Hakuna Matata, You've been Mugged!

“The one thing I can say with near certainty is that you will enjoy Tanzania.” Was the last line I finished reading in the intro to the guidebook as we sat in a nice coffee shop in Arusha that was located beside the Ethiopian Airlines office. Indeed, things were looking up. We were remarking how Arusha and Tanzania seemed a bit more organized and less abrasive than much of Ethiopia or other parts of Africa. I was savoring a “Zanzibar Chai Latte” which tasted excellent despite the flavor side effects we were experiencing from starting our dosages of Diamox (for our impending climb up Mt. Kilimanjaro). I could taste cinnamon and clove mixed in the chocolate and thought of exotic beaches and spices that the name “Zanzibar” conjures as it rolls off the tongue. We would be going there as soon as we finished our week trek up to the “Roof of Africa” and back down again.

We were angry at Ethiopia, at least their national airlines. Before our departure from Addis the previous night the woman working at the check in booth had sent Megan’s bags without applying the luggage tag. She assured us that she would go to the back to put the tag on. When she was unable to get to the back she sent another man around to do it for her. “It’s the brown bag.” The lady said. “No, it’s blue…” Megan said. But it was too late for us to know or control the fate of Megan’s bag accompanying us to Tanzania on a direct flight.

We arrived at the Kilimanjaro airport in the early morning hours and my heart sunk as I saw every passenger pulling out a yellow fever vaccine card that I did not have. Of course, I am vaccinated against yellow fever but I have never traveled with a vaccine card and was blissfully unaware that such a thing would be required.

“Ok,” Megan said, “You lost your card because your bag got stolen or something.”

We went with that line and it seemed to work. I was pulled aside in a medical office where they made me a vaccine card on the spot for a $25 “fee” or bribe. It is sometimes hard to tell which you are paying. I was overjoyed they weren’t going to revaccinate me. I remember my yellow fever vaccine well from deployment. The ship’s doc had found me on the bridge when I was on watch, injected me on the spot, and I spent the next several hours incredibly sick and wretched from it.

After successfully navigating that challenge we were more than pleased to learn that Tanzanian visas for Americans cost $100 a pop. I had not paid that amount of money to get into a country since 2004 when I underwent an eight-hour interrogation followed by paying every dime I had to get into Syria.

Then came baggage claim, the task we had been dreading. We waited. We waited more. Not only did Megan’s bag not come, NONE of the bags came. We had just around 24 hours before we would leave to climb Kilimanjaro and all of our equipment and supplies we had bought were missing- not to mention we didn’t even have a toothbrush for our night at the hotel in Arusha. I angrily made my way to lost baggage trying to remind myself that working in “Lost Baggage” must be the crappiest job in the world since all your customers are pissed off. I tried to put on my smiley face even though I could see from Megan’s occasional look that I was failing miserably and that sarcasm and irritation heavily laced my words. How could all four bags not make it on a direct flight? How could that woman at Ethiopian Airlines be so incompetent? What if our bags had been sent to Nairobi or something crazy?

“We need allies, Sara.” Megan kept saying to me. She was right. Smile. Smile. I had not been in the best of moods since I had expected to have long-awaited internet access the previous day in Addis. That was foiled since ALL OF THE INTERNET IN ETHIOPIA was out that day. I thought it has been an amazing feat that Mubarak and his security forces has blacked out the internet in Egypt during the revolution. In Africa the internet went down in entire countries regularly.

The lady at the baggage claim was the antithesis of our encounter with Ethiopian airlines. She was well organized and assured us the bags would arrive the next day, we would be contacted, and our things would get to us in time. We had no choice but to depart with a sheet of paper promising bags. We could only hope the Team Kilimanjaro (our climbing company) driver was still there to take us to the hotel. We found our driver who was also taking two other women to their hotel. Thankfully Megan and I did not have luggage because it would have been impossible to squeeze all four of us and bags into the tiny car he had brought to pick us all up. Even worse news, Megan was feeling sick for the third time on our trip. The one hour, bumpy car ride where we bottomed out about every three minutes did not help her agonizing situation. The driver kept mentioning things about Tanzania, Mt. Meru, Mt. Kilimanjaro, but we could hardy be bothered to care at 0300.

When we made it to our hotel we crashed into our mosquito net covered beds. I had just enough time to use my iPhone to confirm functional if slow wifi in the lobby. Yes, I am a wifi whore. I awoke a few hours later to the realization that Megan was very sick and certainly needed water and 7-Up or Sprite if possible. I set off to the lobby and was pleased to discover that the Outpost Lodge was a trendy little backpacker rendezvous with wifi, decent food, a café, and other amenities. This is when I started to feel a bit better about Tanzania. I started considering how much money must go in and out of Arusha with all these people coming for safaris and climbing Kilimanjaro. Arusha was probably not really “Africa” in the way that Sharm El Sheik is not really “Egypt.” I began to relax. It might have also helped that everyone kept saying “Hakuna matata” to me. I thought that those words had been made for “The Lion King” but apparently it is a standard phrase in Swahili.

Over the course of the day we were able to get Megan back into a better level of health. We confirmed our bags had arrived at the airport and that they would be delivered at some point to the airlines office in Arusha that evening. The hotel assured us we could walk out into town, buy some things, and get to the airlines office without a hassle. Before we left we had lunch in a still semi-dazed state. I noticed a group of rowdy, drinking Australians at a table next to us (who we learned later were some of our awesome Kilimanjaro teammates). I hoped we could soon follow their example and begin having some fun. We just needed to get the bags sorted and get everyone up to health. The Team Kilimanjaro rep was supposed to be coming that evening to check our gear. We hoped we could get everything before they showed.

Thus Megan and Sara, savvy naval officers and Olmsted scholars, set off into town, confident in our abilities to do whatever we needed, knowledgeable in all things travel related, salty in our developing-world experiences. Harassment from men? Bah! We knew about such things having lived them for years. We laugh at third-world challenge. By God, Megan lived in “real” Africa and I had recently made it through a revolution. We know what we are doing! We both remarked that Arusha was quite tame as the men called out to us “Hello, my beautiful sister from another mother! Sister, sister come here! Sister, what are you looking for?”

And so we ended up in our café, sipping nice drinks, waiting for the bags to show up at the Ethiopian airlines office. What I imagined to be the taste of Zanzibar was on my lips. I had decided to read “Howard’s End” and “A Room with a View” having recently finished ElBaradei’s book, “Age of Deception.” We were on the brink of a great adventure. We just needed the bags.

The van with the bags did not show after and hour so we walked to wait outside the office. Finally a lady arrived and called the driver the find out his location. He had just left the airport. Since we had been waiting so long she told him to send the bags to our hotel directly. We were pleased to find such an easy solution and that the lady was so nice and willing to help. All that was left to do was walk back to the hotel and wait. We cheerily set off on foot, enjoying the evening.

