never got used to it.

That was before the swine flu panic. Continuing its long tradition of genius policymaking, the Egyptian government prepared for the worst. Only two people have died from H1N1, but one province has actually picked out locations for mass human graves in case the pandemic reaches Pharaonic plague proportions. The national government has tried to stem the oncoming calamity by slaughtering all 300,000 of the country's pigs.

Of course, the pigs were crucial for the garbage pickers, a small community of Christians who collect trash from off the streets (I think I paid around 90 cents a month for their daily doorstep services). Now that they are dead, they have no way of disposing with food waste, so they have stopped collecting it, and only pick up inorganic waste.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/20/world/africa/20cairo.html

Now nobody has ever visited Cairo and come away awestruck at its cleanliness, but there might soon be some new Pyramids. The goats just aren't cuttin' the mustard.

Dubai, to my knowledge, doesn't have pigs to eat its food trash. It does, however, have effective anti-litter propaganda.

Take, for example, this amazing sticker which I found on my window when I moved in:

It's non-removeable, as if I would ever want to peel off such a masterpiece of contemporary art. At first I thought the intended message was:

VEILED LADIES, DO NOT THROW YOUR PURSES AT THE CREEPY LOOKING MAN BELOW WHO LOOKS LIKE HE IS TRYING TO STEAL SOMETHING.

However, if you look closely you can see the writing on the window: DO NOT LITTER.

Now I will admit, in spite of the puritanical litter-free-ness so deeply engrained in me, I do occasionally get a hankerin' to get wild and crazy and chuck my trash out my 28th floor window just to watch it fall. My inner mischief maker is dying to gleefully launch banana peels into the swimming pool or nail some unsuspecting sunbather with my empty milk cartons. Fortunately this sign is there to dissuade me, and dissuade me it does, a modern day eleventh commandment etched on my window and my heart.

Well played, Dubai. Well played.

Distractions from the 30th floor window

2009-09-18T23:51:00.000-07:00

September 9th, 2009 (posted late)

So I'm working from home today, which means I'm sitting in my friends' apartment, who were kind enough to let me house-sit while they went trekking in Nepal and Tibet. The thing is, I get distracted by stupid things while I'm proofreading some dry reports for work. Exhibit A: the round-about outside the apartment.

Even for a lifelong connoisseur of ways to zone oneself out, this thing is RIVETING. It's like staring into a fire. You just look out, see the cars going around, the people that occasionally wander out in the way, and BAM you're totally zoned out. It's the worst during the morning rush hour, but it goes on all day.

Next is the window cleaners who came by and cleaned the 30th floor windows, also providing a convenient distraction from my job, as well as making me suddenly grateful that I was doing such dry work. I think this is going to be the first part of an ongoing series called "Jobs I'm Glad I Don't Do."

Jobs I'm Glad I Don't Do, Part I: Window Washing on 30+ Story Buildings

Please note the cable in the background which looks like it's not quite taut. That's cuz it wasn't quite taut. For some reason the cord had gotten tangled, so when the man in the picture finished fixing whatever was going on (about 5 seconds after taking this picture) the entire side of the applepicking/windowwashing machine just dropped like six inches before the cord caught. I felt my own heart leap into my throat, and also nearly browned my shorts, and I wasn't even in the thing. I can't imagine how the man in blue and his unpictured companion must have felt. All I can say is "THIS guy is glad he's not THAT guy."

Dubai!!!!

2009-09-05T07:02:00.000-07:00

After a long hiatus due to the general un-blog-worthiness of my life in Washington DC, I feel like it's time to revive the CBennyC Journal of Discourses so that any of you out there who might feel inclined to stay in touch has a little window onto my life. Just to fast-forward from the last post, we successfully finished our tour of the world last summer, visiting 15 countries in 6 weeks, including Egypt, Greece, Macedonia, Kosovo, Albania, Montenegro, Croatia, Bosnia & Hercegovina, Serbia, Hungary, Germany, Estonia, Russia, Hong Kong, and Japan. It was nothing short of epic. I then hung out in the SLC for a couple of months, spent the rest of the year in Washington DC, and am now back in the Middle East.

So where do I start with Dubai? My first impression was the tremendous heat. The day I left I checked out weather.com which told me that the high for that day in Dubai would be 104. Not bad. Except that underneath it was the little note: feels like 129... And it does. The humidity is killer. I ran a marathon in Death Valley when the temperatures soared above 130. And Dubai in summer is worse. My glasses fog up every time I go outside. It is nasty.

The second thing about Dubai is the construction. Everywhere. The entire city feels like a giant construction zone. The view out my friend's window where I'm staying is of a place called "Business Bay" which in a few years will be kind of like the Manhattan of Dubai, a financial center of high-rises centered around a lake:

Note the Swiss-cheese looking building in the middle. That is for real. I actually googled "Swiss cheese building Dubai" and the following article was the first to come up: http://www.building.co.uk/story.asp?storycode=3134358.

Also, the malls are awesome. I hate malls except in Dubai where I think they're cool. Especially Dubai Mall, which opened 10 months ago. It is the largest mall in the world, even bigger than Mall of the Emirates down the road which has a ski resort in it. Dubai Mall has a skating rink, a theme park sponsored by Sega, and once all the spots open up, over 1200 stores. My favorite parts about it are the shark aquarium,:

and the awesome fountain shows which go on at night:

After a frenetic week of apartment hunting, getting settled in at my new job, and general stress at moving and adjusting to a new place, I'm finally getting around to enjoying the place. And what better way to enjoy a place with nothing but luxury options than a trip to the pool? Note the picture on the right, where my camera lens, like my glasses, had fogged up due to the humidity. And also note the building in the background, the Burj Dubai, the tallest in the world.

Macedonia and Kosovo

2008-06-19T03:50:00.000-07:00

With a population of around 2 million, and not much to offer besides the huge Lake Ohhhhhhhhhhhrid, Macedonia was nonetheless a very fun visit. From there we rented a car (more smoothly than in Greece incidentally, and for much much cheaper) and used it as a base camp from which to run up and visit newly born Kosovo (though with the way Serbia is behaving it's sort of a half-birth thus far).

Unfortunately the computer here in Moscow (we're about 3 weeks behind on pictures) won't let me upload any more pictures, so this is all for now.

Dubrovnikking and Greece Pictures

2008-06-15T08:14:00.001-07:00

So we have successfully been to Macedonia, Kosovo, Albania, Montenegro, and are currently in Dubrovnik, Croatia, where we are spending 2 days in a kind of break from our constant car trip. Needless to say the 5 previously mentioned countries have absolutely stunning countryside. The road trip across Albania was one of the most incredible mountainsides I have ever ascended, and the narrowness of the roads and the igloo shaped bunkers all over the place only added to the adrenaline rush of feeling like you were on top of the world.

Dubrovnik is absolutely one of the most beautiful cities I have ever been to.

However, the picture updates are behind the actual trip, so I'm backtracking to recount Greece.

