After Cairo, Sean and I took the overnight train south to a town on the Nile called Aswan. It was a great a change of pace from the chaos of Cairo, sitting on the roof of our hotel, drinking a couple beers (remarkably difficult to find sometimes in these muslim countries) and watching the felluca sailboats go by. There are a few sights to see in the town itself, including a stone monolith that, had it ever been removed from the rock it was carved from, would have been the largest known.
But most people use Aswan as the base to visit a site called Abu Simbel. I think most everyone has seen this at one point - it's those four massive, three-story-tall, sitting statues of Ramses carved out of a cliff - but few people actually know that it's located really close to the the Sudanese border. Hence our 4:30 AM police convoy to the site. Run in typical Egyptian fashion, we get out the door of the hotel at 3:00 AM, hop into our waiting cab, drive about a block before realizing that the cab wasn't actually for us, run back, find the waiting bus, then spend an hour and a half picking up other tourists and waiting for the massive convoy of tourist busses to congregate. I would say that the tourist to police ratio was probably about 100 to 1. Not that it would matter if anything happened, anyway, as the "convoy" quickly broke up and didn't get back together until three hours later when we arrived at the site. Now it seems to me that having a huge convoy of tourist busses leaving down a desolate desert higway at the same time every day, someting which has become pretty common knowledge, might be a bad idea. Yet, it happens every day witout incident. (At least so far.)
Abu Sibel is amazing - the preservation of the temple, and the massive, labrynthine interior is outstanding. Maybe as remarkable, though, is the fact that it isn't located in the same place where it was found by Swiss explorer JL Burckhardt in 1813. With the construction of the Aswan High Dam in the 1960's, the site would have been flooded, so an international team set to work of relocating the entire complex further up the cliff. It took four years. But the result is impresssive - if you didn't know it had been moved, you probably wouldn't ever notice.
The next part of our trip involved hiring a medium size sailboat to take us down the Nile to Luxor. We talked to a few of the thousands of captains who offer this service, but in the end decided to book a trip through our hotel. First, we were told we would leave in the morning. Then noon. At noon, we waited for our cab driver, and waited. He eventually showed up, but once we actually got to the boat around 1:00, and met our two felluca operators, Allah and Ramadan, it became clear we weren't in any great hurry. This gave us the opportunity to have some overpriced beer delivered to take along with us. We finally set sail around 2:30, and shortly after, well within sight of where we had left, we pulled up on shore to pick up a young fellow from Mexico. We stopped a little further downstream to have our papers checked by the police. Allah, the rastifarian Bob Marley wannabe, then treated us to the musical rythyms of a propane tank being beaten within an inch of it's life in order to get the valve open, creating only few minor, temporary, leaks.
We finally left sight of the town around 4:00, but the eight of us on board were a little surprised when we docked, again, to pick up another group of five people. This was followed by some angry discussion from the newbies on the bank as to why there were already so many people on the boat? (We had also been told there wouldn't be more than probably four. Or six. But no more than eight.) They reluctantly joined us, having been assured that they would be picked up by another boat once we got a little farther downstream. The Skipper and Gilligan started to get nervous about doing this, though, as by 8:00PM, we were past the sailing curfew that fellucas have placed on them. After a few more unexplained stops, we got to where the other fallucas were docked.
We were now near Ramadan's village, so when he said he had to go into town for a while, I asked if some of us could join him. I'm glad he agreed - the walk through the sand and palm trees with the full moon out was a beautiful sight, with all the colors of the desert muted into various shades of blue. Meeting his mother and sister in their simple adobe house was great. They treated us to red hibiscus tea, and we sat around on the floor talking about life in the village. Ramadan stepped out for a while, and when he returned, he sat with us and divided up the pot he had apparently just bought. Seemed a strange thing to do in front of your mom and sister, but maybe that's just me. (They didn't seem to mind.) He then explained how much dowery it would take for him to take a Nubian wife (I guess they are the luxury model, though, as he never gave a price for the standard Egyptian model. It's 40,000 Egzptian pounds, in case your wondering.) and I couldn't help but wonder how much he forked over for the weed he just bought, knowing that this was also probably a routine occurence.
Back on the boat, we managed to find enough blankets, but just barely, to sleep side by side on the deck.
The next morning, Lucia, a young woman from the US, confessed she hadn't gotten much sleep the previous evening - apparently Allah had cozied up next to her during the night for an extended bought of footsie. (This wasn't her only bit of bad luck at the hands of the less-than-Dynamic Duo. That night, after we finished sitting around the campire, she was walking up the plank from the beach to get back on the boat, when it came loose and she dropped straight down into the Nile. Impressively, she was able to laugh it off.)
Later in the day we were presented with an opportunity to visit a large camel market in Dawa, and it just so happened that it was on the day that the big gathering was supposed to be there. (Really- it even said so in Lonely Planet.) It would only cost us $5 a piece. Now, I realize that this seems to be a piddling amount of money, and it is, but it really was a lot by Egyptian standards considering that we wouldn't have very far to go once we got on shore. When we balked at the price, and started thinking of ways we could go without the private escort, suddenly Dawa went form being 45 minutes away, to being 4 hours away. This prompted negotiations between me and Ramadan, who finally agreed to take us to a small village near Dawa, where I was hoping to score our own minivan/ collective taxi. (I sweetened the negotiations by helping with the dishes.) Alas, the village was a lot more rural than I expected, and all we found were took-tooks. Still, it was fun, as all the kids in the village thought we were quite the attraction, and all came out to run around the streets with us and play. Pretty danged adorable, really.
The next morning, at the end of the trip, I couldn't bring myself to give Cheech and Chong (Sean's nickname for them) much of a tip. (Did I mention they helped themselves to our beer without asking?) Ramadan, in fact, seemed insulted by the amount I offered, and initially refused to accept it. He changed his tune, though, when it became obvious I was going to fall into the high tipper bracket among the group. Allah, in typical fashion, stood by and seemed rather confused and/ or stoned.
Having been on the boat for a few days, we were unaware that things were starting to get violent in Cairo. Protesters were starting to gather in Tahir square, and each day their numbers were growing exponentially. There were violent clashes with the police, and people on both sides were getting killed.
