Tanta Moulid

On Thursday night Anne and I made 4 new friends at the Ramses train station and hired a taxi for the evening. We drove us to Tanta, 2 hours north of Cairo, for the final evening of the week-long Moulid of Ahmed el-Bedawi. It was a crazy night.

Ahmed el-Bedawi is considered one of the four great Egyptian Sufi saints of the 12th and 13th Centuries. The Moulid of Ahmed el-Bedawi celebrates his birth, and ranks as the largest of its kind in Egypt. Although some claims put attendance as high as 3 million, on the night we arrived revelers numbered closer to the tens of thousands. Still, as we six were the only foreigners I saw that evening, tens of thousands curious Egyptians were enough for me. For a brief moment, we became the main attraction.




We arrived before midnight and walked up the main boulevard towards the mosque. Along the way sweet shop loudspeakers blared advertisements, puschcarts hawked funny hats, and kids zigzagged every which way.







As we neared the mosque, six strong, with backpacks, cameras, and lost looks in our eyes, we realized that we were being followed by a group of people. In this situation, if you stop moving, you're done for. Of course, we stopped. And we stopped right in the middle of the Moque square. Immediately a crowd formed and hit us with a barrage of questions in Arabic and English. "Where are you from?" "Do you like Tanta?" "What's your name?" Our answers in mumbled Arabic drew cheers from the crowd: tatakalem araby kewayes! [you speak arabic well!]. Egyptians are so kind.

Not a moment after this brief exchange we heard shouts and yells and saw the crowd flee, followed by a rush of security guards brandishing billy clubs and shooing the crowd away. I ducked out and headed off alone, admittedly shaken at the barrage of questions from an impenetrable ring of smiling faces. I sat down on the curb and took a breather - luckily, when I'm by myself, I blend in pretty well.

The rest of our crowd toured the area around the mosque, this time with a security escort, who beat away any molesters and shot everyone dirty looks, or so I'm told.

As for me, I walked around the Mosque and had a look at the festivities. Small outdoor halls had been erected and inside musicians were playing repetitive, loud, sufi ballads.

Men in gallabeya were swaying to the music, seemingly lost in a trance. Absent from this scene were the creatively dressed whirling dervishes that you may see on the stage or on Nile cruise boats. The dancers here seemed more spontaneous and authentic. Younger guys in jeans got into it too, swaying to the music.

Here's a 360:






After walking around the outside of the Mosque I took off my shoes and stepped inside. I was shocked to find a huge slumber party! It reminded me of a youth group middle school social minus the corner game of spin the bottle. On the floor lay mostly older revelers, sleeping wherever they could find space. I understand that people follow these moulid celebrations around Egypt and beyond, and I imagine that many of these mosque dwellers are caught in the drift.


After my walk I met up with my friends and the night calmed down with a glass of tea. We strolle the more deserted streets of Tanta with a friendly Tantan we met, and ended at a kebab shop at 3am. We ate lamb and chicken while watching the Moulid below.


For a more edifying take on the evening, read Anne's account here.

The Daily Rod Returns

Just as I have returned to Cairo, so too have I returned to blogging.

I dedicate this blog to my mother; I hope it gives her much nachas. And I dedicate this blog also to the Enlightenment; I hope my postings will contribute to its progress in some way. Meeting either goal will be enough for me.

As readers of the first edition can confirm, this blog, although engaging, eloquent, and at times inspired, offers rather simple accounts of my life in Cairo, and occasional reflections thereupon. It is open to all, but intended for those few who care about the quotidian details of my life. Most importantly, it reassures my family that I am not dead.

First Posting:

Today I awoke at 9:00 and returned to sleep until 10:30, at which time I heard my roommate Anne walking around the apartment and humming to herself, I think the themesong to Gilligan's Island, but of course, I can't be sure. Anne offered to buy eggs.

I have recently changed my method of scrambling eggs, where instead of whisking the eggs in a bowl before cooking them, I now whisk the eggs while they fry. This method produces a less uniform and more courageous consistency. It is one of the many discoveries I have made here in Cairo.

After breakfast I spent the remainder of the day in our living room, studying for the GMAT exam, which I am scheduled to take in Cairo on December 10. Tonight I plan on going to a Halloween party thrown by a friend at the U.S. Embassy. I don't have a costume yet, but will likely cut a hole in a sheet and go as a ghost. With luck, I'll be the only ghost there.

weekend in alexandria

Fast forward some months from Kenya to Alexandria, the first of the twenty-something Alexandria cities, and the site of a recent trip by the staff of the daily rod. This overnight marked the arrival of our good friend Gavin, and his first foray to the Middle East.

The outlook wasn't brilliant as we hopped into a taxi at 10:50a.m. to catch our 11:00a.m. train. In my best broken Arabic I told the driver to step on it, and I'll be damned if we didn't hit 100 kph on residential roads. He dropped us at the gate, I shoved double fare into his hand, and we raced to find our train waiting patiently for us at the track. We slowed to catch our breath and board, but just then the train started to pull away. We screamed and the conductor yelled and signaled for us to jump. I jumped first, Autumn next, and then Gavin threw his bags on and leaped after them as the train sped away. We made it.

