Zanzibar! Ash and I wanted to go to Zanzibar because the name evoked the sound of a mysterious, sexy and inviting island. It is also the name of one of my favorite music clubs in Santa Monica. What we imagined and were looking forward to was exotic night clubs, relaxed people looking for fun, the heady aroma of spices scenting the air, intriguing cuisine (I love the African restaurants row on Pico Bl. in LA), fabulous white sand beaches and awesome African music being piped through the streets.

Now, after having spent some time in Zanzibar, I’m sad to say the name also invokes images of filth, insects, bats, and the most pungent, awful body odor you can’t imagine. The people we’ve encountered so far don’t seem to have the magical element that I have witnessed in so many other underdeveloped countries. Another disappointment is that they have no magical rooftops with fabulous views and great music, no dancing ‘til dawn, in fact very little partying at all (due to the majority Muslim population). Ash and I were both in the mood for a weekend getaway to let down our hair and move our bodies ’til dawn. We quickly got that it is not going to happen here.

On the bright side, there is very little crime. What crime exists is usually committed by cab drivers, who all seem to think they have been hired as tour guides. You ask them to take you to one place and they insist on taking you to another – a more historically significant monument that doesn’t actually exist anymore, but they want to show you the ruins (or piles of bricks to you and me). For example, we asked to be taken to a hamaam for a traditional Turkish bath. Instead of the bath that we were so looking so forward to, we were taken to a building where a hamaam once lived. Our driver thought it might be insightful and a better use of our time to learn about the history of this particular ruined building and to tell us about fabulous baths that once were – instead of actually receiving one.

The next day, we asked our cabbie to take us to the famous spice market (Zanzibar is known as the “Spice Island”). As we drove to what we thought was the spice market, our cabbie began to point out the historical buildings we MUST see. We politely told him we were on a really tight schedule as were leaving the island early the next morning, and to please just take us to our destination. Again, we never made it to our destination because our “guide” decided we needed to go to a spice farm instead! It was tremendously important that we see where and how the spices were grown. Finally, in defeat, we acquiesced. Certainly, if he had more time we could have indulged in such time-consuming activities but our cab driver couldn’t understand our time predicament. He was focused on us not leaving the island without a deeper understanding of how things worked and their history, which he was understandably proud of.

Of course, we ended up buying spices from this farm (from a long table set up in the middle of a forest of pepper trees with a variety of packaged spices displayed), which was probably the real reason for our being brought there (the cab drivers get a cut of the sale of the customers he brings to the farm). So, for 17,000 Zanzibar schillings (approx. US$18) we can boast that we bought our spices right from the source in Zanzibar. And all said and done, it still was an interesting shopping experience, certainly one of the most exotic that I’ve had.

Politically and religiously, Zanzibar is a Muslim country (it’s actually part of Tanzania). Therefore, we got a daily dose of the Koranic call-to-prayer five times a day. It’s an interesting experience listening to the muezzin’s cry while you’re sunbathing in a bikini and drinking a beer. Approximately 90% of the hotel/service industry workers, however, are Christians. Everyone is black and African, of course, but they have English names like Michael, Vincent, Susan, and Jonathan – all were very nice, friendly and curious about us.

As far as eating and sleeping goes, those may be the most dangerous activities on the island. Apparently, Zanzibar has the second highest malaria rate in the world. My masseuse called it the mosquito capital of the world. She said that six months ago they just started a new program where each house is sprayed completely every two months to help stop the increasing spread of malaria. She said it is working and there have been less deaths since the program was implemented. There are millions of mosquitoes and other ugly, awful hungry bugs/animals constantly searching for fresh blood! We always ate our meals accompanied by swarming mosquitoes attracted to the lights above us, bats on the window frames and ground, worms on the walls next to us and hundred of annoying gnats and other small bugs constantly coming and going – mostly coming.