I never thought we were being followed. I never sensed any danger. But I knew something was seriously wrong as I heard footsteps running at full speed behind us. I am blessed in that I did not see much or I do not remember clearly. I am afraid that if I had had too much time to react I would have fought irrationally and made the situation worse. There were four of them. Megan turned around to see one behind me, his arm around me and a knife at my throat. All I remember is being knocked down and feeling my purse being cut off with a knife. It would be an hour later before I realized that the knife had also slashed my arm (though not too deeply) in the process. Though I did not see it, Megan had been thrown down in the middle of the street and was extremely lucky to not have been run over. Her bruises were far more significant than my little scratch and banged knee. As I replayed the whole thing in my head later I would come to realize there is nothing we could have done short of pulling out a gun- well, we could have taken a taxi back to the hotel. But it did not occur to us there was danger in broad daylight on the main street. Our hotel had never mentioned anything to be concerned about.

We walked back wounded and in shock. People on the street had watched it happen and did nothing. Cars passing by stopped to say they saw what happened and they were sorry. Someone offered us a ride to the police station but we weren’t getting into anyone’s car. My wallet had all my ID’s, and approx $2000 worth of cash, not to mention all credit and debit cards. I was thankful I kept my passports and iPhone in my pocket. Both our cameras were gone. Some irreplaceable items were also part of the devastation.

We stumbled back to the Outpost Lodge to find the head guide for our climb, Jonas, waiting. He looked like a no-nonsense sort of man, aloof but in control. Our introduction must have been one of his more memorable. “Hi, we are Megan and Sara, we don’t have our gear right now because we are waiting for our bags and we just got mugged.” We felt like idiots. We felt like amateurs. I was embarrassed and felt like the whole thing had to be my fault. Of course, I have a tendency to always think everything is my fault. I had been stripped of all cash and means to get cash. I kept reminding myself to be happy that I had my passports, iPhone, and Macbook. Oh, had they stolen my phone or laptop I might have been suicidal.

Jonas took it all in quietly and with minimal reaction. Though I was craving at least some minor sympathy, I was also content that this was the man leading our climb. He was obviously not going to get excited in exciting circumstances and would have full command of any situation.

“We will go to the police station.” He said in his deep voice. “Do you want to go there now or deal with your bags?”

We waited for another man to arrive, Jonas referred to him as his boss. Before long we were all headed to a Tanzanian police station, not exactly a place on my tourist itinerary. The police did not want to fill out a police report because it was Sunday. As we slowly wrote the items we lost and their value everyone was amused and amazed. What I had lost was over $3000 in value, more than enough to feed a family in Tanzania for a year. Western guilt, shame, and humiliation with the situation filled me. “Why did you not take a taxi?” The policewoman chided.

“Hey, we already feel like idiots ok.” Megan remarked. “You don’t need to make us feel worse.”

Jonas grabbed my arm and showed the police the knife cut on the back of it.

“You should go to the hospital!” One said to me. It was not nearly severe enough to be worth a hospital visit. Had that been the case I still would have not gone to a hospital. The smell of the police station itself was bothering me. It smelled like sickness and fear. I did not want to know what went on in the rooms and cells behind the front desk. I had seen police walking openly with batons in hand during the day. Perhaps it was only my perception but they seemed ready to apprehend anyone for anything.

We filled out our entries in their big green book that reminded me of the logbooks on navy ships. Our one light at the end of the tunnel was finding our bags waiting for us when we got back to the Outpost Lodge. Somewhere through the course of events Megan and I had both decided we had no option but to carry on with the climb. If anything, it would be a distracter from what just happened.

I lay in bed that night replaying and analyzing the situation again and again. I wanted to think that my things had been stolen by people who really needed them and the money. I could live with that. But I knew this was not the case. The police had said that particular area of the main road was known for that problem because there was a good escape route. It was probably a regular band of ruffians who did not share their benefit with anyone. Did I deserve it just for being a rich Westerner who dare carry such enormous wealth publically? If this happened to me, with no one reacting to the situation, what happens to people who live here every day? I reassessed my initial take on Arusha. I could not blame the police for having no sympathy for we absurdly wealthy tourists walking about, thinking nothing would happen to us. I tried to divert my mind and focus on the mountain. I knew it would challenge me to my very reserves of physical strength. But I was still lost in sad contemplation about Africa…

And then we went to the mystical land of the mountain...

14 Jul 2011 Arba Minch, Ethiopia

Dorze dance.

Southern Ethiopia has been an entirely different experience from the North. Perhaps I could blame it on my lack of stomach troubles or even that our sightseeing of churches finished in the North. But I think it is more than these issues alone. The South is wide open and filled with animals. The people live further spaced, predominantly in natural huts varying in style from tribe to tribe or climate to climate. The mountains, lakes, vegetation, and wildlife are beyond anything I have seen before. In our last 48 hours we have seen baboons, wild boor, crocodiles, hippos, and more bird species than I can count.

Megan and the fearless Beha

Beha is our driver for the South. We have ceased our daily flights in the North and now get to explore by Toyota Land cruiser and the enthusiastic Beha. He is from Addis but loves the South as well. He even speaks a few of the native languages from South Omo where the nomadic people still live. He wears a lion claw around his neck from his days working in a hunting company. “What country do most people come from to hunt here?” “From the US. Always from your country.” He answers. Then he continues to tell a story about two mad Americans who came to hunt lions, refused to listen to the Ethiopian guides, and demanded that their Kenyan guides were superior. They were not sharp shooters. One of the Americans shot a lion but did not kill it. They lost the lion in the sugar cane. Later it came back for revenge. The Americans had demanded to walk in the front, placed the Kenyan guides behind them, the Ethiopians in the back. “When the lion attacked the first American his claws went into his chest. It was like meat coming off a drumstick. Then he went for the second. The Kenyan guides ran away. And who killed the lion? The Ethiopians of course.” Beha tells us as he drives. “Those Americans must have been from Texas.” I remarked sarcastically.

Southern landscapes.

I am most impressed by the naturalness of living here. I have never seen such an “organic” country. The majority of farming is subsistence. The people leave the trees in their fields; cactus or brush forms the “fences” of the fields. The huts are all made from the false banana plant, bamboo, or even the mud from the large termite mounds. The animals are kept inside with the people to provide additional warmth in the night. Everything is used; even animal dung serves as firewood or as building material for other structures. Different symbols are often painted on the houses from natural oils, generally from flowers. A lion to designate a hero, a cow to designate a rich man.

Girl chasing our car.

In most of these areas the are few cars and the very sound of the land cruiser brings children to the roads dancing in hopes that we might throw them pens, candy, or money. They chase the car, especially when they see we are white. I have never felt so very aware of being “white” as I do now. In many of the villages we visit large crowds immediately surround us and the children try to touch me as much as possible. There is always a count down to being surrounded by children whenever we get out of the car anywhere. This issue makes bathroom trips to the bush especially time critical. One tries to finish one’s roadside business as quickly as possible lest you end up surrounded in your predicament by curious children.

Local traditional house.