Three hours and several teas later we detrained in Alexandria. After traveling from Cairo, the first thing you notice in Alexandria is the clean air. The wind blows off the Mediterranean Sea and smog hides nothing. We taxied to the old Hotel Metropole in the center of town and promenaded along the Corniche.

Highlights:
1. ancient roman theater
2. pompeii's pillar
3. screaming children begging autumn for an autograph and gavin for a picture
4. fried prawn at Fish Market restaurant
5. horse ride on the corniche
6. library at alexandria
7. ukrainian girls song and dance duo with electric keyboard in the hotel diningroom.

We left loads of time to reach the train on the way home, arriving hours early and eating a leisurely dinner outside the station. Unfortunately, it turned out to be too leisurely as we watched our train pull away, leaving us on the platform. But a wily taxi driver shoved us into his car and raced the train to the next station. If the first taxi ride was a rush, this ride was just plain scary. We were like a bowling ball speeding down the lane and knocking out pins. But instead of pins it was people, and they were scattering. At least 4 times I thought we'd kill a pedestrian. We hit the station fifteen minutes later - the driver slammed on the brakes - bolted out of the car - ran to the platform with us trailing behind. As we reached the platform the train was again moving out, but this time we were able to jump on and take our seats. Strangest thing about the whole scene was how nonchalantly the Egyptians acted, as if this happened every day. I guess it does, and now that I'm thinking it over, I'm remembering that busses in Cairo don't stop, they just slow down.

Enjoy the photos below.

When in Alexandria, the Daily Rod stays at the Hotel Metropole.

mooooo...dinner...

Slaughtering chickens is a dangerous business, and sometimes you just need a hardhat.

Pompey's Pillar, a sphinx, Gavin and Me.

underneath the pillar, held up by this very powerful nail

Alexandria Library

Alexandria Library to the Mediterranean

kenya, part two

My last day in Kenya proved the most interesting. Before my visit, Marianne befriended a pair of Kenyan brothers, received no less than a dozen marriage proposals from their closest kin, and arranged for us to dine with them at Carnivore, a famous game eatery in Nairobi that boasts the only legal lion meat in the city. We met John David (one brother) at the old Stanley Hotel in downtown Nairobi, where Sylvester served imported beer and carefully measured one ounce glasses of scotch. Peter Hanningtone (second brother) and his wife picked us up and we headed to Carnivore. At dinner we feasted on ostrich, camel, lamb, beef, and crocodile (no lion that evening). Peter explained how a Kenyan man's great responsibility is to satisfy his wife morning, noon, and night, lest she shack up with the next door neighbor. His his wife asked me if I believed in god and told me that I looked like Jesus (I guess she doesn’t see too many white guys with goatees around Nairobi. In Cairo I fit in until I speak, but not in Kenya).

Peter works at a bank and is middle class Kenyan. He owns a car and lives in a gated community a short ways from downtown Nairobi. (But he has a frustrating commute nonetheless. He travels 20 minutes from his house on a potholed, gravel road, and then 3 times the distance to his office in only 15 minutes. The Kenyan Army, which runs an installation off that road, maintains that for security reasons the road must stay uneven. Peter has organized his community, however, and the best lawyer in Kenya fights this claim in court.) Peter lives next to the airport and housed us the night before I flew out. On the car ride home he told us about life in Kenya.

70% of Kenyans live in villages. The villages are isolated, rural, and villagers rely on farming for livelihood. Two streams run near his family's village, one for bathing, one for drinking. Peter’s village lies 5-10 kilometers away from the nearest general store, and about a 12 hour car ride from his permanent home in Nairobi. Peter drives his family to the village four times a year in their car, but most villagers take buses to Nairobi, as very few own automobiles. Peter stays for two weeks at a time with his wife and daughter. Now married, he’s built a 3 room house for himself (two bedrooms, one sitting room), and uses a kitchen located nearby. Peter and his brother grew up with their father in Nairobi while their mother stayed in the village, tending to the crops. Now that his eldest children have grown and house their younger brothers and sisters (there are about 7), Peter’s father has returned home.

The village may be far from town, but Peter explained that the villagers keep up on world events. They listen regularly to BBC and Voice of America on shortwave radio. When Peter returns for his quarterly visits, everyone asks about "the fighter" (literally the boxer) George W. Bush. Rather than asking about Bush the American President, they ask how the fighter who challenges Saddam Hussein is faring. They probably know that Bush is President of the United States, but they know him better for his struggle against Saddam. The presidency, and the United States, are mentioned rarely, if mentioned at all.

I can not imagine returning for two weeks to a village lacking running water or electricity. After all, Peter lives in a lovely, modern house that would fit effortlessly in any American town. But he assures me that the village is quiet and relaxing, and he’s always sorry to head back to Nairobi.

