2008-01-14T15:13:23-08:00
7907
5119
6862
1
2008-01-14T15:36:51-08:00
4064
2008-01-14T15:18:52-08:00
18112
5119
1
7907
1
2008-01-14T15:36:51-08:00
2008-01-14T15:13:23-08:00
<p> <!-- @page { size: 8.5in 11in; margin: 0.79in } P { margin-bottom: 0.08in } --> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left"> <span color="#000000" style=""><span class="size_3">I thought to myself, “I knew this was a bad idea”. </span></span> </p><p> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left"> <span color="#000000" style=""><span class="size_3"> I was officially stuck on top of a camel. Even after two weeks in this scandalous country, I had managed to fall into another obvious scam. A young boy had approached me at the base the Great Pyramid in Giza and had sweet-talked me into climbing onto his camel for a picture. It seemed harmless enough, just a quick snapshot and I would hop down, right? </span></span> </p><p> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left"> <span color="#000000" style=""><span class="size_3"> Wrong. </span></span> </p><p> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left"> <span color="#000000" style=""><span class="size_3"> As soon as I positioned my bottom in the cloth saddle, the boy had issued a command to the camel in a secret language that only the two speak, and the blasted thing stood up. My feet dangled on each of its hairy sides, a desperate 4 feet from the ground. There was no graceful way to dismount or jump off, and we all three knew that. So there I sat, with the boy standing on the ground a few feet away from me, holding my camera, and showing me his yellow teeth like a before picture in an electric toothbrush commercial.</span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"> <font color="#000000"><font size="3"></font></font></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"><font color="#000000"><font size="3">Ten minutes later, and I was still
on top of the infernal beast. Both of us were having a sweat
marathon in the Egyptian sun, but there was no doubt his hump would
win out over my beer-gut for hydration reserves. The boy refused to
let me down until I committed to an expensive ride or offered the
equivalent in a bribe, known all over Egypt as “baksheesh”. I
tried to muster some traveler excitement, here I was, at the base of
the Great Pyramid on a camel!</font></font></p><p>
<meta http-equiv="CONTENT-TYPE" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><title></title><meta name="GENERATOR" content="OpenOffice.org 2.0 (Linux)"><meta name="AUTHOR" content="Greg"><meta name="CREATED" content="20070330;18595600"><meta name="CHANGEDBY" content="Greg"><meta name="CHANGED" content="20070404;22005600">
<style>
<!--
@page { size: 8.5in 11in; margin: 0.79in }
P { margin-bottom: 0.08in }
-->
</style>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"> <font color="#000000"><font size="3"></font></font></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"><font color="#000000"><font size="3">Prisoner, on top of a camel, that
is. The waiting game continued for another several minutes until
finally the kid saw a look in my eyes that indicated an emanate
explosion was about to occur. It was true, I was about to go into
survival mode which included letting out my combat howl and snapping
necks. I threw some coins at him after he let me down, and wandered
off to a safe distance where I could curse his mother properly
without being distracted by someone else wanting to sell me
something.</font></font></p>
</p>
18113
5119
3
7907
1
2008-01-14T15:36:51-08:00
4065
2008-01-14T15:21:20-08:00
I hate this damn thing.
18114
5119
5
7907
1
2008-01-14T15:36:51-08:00
2008-01-14T15:29:37-08:00
<p>
<meta http-equiv="CONTENT-TYPE" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><title></title><meta name="GENERATOR" content="OpenOffice.org 2.0 (Linux)"><meta name="AUTHOR" content="Greg"><meta name="CREATED" content="20070330;18595600"><meta name="CHANGEDBY" content="Greg"><meta name="CHANGED" content="20070404;22005600">
<style>
<!--
@page { size: 8.5in 11in; margin: 0.79in }
P { margin-bottom: 0.08in }
-->
</style>
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US">
<font color="#000000"><font size="3">And so, having spent one month in
Egypt, I bounced in and out of trouble almost daily. My family had
produced a hairball when I told them I wanted to go to Egypt alone,
the seeds of fear gladly planted by the media had taken strong root.
