Cairo, Egypt

Cairo just may rival Beijing for pollution. The sky is beige, the buildings tinted grey and my boogers, black. I have a nagging cough that between the constant cigarette smoke of the Middle East and the pollution just won't go away.

Grim, grit and health concerns aside, the city has a charm. The buildings look faintly Parisian and the tempting aroma of falafel wafts through the streets. The hassles and harassment is much less than anticipated - at least beyond the tourist meccas of the Giza pyramids and National Museum. It feels more like a New York-style hustle, but with women in head scarves rather than Hermes and men with pants belted an average of 3 inches higher than Western standards.

Walking through the streets many men call out "Welcome!" - sometimes to lure me into their shop and sometimes into their pants...both unsuccessfully, of course. The most persistent are those selling perfume and papyrus. They'll go as far as lying about museum hours or directions to entice you to peruse their wares. The scar-like darkened mark on some of their foreheads is no sign of honesty even though it is a sign that they pray regularly, touching their forehead to the ground in the direction of Mecca.

The buildings of Cairo seem to go forever into the horizon and seamlessly transition into Giza where the pyramids spring from the ground. While impressive, the romanticism of the desert pyramids is slightly tainted by the bordering urban sprawl and thousands of daily visitors with cameras flashing around their necks.

At night people congregate on the streets filling up food stalls and coffee shops. Markets stay open late as well. The most devout Muslims press their heads to the pavement covered in straw mats to observe the day's final prayer time while others sip fresh juices and puff on their sheesha pipes with flavored tobacco.

At night people congregate on the streets filling up foodstalls and coffeeshops. Markets stay open late as well. The most devout Muslims press their heads to the pavement covered in straw mats to observe the day's final prayer time while others sip fresh juices and puff on their sheesha pipes with flavored tobacco.

How to Catch the Ferry to Egypt:

1. Take a taxi from downtown Aqaba to ferry terminal (negotiate before you get in or the price will be overpriced and you won't have the time to argue or you will miss the boat)

2. Walk 200 meters through the gates from the road towards the offices.

3. Find departure tax window downstairs. Note: You may have to wait for the government official to return from the mosque. None of the other milling officials can help you. If the ferry is leaving soon you should pray too.

4. Take departure tax stamp upstairs to ticketing office.

5. Get redirected from ticketing office to customs. Leave Jordan...officially, that is.

6. Back track to ticket office and reserve ticket.

7. Take receipt of reservation across the hall to the "bank." Pay for ticket and change money to Egyptian pounds. Get receipt.

8. Take payment receipt back across the hall to ticketing office. Get ticket.

9. Pass immigration and proceed downstairs to wait for bus to ferry. Present ticket and passport at all requests.

10. Board ferry after having your passport and ticket checked...again.

11. Find seat in least offensive smelling area. Avoid direct contact with men and women with body odor.

12. While crossing the Gulf of Aqaba follow ferry official into 1st class cabin to get passport stamped. Leave passport with the official and take "receipt" for collection (scratch paper with #1 written on it).

13. Deboard ferry providing "receipt" to government official. Flirt with head police officer to get to the front of the line.

14. Board bus to immigration with your baggage.

15. Walk towards sign saying "Arrivals." Oooops...not yet, talk to man who tells you to find the "bank" where you must buy a visa and then visit another unnamed office to collect your passport. Follow his vague directions.

16. Arrive at unnamed office...oooops. Joke around with a little Arabic and smile and they will keep your bag while you follow their more precise directions to the "bank."

17. Find bank. Pay $15 USD. Get flashy visa sticker.

18. Take flashy visa sticker to unnamed office where your passport is being heald. Give to friendly officials to insert and sign.

19. Proceed, again, to "Arrivals."

20. Get passport checked, bags scanned and exit warehouse building into Egypt.

Romance a la Islam

Fayez called me every few days to see that I was alright as I traveled south through Jordan. I had met him in Amman through his friend Hassan who had sold me a new cell phone after diagnosing my blank screen as terminal. The three of us had explored Amman's "nightlife" (coffee shops and restaurants) and taken a day trip to the salty Dead Sea. I enjoyed their company and appreciated the introduction to a city thats entertainment scene was a bit elusive. They enjoyed my smile and spirit that, in stark contrast to the Arab girls they knew, was free and without agenda. As I left for Petra, they insisted that I return to Amman. Fayez offered to cook Jordanian culinary specialties - maklube and mensaf.