First, we arrived in Athens at 6 AM on the morning of June 8. We were unable to check into our hostel until noon, so we spent the morning completely exhausted and therefore slaphappy wandering around the Parthenon:

After which, we went and took a nap and awaited the arrival of our cousin Cole, who showed up for an evening exploring the ancient ruins.

The next morning we took our newly rented car (a tiny little deal, we had to stack 2 of our bags in between Heber & Ryan in the back, and Ryan kept hitting his head. It was one of those times I'm glad to be shorter than average. Also glad that I was navigator, which meant permanent shotgun status.

We drove up through the beautiful Grecian countryside to a little town called Kalambaka, in the shadows of some monasteries built into very sheer cliffs. The whole area is called Meteora. The morning of the 10th was spent exploring the monasteries and hiking around, then we got a guide to take us rock climbing. Not a bad place for Heber & I to do our first rock climbing.

After which we headed north to Thessaloniki, which was kind of unimpressive.

On the evening of the 11th we jumped on the train up to Macedonia.....

And as usual, the obligatory celebration of the artwork which is Heber's hair.

Leg 1 Pictures: Egypt

2008-06-12T14:09:00.000-07:00

So here are some of the pictures from Leg 1 of the Cannonballz World Tour 2008. It started with Heber going to Abu Simbel with Mike Christensen. (I had to remain in Cairo to take care of th Russian visa).

I then flew down and met them for this sweet overnight sailing trip on the Nile:

After which we visited Karnak Temple. I wasn't quite so reverent.

Followed by some lounge time and snorkeling on the Red Sea.

And then the Pyramids and Cairo.

And then we shaved Heber & I's head. For Heber we left this gorgeous rat tail. The razor gave out about 80% of the way through my haircut, which meant at the Pyramids I had random tufts of hair sticking out, but then I went to my barber and got it fixed.

2008-06-11T23:09:00.000-07:00

Just to update everyone, we made it safely through Greece after seeing some amazing stuff. Highlights included Athens, rock climbing in Meteora, and some amazing drives through the Parnassos national park and the mountains around it. Yesterday we took a train from Thessaloniki and have now officially begun the road trip portion of the trip. We got to Skopje, Macedonia last night, and will be running up to Kosovo this morning, after which we will return to Macedonia and spend the night on Lake Ohrid, and then off to Albania and then Montenegro on Friday.

Stories & pics to come!!!

Curtis

2008-06-08T14:01:00.000-07:00

So the Cannonballzzz World Tour 2008 is officially underway. Heber arrived in Cairo a little over a week ago, after which we did a quick tour of Egypt. First we went to Aswan, followed by an overnight sailing on the Nile on a felucca. We then continued downstream to Luxor where we visited the temples and the Valley of the Kings. After which we flew to Sharm el-Sheikh and spent 3 days lounging on the beach and snorkeling amongst the fishies.

We then did 2 days in Cairo, and I finally visited the Pyramids. I had successfully avoided that circus for an entire year and 3 days. However, my last day in Cairo we went.

Now we are in Athens. After a flight that left Cairo at 3:45 AM and landed in Athens at 5:45 AM, we came to our hostel (The Easy Hostel) and dropped our bags off. They wouldn't let us check in so Ryan, Heber, and I wandered about in a daze and went to the Parthenon and the Acropolis. We then went back and took naps while waiting for cousin Cole to show up. Now the 4 of us are ready to rock Greece. Tomorrow we will be heading north and doing some rock climbing at Meteora, after which we will be heading to Thessalonika.

Pictures coming soon....

Trilingual Bilateral Cultural Exchange Part 3

2008-06-05T14:00:00.000-07:00

So while I might have mastered the labyrinth which was the Russian embassy in Cairo, I failed to give myself adequate time to conquer the Chinese one. In spite of gathering all the documents which their website said was necessary (including bank statements, proof of enrollment at the university, hotel reservations, and $130), here were the excuses offered for not even considering my visa application:

First visit: my bank statement was not actually from the bank, but printed off the computer (apparently the fact that all statements are now sent via the internet doesn't matter to China).

RESPONSE: Dig up older original bank statement.

Second visit: my current bank statement off the internet in combination with an original older bank statement doesn't work either: they need ALL my bank statements, original, from the last 6 months.

RESPONSE: Have father overnight said bank statements to my roommate Michael who was coming out to visit. Michael brings statements, which I deliver to my travel agent, who assures me that this time, the third time, is the charm.

Third visit: They inform me that I will have to extend my EGYPTIAN residency visa, which is good until the end of June, in order to qualify to receive a CHINESE visa. They could have informed me of this 3 weeks ago on attempt number 1, or told me from the start that I needed an Egyptian residency visa valid for at least 2 months in order to qualify for a visa application. You'd think my agent would have known these things. She did not get paid for anything, needless to say.

Apologies

2008-05-29T10:45:00.000-07:00

For my lack of pictures lately. My camera has not been functioning properly, I think it got an amoeba or Cairo food poisoning or something. However, Heber has a camera for our round-the-world extravaganza, so we should have some good shots eventually.

Trilingual Bilateral Cultural Exchange, Part 2

2008-05-29T10:29:00.000-07:00

It turns out that trilingual cultural exchange, like all things, gets tainted once you wrap it in a shroud of mysterious bureaucratic inefficiency. The Russo-Egyptian combo is lethal!!! My brother Heber and I have planned a trip for this summer, starting here in Egypt and ending in Japan where we will meet my parents and pick up my youngest brother from his mission. After much thought and debate we decided to visit Russia and China, with an overland journey through southeastern Europe on the way. Had I known how difficult the visas would be to get, I would have bagged all that and just gone to Thailand. But oh well. Heber got his visas taken care of at great expense; I'm almost there.

Here is what it took to get a Russian visa in Cairo:

$30 to have an agency "invite" me to Russia.
$75 to have said "invite" shipped to Cairo, as the embassy here requires the original copy.
5 total trips down to the consulate
12 hours of waiting time, 8 outside the consulate, 4 inside (over 5 visits).
$150 for the visa itself.

Needless to say, I was never so excited to hand over the final $150 and have it be done. After 3 failed visits down to the consulate without entering, I found out which travel agency the university here in Cairo uses to get visas for its professors, and they said they'd be happy to help me. However, they apparently had never helped an American get a Russian visa before: the embassy has a rule that agencies MUST do single-day service, which for Americans comes to $550 plus insurance fees, meaning the total cost of my visa was going to approach $700. So last Thursday, being the last possible day I could apply for regular service and have it be done in time, I went way early and parked myself in front of the door 2 hours before it opened. My zealousness paid off, and I got in. I had to come back today, and I once again got in, but then had to wait inside for over 3 hours while they.... well, I don't know exactly what they were doing.

Next up: Visa to China.