I decided to prove everyone wrong, to hell with the tour groups.</font></font></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"><font color="#000000"><font size="3">I'm not going to lie, Egypt was
tough. There were hordes of low paid police officers walking around
here fully equip with machine guns, black berets, and a standard
facial expression that shows all the enlightenment of a cow. They
all had thick black mustaches, I am convinced that Saddam Hussein is
actually living in Cairo as a police officer now.</font></font></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"><font color="#000000"><font size="3">I learned early not to ask one of
these guys for help. First, they spoke no English. Second, not only
did they speak no English, but somehow my request for simple
directions to the bus station had been misinterpreted as something
hostile. Was I that bad at charades - I ask for a bus and instead
start a coup?</font></font></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"><font color="#000000"><font size="3">Oops.</font></font></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"><font color="#000000"><font size="3">I happened to have a package of
Marlboro Red cigarettes in my day bag. I didn't have to ask if
anyone smoked, I could see lips quivering on the officers circled
around me as I pulled the pack out. I passed them around and
instantly peace was made for whatever infraction I had committed
earlier. They were so happy, at this point I probably could have
gotten away with doing something harsh, like suggesting that women
should receive a proper education!</font></font></p><p> </p>
18115
5119
7
7907
1
2008-01-14T15:37:21-08:00
4066
2008-01-14T15:30:54-08:00
My new friend.
18116
5119
9
7907
1
2008-01-14T15:36:51-08:00
2008-01-14T15:31:07-08:00
<p>
<meta http-equiv="CONTENT-TYPE" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><title></title><meta name="GENERATOR" content="OpenOffice.org 2.0 (Linux)"><meta name="AUTHOR" content="Greg"><meta name="CREATED" content="20070330;18595600"><meta name="CHANGEDBY" content="Greg"><meta name="CHANGED" content="20070404;22005600">
<style>
<!--
@page { size: 8.5in 11in; margin: 0.79in }
P { margin-bottom: 0.08in }
-->
</style>
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US">
<font color="#000000"><font size="3">Walking home from the museum that
day I met a lower class Egyptian man while waiting to cross the
street. He spoke some English so I chatted him up.</font></font></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"><font color="#000000"><font size="3">“Come” he said, “lets go
smoke shishah”.</font></font></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"><font color="#000000"><font size="3">I am an addicted, idiot
backpacker. My head would pop off if I turned down any new
opportunity to do something cultural with a local. And so we went to
a little side street coffee shop nearby with plastic tables and
folding chairs nestled outside right in the best street filth that
Cairo could provide.</font></font></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"><font color="#000000"><font size="3">Smoking shishah is the national
pastime in Egypt. The Muslims don't drink much, so instead they sit
around and smoke themselves to oblivion through huge, decorated
pipes.</font></font></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"><font color="#000000"><font size="3">I am convinced that the man I was
with was a walking, talking shishah pipe. He had smoked so much that
his teeth were gone, his lips were black, and every now and then as
he talked, a wisp of smoke would pop out of his nose like a dragon –
even when he wasn't smoking. He ordered up our pipes with a twinkle
in his eye and insisted on paying.</font></font></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"><font color="#000000"><font size="3">“My treat” he said proudly
and with a hiss of smoke, “Welcome to Egypt”.</font></font></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"><font color="#000000"><font size="3">Rather than some pansy tourist
flavor like vanilla or strawberry, he had provided us with something
that tasted like a burning tire. I should have known that this guy
would have graduated up from strawberry shishah, a long time ago.
Probably when he was 8 years old.</font></font></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"><font color="#000000"><font size="3">“Its delicious” I lied,
trying to preserve our fragile new friendship. “What is it?”</font></font></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"><font color="#000000"><font size="3">I could feel my teeth start to
loosen in my gums already. I can't remember what his answer was, but
he said that it was his favorite and that it was very strong tobacco.