About a week into my stay in Petra, Fayez suggested that he might come meet me in Aqaba or Wadi Rum. His sister lived in Aqaba and he loved the desert of Wadi Rum (or maybe moreso loved testing whatever 4WD SUV he owned at the time). On the third day of my desert stay, he drove 5 hours to join me. He brought me chewing gum and chocolates. His new Land Cruiser out-performed its predecessor in the sand and got us around the desert and then to Aqaba for an evening with his sister's family.

At this point I began to wonder what was going on. Was this shaping up to be a romantic weekend getaway? Was this part of a courtship that until now I had been oblivious to? Or were we really just visiting his sister while "in the neighborhood?" I enjoyed his company despite the occasional challenge with language. I found him attractive with his tall stature and strong character, but our interactions had been quite sterile by Western standards. An Islamic romance was so foreign - I didn't even know what signs to look for.

Fayez was/is thirty-two and born to Palestinian parents (one of 9 children by 2 wives). He's business-minded and successful, well-respected by those around him, has traveled and lived in Europe and a devout Muslim. He doesn't drink, doesn't eat pork, doesn't touch women. He subscribes to a text message service that provides him with the day's prayer times. He wakes before 5 am every day to pray. With me he was respectful and attentive - sans sexual advance. I put my curiosity aside and enjoyed his company only occasionally speculating about his intentions or about my growing interest.

As we arrived in Aqaba I began to think about where I would sleep that night. Would we stay with his sister? In a hotel? Separate rooms? (I had arranged separate tents in the desert.) We pulled up to a hotel and I waited in the car, my curiosity piqued. Fayez returned speaking of two rooms, but interestingly it turns out that in Jordan not being married poses a problem for not only those sharing a room, but also those requesting two rooms in the same hotel. After checking 2 hotels and offering a 20 Dina bribe ($25 USD) we were shown to our rooms - one on the 1st floor and the other on the 3rd. We showered and rested before heading to his sister's. I debated wardrobe, wondering which would be more offensive: my rank long-sleeved shirt that had been stuck to my sweaty body as I hiked through the desert for 4 days and didn't shower or (gasp) a short sleeve shirt leaving my forearms exposed. I opted for the latter.

One weekend in Wadi Rum and Aqaba turned into a week exploring Jordan. He took me to his friend Sami's farm in the north where they both raised livestock. By day we explored ancient Roman and Byzantine ruins, a cave where Jesus lived for 40 days, Jordan's 2nd largest city (Irbid). He practiced English and taught me Arabic. We developed our own thread of private jokes. By night we shared a room with two twin beds, sleeping with the door open. We rarely sat next to each other on the couch.

Every moment was for me. Work was postponed. All requests met. I had everything and anything I wanted except...a kiss. At first this was confusing. Then it was frustrating. By day 5 I realized the unexpected. The most extreme physical abstinence charged the smallest interactions with sexual excitement - a hand on my back to show me through a door, an arm around my chair at dinner, a smile across the room.

In the Muslim religion Zina is what prevents relations between unmarried men and women (I looked this up on day 6). Intercourse is prohibited and everything else from an innocent kiss to direct eye contact can be considered a gateway or path to temptation. It is why women are covered, stay in the home and generally do not interact with men who are not related. It is why I was having one of the least physical yet most interesting courtships of my 28 years.

On the 6th night I announced that I would leave for Egypt the day after next. This affected Fayez more than I expected. That night as we settled into our beds (now back in Amman, but still in two twins), his eyes welled, stopping just before tears. He asked if we could share a kiss. It was then that I became Fayez's first physical contact with a woman in five years. I worried that he had compromised his values for me, but it was his choice and the kiss, however a little stiff, was nice.

