Long Weekends

Spring 2008: Pictures and Poems

Spring is beautiful in Sevilla, Spain

Especially when you're with lovely Miss Lane

The Tower behind us lies in repose

But traversing the city is best with one who knows

Standing before the Plaza de Toros

Just like the old time fighting heroes

Inside the crowd was large and full

But I loved every minute, and that's no bull

And here leans silly old Teacher Tim

Maybe this is how he stays so slim

In front of the old tobacco factory wall

He smoked his pen, ink and all

A few weeks later in Istanbul

The sights and sounds were wonderful

Mosques and minarets in every view

Most notably the one shown here, famously Blue

And, oh, the breathtaking Hagia Sophia

If you're beside it now, I wish I could be ya'

Inside the mosaics glimmered pristine

Hip-hip-hooray to all things Byzantine!

Traveling with friends was quite a coup

This was our balcony, with the Bosphorous in view

Here you see Inga and Whit busy a plannin'

I prefer to use maps simply for fannin'

Who, might you say, is this striking model?

None other than my college friend now in Newcastle.

I call her Jagila, though some call her doctor

Whatever her title, I enjoyed playing photographer

On Saturday we went to a med school formal

The food and drinks were pretty much normal

But I must tell you that I was simply plumb shocked

When the music started playing, those docs really rocked

It was jolly fine to be in this English place

Even though the language barrier I had to face

En route to the airport, I was sad to leave

But not many days later I would receive...

A great big hug from a certain best friend

Who flew to Riga with a few days to spend

Elizabeth arrived in color, fashion and flair

And rivaled the blossoms bursting everywhere

From Paris, France to the "Paris of the East"

Came along the fellow who some call "the Beast"

After just a few days, Andrew became a fast friend

Way to go, Elizabeth, this dude's a ten!

Some traditions are carried from one country to the next

And singing with Elizabeth must be one of the best

When we started out we were about the same height

But size doesn't matter: this girl's got might!

*****

Guests have all gone, and the laundry is done

Plenty of time now to go soak up the sun

As the days grow warmer and finer and longer

These ties that bind only grow stronger

Yours,

Tim

Sinai

"The Opening of Eyes"

That day I saw beneath dark clouds

The passing light over the water

And I heard the voice of the world speak out

I knew then as I have before

Life is no passing memory of what has been

Nor the remaining pages of a great book

Waiting to be read

It is the opening of eyes long closed

It is the vision of far off things

Seen for the silence they hold

It is the heart after years of secret conversing

Speaking out loud in the clear air

It is Moses in the desert fallen to his knees

Before the lit bush

It is the man throwing away his shoes

As if to enter heaven and finding himself astonished

Opened at last

Fallen in love

With solid ground

-David Whyte

Dear Friends,

The hike to the top of Mount Sinai takes approximately two and a half hours, but the journey to the mountain from Sharm El Sheikh is much longer. It is also the most arduous part of the journey. The tour bus pulled out of the Al Baston hotel at 9:20 p.m. and made the usual stops at the other inns and resorts. Along the way, the scenery is familiar: oasis-like resorts, as beautiful and green as an artificial house plant, and about as real, juxtaposed against the dry, dusty barren natural land of greater Egypt.

Our bus stopped close to the mountains about 2:00 a.m. The sky was dark and the air was cool. The first stop was (guesses, anyone?) a gift shop, specializing in religious icons. I made like John Knox and only did a quick circle in and out of the shop. My aim was more fitness than acquisition, though for many of my journeymen, the late night bus ride had whet their appetites for purchasing. Settling for a couple faded photographic postcards from a docile vendor outside of the shop, I decided my own weight would be enough to carry up the mountain. I could leave the holy skating rink artwork on the shelves for the next sucker.

At 3:30 a.m. we arrived at the foot of Mt. Sinai. You would have guessed we were preparing to enter Six Flags. To the right of the open parking lot, an eatery complete with outdoor tables. A blinking ATM flashed caddy corner of the restaurant. To the left, a long row of ramshackle stands whose employees were clearly unfazed by the late/early hour. They worked the crowds like carousel barkers. One man, clad in a red and white checkered head scarf, soiled by the elements, clearly had two goals: to sell souvenirs and to obtain breakfast. Since the majority of tourists were not only carrying cash but also boxed breakfasts, he succeeded on both accounts. I zipped up my coat collar and nudged my rear, performing a compulsory wallet-check. Watching the swirl of humanity around me, buying, bargaining, and avoiding, I wondered if perhaps I was witnessing signs of a 21st century plague in the form of an invasion of plastic trinkets, small statuettes, "authentic" woven carpets, and gilded water pipes. All prices negotiable.