The children are quite entertained when I take their picture and then show them their image on the screen of my digital camera. They often try to pull the bracelets from my wrists. Adults try to hit them with the same switches they use for the cows. Usually their English is very abrupt. “Give me pen.” Or “Give me money.” Much of the experience is very awkward and I am usually embarrassed by the fact that I am “white.” I feel more like a zoo animal than I do when I am Egypt. But the context is different. In Egypt I feel more aware that I am a woman. Here more aware that I am white. I am not sure if there are internal or external reasons for that, or both. I don’t even “believe” in “race” per say and most of the time I rarely think about it. It is a socially constructed category. Humans are more interrelated to each other as a species than almost any other species is related to itself. In other words, humans have a very small degree in variation across the species. Race is nonsense.

Women walking up the mountain.

People in the South do not seem to live in the same poverty and malnutrition that I saw in the North, though they are still very poor. Life is very hard, particularly for the women. Sometimes I find their lives not far different than the work animals. They carry heavy loads of firewood up and down mountains, spin cotton, prepare all the natural made foods (the process to make bread from the false banana plant is quite extensive), make rope, cook, give birth, raise children. The list goes on. Woman was taken from Man’s rib and so on and so forth- we are nothing more than like the animals: here to help Man.

Woman cooking.

“Yes,” Beha laments as he drives. “The life of woman is very very hard. It is not fair. I do not like it.” I am not sure if he is serious or saying it for Megan and my benefit. We have noticed his touches have become more frequent and friendly as our three days with him continues. Perhaps we have a wanna-be Casanova on our hands. We still enjoy his company though we are disappointed that our relationship with him is feeling somewhat tainted. We have both grown considerably tired of feeling like we are seen as sex objects more than anything else in our respective countries. More often than not, when you act somewhat normal or friendly with a man, he suddenly thinks he might have a shot at sleeping with you. Perhaps this is no different than the US, feelings are just kept under wraps there. Beha continues, “The men work in their fields for two to three hours and then have drinks, chat with their friends. The women always have a full day, from sunrise to sunset.”

Woman spinning.

I wonder about the exploitation of women. Why is it that everywhere women are to some degree or another second-class citizens? Marx says it is all about class struggle- well, perhaps it is all about gender struggle and the exploitation of women. Even in this “developing” society that is ripe for foreign exploitation of labor the women have always been the laboring force who in turn reap less for their labor and production than the men.

The deadly schnapps and false banana bread.

I was chewing over such irritations, watching the small hunched over women carry the loads of firewood uphill, when we arrived in the mountain top village of the Dorze people. We started with our typical ethnographic exploration of the traditional hut, guided by the second son of the compound whose name I cannot remember and who I will henceforth refer to as “dreadlock man.” After explanations of weaving and the various utilities of the false banana plant we were seated at a bench and table to try the false banana bread. Little did we know we would also be subjected to the local schnapps flavored with garlic, anise, and other spices. As soon as the shot glasses were set in front of us at 11am I knew we might be in trouble. Hopefully it would only be one.

Did I drink too much?

The shot was absolutely putrid and we had no chaser. Megan kept saying to use the bread as the chaser. The bread seemed to bring out the liquor’s worst flavor. It must have been close to 80 proof and I felt it go straight to my head. I kept saying to myself that by God I was a sailor and I could handle my alcohol. I would not get sick. Before we knew it more shots were before us and our pleas to stop were followed with comments like, “One is not our culture.” I wondered where Beha had gone and I knew Megan and I, two lone women, were probably being given some extra special alcohol treatment. A few other tourists had drifted through the area and they were not being hard pressed with the drinking.

Yes I might have drank too much.

I am not sure how it all happened next but at some point the local people lined up to do their ceremonial dance- or so they said it was. I was well on my way to drunk and watching men dancing around in cheetah skins with spears was not helping the situation. Before I knew it, I was also in a cheetah skin and dancing- and there seems to be photographic evidence as well (thanks to Beha). Megan was dancing across from me, also clad in cheetah skin. This experience was not what we had expected and was going far beyond our little ethnographic and intellectual explorations. Had we just been sitting in the land cruiser working her Mensa crossword puzzle on the drive up? And now we were trashed at 11am on local nasty bamboo-schnapps dancing in animal skins with spears? We felt like we had ended up in some otherworld of the mountain. After the conclusion on the dance we led through the local market by dreadlock man where he showed us what was referred to as the “high school” where people lined a bench drinking tej, or honey wine. You guessed it- it wasn’t long before Megan and I were sitting with huge glasses of the honey wine in front of us, dreadlock man getting more and more friendly. We were laughing, but it was time to escape. As we came down from the mountain, completely inebriated, I asked Megan what the hell had just happened. We had gone to the land of the mountain…

Honey wine with dreadlock man.

By the time my inebriation wore off we were in a boat in the middle of Lake Chamo in search of giant crocodiles and hippos in something reminiscent of the Disney Land Jungle Cruise ride. Lieutenant Commander Megan was pointing out to the boat operator that he had snagged a fisherman’s line in the motor for the second time. I kept muttering “Red over the red. The captain is dead” as I was sure we were about to lose the already feeble engine and go dead in the water in the middle of a lake infested with 5 meter long crocodiles. It would just go with the day.

Don't fall overboard!

As for what actually happened at the end of the day. Well, I might just leave that for Megan’s telling…

Deconstructing Ethiopia

12 July 2011
Axum, Ethiopia

Ethiopian airlines boarding pass.

I have been attempting to understand what in particular bothers me about Ethiopia or our trip in general. This is not to say that I am not enjoying the trip or that I am not in the most excellent of company. Megan is the perfect travel partner for this trip; one of the few people in the world with whom I feel perfectly free to say what ever I wish about anything I wish. We both muse in the evenings over the conditions of Africa, why we waiver into thinking we never need to come back, and then rambling off lists of African countries we both still wish to see: Uganda, Rwanda, South Africa, Kenya. I suppose it is silly and naïve to say we do not wish to return.

"Macaroni and cheese"

I think some of my dismay comes when we stay in locations that try to live up to standards that are impossible to meet. Don’t tempt me with the offer of the internet for 1 birr a minute if in actuality it will take me 30 minutes to load one page so I can send a message to the outside world that all is still well. That sounds petty doesn’t it? We are both dying for news; usually the foreign channels on the TV don’t work or come in so distorted that we can barely make out the large headlines projected on the bottom of the screen. There is something about the phone hacking scandal in Britain. I have pieced together the words Qatar, World Cup 2024, corruption, Kuwait. Belfast riots. Crete explosion. I was leaping for joy at one point when we got Al Jazeera Arabic to come through. I know the protesters went out to Tahrir on the 8th for the sit-in. Esam Sharif spoke on the 9th and said he would fire the police officers charged with killing protesters during the revolution. The sit-in was still continuing on the 10th, the first workday of the week. I know nothing beyond this. In the brief functionality of one page worth of internet yesterday I saw that pro-Bashar Asad individuals attacked the US and French embassies in Damascus. I know nothing further on that.

10 points for whoever can tell me what this man is doing to this camel.

But back to Ethiopia and what bothers me. We briefly walk through some of the mud-covered villages from time to time. There is that smell I have long since equated with burning trash and extreme poverty. There is no plumbing or sewage system and people wash their clothes where the dirty run off water collects. There are the small children covered only by a shirt, protruding stomachs displaying malnutrition, and, of course, flies. It is stereotypical National Geographic. From outside my body I am assaulted with smells and sensations. The children run up to kiss my hands and touch my clothes. I am chewing gum and think that somehow I carry the clean taste of civilization and wealth in my mouth.