Meanwhile, we were simply temple/ monument hopping. There really is an inexhaustible supply of amazing temples in Egypt. I met an archaeologist from Texas who had been working at the Karnack complex for 20 years. The thing I most wanted to know was where all the money we were spending on entrance fees was going, as it obviously wasn't going into signage. (Seriously, I have never seen such institutionalized ineptness in my life. If anyone, before shelling out thousands of dollars on interpretive materials, had even bothered to ask a 10 year old tourist to proofread the text before putting it up permanently, it might not come off as quite so laughable.) He explained "The money all goes into the government pool. From there, who knows? Very little makes it back to us."
We then took a terrifying bus ride through the night, with another "police convoy" across the Sinia to the Red Sea-side resort town of Dahab. (WHY, for the love of Allah, don't they drive with their headlights?! Passing is done, at any point, at any speed, regardless of oncoming traffic, with the ever-blaring horns somehow signifying who wins the deadly game of chicken. Imagine yourself in the front seat, without a seatbelt, nothing but glass between you and the oncoming traffic, only inches away at times, and you might understand how easy it was for me to be chivalrous and trade my seat with the your Irish woman who was getting carsick sitting in the back.)
The final time we spent in the country was relatively uneventful. Everyone was glued to the TV watching events unfold in Cairo and Alexandria. Mainly, though, we went snorkeling (I had so missed that!) and soaked up the sun. There was one small protest in Dahab that came bustling out of a mosque, which I didn't see, and apparently quickly dispersed. The government shut down the internet for a time, in an attempt to keep the protesters from gathering, but by then is was too late. Everyone was coming to Tahir square, now dubbed "Liberation Square", even from neighboring countries. As we now know, Mubaraks days were limited. There was some concern among the small group of friends we had collected along the way how this would affect our travel plans, and people did end up having to get alternate flights to avoid the chaos of Cairo. I heard a number of stories from people that had actually been there, and despite my instinct at the time to want to go check it out for myself, I think I'm glad I didn't. Despite my long fantasy of being an international correspondent, I also realize that to put myself in harms way without some sort of compensation (hopefully, substantial) would be, well... stupid.
Still, I would love to go back someday and see how all this has changed things, if it has. If it will. The Egyptians I spoke with don't want their own religious right in power, or the military. They want a real democracy, with capable candidates to choose from. I neglected to tell them, though, that that can be a tricky proposition anywhere in the free world. But why rain on anyones parade?
Wednesday, 2 March 2011
Monday, 28 February 2011
Egypt, part 1
Last fall my friend, Sean Marcum, wrote me saying he was going to be travelling to Egypt. Being high on my list of places to go, I decided I would meet up with him. It would be the first time I had traveled abroad with someone, but with Egypt's reputation, it seemed like it might be a good place to have some back-up.
My initial interactions there were great - I made one of my classic spontaneous, and wholly foolish, decisions to hop on the bus at the airport that everyone else was getting on, without a clue as to where it was actually going. This may make even less sense when you consider that these are the kind of busses that are old enough not to really have doors or windows anymore - which is very handy for those who want to get on and off while the bus is still moving - but is slightly terrifying if you happen to be standing in the rusty stairwell with a lop-sided, overweight backpack, watching the asphalt wizz by at 60 KPH. (Kilometers Per Hour - Even Egypt has the sense to recognize the superiority of the metric system. But I digress.)
On that bus, I met a young man whose English was sparse, but after a few questions, he quickly realized I was definately not going the right way. At that point, he not only gave me a ticket (not that anyone checked) and got off the bus with me, he also led me to the "station", (ie, the parking lot/ flea market where the other mini-vans congregate, with the drivers shouting out where they are going, and only leaving when they are full) wrote down instructions to the driver in arabic of where I needed to go, and told me how much the one I needed should cost. I paid as sooon as I got on, but I only had a 20 Egyptian Pound note (about $3.00 US) and the ride cost about five, so when I didn't get my change back, I figured the cabby was trying to make a nice tip off the foreigner. But, as I later learned, no-one in Egypt ever has change, so it took nearly the entirety of the half-hour trip, with money being passed constantly between all the passengers, and the driver, to make sure everyone got their correct change, and for me to get mine. It took one more transfer with the help of a little old man to get me to the now famous Tahir Square.
I knew that the hostel I was staying in was nearby, but I had lost the address. So yet another stranger wound up spending a lot of time on his iphone trying to help me find it, even making a few calls to friends who might have heard of the place. When he didn't have any luck, he even lead me acrosss the square. This sounds like it would be a relatively simple thing to do, but you would be wrong. If you are familiar with the old Atari games Frogger or Freeway, you can get a pretty good idea of what it entails. You dash in between lanes of speeding traffic, with horns constantly blaring, (and I do mean constantly - apparently they use them an a sort of automotive morse-code to convey everything from "I'm coming up from behind you on your left.", to "You're the son of a flea-infested camel.") all the while trying to repress your normal instincts not to dash out into oncoming traffic in good faith that the drivers will slow down, or at least swerve around you.
So far, so good.
Then it started. I paid $55US for a relatively nice hotel that night and the next, thinking it was the same price as Sean's 55 EP hostel. (What a steal!) I'm almost positive I clarified the important detail of "Pounds - right? Not Dollars?" with the front desk, but I couldn't remember for sure. In retrospect, and considering that I later met someone who only paid $33 a night in the same hotel, I probably did ask. It seems to come with traveling in this part of the world that you will be exposed to every conceivable scam, distortion, deception, half-truth, and outright lie designed to part you with your cash. It's almost a game. If you know that no price is ever fixed and that, as a tourist, you will be asked for 5x what anything is worth, (only double if you're a local) then you can start to negotiate a fair price. By the end of the trip, I was the best. (Or worst, depending on your point tof view.) Most street vendors aren't used to someone who will argue over a price for 20 minutes, only to walk away from the transaction. Of course, I like to waste the time of telemarketers, too.
Where it's worst is at the pyramids. I could go on about how majestic they are, and they really are amazingly photogenic, but what most people aren't braced for is the constant badgering you receive there. I had already been warned that they are not out in the middle of the desert as the postcards suggest, (they are actually right on the edge of bustling, uber-smoggy Cairo.) but, good grief, you can't walk ten steps without hearing the words "Hell-O! My Friend!" This then followed by an offer to sell you every conceivable crappy trinket in existence at 5x what it's worth.