We slept with mosquito nets fully covering our beds. And it was interesting to note upon arrival, that our hotel room came with a complimentary can of bug spray. Despite these defenses, the mosquitoes here are far more determined and clever than you can imagine. I am convinced they hold conferences and summits to figure out how to get around all the mechanisms we silly people use to try and keep them from their God-given right to our blood. A Mosquito Repellant Counter-Intelligence Think Tank if you will. Evidence of their guerrilla warfare is present everywhere. Ash and I would wake up and first thing in the morning compare ugly bites. We’re sure there are also hundreds of bedbugs so tiny they are difficult to spot. After a while you begin to wonder if you are actually being bitten or if it’s in your head. But the physical evidence shows we were clearly not imagining the bites. Ash won this morning with seven bites on her right butt cheek and six in one ugly cluster of carnage alone.

Today, we bid adieu to Zanzibar and its bugs on a high note, smoking hookah pipes lodaded with apple tobacco and drinking delicious, spicy tea.

Ash and I are back from our three-day Camp Natron bush safari adventure. It has been a long time since either of us has camped out in the wilderness. We survived 6+ hours getting there, driving on unpaved and very rocky dirt roads – bouncing up and down and up and down and rocking side to side for hour after hour. I have never before needed a support bra more than during my drives through Arusha!

Upon our arrival at the camp, we quickly forgot the long bumpy journey and marveled at the wildlife that would be sharing out refuge for the next three days: zebras, giraffes, baboons, camels, flamingos – and less gloriously, vicious mosquitoes, gnats, bed bugs, scorpions, centipedes, beetles, snakes and rats. The only other humans even remotely nearby were the ancient Masai tribes.

We were led to our tent by the camp host, Abdullah, who wore a permanent broad smile on his face. In my opinion, the greatest sites to behold in Africa are not the mountains or the wildlife but the beautiful smiles of the people.

Arriving at our “bedou-style” tent, we were given a brief tour of the ten by twenty foot space: the bedroom, the lounge chairs, the bathroom. Now I have to say, I am quite used to rough travel, having journeyed through many developing countries, but getting your first glimpse of your toilet facilities is always a little unnerving. For those who don’t know what a compost toilet is – you’re lucky. As we surveyed the bathroom, Ash and I looked at each other and telepathically decided we would be constipated for the next three days. Note to self: Lots of bread, little water.

On our first night we simply chilled out, ate dinner and hung with our hosts Stacia and Tim along with three other travelers from Geneva – two brothers and the girlfriend of one. The food was impressively tasty and we devoured it –spiced with a variety of small bugs, I’m sure. We were each given a walkie-talkie in case of an emergency, or if we simply needed another cup of coffee or snack delivered to our tent.

After dinner and a bit of socializing we adjourned to our Bedouin tent. To get there we had to walk in the dark down a long dirt path amidst weeds and pockets of hundreds of tiny flying bugs (glad I brought a small flashlight which came in handy). Our tent had a camouflage tarp that covered the whole area, and then inside was another smaller tent that functioned like a small bedroom – with one  queen-size wood-frame bed with a foam mattress, sheets and a blanket folded into a small square at the foot of each bed. We were impressed. Our room looked clean and comfortable. We sat on the foam mattress and decided they would definitely get the job done. Far better than a sleeping bag on the ground, in any case.

On side tables next to our respective bedsides were two lamps that, in addition to providing illumination, served as the local discotheque for all the bugs and mosquitoes that had infiltrated our room. As with most discos, not everyone leaves at last call. After the lights went out (due to a power shortage) our bedroom became their after-hours hot spot. Note: At least in Africa, DEET does not work!!! Science has yet to invent a mosquito repellent that reliably repels African mosquitoes, flies, bed bugs, and gnats.

The next morning we woke up early, surprisingly well rested despite having been eaten alive up by the bugs. We walked with what remained of our bodies down the long path to the common tent that served as our dining area – very civilized. We were greeted by our friendly staff and seven camels grazing in the nearby field. Our dining tent was like a five-star restaurant in the middle of bush land. Here, the staff waits anxiously for your requests and “no” is a word you seldom hear. We had our standard fare of eggs and toast, washed down with lots of organic coffee.