One of our villages. This one was quite cool with the painted houses.

I am greatly conflicted with such experiences. We briefly dash through in our state-of-the-art hiking boots but these people cannot leave. I am irritated that I am objectified as a walking moneybag, but how can it be otherwise? I have the immediate impulse to wash my hands after being touched by all the children and then I feel guilty for such a reaction. I feel stupid and cruel for walking through these places in my clean Western clothes. Somehow I feel guilty for even feeling sorry for these people; I am somehow being patronizing in these sentiments as well.

Kids always like having their picture taken and seeing it on the camera screen.

The children try to sell us anything as we go from site to site, even pretty rocks. They are much too young to be trying to sell things. We agree they must be the kids of the local farmers. It reminds me of the children in Tijuana and Rosarito; exploited by their parents or other adults. I keep thinking about Mexico, the borders and the drug wars, the folly of the US war on drugs, almost as much of a folly as the US war on terror. My disenchantment has reached new levels of extremes. To be honest, every interaction I have at the embassy or exposure I have to what “we” think about situations leads me to deeper despair about it all. I see a perpetuation of the world’s injustices as primarily a function of ignorance and bureaucracy. The ignorance is often a choice or even a desire: “let us not look outside our borders and try to understand it.” But we must understand that though we might turn our gaze inward there is no such thing as isolationism. Our mechanisms are external and working their effects on the world whether we choose to acknowledge and understand them or not. Turning a blind eye is the greater sin.

Local market and sheesha smoking.

We create knowledge about places like Africa. Usually such knowledge centers on internal and domestic reasons for modern unfortunate circumstances. It is a standard human cognition process. We tend to see the negative in others as a function of that other, not external circumstances, and rarely try to stand in their shoes or assess whether or not we might have any impact on the predicament. It is also easy to stand on high in the place of the “winner” and make cold, calculated, “rational,” “academic,” assessments about the state of the world and why the have-nots have got themselves in a position of dependency or inferiority. And for some reason I think that such discussions must take place with British accents. The cause is often narrowed down to culture or religion or even statements like “TIA” or “This Is Africa.” Of course we will dress it up in some fancy academic jargon so we can pander it off as “authentic knowledge” and “objective facts.” This is just the way the world is. Carry on.

Another local market.

What has any of this got to do with me flitting in and out of African villages and being overwhelmed with guilt? Perhaps it is even worse to feel that you have somehow “righted” the state of affairs because you have personally born witness to such abject poverty. You have even momentarily touched it. You are a better, bigger, person for this. In my opinion, this is absolute garbage and nonsense. It is, in fact, another form of exploitation. It is an exploitation of suffering and poverty for a sense of righteousness and worldliness. Seeing does not relieve you of some sort of obligation or wash away complicity in a world-system of asymmetry.

Local high school and bar

 Tourism is a form or asymmetrical contact and exchange that illustrates some of the working mechanisms of our world-system. Many of the people of the underdeveloped world rely extensively on tourism for their economy. In cases like Ethiopia they will sell their own heritage and sacred books as trinkets, to those who will not value them the same, simply for enough money to subsist. These people learn what tourists come to value as the appropriate souvenir for that area- the token for an “exotic” and “authentic” experience. The people quickly learn what is characterized by the tourists as the culture and identity of the strange land they are visiting- whether this is the case or not. What do tourists think symbolize Ethiopian culture? Silver crosses? Coffee? Anything else? What of the silenced Muslim population?

Fabrics for sale.

The people learn to produce according to tourist demand. They make copies of copies, changing items to fit more touristic visions (or assumed visions) of what is supposed to represent the essential and authentic culture of the area. Perhaps over time identity changes, at least in the tourist industry, so that what the tourist originally projected as essential to the peoples’ culture becomes assumed and identified as the more salient characteristics of the “native” identity. This identity and knowledge is projected from the outside. “This is the most important symbol and aspect of your culture and identity.” The change in cultural performance and identity is a result of asymmetry in power (and not usually intentional), the haves and have-nots. The implications of asymmetry are far greater than economic: they are ideological. Of course this is still a somewhat simplified manner of looking at this exchange; interactions are always two-way and there is no such thing as a static and essential/authentic culture in the first place. Culture is a verb. It is a human performance. It does not exist in and of itself. This fact does not decrease the implications of the previous exchange: performance is altered, perhaps faster than usual, as a result of asymmetry and the knowledge projections of the wealthier and external Other. There is incentive to change from the Other; however, this does not eliminate agency on the part of the exploited. But how aware are they of the full implications?

"One-eyed non-believer"

11 July 2011 (Lalibela, Ethiopia)

We are very into our religion here. This 1000 year old bible is still in use at the head church in Axum.

“One-eyed, non-believer. One-eyed, non-believer.” It has become our joke in Ethiopia. In fact, I am sure that as Megan sits across from me writing she is punching out the same lines on her keyboard. It is just that we are simply tired of being told the same story and the same details in every church we visit, which must amount to at least twenty at this point. The details are always given to us as pure facts to be accepted without question. One man was even forward enough to tell us he expected us to convert to Ethiopian Orthodox Christianity after a week here. The most repeated fact comes when we are looking at the rich and medieval imagery that covers most churches. All believers are depicted with two eyes though still from a side angle. Jesus, angels, God, and the like are always looking forward with two eyes. And the dreaded non-believers, well, you can guess: sideways with one eye.

The Ark comes to Axum with Menelik I

The most sensational fact to be believed is that Ethiopia is actually the possessor of the Ark of the Covenant. Everyone will tell you this with absolute certainty. This fact is usually followed up with claims about how both the CIA and Mossad is obsessively trying to acquire the Ark and so the priests of Ethiopia must be forever on their guard. How did Ethiopia end up with the Ark? Well, the Queen of Sheba was from Ethiopia (never mind that most academics will place her in Yemen) and when she went to Jerusalem she was tricked into King Solomon’s bed. Upon her return to Ethiopia she gave birth to their son Menelik I who went to visit his father in Jerusalem at age 18. When he departed Solomon sent with him some of the highest ranked priests and twelve thousand Jews from the various families. The priests decided to take the Ark with them to Ethiopia. When Solomon discovered the disappearance he was more than a little angry but then later had a dream where God told him that the Ark should go with his son. Menelik became the first ruler in a dynasty that is claimed to have remained unbroken until the revolution in the 70’s. And never mind that the dynasty was most certainly broken by several hundred years more than a few times; or that the claim to a Solomonic dynasty first started in order to give legitimacy to the Gondar rulers who seceded the dynasty at Lalibela who had previously claimed to be descended from Moses. Thus, the Ark rests in Ethiopia, specifically in Axum (where we are traveling today). There is only one guardian of the Ark who cannot leave the premises of the chapel where the Ark is kept for the duration of his life. He is the only person allowed to see the Ark and God sends him a message to designate his predecessor at the appointed time. Each church in Ethiopian Orthodox is constructed in Old Testament style with a place for the Holy of Holies. Additionally, each church has a replica of the Ark hidden behind a curtain that only deacons and priests can see. The Ethiopians believe that even the replicas have power. And if you think you might be able to break into the real Holy of Holies at Axum you better be ready for an Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade type of scenario. There are no less that fifteen replicas in the Holy of Holies in Axum and it is unlikely that you would know which one is the real Ark. “Choose wisely.”