But it's not just the trinket guys. Our cab-driver, Sa-id, who we had for the entire day, first dropped us off at his friends camel shop. He took us on the roof and pointed out how far away the pyramids were, and how it would take us all day to walk the 8km between the pyramids. There's a few flaws in that argument that I've picked up from previous experience: A) Camels at their normal pace aren't all that speedy, and B) They will be hand-led by someone walking ahead, anyway. So, after having the price re-re-renegotiated, we finally peeled ourselves away and told Sa-id we'd be back around 1:00. It was, or course, easy to walk between the pyramids, easier to take photos, and a lot cheaper, sans camels.
Thinking about it now, though, and considering that some of those camel guys were hired to beat down anti-Mubarack protesters, having a camel would have been a good way to possibly avoid all the touts who try to give away "free" gifts. Here's a typical interaction:
Tout: "Hell-o, my friend!"
Tourist: (Until now, trying to avoid eye conatct.) "Er...hi."
Tout: "Look, for you, this (cheap crap probably made somewhere even poorer that Egypt and imported for pennies.). Special price!"
Tourist: "No, thank..."
Tout: "But WHY?! This VERY good price! Here... I give to you for (only 3x what it's worth)."
Tourist: "I don't want any..."
Tout: "OK, OK... here, for you... for free!" (If you don't quickly accept, it might be forcibly stuffed in your arms, your bag, or, in the case of beduin style head wraps, shoved on your head.)
Tourist: "Uh... thanks."
Tout: "Baksheesh?" (This is essentially, a "tip". I was there two weeks and never learned the word "yes", but "baksheesh" I picked up in the first couple days, after hearing it about two dozen times.)
At this point, if you don't give a tip approximating at least half the original asking price, you will have your "gift" snatched back, and you will be called something you assume to be highly insulting, of which you have no idea what it is, but in arabic, even sweet nothings sound like a violent argument. (Though I did end up with a free set of postcards from a guy who said he liked me because I reminded him of Chuck Norris. I am a lot of things, but a dopelganger to "Walker - Texas Ranger"? I guess maybe all white people do look alike.)
Then there are the guys who ask you for your ticket. Unsuspecting tourists might assume that they are having their ticket officially checked. They would be wrong, of course, as this is just an attempt to blackmail you into a "tour" (with highly dubious information, by the way) for a generous baksheesh at the end of it in order to reclaim your ticket.
So, where are the police through all this? There are plenty of dark-blue uniformed individuals with automatic rifles hanging about, and I think if I were a con-artist, I might tone it down a bit in front of these men, but alas, they're as bad as the touts. Most of us, seeing a barrier with obvious "Do not enter." markings, universal despite the language they're written in, wouldn't cross for no other reason than to avoid the wrath of the guys with the guns. But never fear, the Tourist Police are here, ushering you over (sometimes with the barrel of the gun, which is a little disconcerting) to peek into places you shouldn't be allowed, all for a little baksheesh. (More often that not I'd ignore them, or at least stiff them for the baksheesh. Not only am I put out by the abuse of power, I figured they weren't going to shoot a tourist over $.50. Of course, that was back when the only recent black marks on the countries tourist industry were a few sharks and coptic church bombings. Now, though, they may have less to loose.) *Note to self - ask Sean next time not to book a hostel down the street from a coptic church.
We endured this throughout the morning, but after waking Sa-id from his nap back at the car, we continued on our way. We were about a half an hour late, since we weren't able to climb into the Great Pyramid, Cheops/ Khufu, until after the hour-long break they give it daily between noon and one. Sa-id seemed a little put out at this. Shaking his head, he told us: "I said 1:00. Now, maybe no time for the others." The others he spoke of were the Pyramid of Djoser and Memphis. The Giza plain is dotted with all sorts of pyramids, built for various higher-ups, but we wanted to see this one since it is considered the world's "earliest large-scale cut stone construction". (Actually, we were told it was "the worlds oldest manmade structure", but my cursory Wikipedia searches afterwards always ruin the fun.) Now, it was a pretty long drive to get there, but I can't help but think that if we were really pressed for time, perhaps along the way we wouldn't have been offered the chance to see his friends gift store, and soon after, a stop at the restraunt of what I assume was yet another friend.
The Djoser pyramid, though somewhat crumbly, is neat for its antiquity, but for my money the best pyramid in Giza is the "Bent" pyramid. Apparently, an early attempt at making pyramids as we know them somehow went haywire, and the sides of this one ended up a bit... crooked, hence the name. I can't help but wonder how, with an investment of what must have been a fortune, plus the efforts of hundreds of people, over the course of who-knows-how-many years, it came to pass that someone didn't notice that the thing was wonky while being built and try to fix it. I can only assume that at some point, someone said to the head of the project: "Sir... uh, doesn't it seems like it's a little, er... well... off, somehow?" But, contractors being contractors, I'm sure they had already been paid and were biding their time in the hope the pharo would be long dead before anyone noticed.
Memphis was.... meh. Kind of creepy, actually, as there was a LOT of security for some reason. Being surrounded by manned gun-nests, no matter how bored the gaurds look, doesn't lend itself to a very peaceful stroll through the antiquities park.
Through all of this, though, I was aware that Egypt is, like all places, a result of it's current socio-political and economic status. Culture plays a part, of course, but given the chance, I believe most people probably don't enjoy trying to pawn off crap merchandise to aggravated tourists. For me, seeing the parallels between recently deposed President of Tunisia Ben Ali, and soon to be deposed Egyptian President Hosni Mubark (though I couldn't know it at the time) were striking. Both were western-friendly dictators who had been in office for approximately three decades. Both had been suspected of skimming quite a lot off the top of the national economy for their own benefit. Both had a dissatified populace, especially among the young men and women who couldn't find work, regardless of their level of education. And both had their creepy Dick Clarkian never-aging faces plastered over every wall and in every shop in the country. Few people I talked to were happy with Mubarak or his administration, (some were afraid to talk about it for fear of retribution) so when I got an email from home, saying "I hope you weren't anywhere near that guy who lit himself on fire in Cairo yesterday." I had a feeling that, like Tunisia, that one solitary act could very well be the spark that would ignite the flames of revolution. (Self-immolation pun intended.)