Music Video

2008-05-13T19:20:00.000-07:00

So as part of our effort to improve intercultural relations we made a video celebrating one thing Middle Easterners and Americans have an affinity for: trashy pop music. We downloaded a karaoke version of "I Want it That Way" by the Backstreet Boys, borrowed some cheesy lyrics from various Arab pop songs, and after some effort recorded it. "Shabaab al-Haara" or "Back Alley Male Youths" was born (we rendered a stilted translation both ways as part of the joke).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jGA07Zb9kNw

Thanks to Aaron Rock, Brian Loo, Aatif Iqbal, and Scott Trigg for being part of the Male Youths, and thanks to EB Harper for letting us borrow her camera, and to Clay Adair, Mark Lomedico, and Dan Stoltz for letting us borrow their time to film us clowning around.

Trilingual Bilateral Culture Exchange

2008-04-08T04:39:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

EXAMPLE:

Преподавательница = مدرسة = prepadaVAtyilniitsa

“Teacher.”

OR:

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

Meaning “Where did you come from?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Clay you are very weak in Arabic language.”

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

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

2008-03-05T14:18:00.000-08:00

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

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

That's right. I rule.

London, Madrid, and Morocco

2008-01-23T06:00:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Cleanness. Coming from Cairo London was so SHINY

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

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

-Snail soup. Enough said.

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

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

Rain

2008-01-09T10:18:00.000-08:00

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

Arabian Holiday I: Yemeni Christmas

2008-01-05T13:52:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Merry Christmas,” I said to Aatif.

“Merry Christmas.”

2007-12-03T12:19:00.000-08:00

What you need to run 100km on insufficient training:

*Lots of over-the-counter pain killer of choice
*Sweet blue headband
*Lots of carbs
*Vaseline to prevent blisters and chafing
*Ipod with killer desert running playlist
*Personal van and driver

Things better left behind:
*Common sense and a brain

What was I thinking when I set my alarm to 1:45 AM so that I could participate in the 100km “Pharaoh Run” on the outskirts of Cairo? In retrospect I probably wasn’t. Was I prepared? No. I’d been running on the treadmill and a 2km horsetrack. It’s probable that Cairo’s pollution actually renders jogging unhealthy. Nevertheless, “The Victorious,” would not defeat me. I would run the race, and declare myself Curtenkhamen and proclaim a new Pharaonic Era.

After meeting up with my friends, who were running the race as a relay team and each doing 20k, we caught a taxi out to the Intercontinental Hotel and were introduced to our drivers. I had my own van as I was going it alone and my driver, Samie, assured me when we arrived at the start line that he was a professionally trained masseuse. I wasn’t listening at that point, just staring out into the dreary desert landscape wondering where in the world we were.

At 6:30 AM the gun went off. The first 10 km were surreal. I was accompanied by U2’s Joshua Tree album, and it was the perfect soundtrack. A gorgeous sunrise, a chilly fog (both words I would previously never have used in describing Egyptian climate). Was I still in Egypt? The answer was certainly yes as I realized that the fog was actually smoke from the massive piles of trash being burned off on the sides of the road. Kms 10-30 were among the dreariest landscape I have ever seen. It was deader than Death Valley. There must be something out there, though, as there were lots of soldiers on patrol carrying rifles.

Near km 30 things began to get interesting as we passed a random graveyard out in the middle of the desert. Desert turned to green trees and a canal. Laughing children jogged alongside me and made me feel like Rocky, or the Gladiator as that was what was on the Ipod. For a while I took off my headphones and enjoyed the sounds of morning in small village Egypt. The splashing in the canal, the donkeys, the cheering children, the slightly weirded out adults. I got to run with my roommate for a while, though I wouldn’t see my relay team after km 40. It was also the last time I ran without pain. Some aspirin did the trick for a while as I coasted into the halfway point a little after 11 AM, stopped for lunch, and opted for the leg massage from my driver.

The second half got off to a decent start. I couldn’t help but put on Bon Jovi’s Living on a Prayer (Cheesy I know, but it worked). “Oh… we’re halfway there… woooah, livin’ on a prayer…” I ran the first 5k of the second half as fast as any portion of the race, finishing off by cruising in to the 55 km marker to the tune of Garth Brooks “Callin Baton Rouge.” I was going to rock this race.

Of course, that was the end of the good times. My driver kicked my confidence into the canal when he informed me I was in last place; shortly thereafter the pain killers began to wear off and I began to really know what running in pain meant. Then, at km 57 I grimaced into a new village and was greeted by another mass of children. Unfortunately for these children the novelty of running with cheering kids had worn off. Unfortunately for me they were not cheering.

As Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” ironically came blaring onto my Ipod they converged on me, grabbing at my shorts, grabbing at my Ipod, giggling and whacking me with their little bamboo shoots. “DON’T TOUCH ME!” I screamed. Eyes wide, they back off, more shocked at my Arabic than my anger. Like Michael Jackson I was turning into a monster. I felt as though these kids were zombies bent on eating me. Soon enough the whacking began anew. “DON’T YOU TOUCH ME AGAIN OR I WILL SMASH YOUR FACE!” They backed off, but I could hear their giggles. Next thing I know a rock whizzed past my head. Then another. I picked it up, whirled around catlike, and wound up ready to throw a fastball. The sea of zombie-children parted where the rock might have gone, but I chose to hang on to it and keep it prominently displayed in my hand. No more rocks were thrown. I started to feel bad when some friendly children tried to get high 5s but instead got my death stare and a good look at the rock. “Thriller” turned into “It’s Raining Men” (yes I have that song and I like it), and I found myself forcing my way through a crowd of men coming out of the mosque after Friday prayer. I wanted to scream at them that their children are monsters. Stop praying and discipline them!

Emotionally I had lost it. Over the next 20 minutes I bounced between anger, joy at catching another weary runner, pain, and remorse at my not quite attempt at murdering the Egyptian children. This turned to devastation when I finally reached km 60 and MY DRIVER WAS NOT THERE. Dehydrated, overheated, I desperately needed a break and some water to cool off. For the first time all day I walked. Where the hell was he? Had he gone AWOL? Would I have to quit because my driver bailed on me and stole my stuff? What would I do?

I walked for 20 minutes. Then jogged for a bit, then walked some more. Finally he came from behind and sailed past me. I screamed at him to stop, flailing my hands in the air but he continues to go. Didn’t he know that this was way past the 5 km mark? Just because I wasn’t waiting at km 60 didn’t mean I wanted to go all the way to 65!!! Fortunately he didn’t go too far, but when I caught up to him and found him chitchatting with the cops I was ready to give him an earful.

“Where were you? I nearly died!! You’re supposed to stop every 5 km!”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. The kids broke my window.”
“The ones with the rocks?”
“Yes. I have to file a report with the police.”

Speechless, I rubbed my hands with my face and staggered over to the car, emotionally crushed. I was toast. Leaning against the van (I couldn’t sit or I’d fall asleep) I had an internal argument, for the first time pondering the idea of dropping out. I had over 35 km to go, just shy of a full marathon. My legs were aching everywhere, my shoulder hurt, my back hurt, my stomach hurt, and I was as tired as I’ve ever been. But worse, I was on a pace that would not allow me to finish before the 12 hour cutoff: the previous 10k had taken me nearly 2 hours. I opened the bottle of Aspirin and popped three more pills. Was I doping? I was up to twelve pills, twice the daily recommended limit on the bottle (in the end I took eighteen). Who cares? I thought. I’m also running about 5 times the daily recommended limit. I instructed my driver to begin stopping every 2.5 km to check on me and doggedly pressed on.