Lake Natron Walk

After a long breakfast Ash and I (with Stacia and her two Dobermans, Chitani and Sugar) ventured out with a local guide/staff to walk the terrain for about a mile to view flamingos. Although neither one of us is crazy about flamingos, we didn’t have the heart to tell the local guide we didn’t care to see one of their prized attractions. About half way to the flamingos Stacia suggested we take off our shoes to walk the clay ground barefoot, because it softens the soles of the feet and just feels good. We did so reluctantly.

We finally reached the flamingos and it turned out to be exactly as we had expected – lots of flamingos hanging out by the lake. Unless you are an avid birdwatcher and flamingo fan, this site will not hold tremendous interest for you. On the bright side, we got some exercise and enjoyed walking in this natural habitat and our feet and toes were all black and gooey and soft from the clay and moist dirt. I guess this was a bonus spa treatment with the purchase of the bird-watching tour.

We were soon spotted by a group of Masai women and their male overseer. We watched these exotic beings walk towards us with their gorgeous multi-colored scarves creatively draped over their thin, fit frames, but unfortunately all they seemed to see was large green dollar signs walking towards them. As we drew closer they set up shop right there in the middle of the dirt and clay. SHOP IS WHERE THE HEART IS. They each carried handfuls of jewelry and displayed it all on the ground for us to view and hopefully purchase. Unfortunately for them, we hadn’t brought money with us on this walk, but we promised to return later and buy something. This was actually a little white lie, but damn! It’s so hard to say no.

As we continued walking we stumbled across small pieces of broken glass, dead wildebeest carcasses, and creepy crawling bugs. Shoot! A sliver of glass found its way into the ball of my right foot. In the near distance we spotted a small bridge with a stream under it and headed towards it. We sat down and dangled our feet in the stream and cleaned them and I managed to remove the glass before it dug in too deep. We put our flip-flops back onto our now very soft, exfoliated feet, which felt great – especially with no high-priced spa bill.

We were greeted back at the tent with a lunch consisting of lentil soup, lettuce, carrots, cucumber salad and fried trout. After lunch we lounged on pillows on the ground and sipped tea, chatted with the other guests and listened as Tim (the owner) gave us a short lecture about the camp and its surrounding terrain.

The Waterfalls

After lunch Ash and I were scheduled to go to the waterfalls, which are supposed to be spectacular. Stacia said it would be a forty-five minute walk. We inquired about footwear because she was sporting Crocs and also had scuba-diving booties but she said, “Nah, all you’ll need are flip flops. It’s just a short walk and the shoes would weigh you down. Besides it is about 80 degrees, very hot!” So, off we went with our driver in the jeep to the falls, flip-flops in tow.

We arrived to a vision of majestic beauty! Trees that looked as if they were doing tai chi exercises in the wind – so graceful and free-looking – with water cascading down a ravine and several Masai decorating the place with their welcoming smiles and clothing colored in deep purples, reds, oranges, and yellows.

Below us, the path was marked very clearly by goat and cow dung! Apparently, the Masai’s animal herds love to come and graze by the ravines branching off from the waterfalls. These animals, apparently, do NOT have a problem with constipation. Remember the flip-flops??

At that point we started our “walk.” We began by hiking over a rock path alongside a ravine. As we continued, we were forced to ascend walls so steep they felt like the rock wall at your local health club. The last time I took a “walk” like this I was struggling to the top of Macchu Picchu in hiking boots. We climbed higher and higher with our guide from the camp and a sweet Masai guide. And the trek grew ever more challenging. We had to wade through rushing water (Ash and I rolled up our sweatpants but they still got soaked). Remember the flip-flops??