The chapel of the Ark

We have memorized this story and others after our five days in Ethiopia. We are told the Ark story anew when we visit just about every church. We are also retold just about every story of the Bible (Ethiopian style) since there is an overwhelming need to explain all the artwork. It has been enough to make Megan exclaim on our second day, “I am ready for a mosque!” In addition to Bible stories (like at least two of the three wise men were most certainly Ethiopian because they brought frankincense and myrrh). I have also been told unabashedly that the King James Bible is wrong in translation (though I would not disagree with this statement) and the Ethiopian Bible is right by all accounts (most people don’t seem to be aware of the NIV version). The eleven rock hewn churches (quite magnificent) were built in 24 years with King Lalibela and his workers working by day and angels and God by night. The remains of pilgrims 400 years old still have flesh on them because they were washed in holy water. The Egyptians did not build the pyramids; it was the Ethiopians and the Jews. In fact, Egypt has nothing of its own as even the Nile originates in Ethiopia at Lake Tana (we omit discussion of the White Nile and Lake Victoria). I am often asked with a sly grin what the Egyptians think about the Ethiopian plan to divert more of the Nile. One person even went so far as to say that without Mubarak, Egypt was no longer a strong country. It is in transition and weak. I did not reply. It does seem that most Ethiopians do, however, have sympathy for Egyptian democratic desires and are rather amazed by the revolution.

An Ethiopian Orthodox priest staring down we one-eyed non-believers

When I asked today about Muslims in Ethiopia today I was told there are “some” (Muslims make up about one third of the population) but they are not allowed to build mosques in Axum. Why? It is a Christian holy city and anyway, Mecca does not allow the construction of churches so why should Muslims be allowed to build mosques in Christian holy cities? I decided to not stir the argument further, especially when I found that I was a little angry at that remark. It is the same anger I feel when Egyptians tell me there is absolutely no bias against the Copts in Egypt. Or when such a stir was made about building a community center with a mosque a few blocks from the World Trade Center- people forget the World Trade Center actually had a mosque in it and some of the victims were Muslims. But I shall leave this controversial issue of religion behind for now.

St. George rock church at Lalibela

Perhaps I started with religion because it has permeated nearly every aspect of our trip thus far. I think we are starting to feel like we are in continuous Ethiopian Sunday school. It is good to remember that in the end, what is important is what people actually believe and how their identities are constructed- no matter how fantastical outsiders might find these stories. After all, we all construct our own histories.

The lunch that sent us over the edge.

On another note, I arrived in Ethiopia more than excited about the cuisine, especially injera or the spongy bread. I dove full force into sampling the local eating without fear since in my last decade of international travel I have never become physically ill upon arrival to a new country. Well, I have not been to Africa- real Africa that is. Both Megan and I were promptly rewarded with grueling pains, unspeakable bodily functions, and twenty fours hours of basic incapacitation. Thankfully our stints occurred one day apart so we could each care for the other in each other’s respective time of need. Of course mine had to occur in the middle of the night at remote Bahir Dar, in the ghetto fake telephones hotel (we have telephones in the room but, no, they don’t actually work) when we had no bottled water (yes, I swear, Megan and I are brilliant and experienced travelers). After I had been suffering for two hours I was starting to get scarily light headed and ready to pass-out. My body was in serious need of water. Megan marched to the front of the locked hotel lobby in her pajamas at 3 am (still sick herself) to confront a single guard who kept yelling “No! No water! Closed!” Finally she was led around the back to a scary looking water spicket. “We can’t drink that! We are farangi! That will just make us more sick!” Farangi references the French but is now served as a classification for any foreigner in Ethiopia. Finally, after 45 minutes, a driver emerged to take the still pajama-clad Megan into town to a nicer hotel that actually manned the desk at night (since everything else in town was closed). Thankfully she was able to get us some water and kept me from breaking down and drinking from the dreaded water spicket.

"Who are these farangi?"

Since our horrid stomach tribulations Megan and I have stuck to “safe” and “nice” food that generally revolves around rice, pasta, and vegetables. I usually prefer to be vegetarian anyway and sadly I have lost all desire for local cuisine. Megan has more recently began entering places and remarking that it smells good. My response has lately been, “I dislike all smells because they all smell like Ethiopia.” My enthusiasm will return with full stomach recovery…enshallah. Our stomachs have both shrunk and we are usually unable to finish our plates, much to the dismay and irritation of the waiters who constantly ask what is wrong with the food. I keep thinking I must be horribly evil and politically incorrect to laugh at Megan every meal and say, “You better finish your plate because there are people starving in Ethiopia.” I must admit that South Park and “Starvin’ Marvin” have also not gone without reference.

The lush Ethiopian landscape.

However, the famines here were years ago and contrary to most stereotypes the majority of Ethiopia is lush, fertile, and green. It has rained every day we have been here (of course we are here during the rainy season). Most people make their living as subsistence farmers though they are, as can be imagined, incredibly poor. I have not seen poverty on this scale since I was in India. In fact, the life expectancy here is 55 years old according to the CIA world fact book. It is not a kind life. As can be expected the people who I see working the hardest are the women. They often carry huge bundles of firewood or other commodities on their backs and walk extreme distances, often uphill. They are expected to carry out the long and elaborate Ethiopian coffee ceremony three times a day, not to mention all the other household and agricultural duties. Often they cut their hair short like the men so little maintenance is required. Women and men are separated in church services and women are often barred from entering certain churches or monasteries (and this rule extended to us as well- though one guide offered to let us dress as men to enter other monasteries).

Transport across the river.

In one village close to the Blue Nile falls I was told that the women married at twelve and the men at sixteen. In another village my “inner archaeologist” was horrified to find several hundred-year-old bibles (made from animal skin), icons, and other artifacts for sale. I was hoping upon closer inspection I would conclude they were forgeries but as far as I could tell they were not. “Why are they selling these?” I asked stupidly before thinking. “Because they are very very poor. They have one bible at home and that is enough.” Now I understood that the sign at the Addis airport was rather serious: Please do not take old bibles and artifacts from Ethiopia.

Landscape around Lalibela

 I have been told many times that the government owns all the land in Ethiopia. Farmers can work on it for free but they cannot sell it and no one is an owner. One person explained to me that they found this to be a good system because if private land ownership were allowed then everything would immediately be bought up by the rich and the poor would be exploited. Therefore the government is doing the farmers (the majority of Ethiopians) a favor by keeping the land out of the hands of the rich. Of course the government reserves the right to remove any person from land at any point if they reach a more profitable agreement with any foreign investors. Therefore, one is never truly safe from being pushed off the land. Sadly, I have been bereft of any internet and have had to rely extensively on our guidebook for further information about most of these matters.