I don’t remember much of the next 15 kilometers, just pain and the continuing argument of whether or not to stop. Two things kept me going: pride (I couldn’t allow myself to be beaten by some zombie children), and the thought of a respectable retirement from ultra-marathoning. If I didn’t finish I’d have to enter another one of these damn events to redeem myself!

The final turning point came around km 80 when I could no longer run. Not even my stubborn will was enough to endure the pain for more than 5 minutes at a stretch. After a silent prayer I decided to walk one song, run one song. My Ipod stepped up… Van Halen, U2, even Tamer Housny. Next thing I knew I was at 85 km, and had mentally already finished. I even started to smile again. It might have been enjoyable were it not dark, and were it not for the fact that the last 5 km were going against traffic on a divided highway. I seriously thought I might get hit by a truck and go flying off into the canal.

Once sundown came the police forced the race officials to shut down the road leading up to the Sakkara pyramid. So a group of race officials simply greeted me at some arbitrary point on the road (where there was an intersection to the divided highway and a sign saying "Goodbye") and told me I was finished. My time was 11:02:36.

Can you brag about something being the most challenging thing you’ve ever done when the reason that it was so difficult was that you were totally unprepared to do it? Previous mindless capers, including the Cannon brothers ‘guerilla race’ across Death Valley in 132 degree heat, and the 100 miler Massanutten trail run across the mountains, were perhaps more physically demanding, but I was also in better shape. This was my first “I willed myself to finish” event.

However, finish I did. And I’m proud of it.

Backpacking II: Daydream in Dahab (Aug 5-7, 2007)

2007-09-29T04:22:00.000-07:00

After 2 months in Cairo and 2 days of the Sinai circus, I was ready for a breather. The little town of Dahab, situated on the eastern coast of the Sinai peninsula, provided such a haven of relaxation. It’s not even that nice of a resort town, but it seemed like the promised land to me after my 40 hours in Sinai.

The picture essentially sums up my time in Dahab: lots of lounging around, reading, sipping Coke or various fruit cocktail drinks, and gazing across the Red Sea at the coast of Saudi Arabia. Not a lot going on in town: the whole city is basically two parallel streets of shops and cheap backpacker hotels punctuated with a couple of nicer places that had their own pools. There are no real residents, no indigenous Dahabians, just transient workers and travelers. August is a particularly slow month for businesses, so I was pleased to find that going out for dinner involved playing the restaurants workers off one another to see who would offer me the best deal. One night I got 30% off the menu price plus free drinks, appetizers, and dessert. Not a bad way to live.

The highlight was the snorkeling; my third day there I paid the equivalent of about $5 for a package that included a jeep ride up the Blue Hole coral reef and snorkeling rental. Not a bad deal, even with the $10 overpriced lunch I ended up having to buy while I was there.

The snorkeling itself was unreal. It was like being on the Discovery channel. My youngest brother used to own a salt water tank, but even at its most exotic didn’t come close to touching this. Blues, greens, oranges, browns, pinks, neon shades thereof, colors I don’t even know how to describe. All I needed were some surfer bum sea turtles and I’d be on a live action version of Finding Nemo. It was like I was caught in an underwater fantasy world. There was one point where I had waxed into a dreamlike reverie of personal oneness with this submarine playground, when out of nowhere six beautiful Italian girls gracefully swam onto the scene, meandering through the clear blue in their cute little two piece swimsuits, their perfectly tanned skin providing a new color to the multihued panorama before me. I was dumbfounded. What was going on? I was torn between being annoyed that they intruded on my nature time and My Finding Nemo daydream had just turned into a Little Mermaid fantasy world. They even swam like mermaids: the curvature of their dives was almost as entrancing as the curvature of the bronzed skin. What was this place?

Unfortunately my little dreamworld disintegrated rather rapidly when the 6 Italian mermaids were soon followed by 6 Italian dudes all in Speedos. It then turned into a nightmare when they were followed by a pack of older, overweight, and slightly hairy Italian men and women, all as skimpily clad as their younger comrades. I almost threw up in my mouth. If I ever become world dictator I plan on imposing age and weight limits on two piece swimsuits and on banning the Speedo in all non-competitive situations.

Grossed out, I decided to escape this daydream gone awry by going to the surface. I was rewarded by a comic spectacle: coming my way behind the pack of scantily clad Italians were a large group of Asians. The funny part was that they were all snorkeling in life jackets. I laughed out loud and asked myself, “what is the point? Just save your money and swim at the hotel pool.” It was a good reminder that, even in this relaxing dreamworld, I was, after all, just witnessing another act in the great Tourist Circus that is the Sinai Peninsula.

Backpacking I: The Sinai Circus (Aug 3-4, 2007)

2007-09-20T11:34:00.000-07:00

So I'm finally getting around to publishing my stories from my recent venture up through the Levant, and I figure I might as well tell them chronologically, even though some of the later stories are better. So I'll start with Part I, which was the journey across the Sinai desert.

I was quite excited for the journey; it was to be a sacred experience. I was going with a group of friends from church. We had a lesson on reverence that morning before we left. It was appropriate, so I thought. After all, I was going to be treading the same ground (possibly) that Moses trod. The Exodus. The 10 Commandments. I felt like the Israelites, fleeing from the Egyptians for the promised land. If only there were some way to arrange a redux of the parting of the Red Sea.

The actual experience was far from spiritual. It was closer to a Circus. The Sinai Circus.

It started with our driver(s). I thought we had just hired a van and driver to take us, but when it pulled up there wasn't just a driver but 5 Egyptians. The main driver, an assistant driver, an "English speaking assistant," and 2 baggage boys. Where the hell were we all going to sit? Fortunately the baggage boys weren't coming with, but apparently the law required us to have the other 3. They were there for our safety and their hotel rooms were included in our bill. Good thing too... During the 3 days the English speaking assistant gave us all of about 45 minutes worth of information on what we were seeing, and the two drivers were apparently not intended to spell each other off as we took a break every 30 minutes on the way out to the hotel so the drivers could "rest." The 5 hour drive ended up taking 8 hours. I secretly hoped they we would get to drown them in the Red Sea like the Egyptians of old.

Finally we arrived at St. Catherine, the little monastery/hotel center near the base of Mt. Sinai. We pulled in around 8, had dinner, and then promptly went to bed so we would be rested for our 1:30 AM wakeup call. The idea was that we'd hike the mountain in time for sunrise. It sounded so romantic; I got especially excited when I found out we would get to exchange our English speaking guide for a Bedouin who didn't speak anything but his own rural dialect of Arabic. However, when we got to the base of Mt. Sinai, that was where the circus really got started. We weren't going to be hiking the mountain in peaceful solitude: there were THOUSANDS of tourists going with us. And also HUNDREDS of camels, each with their own tout who would beg us to try and ride them. "Want to ride camel? I give you good price!" "Want a camel ride? Very good price, just for you." I wanted to hike the mountain: Moses didn't ride no camel!