There must have been four hundred of us standing there, different races, different languages, different intentions, and several times we were reshuffled like so many playing cards into various lines. The swollen line ebbed and flowed to an archway detector. Judging by the size of the crowd and the casual, clipped organization of the security guards, getting the body of people through the bag search and metal detector before sunrise would be a feat on par with walking a begrudging camel through the eye of a needle. Good thing I didn't have any needles. As the very last to go through, Ali and I were approved, and thus began our trek up at the rear.

I couldn't help but wonder as I began to wander: under these circumstances, could a modern-day Moses ever keep an appointment with God atop the mountain? If not for the line at security, the heckling of the shopkeepers could be enough to deter him. Good thing God is patient.

The first stretch of the climb was not a climb at all. We walked a sandy path around St. Catherine's monastery, silent and sleeping. Though the light was already starting to break in the night sky, I found my "torch" (the British term for flashlight that I've come to embrace) to be essential for gaging steps and illuminating semi-hidden stones. There were so many stones. Countless billions, in fact, that left the impression and quantitative awe I had experienced two days earlier diving among the over-crowded schools of tropical fish in the limpid waters of the Red Sea. Suddenly the multitude of tourists didn't seem so great.

The ascent came subtly. It was only after a good half-hour that I paused to catch my breath and a glimpse that I realized we had been climbing. What had begun as a relatively smooth path was now uphill and blissfully unpaved. I liked it that way. Save the smooth sidewalks and painted curbs for Disneyland. With each step, I felt a small pang or point from a stone beneath my feet. My toes were appropriately beginning to rub the sides of my boots. But again the slight physical discomfort felt right, felt good. You can't hail a taxi on a march to Zion.

But you could hail a camel on the way up and down Sinai. Like zig-zagged paper cut-outs, strings of black camels climbed horizontal paths against the dark blue backdrop of the sky, unaffected by the weary tourists on their backs. Camels are quiet animals, maybe because they could never vocally compete with their drivers. "Camel? You want camel?" The mantra was repeated in at least ten languages at every turn of the trail.

Along the way there were other people, of course, but there was the sense of autonomy and independence. To me, the ascent felt private, and solemn, and reverent. Until I reached what was probably the half-way point, the route was relatively free of traffic jams. Slowing to a standstill behind a long chain of camels, Ali and I came upon an argument ensuring twenty-five steps ahead of us.

"You said it would not cost..."

"But I'm the camel man! I'm the camel man!"

The words flew like sand, unable to settle on anything but more sand. An unhappy woman had apparently found her match: The Stubborn, The Proud, The Extraordinary Camel Man!

As the yelling escalated, the camel directly in front of us began to pee. A strong yellow Niagara of urine fell an inch from my feet. Clearly this camel had a bladder of Old Testament proportions.

Trapped between camels and a wet place, I looked at Ali with a look of uncertainty.

Taking the lead, she shook her head and said, "Okay, let's go!" With unbridled determination, Ali whizzed around the whizzing camel, among the small herd of its peers, between the shouting woman and The Camel Man, and with only a moment's delay, I followed.

Beyond the commotion, I regained my composure. I tried to pray as I walked, I yearned to recite something sacred, to sing a great hymn, but in the silence and dawning light, the only thing I could hear were lyrics to "The Butterfly Song," arguably the most popular tune at the Presbyterian First Timers Camp each June in central Illinois. (It's my hypothesis that the engaging hand motions contribute to the popularity.)

If I were a butterfly

I'd thank you, Lord, for giving me wings

And if I were a robin in a tree

I'd thank you, Lord, that I could sing

If I were a fish in the sea

I'd wiggle my tail and giggle with glee

But I just thank you, Father, for making me me.

Now this is what you call good, solid mountaintop theology. The more I attempted to banish the tune from the head, the more the sing-songy song sang on. I'm not kidding. I was just finishing the verse about the "fuzzy, wuzzy bear" when we reached the stairs.

Known as the Siket Sayidna Musa, the 3,750 "steps of penitence" tell you you're getting close to the top. But "close" is a relative word, especially at 5:15 in the morning. For me the steps instigated a race to the finish line; for the first time I viewed myself as a runner, competing with the other climbers for the best view at the top. The feeling was not necessarily welcome, but the adrenaline was useful. After over two hours of walking and a sleepless night, I had that familiar "morning after" church lock-in feeling, like a stranger from outer space or the non-denominational congregation up the road has entered your head and is controlling your every movement. With the sky getting lighter by the minute, I mustered up the energy to sprint (again, relative term) and passed a good number of fellow pilgrims on the way.