The kiss was followed by a lengthy and comfortable embrace. The embrace was followed by a shock to my Western sensibility. "Go to Egypt and come back," Fayez proposed. I could have anything I wanted. He confided in me about the properties he had accumulated around Amman, his plans for development, his ability to provide. The conversation was strange. It was as if both of us knew that this scenario was unrealistic. We both knew I wouldn't stay, but he cared enough to try and I cared enough to discuss.

I'm not exactly sure if I understood everything we talked about. Our conversation flowed between the specific (me) and the general (the typical Muslim bride). I/she would be expected to spend days at home caring for the house and children. The first year (before kids) I/she would spend most days at Fayez's mother's house to prevent loneliness. If plans differed he would have to know ahead of time where I/she would be. Talking to other unfamiliar men would be inappropriate and cause problems for all involved. I held nothing back - this sounded boring and oppressive. Fayez seemed open to compromise, but I don't think realized the level of compromise that this particular woman (I) would demand.

The next day he drove me to buy my bus ticket and then again to catch the bus at 6:30 am for my departure. We embraced at the station (in public) with a promise to keep in touch, the possibility that I would return to Amman (briefly) and a proposal that will go unaccepted.

February 29th, 2008

On Friday, February 29th Israel suspected a gathering of Muslim fanatics. They bombed a section of homes in the Gaza Strip. All of the major news networks reported the event.

According to Al Jazeera, the Arab World's CNN, 32 people were killed including 6 children, one under one year-old. Seventy were injured. The footage was terrifying - babies bleeding, mothers wailing, ambulances not able to meet the demand driving past dying victims, grown men consumed with anger and grief yelling. The headlines: horror and inhumanity.

Prince Harry's return from Afghanistan's front lines was top news on CNN and BBC World. The prince's participation slash location had been leaked by a problematic journalist. The Gaza bombing appeared second or third in the line-up. The headline indicated that an Israeli bomb had killed "15 militants" and "some civilians." The images were brief and sterile - covered bodies, solemn and sedate.

Both networks told the truth. Both accounts were accurate. Both were playing to an audience, inciting anger, prompting cheers from those entwined in one of history's most polarized and uncompromising disputes, encouraging continued indifference.

Five days later 116 Palestinians had been killed and more than 300 injured. Three Israelis had been killed. CNN ran their first headline caliber story. A spokesperson for Jewish Americans was interviewed appealing to the world to sympathize not only with the Palestinians, but also the Jews. Al Jazeera kept repeating a video montage loop featuring dead babies and destruction.

The issue had never felt closer as I watched the television less than a hundred miles from the banks of the Jordan River and the Israeli border. The solution had never felt so far away.

Quiet Freedom

The landscape of Wadi Rum is striking. It's moon-like rock formations, rose and lavender sands, towering white dunes and spiny scrub impressed immediately. A day-long jeep tour was a visual schmorgusborg. It wasn't until 24-hours into my visit that I was struck with something nearly as rare for a city and suburb dweller - total and complete quiet.

After a night at a Bedouin-style camp in the desert, I set off on a walk. I communicated my route, my estimated arrival time back at the camp and set off for 6 hours of uninterrupted quiet. The only sounds: occasional flurries of wind, rocks beneath my feet as I passed through dry river beds...and my iPod when the quiet finally took on an eerie characteristic rather than a novel one.

Some might think that I ruined the experience with the iPod. What has technology done to the youth of today? I would like to offer an alternative perspective: What the iPod offered was a sense of total freedom. Initially I listened quietly to the music as if on a bus or a crowded subway car. Then, I started humming. I caught myself. Why was I humming when I could unabashedly belt out any melody or almost-lyrics at the top of my lungs. No one would hear. I could screech the highest notes of a Whitney Huston song, butcher the lyrics of a face-paced Snoop Dogg rap, pathetically scat along with Ella Fitzgerald. Quiet turned to complete vocal freedom. I rocked the desert.