In retrospect I should have taken the camel, if just so I could avoid the harrassment of people trying to get me to ride. It continued the whole way up. Every 30 meters was another camel and its guide. "Want to ride camel?" "Want to ride camel?" "I give you good price. Why you no want to ride camel?" People were offering camel rides up until the last 100 meters. Meanwhile, because so many other people do ride camels, you have to share the pathway with them, which in some spots means patiently staring at the camel's rear for several minutes until the path widens out so that you can pass.

If you're not dodging camels you're weaving your way amongst the army of tourists on foot armed with flashlights. I felt like the entire 12 tribes of Israel had gathered to join me for my trek. From afar it looked kind of eerily cool: from higher up you could look back and see the winding trail lit up by the slowly moving flashlights of the thousands of people who were behind you. Up close the flashlights were obnoxious. They might have been good on a moonless night but with the moon nearly full you could actually discern shadows better without one. However, when you're blinded by someone else's flashlight you can't see a thing. At one point I nearly kissed a camel kneeling on the ground in front of me because I had been brighted by someone and didn't see the damn thing until I was nearly liplocked with it. It was all puckered up and ready to go too. I warily backed up and went around. I swore it smiled and winked at me.

I thought the top would be better, but it only got worse. The camel touts were replaced by people renting out pillows and blankets and selling all kinds of stuff from $3 Cokes to shells and rocks (Why would you hike a mountain and then buy a rock at the top????). The tourist mass, previously strung out over the several mile trail, was now all concentrated in one spot. The poor people who got there first to get a good spot were perturbed when other people promptly staked out a spot just EAST of them. (The sun had yet to rise at this point). There was literally no place to sit. The picture here gives you an idea of how crowded the place was.

The closest thing to a religious experience to be found was the bathroom ("WC" for water closet). I don't know why paying 5 LE ($1) to use the bathroom was so great, but it was amazing... it was neatly built just over a ledge so the waste just disappears into a long drop which is just shielded enough so you don't get vertigo. It was a miracle.

The trip down was slightly better, only because my Bedouin guide didn't feel like waiting (most of our group took the camel option anyway) so he and I basically took the short cut, which meant cutting straight down the mountain instead of sticking to the well worn and graded trail. I couldn't believe him. He was the acrobat of the Sinai Circus,

Needless to say, my Sinai experience wasn't quite as revelatory or spiritual as I had hoped. I did, however, gain a new appreciation for the Biblical text in Exodus that put it all in humanizing terms. THIS is where they wandered for 40 years, with nothing to eat but manna and quail? No wonder they were ready to go back into slavery. And poor Moses. I would have been smashing some stone tablets too, just for sheer cathartic release. I can't imagine spending 40 years in Sinai. After 40 hours I was done with the place.

Of course, when I see the pictures that we took I am reminded that there actually are some really beautiful views there. Even in the most forsaken corners of the planet God made some gorgeous scenery.

Running in Cairo's Pavement Jungle

2007-08-02T04:06:00.000-07:00

August 2, 2007

So this week I strapped on my running shoes and became the third jogger that I have ever seen in Cairo. Cairenes in general don’t exercise: there’s basically the expensive gyms at the nice hotels, and a brand new Gold’s Gym which runs around $120/month, well above my budget. During school time I use the gym at the university but it’s closed during break, so I have to find an alternative. After some careful research on the subject I discovered that the only time one can jog in Cairo is between 4 and 6 AM as these are the two hours when the streets are not packed with people and traffic; there is actually room to run and the pollution isn’t as bad, and the number of people looking at you/laughing at you in your silly shorts is significantly lower.

So I ran out, enjoying the relative morning calm and running down the riverside past the Nile to the sound of “Fantastic Dream” by Alphaville coming through my I-pod. The Nile is not as romantic as people imagine it. It’s a good thing Moses wasn’t living today, because if his mom hid him among the reeds of the Nile he’d have a lot more problems than being “slow of speech.” That river is nasty!

One of the first songs to come on my I-pod was “Smells Like Teen Spirit” by Nirvana. How appropriate. Even at 5 AM Cairo is a discordant cacophony of smells. It’s hard to know what is producing what, and even in the rare stretches where I couldn’t see litter I’d pick up a whiff of something that was definitely decomposing. It’s hard to judge whether one is improving his health by jogging in Cairo. However, the mental high of actually getting some exercise is worth whatever price my respiratory system is paying.

The never-changing Nile and ever changing smells aside, Cairo at this time of morning is definitely different. First of all, I did see some joggers. 2 others, in fact, bringing the total number including myself that I’ve seen using the vast expanse of pavement in Cairo for exercise up to 5. I thought I saw a 6^th, but it was just a man sprinting in sandals and his “galabiyya” robe down the street for some unknown reason. He probably would have been embarrassed had he known that I saw him, though not as embarrassed as the other “galabiyya” clad man who was asleep on one of the benches. His robe had ridden up beyond his waist, inadvertently exposing his more private parts. Not a pleasant site at any time of day.

The few joggers and bench sleepers weren’t the only novelty: I also saw dogs. In 2 months I had only seen 1 dog on the streets of Cairo. I was kind of excited when I saw the first one, until he started chasing me. Fortunately he didn’t pursue for long. However, I encountered a whole pack of dogs later: 6 in a row walking up the sidewalk. I stopped running and slipped into the road to give them the right of way on the sidewalk. Not because I feel like street dogs are higher up on the Cairo social totem pole than I am but because, well, they were dogs laden with who knows how many diseases and fleas.

Dogs are a rarity in the feline empire of Cairo. Cats rule supreme, living on every street and in every nook and cranny. One jumped out of our trash disposal just outside my apartment the other day. Scared the tar out of me. I am terrified of cats. I avoid them just like I avoided the dogs, though I usually return their defiant stares to show them that despite my inner fears I will not be intimidated by them.

As I grew used to the smells and morning air (still hot) I gradually began to pick up my pace, particularly when “Hot Stuff” from the Full Monty soundtrack comes on. Soon I was going close to my old pace of 7.5 minute miles, flashing a smile at the bewildered street guards who would me warily until they realize that I’m just a crazy foreigner running down the street. Some would smile and flash a thumbs up, others just continued to stare and nervously grip their rifles. The most confused of all were the rich Saudis who were hanging out in front of the Hyatt hotel. “Material Girl” was an appropriate song at that point, I amusedly thought to myself. Don’t ask me why “Material Girl” is on m I-pod. I have no good answer.

My wildlife encounters continued throughout the morning. This is really an urban jungle. The strangest meeting was with a weasel. Arabs call this animal “Ibn ‘irs”, or “son of the bridegroom.” Strange that this animal would come from the same root as the word for wedding. But I digress. I also ran into a bird. Yes. I was going that fast. The bird flew out of the tree and actually hit me. It, needless to say, startled me but I must not have hurt the bird too bad as it kept right on flying. I felt a rush of pride that I had hit a bird and outran a dog. My next animal victim was a donkey. To the donkey’s credit he didn’t know we were racing, and he did have a cart full of vegetables and a driver to pull. And he didn’t have Guns n’ Roses playing in his I-pod. However, I still destroyed him in our race.