Speed does not come naturally to me. I'm Presbyterian.

I was aroused by the sound of cheering at the 7,495 foot high peak as individuals came together with their groups. It was the Nigerians, clad in stocking caps and gloves, doing the cheering. They hugged each other, the men high-fived. As I took my place on a rocky perch not far from the small boarded up chapel on top of the mountain, I watched the ethnic waves of fellow sojourners parade before me like athletes in an Olympic parade.

After the Nigerians came the Brits, looking spry and outdoorsy in their Northface apparel. "Say, Tom, Love! Won't you be a dear and stop for a photo?" called one woman.

The Spanish came next, like so many explorers. Dressed impeccably. Voluble. The women's hair had clearly inflated with each upward step, though still maintained that fresh from the salon shapeliness. They chattered rapidly and loudly. The men looked worn. One brandished a Spanish flag.

Always on the look out, my Ameri-dar located only two Americans: a father and daughter, clearly immersed in the heat of a Sinai sunrise argument.

"Dad, I told you I'm not in the right mood for a picture." The teenager wore loop earrings and Abercrombie and Fitch.

"Well, that's obvious!" responded the exasperated father.

I edged away from the people and found a lonesome ledge, ready made for sitting. Having completely sweat through all of my layers, the wind at the top blew cool against my wet, salty skin. I zipped up my coat and tried to soak in the vastness of this rocky terrain. It was the color of paper bags and tree bark. It was the photograph from the inside back cover of your black and gold Revised Standard Version, the one you always assumed to be so old and distant, the sky impossibly blue. It was barren and unforgiving -- with the blessed absence of fences and rails, there were ten thousand ways and places to fall to your death -- and yet there was a magnanimous appeal. There was the sense of baptism by perspiration and air and light. The sun rose in splendor but without fanfare. I hear the sun rises there, that way, every day.

Scholars debate which mountain is the giving place of those famous laws, from God to the Israelites. Some say it's Mount Serbal, others Mount Catherine. I'm sure the sunrise looks just as grand from any one of those high places.

What did I take from this Sinai experience?

A sore toe, rubbed raw by the inside of my Goodyear boot.

Some pictures, some notes in a small yellow notebook. A smattering of memories.

A sense of Moreness, and I'm not even exactly sure of what that means. Maybe something fuzzy, wuzzy like a blurred image of God, sensed more than seen.

Maybe a sort of awakening, a "vision of far off things."

Yours,

Tim

Unique

Clocking in as the 638th person to strike this pose in one day.

Cairo

Dear Friends,

The journey from Sharm El Sheikh to Cairo takes about seven hours. Warily, after a couple hours of sleep, Ali and I boarded the tour bus in front of our hotel shortly after midnight. Boxed breakfasts in hand and bags in tow, our excitement about the travel ahead was all but flattened in the hours it took to round up the other travelers (all Russians) from their respective hotels. Our forebears might have envisioned Jetsonesque speed-of-light travel in independent space pods, and while the idea of a large, air-conditioned bus is far less sexy, I wonder if they had any idea just how reliant we would someday be on The Bus. Everything from the ubiquitous stagnant fragrance upon entry to the cascading florescent pinks and greens of the seat cushions provides a sense of security in terms of creature comforts yet often comes at nauseating costs. Like it or not, travelers today are bound to the moving monsters, and at times this year I have felt like I could pen a darn good comparative essay entitled, "On the Road Again: Tall Tales from a Tall Guy on a Bus."

I had been warned of the high security caravan that channels tourists from the Sinai Peninsula to Cairo on a nightly basis. As we traveled along, I didn't sense the magnitude of police coverage I anticipated, but this in part could be due to my drowsiness and haphazard sleep. Our passports were checked before entering continental Egypt. To commemorate the border crossing and a maiden voyage into Africa for both of us, Ali and I shook hands -- carrying on a long-standing family tradition of greeting fellow travelers upon border crossings. I recalled the many times my family has greeted each other in this fashion while crossing the Mississippi River in Alton, Illinois, certainly the most frequently crossed border in our region. I was brought back to the pellucid present, however, when my eyes honed in on the guarded towers lining the road every ten yards or so. Picture a refrigerator box-sized container on the top of a pole, one open window facing the road and the silhouette of a man holding a large gun across his chest. Since the terrorist attack in Sharm El Shiekh in 2005, security has been beefed up considerably. And it's no wonder. Egypt's economy is shaky at best and without the commerce of tourism and constant flow of tourists, the economy would surely buckle.