Living With the Bedouin: The Women

The women cook, clean and rear the children. The home is their domain. Once the cleaning is done they lounge on the mats and pillows filling the living room. On cold days they gather around the gas heater. On all days they watch television - music videos, Arabic soap operas, Ugly Betty, all that satellite TV has to offer. They may or may not wear their head scarf.

When a man comes - husband, brother, nephew, uncle - they drop everything. Tea is prepared and if he's hungry, food. A woman is on call. At a moments notice she prepares pita, hummus, baked beans, sardines, fried cauliflower and other Bedouin standards (most originating from a can). She is somewhat of a servant. She hopes that her husband is kind and love is present.

My final day in the village I spent with Menal, an extremely mature and open-minded 17-year-old. I had enjoyed her company tremendously throughout my stay with the Bedouins. Her English was near perfect and her smile contagious.

Menal had just been proposed to by one of the boys in the village. By this I mean her father had been asked for her hand. She told me that he wasn't too attractive or smart. Despite her father's wishes, she would refuse. She told her father that she would marry him if he demanded but would leave after the wedding and divorce (more common than one might think). She would wait for love and for a man who would at least agree with, if not share, her vision for a Western-style monogamous relationship with 1 to 3 children, not 8 to 10. Menal's interaction with tourists and time working on an archaeological dig with Brown University students had rubbed off on her.

Supposedly there are 23 Western women who have married Bedouin men and live in the village. I saw only one and hadn't even seen Barbara (the Dutch girlfriend from the first night camping in Little Petra) for four days. I had seen Tofik, her "boyfriend" recklessly driving her rental car, screeching around corners and crashing into curbs. Even the foreigners seemed to be treated as second-class and confined to the home unless otherwise instructed. I asked Menal about these women whom I couldn't get my head around. She said that many, but not all were treated less than favorably. She quickly and wisely noted that many of these women were older (35-45) and unmarried, often not very physically attractive. This was, of course, a generalization, but an interesting and not too unexpected observation. It seemed that, understandably, relations were not easy between the Bedouin women and the tourists turned tarts...I mean, wives.

Neither seem to have an enviable life by Western standards. While the Westerners are not to be seen, some of the Bedouin women go to Petra and work their small curio stands. Still, most of their activities are dictated by their huspands, fathers and cultural convention. The men are ultimately expected to provide shelter, money and food, but seem to have little other responsibility. They come and go as they please. The women are tied to the home (or other location approved by the man of the house) and are generally left with few choices - sardines or humus, music videos or Oprah.

Living With the Bedouins: The Desert

On the northeastern side of the mountains of Petra is the desert landscape of Wadi Araba. The dunes stretch for miles and miles along the Israeli border. It's a favorite camping spot of the Bedouin.

We organized a jeep, stocked up on supplies, grabbed our blankets and mats and headed for the desert. Salem, his brother Ahmed and I drove down the curvy mountain road into Wadi Araba. In the desert we stuck to the tracks of previous vehicles. The dunes were small, but could be problematic with the potential to swallow tires without traction or tread. The jeep said "4WD." This brought me great comfort. As we sat by a palm filled desert oasis sipping tea and smoking an Arabic arguilla (or water pipe filled with aromatic fruit tobacco), however, Ahmed clarified that he had dismantled the 4WD because it used too much gas. This raised concern. Not too much concern though as we were well stocked with water and food and were only a somewhat challenging hike away from the village. No one was going to die.

We drove around the dunes, past camels, over shrubs, continually turning an Arabic cassette tape over and over again in the car stereo. We took turns driving, still keeping to the existing tracks.

At nearly 4 o'clock we reached a large dune perfect for appreciating the landscape. The jeep took us up the first bit and we climbed the rest by foot. No people, no cars for miles. A camel or two were barely visible in the distance. The sun would be going down in an hour or so. We headed back to the jeep to go find camp. What we found was our jeep, wheels spinning furiously, digging deeper and deeper into the sand. This was bad. We dug. We pushed. We lifted. We placed sticks under the wheels, but our chances ran out when the battery died of exhaustion. We were stuck. We gathered more sticks adding them to those from under the car and started a fire.