Even at 5 AM people laugh at the crazy foreigner in shorts. They’re even more bewildered when I answer their comments in Arabic. “He’s American, but he speaks Arabic!” is a regular comment from young men whom I pass. As I said, I don’t’ know if this is actually helping my health or hurting it. However, I’m determined to participate in at least 1 marathon this year in Luxor; and perhaps a second either in Athens or the “Pharoah Run” amongst the Pyramids. So laugh away, Egypt.

Total War

2007-07-15T03:08:00.000-07:00

The war for my kitchen opened a new front this week as Bug-Qaeda hit my stove. It was unbelievable. The little cockroach dodged my attempted smash and went right into the little hole under the stove top. Which wouldn't have been that unbelievable except that the stove was LIT. I thought it was a dumb move, or perhaps a suicide maneuver, until about 60 seconds later the little bugger EMERGED from the lit stovetop. Of course he wasn't able to dodge me again, and I took particular pleasure in crushing him between my paper-towel covered fingers. Still, it worries me that I am fighting an enemy that can apparently walk through fire.

The first incidents happened about a week after we moved in as we discovered a couple of little cockroaches that liked to crawl around the garbage can. I had recently learned the Arabic verb for smashing bugs and excitedly put it to use as I eagerly grabbed a wad of toilet paper and began "Dooss"ing the three that I saw. When I didn't see any more for a couple of days I figured that was the end of it. My roommate and I instituted a "take out the trash every day" rule, so that no food would accumulate in the trash can.

But the incidents began to happen more frequently. At first I simply used their appearance as an opportunity to indulge my Napoleon complex and exert my authority over them. It feels really good to "Dooss" bugs. Still, I realized more thorough security techniques would have to be installed to protect my American way of life in Cairo, especially when I woke up one morning to find that my roommate had left a couple of unwashed dishes out in the sink. There were at least 5 bugs enjoying the feast of scrambled egg remnants, the most I had ever seen at one time. With swift fury I did away with them and washed the dishes. When my roommate returned that night I informed him that I had unilaterally imposed a new law: all dishes must be washed before going to bed and before leaving the house. If you don't have time to do the dishes, you don't have time to eat in. He ratified the already in-force law to save face, though it would take another deadly battle for him to realize the seriousness of the matter: two days later he again left out some dishes (this time with the remnants of his Nutella sandwich). This time after driving off the scavengers I took three of the casualties and left them in his favorite tea-cup to greet him when he got home.

However, I also realized that other, more aggressive, counterinsurgency measures would have to be taken, so I began to look for patterns on when they appeared and where their hideouts were. I noticed that they came out in droves whenever I turned on the hot water: as the water began to heat they would emerge from small little cracks in the wall where the hot water pipe came through. They were fleeing the heat from the pipes! Haha, I thought with a jolt of glee. I know how to flush them out. I set traps: I would turn the hot water on, plug the sink, and then simply sweep them as they came out straight down into the water: they died on contact with any water hotter than 50 degrees Celsius. I could get 5-10 at a time this way.

Nevertheless, this wasn't a war I was going to win in this matter, killing a couple of bugs here, and a couple there, so I invested in more serious weaponry, buying a canister of bug poison. This is a problem lots of people struggle with in Cairo, so it was not difficult to find the anti-bug stuff. In fact, they had several different kinds at the store. One for flying bugs, one for cockroaches, one for ants. I returned home and stuffed the tube into the area where the hot water sink pipe came in and sprayed away. Next I thoroughly doused the area below the sink as intelligence sources had shown this to be a favorite entrypoint as well.

The War on Bugs continues, though I have definitely learned the most important techniques and measures to take so that the bugs will never threaten my freedom and values. In fact, I am becoming a cleaner person because of the war. Never before have I bought so many items to keep everything clean: brooms, mops, squeegies, marble sanitizer. So don't worry mom, in spite of the fears reading this may cause you, take comfort in knowing that your son now sweeps and mops his kitchen on a regular basis of his own free will and choice.

2007-07-08T02:59:00.000-07:00

I keep trying to search for an "authentic cultural experience" but keep wondering if such a thing really exists. The world is blending everything. You can order in McDonalds from anywhere in Cairo. But then you can also get "fuul" sandwiches on any block for less than a dime apiece. The large "khan al-khalili" the massive marketplace in Islamic Cairo, still sells spices and cloth for whatever price you can bargain, but at the same time you have motorcycles cruising through the narrow streets, and the nicest blankets have the discrete label "made in China" on them.

Such cultural blending comes out even in so-called "high culture." The last two weeks I've been to two concerts: the first an "oud" concert where a man played the guitar-esque instrument of that name backed by a 15-20 piece orchestra consisting of violins, guitars, cellos, synthesizers, drums, and flutes. The second was a Sufi dance. Yet in both cases they seemed to be targeted at foreigners. The first had a lot of upper-middle class Egyptians in attendance but the second had almost no Egyptians. It made me realize that the average Egyptian probably knows no more about the "oud" or the Sufi dance than the average American knows about classical violin or ballet. The only ones that know anything are the educated, and even those only go to such events on occasion.

Nevertheless, that being said, these were definitely unlike anything I had ever attended. The first was a weird mix of the classical and the modern, the popular and the elitist, the Egyptian and the foreign. The whole band was dressed to the nines, wearing suits and tuxedos. Many in the audience were as well, but my fears of being underdressed in slacks and a collar shirt were allayed when a group of teenager boys came in wearing sleeveless t-shirts. The instruments were half Egyptian, with the "oud" being the centerpiece, but amidst the drums and flutes were violins, cellos, and a synthesizer. In spite of the relatively formal nature of the concert, the silent reverence assumed at symphonies in the West was never present. People would talk and laugh during the song, get up and leave in the middle of a piece. The sound system was so loud you could hear anyway. Every now and then the crowd would spontaneously start singing the words to the song, even though nobody on stage was singing. Apparently they were playing instrumental versions of well known songs from Egyptian legends like Umm Kalthoum.

The second event was, in content, even more non-Western: no western instruments or dress styles. However, the crowd was almost 100% tourists from Europe and America. The Sufi dances are not necessarily Egyptian: Sufism is a school of thought (or multiple schools of thought) within Islam that tends to emphasize a more spiritual side of Islam and personal relationship with God. They are respected (or sometimes reviled, as in Saudi Arabia) for their closeness to God and are known for their dances. The term whirling dervish comes from the "darwiish" who spins as part of the dance.

Anyway, as I was wandering through the crowded market at Khan al-Khalili (itself a classic example of the blurred line between Egyptian and international), a man yells at me in English that he has good prices on his cloth. I reply in Arabic that I appreciate it but am not interested. He then asks if I would like to see a Sufi Dance. I was in automatic "no thanks" mode at that point, not even listening to what it was he was offering, but my friend Ibrahim was interested, so he replied yes. We were directed to a free Sufi concert in a hidden concert hall down one of the back alleys of the Khan.