No joke. </font></font>
</p><p> </p>
18117
5119
11
7907
1
2008-01-14T15:31:53-08:00
4067
2008-01-14T15:27:53-08:00
18118
5119
13
7907
1
2008-01-14T15:36:52-08:00
2008-01-14T15:28:30-08:00
<p>
<meta http-equiv="CONTENT-TYPE" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><title></title><meta name="GENERATOR" content="OpenOffice.org 2.0 (Linux)"><meta name="AUTHOR" content="Greg"><meta name="CREATED" content="20070330;18595600"><meta name="CHANGEDBY" content="Greg"><meta name="CHANGED" content="20070404;22005600">
<style>
<!--
@page { size: 8.5in 11in; margin: 0.79in }
P { margin-bottom: 0.08in }
-->
</style>
</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US">
<font color="#000000"> <font size="3">Two days later and I was standing
in the famous Valley of the Kings in Luxor. Every now and then a
cough or a sneeze would result in the escape of more smoke from
somewhere deep inside my chest. I had been transformed into a
shishah breathing dragon like the rest of them.</font></font></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"><font color="#000000"><font size="3">Valley of the Kings was an
awesome experience. I became friends with two Swedish guys and we
were exploring the tomb of Seti I together on a gorgeous day. Posted
all over the outside of the entrance were signs that read “no
cameras”. The logic was that the paint in the hieroglyphics had not
been exposed to light in thousands of years, and idiot tourists would
never remember to turn the flash off on their cameras. The Swedish
guys had a nice SLR camera and had no intentions of leaving it in the
hands of a stranger, so we kept our cameras as we went down the stone
steps inside.</font></font></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"><font color="#000000"><font size="3">Every inch of the walls were
covered in colorful hieroglyphics, and told a fascinating story.
Call me the world's worst backpacker, but there was no way I was
bringing a camera in here without getting a picture. I made sure
that my flash was off, and I started snapping sneaky shots of
everything that I could. My buddy had the same idea with his SLR,
and within minutes we had an angry Egyptian official standing in
front of us and demanding our cameras. Busted!</font></font></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"><font color="#000000"><font size="3">I decided to take a gamble based
on everything that I had learned in this country and said just one
word. </font></font>
</p><p> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US">
<font color="#000000"><font size="3"> “Baksheesh?” I said it in
the form of a question and it worked. </font></font></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"><font color="#000000"><font size="3">Baksheesh is a type of formal
tip/bribe and regardless of the social standing of the recipient, it
does the trick in Egypt. His scowl was replaced with a smile as we
traded a few dirty Egyptian bills for our precious cameras.</font></font></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"><font color="#000000"><font size="3">Then the guy caught me off guard.
I had assumed that we would have to leave the tomb immediately and
that we were officially on thin ice. Not quite.</font></font></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"><font color="#000000"><font size="3">“Anything else you want
picture?” he asked me in broken English. He pointed around the
tomb at various places of interest, and then it hit me. He wanted to
make sure we got all the pictures that we wanted! Now that is
service. I chuckled a little under my breath and another wisp of
smoke escaped my nostril. Dammit.</font></font></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"><font color="#000000"><font size="3">I decided that if there was ever
a time to press my luck in Egypt, it was now. I pointed to the
official that had confiscated our cameras. He gave me a
flabbergasted look, but now I know that it was a look of flattery and
not disgust. He smiled, threw his arms around my two Swedish friends,
and posed for the ultimate picture which I proudly took. Who else can
say they have a picture inside a tomb, surrounded by ancient Egyptian
art, and standing next to the guy that gets paid to make sure no
pictures are taken of that same art?</font></font></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"><font color="#000000"><font size="3">So, after one month of wandering
around Egypt in and out of trouble, I learned how not to be afraid.
Always keep cigarettes, a pocketful of baksheesh money, beware of
camels and mysterious shishah, and keep your cool. There is no such
thing as a country too dangerous for anyone to travel.</font></font></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"> By Gregory Rodgers<br></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="left" lang="en-US"> </p><p> </p>
18119
5119
15
7907
1
2008-01-14T15:32:35-08:00