As dawn broke, we made our first stop at a rest area just outside the city limits. A dirt road led us to a dirt parking lot where I paid 10 Egyptian pounds to relieve myself in a dirty bathroom. (An Egyptian pound is currently approximately equivalent to $.06. After my needlessly "expensive" potty break, I realized I should have heeded the advice of constantly carrying small bills. There are no coins in the Egyptian currency, and bathroom guardians don't make change.) While other passengers picked and pawed at their boxed breakfasts, I wondered around the facility trying to walk off an upset stomach. I'm convinced that for me the darkest side effect of too little sleep is an exhausted and cantankerous tummy.

Fortunately, the thrill of riding into Cairo -- that and the magical white powder Inga had previously given me for moments like this, "Take for diarrheas and vomits." -- calmed my system and awakened my inner Magellan. The entrance into Cairo confirmed my opinion that no city looks good on the outskirts, where suburbia building projects compete for space and attention with rundown factories. There was nothing pretty about what I saw outside of Cairo.

And there was really nothing pretty within Cairo. I read one Egyptian writer's brief take on the city known as "Mother of the World": in short, she can't wait to leave and she can't wait to return. Though my time was limited in the city, I saw the truth in her assessment. Cairo is dirty and noisy and gray. Traffic is a nightmare, fearful enough to cause even a Latvian driver to buckle his belt. Say what you will about Americans, but when it comes to rules of the road, in the eyes of the rest of the world, we Americans, all of us, must drive like your grandmother on a Sunday afternoon. Street lines in Cairo seemed to be nothing more than suggestions.

Cairo is skyscrapers and shacks, fast cars and donkey carts, exceedingly old and infantile. Cairo is the headache and Cairo, crazy enough, is the antidote, the two wound as tightly as the red and white checkered scarves covering the heads of Bedouin youths.

At 8:00 a.m. we boarded a felucca, or flatboat, on the Nile River. My head was swimming with the voluminous canon of literature pertaining to, inspired by or in some way related to the Nile. Like a star-struck fan caught up in the magic, I approached the Nile River as something sacred, something grandiose and enormous. Something biblical. Once the bus load of tourists had transformed itself into a boat load, cameras affixed in place, on lumbered our captain, a short man, dark and weathered skin, clad in a white robe. In his arms, he carried the boat's motor. This sight alone was enough to cause a semblance of careful response from the drowsy, stolid Russians who subtly exchanged glances with their spouses.

After a good six or eight hefty yanks on the chain, the motor began roaring, and the illustrious captain stood back wiping his hands proudly like a man who can now have the honor of mowing his front lawn. Moments later, we were backing out of the makeshift dock, onto the gray, opaque water of the Nile. So we'll have to contend with the loud motor, I thought. I can deal with that. As fate would have it, the motor turned out to be the second loudest noise producer on board. The gold medal would go to the boat's sprawling and cumbersome sound system, of which the captain was evidently proud. One swift click of a button and against our wills, we were at the mercy of a wanna-be D.J. and his strident music collection. There we were, floating down the Nile to the the bovine hip-hop sounds of Daddy Yankee's "Gasolina."

Friends, this was not your Sunday School teacher's Nile. This was the Nile Flavor Flav style, and I was riding dirty.

I tried to fashion my psychological stance after the tall white bird picking and poking among the polluted reeds of the river bank in the near distance: focused and untethered. Unruffled by the floating aluminum and plastic and the bombastic beats of our river ride soundtrack.

Back on dry land, the second phase of our tour led us to the Egyptian Museum. The museum's contents are undoubtedly incredible -- the Tutankhamun galleries, human and animal mummies, pharaonic wonders galore including a pharoah's condom (it looked used to me, but then again, it was BC) -- but equally intriguing is the museum itself which is anything but sleek, slick, or contemporary. Imagine, most of the placards are either typed (talking type writer here, folks) or even hand-written! With the dim lighting, you're lucky to even make out the information, most of which is written in Arabic and English. Wondering through the jammed museum gave me the feeling of having the privilege of being shown through a retired science professor's private collection, housed in aging but beautiful wooden and glass cabinets. The place smelled part college building, part basement, and in a word was utterly fascinating.