Once in there, it was a sight to behold. A multiple piece "band" playing away on their drums, flutes, and other instruments for which I don't have a name. One man singing what I can only assume to be Quranic verses or other hymn-like praises into the microphone. Seven dancers in the front dancing in circles. Then out comes the "dar-wiish" who spins non-stop for about 15 minutes. Sometimes going slow, sometimes fast. He is wearing a colorful outfit with 3 "skirts" that flare out as he spins, creating a kind of saucer. Midway through the first piece he unhitches one of the skirts and raises it over his head; it is now simply a large doughnut shaped cloth that he spins, sometimes with one hand, sometimes with two. The thing is massive. It is amazing that he is spinning himself but spinning the cloth at an entirely different speed, yet all in rhythm to the drummers and flutes who sometimes speed up, sometimes slow down. After a while he, still spinning, folds up the circular cloth and hands it to one of the other dancers who discretely disposes of it to a backstage hand. During the second song this is repeated with the next "skirt," which is removed over his head as he whirls it.

Following this act the finale was a triple set of "whirling dervishes" who all spun in sync but would do the same dance, spinning ceaselessly for probably 15 minutes with no sign of dizziness or fatigue. The central on of the three was the only one out of the entire group, including the instrumentalists, who was not wearing a distinctive white scarf on his head that is emblematic of one who is "taSowwuf" (Sufi). He had long stringy curly hair that would flap into his face every time he spun. Almost the entire time he had this silly grin on his face that seemed to come not as a sign directed at the audience that he was entertaining them, but a grin that seemed to come from the fact that he had no idea anyone was watching him, but was simply having an intensely pleasureable experience.

However, the strangest part of all this was that there were very few Egyptians present. The hall was full of people who were obviously tourists. How bizarre, I thought. All of these people must be going home and telling stories about how they went and saw a "real" Sufi dance, but at the same time, the whole thing was set up as entertainment for visitors. I kept expecting them to have an "exit fee," since there was no charge for admission. There had to be some catch.

Perhaps I was simply skeptical because less than an hour before my friend and I had gotten herded into a different tourist trap where they served us each a can of Sprite that cost 10 LE. That amounts to $1.80 for a can of Sprite, a price you only see at expensive restaurants and out of the way resorts. I couldn't believe it; it was 5 times more than I'd ever paid for such a product in Egypt and 10 times more than what I usually paid. I was furious, but they brought out the menu and sure enough, that was the price.

Such a trap was not waiting for me at the end of the Sufi dance, but as I walked out, still in awe of how those dancers could spin those heavy cloth skirts, and spin themselves, and not die of dizziness, I was left wondering: is there such a thing as "authentic culture" anymore?

2007-07-01T02:52:00.000-07:00

Sunday, July 1, 2007

Irony. I experienced it on so many levels yesterday.

After a month in Egypt an American style barbeque sounds amazing, so I pony up and take a taxi ride out to Wadi al-Degla, a valley just outside the rich suburb of al-Maadi. And what a spectacle it is. An American Independence Day celebration,being held at a British (yes, British) International School in Cairo. The school compound is located way out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by gigantic desert hills that have absolutely no sign of life on them, except for the random pieces of trash and litter, indications that somebody at least had seen fit to walk there. It actually reminds me of the Salt Lake County dump that I used to drive out to when I had to empty my truck full of branches and weeds after a day's worth of yard cleanup. But this isn't a dump. This is the outside edge of Cairo.

I digress. Oh yeah. Did I mention that this Independence Daycelebration is at a British school? Didn't we get our Independence byfighting a war with Britain? Then again, I think to myself as I look back out the taxi window tothe trash ornamented desert hills, we are in Egypt, and we might as well celebrate together. The freedom we Americans cherish is, after all, an idea we inherited from Britain. We pull in to the first check point of hired Egyptian security, who request that the driver leave his license as collateral and have me show my American passport. A hundred yards later there is another check point, who have me once again show my passport and have the Egyptian driver show some other means of ID. Finally we pull up to the entrance of the school, heavily guarded by various branches of theEgyptian armed forces. I jump out, hand my taxi driver the fare, and walk in. I am asked to show my passport two more times and pass through a metal detector. I think, what the hell kind of celebrationof freedom is this? There is more security here than at the airport!

After getting past the guards I find myself in a surreal, almost dreamlike celebration. There is a huge American flag draped down theentire wall of on of the compound buildings. Under the giant tent there are families eating away on hot dogs, BBQ sandwiches, potato salad, and "Dominos Arabia" pizza. The tables are decorated withred,white, and blue tablecloth and dozens of mini-American flags. Aloudspeaker is set up playing various patriotic tunes. There aregiant blow up slides and a bungee cord trampoline set up to entertain people. All of a sudden I was back in America.

Of course, I'm not, as the giant sign labeled "PORK" reminds me that I the food is from the US State Department Comissary (pork, forbidden by Islam, is largely unavailable in Egypt). I walk past the food to theedge of the compound and look through the giant iron bars to see acouple of Egyptian soldiers standing on the road outside the complex, smoking their cigarettes and tossing them out to join the desert trash. How bizarre.

Needless to say I thoroughly enjoy myself. Before the night is over I stuff myself full, eating a couple of burgers, at least an entirepizza worth of Dominos Arabia, and at least trying a little bit ofeverything. After a month of being quite cautious about mosteverything I eat, it's nice to be able to enjoy a little "freedom."

I'm surprised to discover as I peruse the program that I know the lady in charge from church. Ah, I think to myself. No wonder this has the feel of a Mormon Ward BBQ. I scan the list of thank yous and realize that some 60% of the people in charge of planning the event go to church with me. My entire church community is here wearing the distinctive volunteer T-shirts and running all the games. The Brunets are incharge of the kid games. The Bartons are in charge of Bingo. The Gerbers are handing out raffle prizes to the people whose wristband number is randomly selected. After eating I stroll over to check itout and am surprised to see my number up there. Congratulations, Sister Gerber says and she hands me a bag. I look inside. It's a bright pink "Rock Angel" T-shirt from the Hard Rock Cafe in Cairo. Awesome. I'm really excited about it, especially since I didn't winanything in Bingo. I show it off laughingly to a couple of friends, but then I am asked by the parents of a little girl whether I want to trade, as she is a little bit disappointed at having won a big black Hard Rock long sleeve T-shirt with flames going up the sleeves. I am ashamed to realize after a short inner debate that I don't want togive up the pink shirt: I will actually wear it more often than I will the black one. However, the girl is clearly distraught, so I reluctantly part with the Rock Angel shirt for the long sleeve black one.

I'm of course recruited to help out, and am asked to man the admissions desk. Which is sweet because I get one of the volunteer shirts with the big red white & blue flag on it. Just the sort of thing you want to wear around Cairo. However, this is my first time being a real security guard, so I'm kind of excited. I eagerly ask for people's passports and wristbands as they come in. Then Matt, the ward clerk who is in charge of admissions informs methat if I see any guys that walk confidently in and look like they'refrom the Egyptian mafia to just leave them alone, especially if they know any of the 10 or so Egyptians with guns standing just inside themetal detector. It's only the confused looking foreigners who don't look like they know where to go that we need to check their ID and make sure they don't sneak in.