Ah, the flip-flops. If you’ve ever tried to cross a river or stream against the current, you will appreciate our pain. And I do mean Pain!! The water kept trying to steal away our flip-flops, making us walk barefoot on the rough spiky rocks while struggling across the streams. We actually couldn’t decide which was more painful, slipping and falling onto the rocks or walking barefoot over them. Often we wouldn’t have a choice because our flip-flops would arrive fifty feet a head of us, leaving us no choice but to walk climb barefoot! Please, learn from our pain. Do not go hiking or mountain climbing with flip-flops unless you are closely related to Tarzan.

Fortunately, our Masai guides were always quick to retrieve our hated flip-flops regardless of where the river took them. The Masai are fleet of foot and they know the terrain well. They can scale dangerous rock walls and make it to the river gorge in twenty minutes flat – the same trip that took Ash and me (who are relatively fit) about two hours.

Long story short, we made it to the waterfalls and they were fantastic! We swam to the base and let them crash down upon us. It was well worth the struggle to get there. No pain at that point, just beauty.

After we’d had our fill of the water, we contemplated the long “walk” back. Ash had the brilliant idea that we should make our way back on our hands and let the current push us down the river. Yes, I did say on our hands! And, yes, it was a stupid idea. Now, we also have scrapes and bruises on our hands and arms. Kids, don’t try this at home. We ended up reverting to our feet, sometimes with and sometimes without the aid of the flip-flops. And then it started raining – and I mean hard. So now we had to make the same dangerous trek but in the rain! We felt like unwilling participants in Survivor: Africa.

The Masai Village

After we’d finished our trek, we asked our guide to take us to Masai village. We wanted to really submerge ourselves in the local culture. We were greeted by the local tribesmen, their children, goats, sheep, and cows –all living together in harmony amidst lots and lots of cow and goat dung. I’m sorry, I must now apologize for my intolerance of animal excrement. But remember the flip-flops??? Yes, we were now ankle deep in dung!!! Dung, dung, dung — everywhere!!!

You do tend to forget what’s underfoot once the Masai start singing and dancing and dressing you in their local costumes and jewelry. They danced for us and then we danced for them, and it was wonderful how sweet and excited they were to meet us. I’d have to say that that was the highlight of the camping trip.

Back at our campsite we enjoyed a delicious dinner of grilled fish, vegetables, and hot tea. We socialized a bit with the other guests but chose to go to our room and crash early. We’d had a tough day. Little did we know that our night would be even more challenging! We had foolishly left our light on and despite the netting our room was filled with flying bugs – gnats, mosquitoes, little bugs you’ve never heard of or seen before. We were disgusted but realized this was camp and we were in Africa and all we could do was deal with the situation.

We woke up covered with bug bites, and I had many mosquito bites (even though I was covered in Deet and mosquito repellent).  Apparently, the mosquitoes didn’t like Ash as much and the spiders and ants didn’t like me as much as Ash, but the bed bugs weren’t picky – they went for both of us.

After breakfast and coffee we packed up and started the drive back to our lodge in Arusha. It’s a pretty brutal journey: six hours of rough roads, breast-holding and withering heat. But we made it, and arriving at the lodge was pure bliss!

A delicious meal was waiting for us, and Ash and I ate by the fireplace with Stacia as she told us some fun facts about Tanzania. For example, if you are a Tanzanian you can just claim land and build a house on it without paying for the land. The trick is to first claim it and then have a friend protest that it was his land first. You win the case and the judge awards you a deed to the land. If someone else tries to build on that property they can’t, because you hold the deed. Very sneaky!

We also asked her about the possibility of getting malaria, since we were told it’s high here and I was popular with those insects. She said the malaria-carrying mosquitoes are females only and that they were small and brown and made no buzzing sound. And that they only come out at night. Uh-oh. I had been bitten several times in the past two nights, but I was asleep and couldn’t remember any buzzing, so I figured I’d just have to wait it out and see what happened. But tomorrow we are scheduled to leave for Zanzibar, and Ash and I have both agreed that we don’t want the experience of getting malaria. So it’s decided then, we won’t get it. We’re good.