Turns out, I was right.
My initial interactions there were great - I made one of my classic spontaneous, and wholly foolish, decisions to hop on the bus at the airport that everyone else was getting on, without a clue as to where it was actually going. This may make even less sense when you consider that these are the kind of busses that are old enough not to really have doors or windows anymore - which is very handy for those who want to get on and off while the bus is still moving - but is slightly terrifying if you happen to be standing in the rusty stairwell with a lop-sided, overweight backpack, watching the asphalt wizz by at 60 KPH. (Kilometers Per Hour - Even Egypt has the sense to recognize the superiority of the metric system. But I digress.)
On that bus, I met a young man whose English was sparse, but after a few questions, he quickly realized I was definately not going the right way. At that point, he not only gave me a ticket (not that anyone checked) and got off the bus with me, he also led me to the "station", (ie, the parking lot/ flea market where the other mini-vans congregate, with the drivers shouting out where they are going, and only leaving when they are full) wrote down instructions to the driver in arabic of where I needed to go, and told me how much the one I needed should cost. I paid as sooon as I got on, but I only had a 20 Egyptian Pound note (about $3.00 US) and the ride cost about five, so when I didn't get my change back, I figured the cabby was trying to make a nice tip off the foreigner. But, as I later learned, no-one in Egypt ever has change, so it took nearly the entirety of the half-hour trip, with money being passed constantly between all the passengers, and the driver, to make sure everyone got their correct change, and for me to get mine. It took one more transfer with the help of a little old man to get me to the now famous Tahir Square.
I knew that the hostel I was staying in was nearby, but I had lost the address. So yet another stranger wound up spending a lot of time on his iphone trying to help me find it, even making a few calls to friends who might have heard of the place. When he didn't have any luck, he even lead me acrosss the square. This sounds like it would be a relatively simple thing to do, but you would be wrong. If you are familiar with the old Atari games Frogger or Freeway, you can get a pretty good idea of what it entails. You dash in between lanes of speeding traffic, with horns constantly blaring, (and I do mean constantly - apparently they use them an a sort of automotive morse-code to convey everything from "I'm coming up from behind you on your left.", to "You're the son of a flea-infested camel.") all the while trying to repress your normal instincts not to dash out into oncoming traffic in good faith that the drivers will slow down, or at least swerve around you.
So far, so good.
Then it started. I paid $55US for a relatively nice hotel that night and the next, thinking it was the same price as Sean's 55 EP hostel. (What a steal!) I'm almost positive I clarified the important detail of "Pounds - right? Not Dollars?" with the front desk, but I couldn't remember for sure. In retrospect, and considering that I later met someone who only paid $33 a night in the same hotel, I probably did ask. It seems to come with traveling in this part of the world that you will be exposed to every conceivable scam, distortion, deception, half-truth, and outright lie designed to part you with your cash. It's almost a game. If you know that no price is ever fixed and that, as a tourist, you will be asked for 5x what anything is worth, (only double if you're a local) then you can start to negotiate a fair price. By the end of the trip, I was the best. (Or worst, depending on your point tof view.) Most street vendors aren't used to someone who will argue over a price for 20 minutes, only to walk away from the transaction. Of course, I like to waste the time of telemarketers, too.
Where it's worst is at the pyramids. I could go on about how majestic they are, and they really are amazingly photogenic, but what most people aren't braced for is the constant badgering you receive there. I had already been warned that they are not out in the middle of the desert as the postcards suggest, (they are actually right on the edge of bustling, uber-smoggy Cairo.) but, good grief, you can't walk ten steps without hearing the words "Hell-O! My Friend!" This then followed by an offer to sell you every conceivable crappy trinket in existence at 5x what it's worth.
But it's not just the trinket guys. Our cab-driver, Sa-id, who we had for the entire day, first dropped us off at his friends camel shop. He took us on the roof and pointed out how far away the pyramids were, and how it would take us all day to walk the 8km between the pyramids. There's a few flaws in that argument that I've picked up from previous experience: A) Camels at their normal pace aren't all that speedy, and B) They will be hand-led by someone walking ahead, anyway. So, after having the price re-re-renegotiated, we finally peeled ourselves away and told Sa-id we'd be back around 1:00. It was, or course, easy to walk between the pyramids, easier to take photos, and a lot cheaper, sans camels.
Thinking about it now, though, and considering that some of those camel guys were hired to beat down anti-Mubarack protesters, having a camel would have been a good way to possibly avoid all the touts who try to give away "free" gifts. Here's a typical interaction:
Tout: "Hell-o, my friend!"
Tourist: (Until now, trying to avoid eye conatct.) "Er...hi."
Tout: "Look, for you, this (cheap crap probably made somewhere even poorer that Egypt and imported for pennies.). Special price!"
Tourist: "No, thank..."
Tout: "But WHY?! This VERY good price! Here... I give to you for (only 3x what it's worth)."
Tourist: "I don't want any..."
Tout: "OK, OK... here, for you... for free!" (If you don't quickly accept, it might be forcibly stuffed in your arms, your bag, or, in the case of beduin style head wraps, shoved on your head.)
Tourist: "Uh... thanks."
Tout: "Baksheesh?" (This is essentially, a "tip". I was there two weeks and never learned the word "yes", but "baksheesh" I picked up in the first couple days, after hearing it about two dozen times.)
At this point, if you don't give a tip approximating at least half the original asking price, you will have your "gift" snatched back, and you will be called something you assume to be highly insulting, of which you have no idea what it is, but in arabic, even sweet nothings sound like a violent argument. (Though I did end up with a free set of postcards from a guy who said he liked me because I reminded him of Chuck Norris. I am a lot of things, but a dopelganger to "Walker - Texas Ranger"? I guess maybe all white people do look alike.)
Then there are the guys who ask you for your ticket. Unsuspecting tourists might assume that they are having their ticket officially checked. They would be wrong, of course, as this is just an attempt to blackmail you into a "tour" (with highly dubious information, by the way) for a generous baksheesh at the end of it in order to reclaim your ticket.