Transit Adventures

The Marshrutka.

Ted, as he named himself, must have been at least 75 years old. I met him in the midst of being yelled at in Russian by the driver for the marshrutka (a large van) taking us from Yerevan, Armenia to Tbilisi, Georgia. I had handed the driver money but was coming to understand that he wanted more. When I handed him another 1000 dram note (about three dollars) he angrily waved me off. Having spent some time now in cash oriented economies (I had to learn to stop thinking I could use a debit card for my 3 dollar coffee at Starbucks) I understood the problem to be the classic exact change issue- which I did not have.

Enter Ted in his tweed suit, plaid tie, and a flat cap (or something close to it). When he spoke I could barely catch his quiet words. For a moment I was unsure if he was actually trying to join the driver and my wild conversation of two people flailing arms yelling past each other in totally different languages. The driver was convinced that I spoke Russian and could understand him.

“Miss? Miss?” Came Ted’s voice from the side. “Do you speak English?” He said very slowly, like his words came from an old engine that had not been started for some time.

Finally my brain registered the sentence coming from my side. “I do speak English.”

“Ahhh, you’re American.” The old man smiled. I wasn’t sure if this was a compliment, an insult, or a mere observation. You never can tell. “He wants you to give him 500 dram more.”

Ted was quiet and seemed unsure of his English- but it emerged slowly and in perfectly formed sentences. He was fluent but obviously had not spoken in a long time.

I answered. “Yes, but I don’t have exact change. I have been trying to communicate this. I have this 1000 dram bill left. That’s it.” We wouldn’t get into the other currencies I had with me- dollars were usually welcome anywhere but they guaranteed you to get ripped off. Plus, I was trying to work my Armenian dram so that I would barely have any left over when I made it to Georgia.

Finally the situation was rectified by a youth who traded me some coins for my 1000 and I was able to take my place standing with the other passengers aimlessly waiting until the marshrutka had reached full capacity. I knew it would not leave until every seat was filled. I was a curiosity for the rest of the passengers- Armenians and Georgians.

I am not sure when it was over the years of solitary travels that I lost consciousness of the fact that a lone female making her way through such countries is generally an oddity. It is probably because I have embraced it. A single female is not threatening, and even more, everyone feels some sort of desire to guide and protect her while she is visiting their strange land. I am never lacking for conversation and hospitality.

The previous few days I had crisscrossed nearly every corner of Yerevan on foot. I love to walk cities- you experience them much better that way. I would return to the apartment in the evenings to a smiling Armenian version of a bo’ab. “Hello bootiful girl.” Was all he ever said to me. I had been a bit nervous the first time he jammed himself in the small elevator with me as I made my way to the 8th floor of the old Soviet concrete building. After a couple days I got used to it, realizing he meant escorting me as a courtesy- and of course he was curious.

Yerevan.

But back to the marshrutka- it was nearly an hour before we left. Sixteen people jammed into a van flying down a road toward Tbilisi. We would have to go the “long way” since the route could not longer go through Azerbaijan. It was quite impossible for Azeris and Armenians to enter each other’s countries these days. The last time I had traveled in such a style was with my brother the past summer. I laughed out loud when I recalled a vision of him crammed into the middle of one row of the van, all 6 feet 3 inches of him, nearly in the laps of the Egyptian men around him. I had been the only woman on that particular trip- we were headed from Cairo to the Western desert oases towns. I had been vaguely amused see to my “little” brother assume responsibility for “protecting” me from the penetrating stares and comments from the men on the journey.

This trip had no such issues. Besides, Ted had already assumed the role of my guide and protector. At each town he told me details- here in 1988 nearly 25,000 people were buried in an earthquake. Entire families disappeared. This church was built in memory of them. In this town there is a stone bridge that is 750 years old and still in service. He beamed with pride. Ted, it turned out, was born in New York and had learned his English in his youth though he couldn’t remember the last time he had spoken it. He reminded me of my grandfather on road trips every time he mentioned details about each village we transited. In fact, they are probably the same age.

The marshrutka traveled into terrain I hadn’t expected. We followed a river after we made our way though a snow covered mountain range. The scenery was almost heartbreakingly beautiful. Perhaps my infatuation with snow and the cold had come from recently finishing Orhan Pamuk’s novel of the same title.

The river stop.

Finally, on a stop by a river, we took a mid-journey break. Ted took me by the arm to escort me- something I only ever see in old movies- to a table near a flowing fountain that overlooked the river. “Share my breakfast with me. And you can wash here- this is pure, clean, water.”

He told me about his family. He was going to Tbilisi to visit the graves of his parents. He did so once or twice a year. For some reason his wife lived in Moscow. His children lived in Europe and the US. His granddaughter had just finished her medical degree. As we split the bread stuffed with spiced potatoes and cheese I thought to ask why he had left the US long ago or why his family was scattered across the globe. But my American reserve made me think this was too personal of a question. He wrote the name of a town and church I should visit outside Tbilisi- the best church in all of Georgia, he said. I told him I lived in Cairo. He wanted to hear about the revolution. I wondered how many things he has seen and been a part of in his long life. I wondered what it had been like to live under the Iron Curtain.

The trip to Tbilisi took only 6 hours. The Georgian immigration officer lit up with delight when he saw my American passport. Apparently Georgia was one of the places in the world still thrilled with the US.

“How long will you stay?”

“I am afraid only 4 days.”

“Ohhh…” He wagged his finger scolding me, “You must stay longer!”

Tbilisi reminds me vaguely of Budapest. It might be the bridges and the river. Unlike Yerevan, it has a great deal of baroque. Yet it is still most evidently poor and has rough edges. It has a bit of a wild feel about it. I look forward to further exploration.

Armenia Notes

The weather in Yerevan has been cold and drizzly- all the more reason I don’t feel guilty now for curling up in a corner of my rented apartment, writing, reading, and sipping on Ararat brandy that smells of harvest fruit and late summer. I switched from Nescafe to the world famous brandy at some point between Mario Vargas Llosa’s “Conversation in the Cathedral” and Richard Neustadt’s “Presidential Power.” It is said that Churchill was so impressed by Armenian brandy after he was given a bottle by Stalin that he had regular shipments sent to him in England from then on out. In that case, I had to try it.

Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 3 is on repeat- it just fits the atmosphere. At some point I’m going to read Lenin’s “Imperialism, the Highest Stage of Capitalism.” It gives me some odd pleasure to read it in a former part of the Soviet Union. It gets brought up so much in everything I read I feel rather dumb for having never cracked open the 120 page or so book.

The apartment always smells of spices. The owner, away in Germany, has an obvious fetish for spices- tens of reused Nutella containers are stacked one upon the other, each filled with a different spice and meticulously labeled in Cyrillic letters. From what I gather from the neighbors, he is known as “the doctor.” His brother, who rented the apartment to me for the week, must also be a doctor and happens to work for USAID in Yerevan. From the balcony I can see across into Turkey and Mt. Ararat that is still half covered in snow. Its peak reaches far above the clouds and cannot be seen. It is a rather imposing mountain.