Before heading off to our Bush Safari Camp, Ash and I took Stacia’s yoga class this morning. There were about fifteen people in the class, and Stacia paired us all up. My partner was a woman in her early forties from Argentina who is a journalist for a documentary on the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda (ICTR). Most of the people in the yoga class were involved with the Tribunal in one way or another – a journalist, a lawyer, a filmmaker, etc. They come here for yoga with Stacia on a regular basis while they work on the Tribunal.

In a nutshell, as I learn from my yoga partners, the Tribunal’s purpose is to investigate and prosecute the serious violations of humanitarian law (including genocide) that were committed in Rwanda between January and Decemner of 1994. The U.N. Security Council subsequently created the ICTR and decided its seat would be located in Arusha (where I am), in the United Republic of Tanzania. From the Tribunal (2007):

“As we mark the thirteenth anniversary of the genocide in Rwanda two messages should be paramount. First, never forget. Second, never stop working to prevent another genocide. … Our thoughts go to the victims – the more than 800,000 innocent people who lost their lives with terrifying speed. May they continue to rest in peace. Our thoughts go to the survivors. Their resilience continues to inspire us.”

This is pretty heavy stuff to be discussing before heading off on a photo safari. But that is what I love about travel – the constant dichotomies and the unpredictability of what you may on any given day be exposed to. Ash and I were invited to go the courthouse and observe the Tribunal in action for an afternoon.

As I’m writing this, flocks of graceful white birds are winging over the trees, one group of twenty or so after another after another… as yet another day passes by filled with absolutely nothing but writing, eating, sleeping and long walks around the beautiful grounds of this lodge. I did get a call from my husband, which was wonderful! And my friend Ashley arrives tonight around 9:30pm. I am so looking forward to her arrival. She is a dear, close friend with whom I’ve shared many exotic trips and exciting moments. We have had a sort of unspoken commitment to travel together to some exotic place every year or two (depending on our schedules), ever since our admittedly semi-irrational trip to Baghdad in 1998. I hope she’s not too tired from her flight from Detroit, because I have us booked at a Bush Safari Camp, leaving tomorrow morning (a six-hour drive on dirt roads) for three days. Nothing like jumping right into the deep end when you’re on vacation! We will have nineteen days together.

Another day of blissful nothingness, enjoying the peace and solitude. I’m still winding down from the fabulous chaos and not so fabulous filth of Egypt. All day I just sat in the lush gardens and by the pool, took a leisurely hike around the lake, played with the dogs (my new best friends) and worked on my book. This place is so breathtaking! It is an old farm house that has been renovated into twelve charming bedrooms and a few common areas with a fire place, lots of candles, Turkish rugs and leather pillows for lounging. It would be a perfect place for a retreat. Stacia and I are working out the numbers for a retreat in mid-June of 2008. If it happens it will fill up fast, so start preparing! I can promise it will be a life changing trip.

As I’m writing these words, my view is of jacaranda trees (those beautiful purple flowers familiar to L.A. residents) framing the distant slopes of Mt. Kilimanjaro, which changes colors as the sun sets. Below Kilimanjaro a crystal clear lake glimmers, reflecting the huge trees dancing around it. Dogs are barking, crickets are talking to each other, birds are chirping, wood is being chopped with a hand axe, monkeys are cavorting in the trees, frogs are croaking, propaganda radio is blaring in the far distance. Now two big black birds have land on my deck and the male bird (I’m not a bird expert but I’m assuming it’s a male because it’s the bigger one) is trying to kill a big black buzzing bug by banging it again and again on the wooden deck. But the bug seems to have a strong will to live because it won’t even pretend to be dead, like some creatures I’ve seen.