I'm joined at the security desk by Frederic, a Parisian Mormon who hasreceived special dispensation to join us, and Pita and Tasi, the NewZealand couple who took me in for a few days while I was searching for an apartment. We're like the Mormon mafia, in league with the Egyptian mafia to protect the American expat community.

As I'm sitting there I look out at all the Egyptian security forces that we've hired. All told there are probably 100 of them spread outbetween the metal detector and the outer security checkpoints. Then suddenly it occurs to me that this isn't a celebration of freedom. This is a celebration of American wealth. The only reason we're having this party is because as Americans we can afford to hire 1 Egyptian security person for every 3-5 people in attendance at the party. We can afford to bring in an all you can eat meal consisting entirely of imported American staples. We can afford to rent theBritish International School (probably chosen for its remote securelocation) to throw a party celebrating our independence from Britain. I forget: are the British trying to win their independence from us now?

The evening concludes with me riding the metro, stuffed to the brim with pizza, pondering the irony of what I have just witnessed. A 4th of July party in a British School in Cairo, guarded heavily by Egyptian mercenaries. I drift off to sleep with the smell of BBQ still in my nostrils.

However, the irony is not finished, as I am rudely awakened a couple of hours later by an intense an urgent need to go to the bathroom. I end up spending the majority of the night perched upon my porcelain throne, staring sleepily at the white tile and pink bathtub below me. I have never experienced such diarrhea. Yes, after a month in Egypt, I have finally gotten sick. Who knew it would be from the food from the American Comissary?

2007-07-01T00:46:00.000-07:00

Thursday night for the first time I felt the thrill of passing for alocal. On the phone anyway. I was sitting in the passenger seat ofmy taxi driver, Ziad, at around 12:45 AM. It's a longer ride, from the shadow of the pyramids back to downtown. I am hoping to get some practice in so I make several attempts at conversation; however, Ziad doesn't really seem to by talkative. After a short conversation about how he has been to Boston but wasn't really impressed, we both fellsilent and that seemed to be it. He doesn't seem to be intrigued that I speak Arabic, and I am too tired to continue to press him. So I turn to the right and gaze out at the poor neighborhoods we are passing and then the Nile as we turn north onto the Corniche running right along the river.

Then his phone rings. He picks it up, looks at the caller ID, grunts, and ignores it. A minute later it rings again. Again with a huff he presses ignore. After the third time he checks his watch and turns to me.

"Do you know how to answer the phone?" he asks in Arabic.

"Yes, of course I do," I respond, thinking how Americans invented the telephone.

"What do you say?"

"You pick it up and say, 'hello?'" I say, wondering where this is going.

"OK. She's going to call again in exactly 10 minutes. I want you topick up my phone and tell her I'm asleep."

"OK," I say, my curiosity still not quite satiated.

"If she asks who you are, tell her you're my cousin and that I'll call her back in the morning."

I think to myself, "Are you serious?" But then say, "So who is this that I'll be talking to?"

"My fiancee."

"Why don't you just answer and talk to her?"

"We're mad at each other."

With a chuckle I inwardly reflect that I'm not sure how I feel about this. On the one hand, I find it quite amusing that I am being asked to pose as my taxi driver's cousin. On the other, I don't want toget involved in this domestic dispute.

Sure enough, 10 minutes later the phone rings again. The taxi driverturns to me.

"You ready?"

I nod and take the phone from him. "Hello?" I speak into the phone.

"Who is this?" an angry sounding female voice shouts into the phone in Arabic."This is Ziad's cousin." I respond quickly, trying hard not to giggle. I feel like a little kid who is prank calling the neighbor girl on whom he has a crush. I look over at Ziad, who shows no sign of amusement.

"Who?"

"This is Ziad's cousin."

"What's your name?"

I momentarily freeze as this wasn't part of the game. "Khalid." I mumble. She doesn't hear me. "Khalid," I repeat again. "My name isKhalid."

"Give me Ziad," she says, still clearly unimpressed but apparently buying it.

"I'm sorry but he's asleep," I say, wondering if she can hear the sound of the wind rushing in my window as we cruise across the Tahrir Street bridge going past Zamalek.

"He's asleep?" she says, sounding skeptical.

I again look outside, gaging our speed to be around 90 km/hour. I almost have to yell it to be heard. "Yeah, he's sleeping. He'llcall you back in the morning." Heck, it wasn't my problem.

"Where are you?" she asks.

Gulp. "Um, my apartment." Right then one of the passing cars decides for no particular reason to punctuate his passing with a loud horn.

"Where?" she repeats. I have to cover my ear to hear her.

"My apartment. I live downtown and I'm outside on my balcony." Nice recovery! I inwardly congratulate myself.

"OK. Tell him to call me in the morning."

"OK. Thanks, have a good night."

"Bye."

"Bye." I hand the phone back to Ziad, who nods in approval.

"You told her Iwas asleep?"

"Yeah, I told her you were asleep and that you'd call her back in themorning."

"And you told her that you were my cousin?"

"Yep. And that my name was Khalid."

"Khalid?" he says, looking at me for a moment.

"Yeah, I told her my name was Khalid."

For the first time a trace of a smile once again steals across his face as he nods in approval, then he returns to his frown and the heavy silence within the car resumes. I turn back and notice that another car has passed us while Ziad slows down to avoid a rough patch of road. I find myself thankful on the one hand that for once I actually have a careful driver,though I'm also annoyed because I'm kind of tired and want to get home quickly.

"How long have you been engaged?" I ask.

"A year."

"And when's the wedding?"

"End of July." Wow. Hope he gets whatever this problem is worked out.

"Congratulations in Shaa Allah," I say, adding the obligatory phrase"God willing" always used for any future event in Arabic, though this time I find in being additionally meaningful and appropriate.

"Thanks," he says.T he next 5 minutes are spent in silence as I ponder his impending marriage in gloom, reflecting on how I hope never to use random strangers to avoid speaking with my fiancee.

Then all of a sudden, as we pull up to the corner where I need to get out, I think to myself: Wait a minute, I just pretended to be an Egyptian, and kind of got away with it. Is this cat thinking my Egyptian's good enough to pass on the phone, or was he so desperate to just have his fiancee get off his case for the night that he just didn't care that the lie would be so obvious since I was clearly not even Arab. Before I can ask, we are there, and with the rush of Cairo traffic I have to hurry to get out of the car and pay him my fare. He drives away and I'm left alone standing in the midst of the midnight crush in Midan al-Tahrir (Freedom Square), amidst thousands of Cairenes just getting their Thursday night started. After a moment I turn and start walking towards my apartment, which is mercifully tucked away in one of the sidestreets a couple of blocks away from the main square. Within ten minutes of walking into my apartment I am fast asleep.