The Armenians consider themselves the descendants of Hyak, the great-grandson of Noah. And Armenia is considered to be the first country to adopt Christianity as the state religion- in 301 AD. Getting here was a small adventure in and of itself. I flew what I will refer to as “Ghetto Ukrainian Airlines” where they had to announce at least three times that yes, this was in fact a non-smoking flight. If you decide to smoke the police will be waiting for you as soon as we land in Kiev. The inflection in the flight attendant’s voice almost made it seem like she ended the sentence with “where you will be promptly taken away to the back of the airport and shot on the spot.” I was taken aback by the vigor and force of the announcement- it exceeded the threats required to keep Egyptians smoking on aircraft. I had 50 minutes to transfer in Kiev and as I entered the congested and smoke filled airport I found what looked like acres of people waiting in line to go through security to make their transfer flights. The backup was caused by a single security point used for all transfer passengers- this was making the Cairo airport look pretty good. Over the course of a half hour I worked my way through the crowd as thick as Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras- perhaps the smoke, dirt and grime of the airport was momentarily taking me back to those New Orleans nights I can’t remember. I was the last person to run to my gate and hop on the bus that was taking passengers out to the aircraft. As far as I could tell, I was the only non-Armenian on the flight.

I knew my arrival in Armenia would not necessarily go as smoothly as I might hope. My tourist passport only had about half a page of room and I was hoping the Armenian visa would be the size of a Turkish visa- slightly larger than a postage stamp. I already had an appointment at the US embassy my second day in Armenia so I could get a new passport or pages. Of course, the Armenian visa is the largest I have seen yet to date- it is nearly the size of an entire passport page. Before long I had my own small crowd of Armenian officials trying to resolve the situation of where to put my visa.

“Can’t you be like Israel and just stamp a page or something?” I asked.

“No. no. We can’t do that.”

“Well there are these two amendments pages in the back. What the hell are these for anyway? Just put it on that.”

“We aren’t sure if that is acceptable.”

“Is that acceptable to you? You are the immigration officer.”

Finally they called someone at the US embassy who promptly told them to put it on the amendments pages. After my hour delay I grabbed my bag and headed through customs. Not so fast- we want to see your baggage tickets. Really? I went searching through my disorganized pockets. I didn’t think my baggage tickets had ever been checked in US customs, let alone Armenia. They were not joking around here in Armenia. I would learn that once again at the library at the American University in Armenia- rules in Armenia are meant to be followed (to use the library I had to put down a 15,000 dram deposit as a foreigner).

The day I arrived was Iranian New Year. Thousands of Iranians were in Yerevan celebrating in manners illegal in their own country. My cab driver made a few complaints about the Iranians in broken English. Then he moved to a few phrases about Obama that included the words “nigger” and “Mickey Mouse.” I couldn’t make any sense of it really- except that he did also make fun of Sarkozy and the French and somehow managed to also associate them with Mickey Mouse. I found it interesting that a people who had been subject to a brutal genocide seemed to be as racist as ever- but alas; he was just one taxi driver. And taxi drivers in all countries are always dynamic, to say the least.

Armenia is a poor country that is still filled with old Soviet architecture and sculptures. I have likened it to walking into a 1980’s B-action movie with the Russians. I went to the local “super market” to get some things for the apartment. I found a small shelf of produce, another of dairy, a small deli set up, and bakery. The food section of the market was about the size of the aisles at 7-11. The other side of the store was Walmart sized aisles. One side was nothing but cartons of cigarettes, the other vodka and brandy. There was one other similar sized aisle with chocolate and panty hose. So, in Armenia, at least at this market, the grocery store is 75% cigarettes, alcohol, chocolate, and panty hose.

I will end my beginning notes on Armenia here…

The Evoked Set

I have been in Istanbul for ten days now. Tomorrow I will head to Yerevan, Armenia- partly out of a conviction that I want to finally visit a country I have never visited before. So far my exile travels have been repeats of the past. And while I do not dislike memories, I am in the mood for something different. I do not know where my mood will take me from Armenia. I think Tbilisi-Jason and the Golden Fleece- might be in my future.

Istanbul has been enjoyable and has conjured up many memories for me- though most of them did not take place in this city. I have noticed some changes since I was last here- there are more prayer beads and more headscarves than I recall from before. The sidewalks are better paved (something that someone inclined towards a general klutziness tends to notice). The hospitality is still not for want, even in the midst of what feels to be a very Western and modern city. Ataturk can still be found in nearly every location. Someone remarked to me today that there must be a special school just for Ataturk sculptors so that there is uniformity in capturing his piercing eyes. I have to say the man looks rather scary.

It has snowed and rained a good portion of the time. The weather made me feel justified about the hours I spent pouring over foreign policy books in the Bogazici University library. This evening my read seemed to be interminable- one more page of a political scientist trying to spell out hundreds of psychological variables that might affect human behavior, so as map the way towards a predictive model of this behavior, might have driven me mad. I find the whole notion of such a predictive model somewhat absurd anyway. I walked out into the cold rain and caught a cab to Levent, the area I moved to a week ago to leave the tourists of Sultanahmet. It was time for my last meal in Turkey- at least this trip. I think food brings back more memories than anything.

The smells and flavors of hot lentil soup, splash of lemon, brought me back to Marash and the days at the excavation. The heat of the afternoons was almost unbearable. We would lie on the woven mats in the shade until afternoon tea, trying to sleep while still sweating. In the evenings, after having sorted the pottery, we would each take our one ice cold Efes, attempting to make it last through dinner if possible. I would watch the sunset and the distant Taurus mountains, thinking of the people who came down from them thousands of years before to begin building the complex web of societies we find ourselves in today. This is why I will never accept the premise that mankind is utterly trapped by structures, be they environmental, economic, or ideational. We built what we live in now- politics, economics, culture are the result of man’s creativity and action. History did not emerge from a vacuum. These sunsets and the mountains, the Anatolian plains, often brought on the same sensations I would feel while staring across empty expanses of ocean that accentuated the details of the sky.

The spiced yogurt blended with lamb reminded me of the kitchen where the Kurdish girls would prepare our meals. I would take my breaks with them, listening to one talk about her imminent marriage to a Turk living in Switzerland. She was scared and exhilarated. They would teach me bits of Turkish and Kurdish- most of which I cannot recall now. I would return to the water and archaic set-up I used to extract plant material (my little paleoethnobotany sidejob) from the samples at the site. As I sorted I worked my way through seven thousand year old pottery, finding small joy each time the mud washed away and revealed a new design. I liked to consider that I was the first person touching this man-made object in thousands of years and wondered if I could sense some sort of connection to the last person who touched it. What were they thinking? What did they care about?