The female bird gets frustrated with her husband’s failure and decides to take over! And she is pissed and means business. She takes the bug and bangs it and drops it, picks it up again, bangs its head on the wood – hard, and then drops it from her beak again. She does this about ten times until finally the black buzzing bug perishes. The male bird was apparently too sensitive to watch this brutal execution (or perhaps his male pride was wounded). He perched himself up on the railing and refused to look, pouting. But soon enough he joined her in the small feast and then, with full bellies, they happily flew away together. Whatever their differences they seemed to have patched them up without even the intervention of a Soul Blazer! Hmm. They do say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach …

I relaxed all day long, watching black monkeys frolicking in the trees and listening to the birds singing, the cows mooing, the donkeys braying, the roosters cockadoodledooing, and the shirtless chocolate-colored men chopping wood. I watched women in colorful sarongs and head wraps singing to themselves as they carried buckets of fresh water from the nearby lake, and as they gardened, cleaned rooms and washed the dishes. I observed delivery people walk up and down a path all day, coming and going – this one delivering eggs, that one, milk, the next one fresh fruits, the next buckets of water, then later the mailman and several others with packages in hand. And when Stacia and I are around, the two Dobermans run towards them, barking and drooling to make sure they behave while on the premises. I’m glad I’m on this side of the fence for a change.

The long journey! This is part of the traveling that I don’t like. I do love airports, though. Airports represent to me free time to do absolutely nothing but think and write and observe. And they have a huge variety of interesting people to watch. Things I don’t like about airports include the mishigas of hauling luggage around, waiting in long lines, and checking in. Worst of all is when you are standing in line like sheep to board a commuter plane so you can be shoehorned into a tiny seat with absolutely no leg room. These small local airplanes have even less leg room than the cramped coach seats on a regular airliner. But I suppose it’s one of the prices one pays to spend time in an exotic land.

Nov. 5, 2007 — Sudan Airport — 2am

I was sitting next to two fascinating Kuwaiti men in their mid-thirties on the way here. We talked a lot about everything from politics and the invasion of Iraq to the Arabic language and interracial marriage. They were on their way to Sudan for the wedding of one of their friends who was marrying an American woman, and they invited to the three-day party but I was already booked to Tanzania. Bummer! I would have loved to experience a traditional Sudanese wedding. That is one thing I don’t like about having hard and fast plans. I much prefer flexibility…

The Sudanese have such a different energy than what I have been exposed to. They are truly majestic in their African pride, standing tall with their heads held high and speaking with their mixture of British and African accent. I didn’t even know I had this extra layover on my itinerary. I think they snuck it in because nobody in their right mind would take what should be a six-hour a red eye flight and turn it into a twelve-hour flight for kicks.

I wish I could stay here even for just one day and really experience Sudan.

Nov. 5, 2007 — Kenya Airport — 5am

I have a three hour layover here. Three hours to kill with people-watching, writing in my journal and listening to my CDs. But now I’m exhausted and hungry and I have only US$3.00 left in my wallet. Not enough to buy much of anything (and I should keep it for an emergency anyway).

“All good people agree,
And all good people say,
All nice people, like us, are We
And everyone else is They.”

– Rudyard Kipling

One of my favorite aspects of travel is trying to understand prejudices and different ways of thinking. Being a Soul Blazer who works with clients from many different ethnicities, I find this knowledge extremely helpful. But after spending a month in Cairo, I believe breaking down prejudices is harder than I’d thought. For instance, just briefly wearing the hejab made me feel superior and separate from people who didn’t partake in this Islamic practice. But it also gave me some insight I hadn’t had before into their culture. I had had dozens of conversations with Muslims and felt I understood them, but not until “playing” one by wearing the hejab did I feel I really got them on an experiential level.

When I returned to my regular clothes the same thing happened in reverse. I began feeling judgmental towards these strange women who covered themselves up and bought into the male mentality that kept them second class citizens. I wondered why they didn’t stick up for themselves (even though I knew the reasons, intellectually). These were not intellectual thoughts so much as fleeting, visceral reactions.

I read an article a while back on prejudice, and the author said we all possess an inherent, unconscious sense of discrimination. I was hoping to prove him wrong but now, after my month-long visit in Egypt and hearing so many people’s stories, I realize they are not open to new ideas and that I cannot easily change my own viewpoints either. I also believe that although there are inherent truths about different cultures and religions we are still individuals. I am an American but I hate it when people categorize me according to their preconceptions of what an “American” is. I don’t want to be labeled as that because I see myself as more global rather than simply American.

