- desert safari jeeps
- hot air balloons
- feloukas
- camels
- airplanes
- buses
- chacos
Most have included sunrises, sunsets, and very little sleep.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
We went overground
from the Temple of Queen Hatshepsut
to the Valley of the Kings.
We went underground
to the blues, the greens, the reds:
the Earth's painted jewels.
We went across the ground
to the plentiful human forms
that performed their tasks:
plowing, building, selling, making.
But now,
it's the caked buildings and chalky skies.
The sun summons the call to prayer and
I find myself hot, dirty, and irritated.
The magnified static illegitimately,
yet naturally wedges itself into my day.
It turns to ash in my hands.
The heat has washed over me. The sweetness
of the morning air has evaporated and
barren, potted plants now rest at my feet.
The dark brown bodies were idealized
and hard at work. They had triangular torsos
and one complete eye. But I didn't see
their sweat, their tears, their hunger.
Where were these things
and where are they now?
from the Temple of Queen Hatshepsut
to the Valley of the Kings.
We went underground
to the blues, the greens, the reds:
the Earth's painted jewels.
We went across the ground
to the plentiful human forms
that performed their tasks:
plowing, building, selling, making.
But now,
it's the caked buildings and chalky skies.
The sun summons the call to prayer and
I find myself hot, dirty, and irritated.
The magnified static illegitimately,
yet naturally wedges itself into my day.
It turns to ash in my hands.
The heat has washed over me. The sweetness
of the morning air has evaporated and
barren, potted plants now rest at my feet.
The dark brown bodies were idealized
and hard at work. They had triangular torsos
and one complete eye. But I didn't see
their sweat, their tears, their hunger.
Where were these things
and where are they now?
The Way Back from Saqqara, home of the oldest step pyramid:
The juxtaposition is extreme. Donkeys, wagons, buses, and cars clog the streets. Think of a pile of laundry in which everything flops onto everything else. You have garbage dumps, clothes lines, date trees, and market vendors folding into the crevices formed by red bricks and agricultural fields. Also, the city repeats itself. That is, it goes rich, poor, rich, poor. But I can hardly tell the difference between the pristine real estate and the slums. I sometimes noticed a few more patches of green and a little less trash in the well-to-do areas. Our guide noted one way to make the distinction is to count the number of satellites on the roofs. I guess it works.
Also, on the way back I saw an orange camel, a green caravan, a blue boat, and a yellow plane painted on a small, rural residential building. The members of this family have made the pilgrimage to Mecca over the years. They are privileged and have stories to share. The journey there must have been enlightening, colossal, epic. But what about the day after they painted those pictures. How did the individuals feel about coming home? How did they feel after visiting the holiest city and returning to daily life?
The juxtaposition is extreme. Donkeys, wagons, buses, and cars clog the streets. Think of a pile of laundry in which everything flops onto everything else. You have garbage dumps, clothes lines, date trees, and market vendors folding into the crevices formed by red bricks and agricultural fields. Also, the city repeats itself. That is, it goes rich, poor, rich, poor. But I can hardly tell the difference between the pristine real estate and the slums. I sometimes noticed a few more patches of green and a little less trash in the well-to-do areas. Our guide noted one way to make the distinction is to count the number of satellites on the roofs. I guess it works.
Also, on the way back I saw an orange camel, a green caravan, a blue boat, and a yellow plane painted on a small, rural residential building. The members of this family have made the pilgrimage to Mecca over the years. They are privileged and have stories to share. The journey there must have been enlightening, colossal, epic. But what about the day after they painted those pictures. How did the individuals feel about coming home? How did they feel after visiting the holiest city and returning to daily life?
Sunday, September 9, 2007
The Words of Professor John Swanson
Egyptians get American films before England. They see The Bourne Ultimatum and girls getting in bed with men they've only just met. They think Western vlaues include violence, crime, abortion, and the break down of families. They say America is the most dangerous country on Earth.
Egyptians see a Western, college-aged couple walking out of their hotel. The girl wears a halter top with things bouncing around. The guy wears a pair of loose shorts with things bouncing around. Everybody stares.
Americans say Muslim women are exploited. Muslims say American women are exploited. The vicious stereotypes are parallel.
Egyptians see a Western, college-aged couple walking out of their hotel. The girl wears a halter top with things bouncing around. The guy wears a pair of loose shorts with things bouncing around. Everybody stares.
Americans say Muslim women are exploited. Muslims say American women are exploited. The vicious stereotypes are parallel.
Friday, September 7, 2007
going solo in Athens (9/4)
I was on a traveler's high. I thought I was going to explode. Every exchange was precious to me. The pharmacist, the bookstore owner, the server. Even the frappe became platonic. Sweet and bitter temperaments wrestled in my mouth. Two bodies tumbling one on top of the other; a tangled mass with clearly identifiable forms. Always separate, always the same. The server had asked how much sugar I wanted: "high? medium? low?" Naturally, I chose the middle way. All rationality seemed to point in that direction. But balance is rarely an arithmetical equation and attempting to achieve it usually leaves one further from the goal. How often we struggle with intensity, with opposites, with ambiguity. How often such dynamics pain and how often they soothe.
Sitting at the cafe with racing thoughts and a slightly shaking hand, I soon found myself with fifteen pages of words. I became the insistent rose seller, pressing hard to the young men with women by their side. I became the small soccer boy, missing his shots and setting off motorcycle alarms. I became my neighbor's gaze, looking past his shoulder, across my arm, and to my page. He lit his cigarette; I lit his cigarette; casual moves to cover our rising smiles. My thoughts spilled freely and with out shame. They were a peasant's hands, snatching fruit from the vender's stand. quickly. continuously. rhythmically.
It was my first independent day and I wanted it all. I wanted to taste, touch, hear, smell, and see. I wanted to find the source of the men's beautiful smiles, their soft chiseled faces, and their skin's honey glow. I didn't want to be just a passerby on the pedestrian pathway, comforted by the Acropolis on high. I wanted to cross the gates guarded by the gnarled, rooted foliage with sea foam sun hats and enter Greece's promised land filled with nationality and antiquity.
I had gotten carried away. I tried to calm my mind but how could Faulkner, J.D. Salinger, or Woolf satisfy when only Odysseus and the sea would do? The only thing to do was stand up and pack my bags. I needed to return to neutral territory. to dirt. to water. to air.
Sitting at the cafe with racing thoughts and a slightly shaking hand, I soon found myself with fifteen pages of words. I became the insistent rose seller, pressing hard to the young men with women by their side. I became the small soccer boy, missing his shots and setting off motorcycle alarms. I became my neighbor's gaze, looking past his shoulder, across my arm, and to my page. He lit his cigarette; I lit his cigarette; casual moves to cover our rising smiles. My thoughts spilled freely and with out shame. They were a peasant's hands, snatching fruit from the vender's stand. quickly. continuously. rhythmically.
It was my first independent day and I wanted it all. I wanted to taste, touch, hear, smell, and see. I wanted to find the source of the men's beautiful smiles, their soft chiseled faces, and their skin's honey glow. I didn't want to be just a passerby on the pedestrian pathway, comforted by the Acropolis on high. I wanted to cross the gates guarded by the gnarled, rooted foliage with sea foam sun hats and enter Greece's promised land filled with nationality and antiquity.
I had gotten carried away. I tried to calm my mind but how could Faulkner, J.D. Salinger, or Woolf satisfy when only Odysseus and the sea would do? The only thing to do was stand up and pack my bags. I needed to return to neutral territory. to dirt. to water. to air.
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