After a lunch buffet at the "Happy Dolphin" (house music, Kenny G), the final stop of the day was viewing the Pyramids of Giza, the last standing world wonder of the original seven. Contrary to what I believed, the pyramids are essentially located directly in Cairo, just across the river in Giza, not on some Hollywood-contrived vast and open stretch of desert land. The Pyramids, fascinating as they are, after four hundred years, literally and figuratively stand alone. At a glance, they separate Cairo from any number of Arab cities; only Cairo's skyline boasts the pyramids. The Pyramids are magnificent and defy expectations. (I should note that I opted not to go inside the pyramids, although I could have. Personal suggestions were in line with the printed advice of my travel guide. Indeed the splendor of the pyramids is an outward experience.)

Mark Twain visited the Pyramids in 1866 and noted that tourists at the Pyramids have "suffered torture that no pen can describe from the hungry appeals for baksheesh that gleamed from Arab eyes." Baksheesh refers to tipping but in Egypt it stands for more than just tipping as I understand it, a voluntary act for services rendered. Because salaries are so low, Egyptians rely on baksheesh to supplement their incomes. I was aware of this, but still, to my Western sensibilities, the concept and practice of baksheesh was bothersome, if not downright irritating. (Except for one grocery store, the items in stores and shops -- even in the airport -- were not priced, causing the customer to inquire with the worker. A price would be quoted and if the potential buyer so desired, a seesaw argument could ensue until a deal was reached.)

Little has changed since Twain's observation a century and a half ago. Being the only English speakers on our tour, Ali and I were turned over to Imam, an English speaking Egyptian guide. The benefit of this was greater personal attention. The downside of this was greater personal attention. We couldn't escape by blending into to the contours of a larger group. After circling the Pyramids on foot and successfully dodging the plentiful offers to ride camels, Imam walked us up to a plot of land just beside the pyramids.

"These are the better camel rides," he intoned.

Feeling quite content and ambivalent about riding camels, Ali and I respectfully declined his invitation. Looking back now, I have no idea how in the world first I, and eventually Ali, ended up between the humps of a large, sandy camel. Tourism workers must be modern-day magicians.

"Sit on camel!" This from a large, middle-aged man who took me by the shoulder. "Come sit for picture."

No sooner had I sat down on the resting camel did the camel rise on command. At this moment I realized that I was going for a camel ride, no choice about it.

Ali faithfully traipsed along my camel and me, attempting to take a picture, but the further we walked out into the desert, the more the wind blew, the more leverage the two camel drivers gathered to coax Ali onto the camel with me. "You, beautiful woman, sit!" Camel went down, Ali got on, camel stood up.

Before take-off, the older man looked at me and said, "I am in charge. You only pay me!"

"Okay, how much for the ride?"

The man looked off, thinking, as if we were the first clients he'd seen all week. "For you, twenty dollar for person."

I handed the man forty US dollars.

"Remember, you only pay me!" said the man, and with that he was gone in a sea of dust, leaving us with our camel and its driver, Mohamad.

Mohamad was jocular enough, a boy of 18. As he led us around he delivered all of the appropriate smiles and lines and questions. He made us pose for stupid pictures... made us pose? Well, yes, in that "I won't insist but you will do as I say, tourist, while I convince you that this was your idea" kind of way.

The camel had the hard work, though. The fact that the camel remained surefooted and steady on the sand is no surprise; but that the camel was able to navigate its course over and on top of the soda cans and shards of beer bottles scattered like confetti on the rocky sand was an act of sheer accomplishment.

"What's the camel's name?" I asked Mohamad.

"This camel," he turned, smiling, "is Michael Jackson."

Oh, Mohamad, you say that to all of the guys, don't you.

Our unwanted camel ride was winding to a halt when Mohamad dropped the bomb. "Hey, you know that the other guy got all the money... but I'm the one who took you on this ride, so..." whispered Mohamad.

I reached for my wallet. After a full day in Cairo, I had three Egyptian pounds, and two other bills -- $20 and $50. Doh!

Sheepishly, I pulled out the three Egyptian pounds and offered them to our driver.

Mohamad turned at my ribald offering. "Oh, come on, man! I want American dollars." He rolled his eyes.

I dismounted Michael Jackson with fifty dollars and three pounds left in my wallet.

From the baksheesh to the back alleys, Cairo is a finely-tuned ecosystem. Everything seems to be held together by a tricky glue, the compound of which is quite unfamiliar to me. Cairo is the furthest from home I've been, and I am not talking kilometers. Setting aside my proclivities as much as one possibly can, it seems the balance that is Cairo is precarious and as rickety as the wooden carts from which the toothless vendors sell fruits along the street corners, where the indefatigable traffic never ceases.

Yours,

Tim