The beauty of the developing world is that there is cell phone reception almost everywhere. Strange, but true. This includes the barren desert where signals stretch from oasis towns. We called for help. It was no AAA, but 5 drunk Arabs came to the rescue.

There as no such thing as an in-and-out job in Bedouin culture. The rescue mission would need to be repaid with tea, food and a rousing evening of song around the fire. First order of business: charge and push the car to safety – it took six men. Second order of business: enjoy. What would have been a relatively quiet evening for 3 in the desert was now a boisterous party of eight.

I was obstaining from drink as a prudent girl should in the desert with 7 men, but others hadn't. Around 11 o'clock things turned and one of the rescuers began to cause problems - nothing dangerous, just unpleasant jealousy over how my conversational time was divided. The party broke up and we drove our separate ways into the desert lit up by a full moon.

The next morning the 3 of us remaining found the battery once again dead. Early enough in the day, I still did not worry. Provisions were high and the village remained within a day's walk. Salem stayed with the jeep as Ahmed and I hiked a few kilometers to the nearest "road." Before an hour passed an old Bedouin man drove by with his truck filled with lare canisters of water. We boarded the truck and drove towards where the jeep sat. The battery soon charged, we were on our way. Back to the village. No more stops.

Living With the Bedouins: The Men

The Bedouins are no longer nomadic in the true sense, but continue in many ways to display the signs of their past. While now they have permanent dwellings with foundations, four walls and a roof, the men think nothing of grabbing a foam mat and a blanket and sleeping in a cave, tent, at a friend's, inside a monument at Petra or in the desert a few nights out of the week. The village and its surroundings, not the dwelling itself, is their home.

Nighttime excursions often involve friends and drink (both alcoholic and tea). There is a great sense of fraternity. As far as I can tell, few hours or minutes are spent in solitude. There is always someone knocking on your door or inviting you inside theirs.

In the village the young men and boys gather at the billiards hall. The basic cement block building has three rooms – one room contains two pool tables, another a TV and DVD player usually running a recent Bruce Lee-style action movie, and a third room with two Play Stations and two full-sized car racing arcade games. I drew a crowd upon all of my visits: one, because women were a rarity inside the walls and two, because a woman running the pool table for a 5 game winning streak was even rarer.

The older men seem to spend much of their time working to support their families (plural). Unlike places in Turkey where men can have more than one wife, but rarely do, in the Bedouin Village, they do. With enough money men will have up to four (unless they land a coveted Western woman who insists on a one-wife scenario). Infidelity seems quite commonplace. When pressed on the issue, the justification is "it's our culture" - a strange statement as they sit drinking the alcohol forbidden by Islam ("their culture").

The men are responsible for "providing" (as defined by them) while the women are responsible for everything else. This can lead to a lot of time for leisure inside or outside of the home.

Living With the Bedouins: The Beginning

Once the region's nomadic people, the Bedouin are known for their hospitality. The theory is today they take you in and tomorrow you will do the same for them - a deeply ingrained ingrained sense of Karma to facilitate survival in a rather inhospitable desert.

In 1985 many of the Bedouins were still living in the caves in and around the stone city of Petra. Then tourism and the government intervened forcing them to move into a newly constructed nearby village. Today many still visit Petra daily to operate small curio stalls and coffee shops, offer donkey rides and act as impromptu tour guides to the less regimented travelers.

I met Salem on top of a mountain overlooking the famous "Treasury" (as featured in Indiana Jones and the Holy Grail"). After sharing a pot of the over-sugared tea that I have come to know all too well, he offered to take me up to the "Monastery," Petra's lesser known, but equally impressive site. Stopping along the way for tea about 2 more times, we made our way chatting about Petra, the Bedouin and tourism.

As the sun began to set it was time to leave, but instead of saying goodbye and heading back to my hotel for a boring and isolated night (or worse with the strange Czech man who had befriended me), I accepted an invitation to the Bedouin village to attend an engagement celebration.