Peter and his family approach religion with an all-encompassing framework. He and his wife are Christian, but their housekeeper is Muslim, and they alternate their prayers. When we returned home for dinner we said a prayer before sleeping (to Christ), and again when we awoke in the morning (to Allah).

As Peter drove us to the aiport in the morning, a boy in his late teens approached the car with a stack of newspapers and handed Peter two issues. Rather than pay him cash, Peter handed him a bank receipt, and informed him that yesterday he deposited a weekly sum into his bank account. As we drove away, Peter explained that he set up the bank account to instill in the young man fiscal responsibility and knowledge.

Peter at right, and John above him, with some brothers and sisters.

After a short hiatus, the daily rod is back with a report. Since last posting I've swung through Kenya, dashed about Rome, floated up the Nile, and trained it to Alexandria. Hosni Mubarak granted a bouquet of democracy to the people of Egypt, Syria may pull out of Lebanon, Iraq is a flowering democracy, and I'm celebrating by accepting a job in our department of war.

In January I traveled and in February I entertained. I stopped first in Nairobi, Kenya, where I breathed clean air for the first time since Eastern Europe. But this air was real clean - Africa clean - if that exists (it should). My friend Marianne picked me up at the airport, and that week we visited the Masai Mara Natural Reserve, spotting 4 of the Big 5 (Lions, Leopard, Buffalo, Elephants), missing out on the Rhinos. But the Kenyan great plains compensated us with beautiful scenery and cheetah sightings galore. During the high season one sees millions of animals while they migrate across the continent, but one sees hundreds of vans stuck in a line, and from what I hear, it feels like you see more people than animals. We went during the low season, and at times, had the place all to ourselves. From the northern planes we flew south to Mombasa and took a two hour bus ride to the small resort town of Watamu. After 2 nights of a tent and no shower, the hotel looked very nice. We laid out on the white beaches where Hemingway went deep sea fishing, and tried our tongues at Italian (well, I can't speak a word, but Marianne proved proficient). The highlight was my dad's birthday gift - nothing less than a 5 foot wooden giraffe, crafted by a 4 and a half foot tall Watamu native, who must have used a step-stool to finish the piece, whittled from a solid log of wood. The craftsman assured us that he'd wrap it up nicely for us (it had to get back to New York, I explained), which meant newspaper and paper bags. The two-hour bus ride into Watamu changed into a two-hour shared van ride which looked just like the pictures you may have seen - a 14 person van filled with 25 sweaty Kenyans and two sweaty, tired, nervous Americans (my Short Hills nose proved fragile, I can assure you). Nervous because our flight left in three hours and we had zero time to get there. But we arrived and a taxi sped us to the airport, where we actually had time for a beer and a proper wrapping of the wooden giraffe (apparently that's what they do best at the Mombasa airport).

More later, enjoy the pictures.

at Sotheby's.

abandon faith all who enter Masai Mara National Reserve

our guide at the hippo pool (he's on the right). he carries an M-16 to ward off the hungry crocodiles, who unfortunately snag Kenyans once in a while

elephant

stopped for lunch, marianne and the guide.

ooh, should have checked the gas gauge. wait, the gas gauge says full, ahh, i see, it's broken. the roads in kenya are bumpy, and while riding the back bench of our toyota i thought of all the hummers crusing down the mean streets of short hills. sigh.

we followed the landcruiser to town and became instant celebrities. note a small baldheaded admirer bottom right.

can you capture it?

cathedral in sofia, belgrade

into albania from the border with macedonia

view from the taxi. he had to stop to put air in the tires - discouraging sign

the mall at short hills, albania

cheese market in albania

skopje, macedonia

fluid architecture in skopje city center

a revolutionary in traditional dress

prizren, kosovo

prizren, kosovo

the albanian eagle stares down the ottoman boar

Abdul Frasheri, a leader of the Albanian independence movement against the Ottoman Empire, kisses his wife and child goodbye. He heads to Uzin, only to be killed by the Ottomans.

kosovar shot-out to rock, roll, and rap

shopgirl in Kosovo, with beautiful, natural red hair. i apologize for sullying the picture with my mug.

preserved mosque in kosovo

graffiti in belgrade

belgrade built the largest cathedral in eastern europe, based on the aya sofia in istanbul. the inside is unfinished.

belgrade museum of modern art

the kiss, modern indian art, in the belgrade museum of modern art

a modern art gallery in belgrade and a starving artist begging for food. lady there told us that this building, originally intended to house Tito's collection of 200,000 gifts and cultural artifacts, will cover as this modern art museum until the politicos in serbia decide that Tito can once again be recognized as the pan-yugoslavist he was. by the way, conspiracy has it that a new pentagon is being built in the backyard, aimed at China.

A flintlock pistol and a trombone blunderbuss, given to Tito by Iraq in 1979, the year Saddam solidified his power.

chess in the park

belgrade from the citadel

subverting the narrative

spooky man gazing at young ice-skaters. i'll be kind and call him security.