So, where are the police through all this? There are plenty of dark-blue uniformed individuals with automatic rifles hanging about, and I think if I were a con-artist, I might tone it down a bit in front of these men, but alas, they're as bad as the touts. Most of us, seeing a barrier with obvious "Do not enter." markings, universal despite the language they're written in, wouldn't cross for no other reason than to avoid the wrath of the guys with the guns. But never fear, the Tourist Police are here, ushering you over (sometimes with the barrel of the gun, which is a little disconcerting) to peek into places you shouldn't be allowed, all for a little baksheesh. (More often that not I'd ignore them, or at least stiff them for the baksheesh. Not only am I put out by the abuse of power, I figured they weren't going to shoot a tourist over $.50. Of course, that was back when the only recent black marks on the countries tourist industry were a few sharks and coptic church bombings. Now, though, they may have less to loose.) *Note to self - ask Sean next time not to book a hostel down the street from a coptic church.
We endured this throughout the morning, but after waking Sa-id from his nap back at the car, we continued on our way. We were about a half an hour late, since we weren't able to climb into the Great Pyramid, Cheops/ Khufu, until after the hour-long break they give it daily between noon and one. Sa-id seemed a little put out at this. Shaking his head, he told us: "I said 1:00. Now, maybe no time for the others." The others he spoke of were the Pyramid of Djoser and Memphis. The Giza plain is dotted with all sorts of pyramids, built for various higher-ups, but we wanted to see this one since it is considered the world's "earliest large-scale cut stone construction". (Actually, we were told it was "the worlds oldest manmade structure", but my cursory Wikipedia searches afterwards always ruin the fun.) Now, it was a pretty long drive to get there, but I can't help but think that if we were really pressed for time, perhaps along the way we wouldn't have been offered the chance to see his friends gift store, and soon after, a stop at the restraunt of what I assume was yet another friend.
The Djoser pyramid, though somewhat crumbly, is neat for its antiquity, but for my money the best pyramid in Giza is the "Bent" pyramid. Apparently, an early attempt at making pyramids as we know them somehow went haywire, and the sides of this one ended up a bit... crooked, hence the name. I can't help but wonder how, with an investment of what must have been a fortune, plus the efforts of hundreds of people, over the course of who-knows-how-many years, it came to pass that someone didn't notice that the thing was wonky while being built and try to fix it. I can only assume that at some point, someone said to the head of the project: "Sir... uh, doesn't it seems like it's a little, er... well... off, somehow?" But, contractors being contractors, I'm sure they had already been paid and were biding their time in the hope the pharo would be long dead before anyone noticed.
Memphis was.... meh. Kind of creepy, actually, as there was a LOT of security for some reason. Being surrounded by manned gun-nests, no matter how bored the gaurds look, doesn't lend itself to a very peaceful stroll through the antiquities park.
Through all of this, though, I was aware that Egypt is, like all places, a result of it's current socio-political and economic status. Culture plays a part, of course, but given the chance, I believe most people probably don't enjoy trying to pawn off crap merchandise to aggravated tourists. For me, seeing the parallels between recently deposed President of Tunisia Ben Ali, and soon to be deposed Egyptian President Hosni Mubark (though I couldn't know it at the time) were striking. Both were western-friendly dictators who had been in office for approximately three decades. Both had been suspected of skimming quite a lot off the top of the national economy for their own benefit. Both had a dissatified populace, especially among the young men and women who couldn't find work, regardless of their level of education. And both had their creepy Dick Clarkian never-aging faces plastered over every wall and in every shop in the country. Few people I talked to were happy with Mubarak or his administration, (some were afraid to talk about it for fear of retribution) so when I got an email from home, saying "I hope you weren't anywhere near that guy who lit himself on fire in Cairo yesterday." I had a feeling that, like Tunisia, that one solitary act could very well be the spark that would ignite the flames of revolution. (Self-immolation pun intended.)
Turns out, I was right.
Monday, 24 January 2011
A tool and his money...
The train into Fes was late, and when it finally arrived, it was dark and drizzling rain. From the station, Fes didn't look promising - just another dirty city. I had just walked across the street from the station, ignoring about a dozen touts (the guys who come up to you offering to "help" you find a place to stay, eat, or buy drugs - in no particular order) but was approached by a guy who spoke English, sort-of, and I decided to take advantage of that as I really knew nothing at all about Fes. Plus, he wasn't quite as scary as some - he had most of his teeth (people's teeth in Morocco tend to be pretty yellow, brown, and/ or missing.) which he showed off quite a bit. He sort-of reminded me of an arabic Alfred E Newman - very smiley. He took me to a cheap hotel, and then after, to an overpriced restaurant where I had a good tagine of lamb with prunes and almonds. There, he explained I was lucky because his brother happened to be in Fes for the Hand-Craft festival. The brother showed up, and except for a Sylvester the cat lisp, spoke better english than his brother. He explained that he lives in New York now, selling Moroccan goods and making a decent living. The next day he picked me up at the hotel in a cab, and we went to the medina, which is the 1300 year-old old walled in city. The ones I saw in Tunisia were usually made up of grimy, very windy, very narrow, cobblestone footpaths winding their way through a variety of contiguous trinket shops. This one was no exception, and I would have been completely lost but for my new friend. He bought me a breakfast of traditional Moroccan lentil soup and guided me through a maze of activity, stray dogs and cats, odd smells, and the occasional loaded down donkey, to a carpet shop where we had super-sweet mint tea (the first of about 1000 cups of the stuff I'd have over the next week) and he started shopping for rugs. He explained Americans tended to like the brightly colored ones, and after about 20 minutes, had picked out the ones he needed.