With men and women gathering separately, Salem delivered me into the hands of some lovely girls in their late teens who shepherded me into the women's house. We ate mensaf, saffron rice piled high on a large communal plate and topped with lamb stewed in yoghurt. I tried to figure out what was happening, but my lack of Arabic and the limited English skills of those around me proved challenging. It would seem, however, that the men and women sit in different but nearby houses and socialize. The men, in a seemingly rare display of domestic servitude, cook. The entire family celebrates. With sisters, brothers, cousins, uncles and aunts in the dozens, this is a large affair.

After dinner I joined Salem again for a tour of the village. As we walked through the streets it seemed as nearly every 4th house in the 4,000 person village housed a relative of his. We stopped at a few homes to say hello and, yes, drank more sugary tea. Bedouin hospitality was becoming more than just a text box in the Lonely Planet guidebook, but a reality.

The next morning after a good sleep back in my hotel in Wadi Musa (Petra's tourism-driven town), I returned to the village to meet Salem and hike into Petra from a different entrance. Like many places I have traveled, things move slower than in the West. A meeting time of 8:30 am meant a departure time of 10:30 am after a visit to an aunt who upon our arrival whipped up a breakfast of generous proportions and introduced me to a dramatic Turkish soap opera dubbed into Arabic.

Day two with Salem included more sights, more chatting, more trust and an invitation to join him and two others (another Bedouin and his Dutch girlfriend) on a camping adventure to "Little Petra" a neighboring outcropping of the stone city 8km from the major attraction. I checked out of my hotel and leaving my big bag with Salem's family slept in a traditional Bedouin tent made of goat's wool after enjoying a warm campfire-cooked meal of chicken and vegetables in a nearby cave inhabited by a man named Abduhla. The cave was cozy – complete with carpets and a gas lamp. This began my time living with the Bedouins. For the next five days I would live like a Bedouin, eating and sleeping simply, making fires, drinking sugary tea and exploring the culture and landscape.

14, 15, 16 Years Old

I had never been hit on by a 14-year-old before today...not even when I was fourteen.

The cold Jordanian rain was falling on the Roman ruins of Jerash and I lingered in the entryway of the Southern Theater to postpone the inevitable wet. A young boy stood selling postcards and batteries and offered me a seat. I gladly obliged. I asked him questions about his family and if he went to school. He asked if I was married (why lie to a 14-year-old?)...and then for my phone number. He suggested that perhaps I would like to be his wife. I told him I was twenty-eight. This seemed to matter little to him. I continued on my way chuckling under my wooly scarf.
Down the uneven Roman cobblestones two boys approached me. One wanted to sell me postcards (15) and the other to show me a column that rocked when pushed and an assortment of other sights (16). I was cold, but their smiles and hopeful eyes locked me in. Their basic descriptions of the market, church and butcher kept me entertained until I absolutely had to visit the museum to warm myself. They were there waiting as I emerged only slightly less chilled.

With no real agenda and the sun still high (albeit insulated by clouds), I followed my new friends to a few more points of interest until my fingers felt as though they were blue from the cold. "Come with us," they said. We entered a cave next to the foundations of the ancient Roman residential area. Out of the rain, they retrieved two candles from a hidden hole in the ground. The lit one by one and warmed our hands by the flame.

The boys bickered with a jovial undertone about whose friend I was. Now "married" I teased them about needing to keep their distance. They wanted to sit next to me. We laughed.

They taught me some Arabic words - some good, some naughty. One word that escapes me now was described in broken English as "something not good for your sister." After additional questions, this word that sent them into hysterics seemed to mean "SEX!"

They wanted a kiss, just on the cheek. One complimented my small nose and asked for a kiss. No. The other smiled the most innocent smile and merely asked politely. No. We posed for photographs and they competed for the most seductive pose (this meant leaning in towards me the furthest). We laughed some more.

The time came for me to go - a bit bored with this coy game of Islamic teenage courtship. We left the cave, walked down the hill, they took my hands to say goodbye and simultaneously kissed my left and right cheeks then ran away blushing and giggling. I smiled and again chuckled under my wooly scarf as I headed for the warmth of the coffee shop I had passed near the entrance. Candles and 14, 15 and 16-year-old boys, while amusing, fail to make me warm...or hot.