The flies:

I’m heading back to Cairo and then later tonight to Tanzania. I’m sitting in the airport again, waiting for the delayed Egypt Air plane. I’m going to miss Cairo but I’m certainly not going to miss the flies. I have literally not had a single meal outdoors, inside a restaurant, at my hotel, or at the airport without being accompanied by one or more uninvited flies – usually a whole family joins me (well, family is important in the Middle East).

Taxi Drivers:

Taxi drivers seem to love Middle Eastern songs with the word “habibi” in them. If you sit in a cab for more than the length of three songs, you will inevitably hear a “habibi” (which means “my beloved”) song, which must mean the Cairo taxi drivers are the secret Romeos of the city.

Brown marks on many mens’ foreheads:

I have started to notice many men with a brown spot on their foreheads the size of a quarter. I think it’s a fungus from putting their heads on the carpet (which is shared by many) at the mosque five times a day for years. I began inquiring about it. Here were some of the responses.

1. It’s a sign from God that he has a place in heaven because of his strong devotion.
2. It is a natural mark from praying a lot. Not a fungus but more like a gift.
3. It’s ingrained dirt that would go away if he stopped praying.
4. It’s a sign of pride.

Egypt Air – Luxor to Cairo

On my return flight to Cairo I have the great good fortune to find myself sitting next to none other than Dr. Zahi Hawass, the famed archeologist from the Valley of the Kings! He is traveling with a friend and they are both very nice. Dr. Zahi Hawass says that if I had only met him a few days earlier my life would have been changed forever. He would have taken me along on his archeological adventure while in Luxor. They invited me join them to dinner but, alas, my flight to Tanzania leaves tonight so it was impossible. I did, however, accept a ride (one and a half hours) to my hotel with them, and we got to know each other much better. We exchanged contact information and Dr. Hawass will be in LA in December for a lecture. He invited me to his talk. Life works in strange ways!

Fun Facts:

Cairo has the oldest functioning university in the world, the famed Al-Azhar

Cairo (or al-kahira in Arabic) means the Vanquisher, or the Triumphant

I am hoping my hotel, the Moudira, will be as nice as I was told. I really need one night of pampering and, insha’allah, I won’t be disappointed.

Horoun is my driver to the hotel. He loves telling jokes like many Egyptians. He holds up his right index finger. “Why don’t the Japanese use this finger?”

“I don’t know, Horoun, I think they do use it.”

“No, they don’t. I have had many Japanese in my car.”

“Okay, why?

“Because it’s my finger!” Then he cracks up.

It’s a shame my husband is not here. He loves riddles and puzzles. Anytime we travel we take lateral puzzle books and take turns quizzing each other and he gets most of them right. He would have known the answer to this one too.

What I’m witnessing driving out of the airport into Luxor’s villages:

Two women sitting against a brick wall in black arribiyyas and headscarfs with white trim that look more like Catholic nuns’ habits. School children in beige pants and long tops with gym shoes on their feet. Elderly woman carrying big bags of wheat on their heads with perfect balance. No Traffic! Less smog and pollution. Two men riding a donkey pulling a wooden wagon loaded with sugarcane. Mud house after mud house after mud house. Greenery on my right, desert on my left. Calabia canal on my right and train tracks on my left. The train carries stones from the mountains to the desert to construction companies. Endless sugarcane fields – mile after mile – and men walking through them in twosomes and threesomes in their white cotton arribayyas.

Valley of the Kings 11am

I am sitting on a rock in the middle of this incredible ancient space with its majestic aura, soaking in the sights and sounds. It is so peaceful now, without the usual hundreds of tourists. The Valley of the Kings was once called the Place of Truth. To think at one point in time, the pharaohs came here seeking and expecting immortality.