Once he went to pay, the manager approached me and explained the carpet buisness: It's a government run co-op employing unmarried women and widows who hand make each rug using only the best wool, using all natural dyes. They can take over a year to make, and unlike other places, they get paid a fair wage. A person can buy only six at a time and, unlike everywhere else, the prices are fixed, so you don't have to haggle (it's a government thing). I explained I wasn't in the market for a rug, that I didn't even have a house to ship it to. But he told me that I could have it shipped to any address I wanted, and that, being the end of the year, I could get a discount. He also showed me a book of his other customers: Europeans, Australians, Americans, many of whom come back each year and buy a few rugs to re-sell and help pay for their trip, often for three to five times what they pay. I tried to waffle a few times, but he convinced me and I eventually decided to go ahead and pick one up for myself, knowing that he was probably exagerating... but even if I could sell an expensive one for double, I could make a nice profit. My friend came back and seemed a little put out that I was horning in on his business, but eventually helped me pick out a good one. It was pricey - $3000 - but I figured it was a pretty good investment. My credit card company declined the payment, but somehow, though it took me about 20 minutes to get ahold of a live person to get the card re-activated after it was cancelled in London, the dealer had them on the line immediately so I could authorize it, which I did. I got the dealers buisiness card, promised I'd send him a T-shirt from Wyoming, and left.
My only excuse is that I think the mint tea must have been drugged. Unbelievably, I bought a carpet that cost more than my last car. In fact, it cost more than anything I have ever bought, ever. And it was, most likely, all a scam. From the second I stepped off the train platform, I suspect. I've checked online, and a lot of people have been courted with the same basic story, some have even been fed dinner and given a nice place to spend the night with a well-off family (all Moroccan re-sellers in the greater NY area) before being taken to buy a rug.
There's a sucker born every minute. This one was born in January, 1975.
Immediately after, I was given a tour of the medina, including the tannery, in use since 1100 AD and the university, founded in 859 AD. Later, I met up again with the "carpet re-seller from NY" and had mint tea in a very posh hotel where Bono of U2 once stayed and drank mint tea. He told me about a young Spanish/ Moroccan guy who now lives in Germany and was on his way to the Sahara, and that I should join him, as I would thank him forever if I got to see the incredible beauty of the area! Mr. "I live on 73rd street." (I was thinking that was Harlem, which I could see him in. I was reminded later 73rd is actually Central Park, which if had I remembered, would have been the tip-off as he might have actually had the cash to get those teeth fixed.) He then told me that he could arrange a 3 day trip for us for 500€ each. ($1500 total) Zach from Hamburg then came in, a very clean-cut young man who was half Spanish/ half Morrocan and spoke five languages pretty fluently. He was on his way to the desert to finalize plans for a big New Years party at a little tourist hotel a friend of his owns. He was also surprised to hear about the $750 price tag, so we decided we could do the trip on our own for a lot less. I was so glad to meet a fellow backpacker who knew the area and could speak the language. We packed up and headed out that afternoon. It's remarkably cheap to get from one place to the other in Morocco, and we wound up paying a private driver only 150€ the next day to drive us over the mountains and to the desert. It was a long trip - we left at 7:30 and got there at about 3:00, but saw some pretty cool scenery and collectively drank a couple quarts of mint tea along the way. Morocco reminds me a lot of the American west - huge expanses of desert with snow-capped peaks in the distance. Of course, we don't have snow monkeys. (They kinda look like snow monkeys, anyway, but I don't know what they really were.)
We met up with Zachs friend, Hafid, drank mint tea, and drove out to the hotel, past the vast red dunes of the Sahara. It was a quaint little casbah-looking place, with a nice garden out back that grew all the hotels vegetables. I was given a run-down room (Most all I saw in Morocco seem to be, for what I was paying - about $13/ night.) and stayed up that evening eating a communal plate of couscous, drinking mint tea, and watching 60-year old Fi-Fi the belly dancer from Belgium dance to Berber music and African Drums. The next morning I had a breakfast of Malawi (crepes) jam and olives with mint tea.
Zack had stuff he needed to do in town, so suggested I take the day to run around in the desert with a camel and Berber guide. Despite nearly getting bucked off the first camel before I was given a more tame one (reminded me of those electric-bull rides), we set off. It was fun - I asked about a million questions - "What's this track in the sand?"; "How do you say "camel" in Berber?; "That's Algeria? Right there on that ridge? Really?" Too bad he didn't speak much English. Around noon, we stopped at a Berber's adobe homestead. (It's how I've started thinking of a lot of these places - what seems like shacks in 3rd world countries are actaully not unlike how my great grandparents lived in the early part of the 20th century.) Maybe that why the old guy living there reminded me of my great-uncle John - uninteligible, but really nice. He never put down the binocs he was watching the camels with, but smiled and gave me an enthusiastic thumbs up when I said I was American.
We had another plate of the same couscous for lunch, dranks some mint tea, had a nap, watched a Berber guy fix his little run-down 70's vintage sky-blue motorcycle, and eventually took off again across the sands. I sang "American" songs to Hasan (I think that was his name.) liek Ghost Riders in the Sky and he sang Berber ones in return. That night we camped in another Berber families out-tent, had the same couscous, again, mint tea, again, and I gave a small blue flashlight that matched his blue tunic. It was Christmas, after all, though I think the gesture may have been lost on him.
The next day, back a the Casbah, I waited for Zack to show up so we could continue on our way. He showed up about noon, hungover, in car with Hafid. Apparently I had missed quite the party and a lot of wine. (A bit rare in Muslim Morocco.) He explained that he wasn't ready to leave yet, and hadn't found us a ride, so it would be a good day to tour the local sites in town. Hafids brothers took me around and it was a pretty good day overall, though I was starting to worry a little about time, knowing I had a flight to catch in a few days. That night all the rooms were full, so after another night of couscous, mint tea, African drums, and Fi-Fi, I slept in the Berber tent out back. I was plenty comfortable, though it was surprisingly chilly at night.
The next morning we all piled into the car, and Zach explained he was going to stay a couple more days. I kind of hated loosing my guide and new friend, but felt I knew enough now to get around. We all wound up at Hafid's fathers trinket shop, where I was shown more rugs and drank more mint tea. The brothers and a few other friends were hanging around for no particular reason that I could divine. We were talking about where I was going next, when Hafid started writing something down in Arabic. I asked if it was directions for where I needed to go. "No.....it is, uh... yes, for you, a special price - 3500 Diram. I didn't charge you for the first ride in the jeep"
That's over $400, folks. A lot of money in the US, a heck of a lot in Morocco. And for what I got in return, a complete rip-off.
Seems I had been set-up, again.