I often still recall the face of the excavation’s driver. I cannot remember his name now- only that he came from Urfa or Diyarbakir and that his eyes always seemed to emanate a happy light. He was a devoted Muslim, never missed prayer. He would quietly and unobtrusively slip away to his tent and I used to watch him ceremoniously washing his feet and prepare himself for prayer. In the nights when we all passed around a horrid bottle of raki he would smile and watch us get drunk- telling us without judgment that he was praying for us all. I would stumble back to my tent still, in the midst of my inebriation, terrified of the ungodly enormous orange spiders indigenous to the area. Even in drunkenness I did not forget my greatest fear. I kept the mosquito net tucked in tightly around the two cots I had put together, one for storing all my clothes in a place where I was convinced that the spiders would never reach- boots included. I never wanted to find one in my bed or in my boots in the morning. I methodically checked for any sign of a gap between the two cots, lest there be an entrance for would be intruders. Then I would drift away into sleep for a few hours and hope no portion of my arm touched the netting in the night. That was always a prize for the relentless mosquitoes.

The TV at the restaurant was showing clips of Libya. Finally the West had intervened and it was not a unilateral American action. I was thankful for that. I mulled over the emotion I felt the day before as the news of US Navy launched Tomahawks broke. I had been exhilarated, proud of having had a hand in the shape of the operational planning, and even tad bit wishful that I was located on one of those warships when they launched. This emotion was quickly joined with guilt and even shame for having felt it. Libya was a tragic situation all around- the fact that it had to come to this. People were dying from those missiles- even if they were Gaddafi’s forces. Was it the violence that brought me this sudden vicious pleasure? Or was it simply organizational pride? I put my raw, unintended emotions aside- they could be evaluated later.

Now is time for a new travel adventure. For the first time in this trip, I find myself excited again…

Istanbul Rantings

My exile brought me to Istanbul- I have been here now for three days. Though I cannot yet return to Cairo permanently I am somewhat comforted by the feeling that I am back in the East- whatever that is or means. It probably means I’m one of those damn orientalists- essentializing everything so that it fits my romantic notions. I am fond of church bells but I am more drawn to the sound of the muezzin- especially at sunset. There is perhaps no better prayer-accompanied-sunset than that seen from a rooftop overlooking the Blue Mosque, Hagia Sophia, and scattered Ottoman domes throughout the old city of Sultanahmet spanning out to the Bosphorus and the Sea of Marmara. It was seven years ago that I first enjoyed the view.

Turkey, of course, brings back many memories of the past, not the least of which being a whirlwind romance and marriage. I have to say that it still brings a smile to my face to remember. Much of my memories are flashes- being kidnapped by the village Kurdish girls so they could dress me for the local wedding. The heads of families pinning gold coins on us to melt into wedding bands. Wandering though Syria. The Armenian goldsmiths of Aleppo that made my ring. It was a great story- even if life’s mistakes and realities cruelly intervened. But we never question the phrase “and they lived happily ever after” at the end of fairy-tales.

When I arrived in Istanbul it was snowing thick swirling flakes across the city. It thought fit perfectly as I read the first few pages of my accompanying fiction (Snow):

“As evening fell, he lost himself in the light lingering in the sky above; in the snowflakes whirling ever more wildly in the wind he saw nothing of the impending blizzard but rather a promise, a sign pointing the way back to the happiness and purity he had known, once, as a child. Our traveler had spent his years of happiness and childhood in Istanbul; he’d returned a week ago for the first time in twelve years…He was a poet and, as he himself had written-in a poem still largely unknown to Turkish readers-it snows only once in our dreams.” 

The cold cut through my layers of clothes- at least I had checked the weather before packing. Within two hours of arrival I found myself in the corner of a tea-house, laying across various pillows and cushions, covered in blankets, smoking sheesha, and drinking tea from the Turkish glasses that I love. I watched the snow continue to fall outside and tried to stop thinking about Cairo. I was thinking of a recent conversation I had- someone telling me about how, in their second novel, one of the characters included the American ambassador to Egypt- a woman. In the story a vague environmental or some other form of apocalyptic disaster had struck Egypt causing a shortage of water. Throughout the crisis the American ambassador remains in her office, reporting to higher authorities, and never ventures out to understand what is happening outside. The Americans had managed to dig a tunnel between the embassy and Maadi- so that they could come and go without ever really being in contact with Egypt. Astounding. And not far from the everyday truth of official American operations in Egypt- at least as far as I can see. The embassy seems to be plagued by some irrational fear that stems from ignorance. Though I can’t quite draw the connection- it reminds me of the stale and meaningless words Hillary Clinton has spoken recently on Libya. It reminds me of people who suggest that that the modern “globalized” world causes us all, as some sort of “global village,” to experience each other’s sufferings and the consequences of events. No. That is a ridiculous concept that stems from people who have never truly experienced hardship and suffering. It is patronizing- like Thomas Friedman’s portrait in the NY Times. Don’t ask me where that came from.


From my conversations with several people, no one understands the US embassy right now and why they are still behaving as if world war three is occurring outside the embassy walls. Why are the Americans, in an official capacity, afraid to interact with civil society? “Dear Egypt, We support your peaceful revolution but, on the other hand, you are all a bunch of unpredictable barbarians and we expect you to turn your country into something that resembles modern Germany before we have full confidence in you and have all our embassy employees and families return. I mean, you guys are Arabs after all, so we have to be sure. What will make us sure? When the police force, whom terrorized and brutalized you for decades, is able to return in full force to the streets and prevent the minor episodes of theft that have happened at night in Maadi. We can’t have laptops and iPhones being stolen. And when we are confident you won’t head into civil war or a jihad against the West over the price of tomatoes after the economic crisis truly sets in. Not that the majority of people of Egypt haven’t been living in state poverty for quite some time. Why can’t you all just be quiet and obey your military masters for the sake of stability? This peaceful protesting in Tahrir and demand for true civilian-led democracy is just out of hand.”

It’s embarrassing. It is actually comical. I am embarrassed when I try to explain to friends why embassy personnel are still in an “evacuated” status. I still remember the briefs the embassy gave upon arrival to Egypt- don’t ride in microbuses because they are full of (shhhhhh…wait for it…) Egyptians. And don’t buy groceries at the local market because you will surely die. Needless to say, I have always kept my distance from the embassy and their absurd notions about Egypt. But I find it utterly disheartening how disengaged they are with the situation- before and after the revolution.

Before I worked myself into another rage that snowy evening my thoughts were interrupted by the waiter who had been overly attentive to the coal for my sheesha, along with bringing me continual cups of complimentary tea. This time he smiled shyly and handed me a flower and a card. He fled the scene immediately. “My name is Yalçin. I like you.” Was printed above a phone number and e-mail. It was enough to make me laugh and forget Cairo. Seven years ago when I traveled across Turkey alone by bus, I would frequently return to my seat after a stop to find a small flower or, even more creative, napkins made into carnations. One time I swam in local spring and some of the teenage boys swam across from the other side, flowers between their teeth, so that they could then present me with them. I had forgotten those moments until my young waiter decided to present me with his small gift.

I have started working out of the library at Bogazici University, pretending that I am student here so I can read the books I need. My graduate advisor back in Cairo has been gracious enough to let me remain in a class through distance learning. The semester will not be a total loss- and I will have something besides my anger to occupy me throughout my exile. Maybe I will be able to return soon- but I am slowly losing hope in any sort of sensible conclusion to this fiasco.