A huge film crew is here to document the Egyptian Mummy Project (EMP). I was told it was going to start at 1pm so I have been waiting. And waiting. Now it is getting late and I can’t wait anymore because I’m here for only a day and a half and have many other sites to visit. They are going to be interviewing Dr. Zahi Hawass, a famous archeologist from Cairo, who is leading the excavation. He must have incredible stories to tell. I wish I could have heard them. You can google him for more info on his incredible findings.

Weighing of the heart:

In ancient Egypt the heart of a deceased person was weighed, and if it was light and thus free of sin he was allowed to spend the rest of eternity as an ankh, but if his heart was heavy with sin it was eaten by the god Ammut and he was dammed forever.

My hotel:

Alhamdulillah! The hotel is fantastic! It’s like a miniature Moorish villa. One could compare it to a Middle Eastern Two Bunch Palms Resort. There is much love and detail accorded to every aspect of my room and the villa. I am going to take a long bath and just relax. It will be hard to leave the room this evening because I so want to enjoy the peace and tranquility and take a break from the hustle and bustle of the tourist sites.

Random thoughts while staring into space, reading the Herald Examiner and people-watching while drinking a cup of Nescafe at 4:30 in the morning, and a bit delirious from only a couple of hours of sleep:

Sheesha:

I believe the sheesha (the water pipe) is the key to world peace and if everyone smoked it (preferably with apple tobacco), the world would be a much better place. Everyone would experience the “hubbly bubbly” feeling and forget about their problems, war and hatred. It truly is a relaxing and bonding experience. I have seem how it brings the locals together: in any one café you can see Muslims, Christians, Europeans, Americans and Australians all discussing religion, politics and daily life without any tempers rising or fists flying.

Baksheesh:

Traveling gives you an opportunity to look within yourself. It also offers many opportunities to indulge in judgment, anger and frustration. I admit I have partaken of some the latter while being baksheeshed to death here in Cairo. Baksheesh is the local name for tipping or bribery, which seems to be the only way to get anything done around here. Everyone expects baksheesh before they will perform whatever job or duty they are supposed to be performing. With wages so low, it’s understandable that people would want to supplement their meager incomes. But here the custom seems to have taken over almost every aspect of daily life (and especially when dealing with foreigners). It seems everyone who says hello to you wants a tip! Overall, the people of Cairo have huge hearts and mean well, but please, the baksheesh custom has to stop!

Pollution:

I’m reading an article that says Cairo is perhaps the world’s most polluted city. The smoke, soot, dust, liquid droplets from fuel combusted by the two million cars just in the Cairo area (rarely fueled by unleaded gasoline and usually poorly maintained) are causing levels of emphysema, asthma and cancer to skyrocket, leading to over 30,000 deaths a year. Scientists also blame the terrible pollution on the dry, sandy climate, which leads to thick dust that is rarely cleared by rain.

Terrorists:

Six men of Iraqi descent who were heading home from doing training for the U.S. military are suing America Airlines for detaining them and harassing them after other passengers expressed concern about them because they were speaking Arabic. Uh-oh! I wonder if that means when my Arabic gets to perhaps intermediate level that I will feel my terroristic inclinations rising and not be able to fly anymore without being harassed. I guess I’ll just have to take my chances.

Informal Valets:

Yesterday I learned about informal valets. My friend Victoria pulled up in front of a restaurant and a man suddenly appeared from the street and she handed her keys to him. I asked who he was because of his lack of a uniform, sign, or anything official-looking, and she said, “Oh here in Cairo there are informal valets. Men who are out of work will show up at various locations and park your car for you and you tip them.” I asked her if anyone had ever taken off with her car. She said no, there is a fundamental level of trust here and everyone knows everyone. So, when you come out of the restaurant, if the man you gave your keys to is not here then someone who knows him will be, and will help you out.

Sure enough, when it came time to leave the restaurant we looked around and there was the man who had taken her keys. He told us where he had parked her car, we walked there and there it was! Of course, Victoria tipped him.