I was pretty mad, so took Zach outside and chewed him out for not telling me, but he had no sympathy. Probably since some of my money probably paid for all his wine and weed. (On a side-note, I was told it's legal there, and its seems that it grows really, really well.) I also explained that there was no way my bank would let me withdraw that much. In a huff, I gave Hafid 3000, then listened to a big argument between him and Zach. I still got the traditional double-cheek psuedo-kiss as I said goodbye, so I'm pretty sure I was a lot more upset about the deal than he was. Zack walked me to the collective-taxi drop off, where I used the almost the rest of my money to get a taxi to the next town, where I started hitchhiking to get where I needed to. A number of people picked me up, including a German woman and her Moroccan boyfriend who also felt that I shouldn't have been charged more that 750.
So, I'm left wondering what really happened. Did Mr. Lispy know Zach? Do they all know Hafid? Do they pass the chump on a regular basis, or was it just his lucky day that I showed up and went along with it? I still can't figure it, but I learned a valuable lesson from it all.
DON'T TRUST ANYONE!!
Just kidding - I still trust most people, I just make sure I ask the price first, knowing they are probably charging me the "tourist price" - about 5x what it's actually worth. And I'll never, EVER, hand over my credit card for home furnishings again.
Once he went to pay, the manager approached me and explained the carpet buisness: It's a government run co-op employing unmarried women and widows who hand make each rug using only the best wool, using all natural dyes. They can take over a year to make, and unlike other places, they get paid a fair wage. A person can buy only six at a time and, unlike everywhere else, the prices are fixed, so you don't have to haggle (it's a government thing). I explained I wasn't in the market for a rug, that I didn't even have a house to ship it to. But he told me that I could have it shipped to any address I wanted, and that, being the end of the year, I could get a discount. He also showed me a book of his other customers: Europeans, Australians, Americans, many of whom come back each year and buy a few rugs to re-sell and help pay for their trip, often for three to five times what they pay. I tried to waffle a few times, but he convinced me and I eventually decided to go ahead and pick one up for myself, knowing that he was probably exagerating... but even if I could sell an expensive one for double, I could make a nice profit. My friend came back and seemed a little put out that I was horning in on his business, but eventually helped me pick out a good one. It was pricey - $3000 - but I figured it was a pretty good investment. My credit card company declined the payment, but somehow, though it took me about 20 minutes to get ahold of a live person to get the card re-activated after it was cancelled in London, the dealer had them on the line immediately so I could authorize it, which I did. I got the dealers buisiness card, promised I'd send him a T-shirt from Wyoming, and left.
My only excuse is that I think the mint tea must have been drugged. Unbelievably, I bought a carpet that cost more than my last car. In fact, it cost more than anything I have ever bought, ever. And it was, most likely, all a scam. From the second I stepped off the train platform, I suspect. I've checked online, and a lot of people have been courted with the same basic story, some have even been fed dinner and given a nice place to spend the night with a well-off family (all Moroccan re-sellers in the greater NY area) before being taken to buy a rug.
There's a sucker born every minute. This one was born in January, 1975.
Immediately after, I was given a tour of the medina, including the tannery, in use since 1100 AD and the university, founded in 859 AD. Later, I met up again with the "carpet re-seller from NY" and had mint tea in a very posh hotel where Bono of U2 once stayed and drank mint tea. He told me about a young Spanish/ Moroccan guy who now lives in Germany and was on his way to the Sahara, and that I should join him, as I would thank him forever if I got to see the incredible beauty of the area! Mr. "I live on 73rd street." (I was thinking that was Harlem, which I could see him in. I was reminded later 73rd is actually Central Park, which if had I remembered, would have been the tip-off as he might have actually had the cash to get those teeth fixed.) He then told me that he could arrange a 3 day trip for us for 500€ each. ($1500 total) Zach from Hamburg then came in, a very clean-cut young man who was half Spanish/ half Morrocan and spoke five languages pretty fluently. He was on his way to the desert to finalize plans for a big New Years party at a little tourist hotel a friend of his owns. He was also surprised to hear about the $750 price tag, so we decided we could do the trip on our own for a lot less. I was so glad to meet a fellow backpacker who knew the area and could speak the language. We packed up and headed out that afternoon. It's remarkably cheap to get from one place to the other in Morocco, and we wound up paying a private driver only 150€ the next day to drive us over the mountains and to the desert. It was a long trip - we left at 7:30 and got there at about 3:00, but saw some pretty cool scenery and collectively drank a couple quarts of mint tea along the way. Morocco reminds me a lot of the American west - huge expanses of desert with snow-capped peaks in the distance. Of course, we don't have snow monkeys. (They kinda look like snow monkeys, anyway, but I don't know what they really were.)
We met up with Zachs friend, Hafid, drank mint tea, and drove out to the hotel, past the vast red dunes of the Sahara. It was a quaint little casbah-looking place, with a nice garden out back that grew all the hotels vegetables. I was given a run-down room (Most all I saw in Morocco seem to be, for what I was paying - about $13/ night.) and stayed up that evening eating a communal plate of couscous, drinking mint tea, and watching 60-year old Fi-Fi the belly dancer from Belgium dance to Berber music and African Drums. The next morning I had a breakfast of Malawi (crepes) jam and olives with mint tea.
Zack had stuff he needed to do in town, so suggested I take the day to run around in the desert with a camel and Berber guide. Despite nearly getting bucked off the first camel before I was given a more tame one (reminded me of those electric-bull rides), we set off. It was fun - I asked about a million questions - "What's this track in the sand?"; "How do you say "camel" in Berber?; "That's Algeria? Right there on that ridge? Really?" Too bad he didn't speak much English. Around noon, we stopped at a Berber's adobe homestead. (It's how I've started thinking of a lot of these places - what seems like shacks in 3rd world countries are actaully not unlike how my great grandparents lived in the early part of the 20th century.) Maybe that why the old guy living there reminded me of my great-uncle John - uninteligible, but really nice. He never put down the binocs he was watching the camels with, but smiled and gave me an enthusiastic thumbs up when I said I was American.
We had another plate of the same couscous for lunch, dranks some mint tea, had a nap, watched a Berber guy fix his little run-down 70's vintage sky-blue motorcycle, and eventually took off again across the sands. I sang "American" songs to Hasan (I think that was his name.) liek Ghost Riders in the Sky and he sang Berber ones in return. That night we camped in another Berber families out-tent, had the same couscous, again, mint tea, again, and I gave a small blue flashlight that matched his blue tunic. It was Christmas, after all, though I think the gesture may have been lost on him.
The next day, back a the Casbah, I waited for Zack to show up so we could continue on our way. He showed up about noon, hungover, in car with Hafid. Apparently I had missed quite the party and a lot of wine. (A bit rare in Muslim Morocco.) He explained that he wasn't ready to leave yet, and hadn't found us a ride, so it would be a good day to tour the local sites in town. Hafids brothers took me around and it was a pretty good day overall, though I was starting to worry a little about time, knowing I had a flight to catch in a few days. That night all the rooms were full, so after another night of couscous, mint tea, African drums, and Fi-Fi, I slept in the Berber tent out back. I was plenty comfortable, though it was surprisingly chilly at night.
The next morning we all piled into the car, and Zach explained he was going to stay a couple more days. I kind of hated loosing my guide and new friend, but felt I knew enough now to get around. We all wound up at Hafid's fathers trinket shop, where I was shown more rugs and drank more mint tea. The brothers and a few other friends were hanging around for no particular reason that I could divine. We were talking about where I was going next, when Hafid started writing something down in Arabic. I asked if it was directions for where I needed to go. "No.....it is, uh... yes, for you, a special price - 3500 Diram. I didn't charge you for the first ride in the jeep"
That's over $400, folks. A lot of money in the US, a heck of a lot in Morocco. And for what I got in return, a complete rip-off.
Seems I had been set-up, again.
I was pretty mad, so took Zach outside and chewed him out for not telling me, but he had no sympathy. Probably since some of my money probably paid for all his wine and weed. (On a side-note, I was told it's legal there, and its seems that it grows really, really well.) I also explained that there was no way my bank would let me withdraw that much. In a huff, I gave Hafid 3000, then listened to a big argument between him and Zach. I still got the traditional double-cheek psuedo-kiss as I said goodbye, so I'm pretty sure I was a lot more upset about the deal than he was. Zack walked me to the collective-taxi drop off, where I used the almost the rest of my money to get a taxi to the next town, where I started hitchhiking to get where I needed to. A number of people picked me up, including a German woman and her Moroccan boyfriend who also felt that I shouldn't have been charged more that 750.
So, I'm left wondering what really happened. Did Mr. Lispy know Zach? Do they all know Hafid? Do they pass the chump on a regular basis, or was it just his lucky day that I showed up and went along with it? I still can't figure it, but I learned a valuable lesson from it all.
DON'T TRUST ANYONE!!
Just kidding - I still trust most people, I just make sure I ask the price first, knowing they are probably charging me the "tourist price" - about 5x what it's actually worth. And I'll never, EVER, hand over my credit card for home furnishings again.
Tuesday, 4 January 2011
Off with a Pop...
As most of you already know, I did not leave the States without incident. Here is what happened...
The last few weeks before leaving were pretty hectic; my idea to get rid of most everything I owned took far more time than I expected, and I was still frantically running around doing just that up until the moment I left. I ended up packing moments before my good friends Colin and Heidi picked me up and drove me down to Denver. There, I met up with my other good friends Tim and Becky. I stayed with them that weekend, and they dropped me off at the airport the following Monday.
Then it got interesting.
I had just handed over my bag at the checked baggage counter, and started to walk away when I heard a commotion behind the counter. Everyone was getting very excited and talking about noises and burning smells. I stared at my large green and black backpack, the Albetross, lying there, wishing desperately that it wasn't mine. I then started answering a lot of pointed questions from the manager, then security, then the police, and eventually, the FBI.
One of those blasted party poppers that you throw on the ground, which I remember wrapping in something soft so they wouldn't go off, had somehow ended up in my bag. And, despite being jostled and moved around all weekend, one managed to go off right then. Typical.
After the fire department cleared the terminal, and once the bomb squad found the things, everyone became a lot more relaxed. Joel, the FBI agent, was actually pretty darned funny. (It may actually be a technique to get potential lunatics to confess their sins.) Still, I missed the flight and wound up spending the night in the airport. Too bad, too, as I could have watched it on the nightly news. I got to read about it online, though: http://www.thedenverchannel.com/news/26122639/detail.html
The next day, after apologizing profusely to British Airways, they let me on the next flight.
London was good- I met a cousin there I wasn't even aware of and found to be a wonderful kindred spirit. But, despite the mulled wine and wonderful cozy pubs, it was just too cold and I got my ticket to Morocco.
Then, it got interesting, again.
But that's for next time...
The last few weeks before leaving were pretty hectic; my idea to get rid of most everything I owned took far more time than I expected, and I was still frantically running around doing just that up until the moment I left. I ended up packing moments before my good friends Colin and Heidi picked me up and drove me down to Denver. There, I met up with my other good friends Tim and Becky. I stayed with them that weekend, and they dropped me off at the airport the following Monday.
Then it got interesting.
I had just handed over my bag at the checked baggage counter, and started to walk away when I heard a commotion behind the counter. Everyone was getting very excited and talking about noises and burning smells. I stared at my large green and black backpack, the Albetross, lying there, wishing desperately that it wasn't mine. I then started answering a lot of pointed questions from the manager, then security, then the police, and eventually, the FBI.
One of those blasted party poppers that you throw on the ground, which I remember wrapping in something soft so they wouldn't go off, had somehow ended up in my bag. And, despite being jostled and moved around all weekend, one managed to go off right then. Typical.
After the fire department cleared the terminal, and once the bomb squad found the things, everyone became a lot more relaxed. Joel, the FBI agent, was actually pretty darned funny. (It may actually be a technique to get potential lunatics to confess their sins.) Still, I missed the flight and wound up spending the night in the airport. Too bad, too, as I could have watched it on the nightly news. I got to read about it online, though: http://www.thedenverchannel.com/news/26122639/detail.html
The next day, after apologizing profusely to British Airways, they let me on the next flight.
London was good- I met a cousin there I wasn't even aware of and found to be a wonderful kindred spirit. But, despite the mulled wine and wonderful cozy pubs, it was just too cold and I got my ticket to Morocco.
Then, it got interesting, again.
But that's for next time...
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