The Nature of Miracles

Last summer, or maybe the summer before, we had a bear death in my area. A bear dragged a young boy out of a tent one night while his family was sleeping, and took him into the woods. They found the child's partial remains the next day. They also tracked the bear, and killed it. A necropsy revealed human tissue in its stomach. The event was doubly sad as the same bear had broken into another tent earlier in the evening, looking for food. The young couple had alerted rangers, but no one thought the bear would come back, so the people camping in the area didn't know to be on the watch for rogue bears. A warning might have saved the boy's life. And it might not. We'll never really know for certain.

When it happened, they rehashed it over and over on the nightly news. One night, they interviewed an elderly gentleman whose granddaughter was also taken by a bear back in the mid-90s. Her life was saved because her grandfather, the gentleman in the interview, followed the bear. He fought for the girl's life with the only tool he had on hand--a big, large-cased plastic flashlight. In the interview, he related how the light broke, and how he continued, desperately, to jab at the bear with the plastic pieces in one hand, while clinging to the screaming girl with the other. He ended the interview by saying it was surely a miracle that she was spared. He was very clear in stating that God had intervened. I turned to my mother, who was also watching the interview, and I said, "Bullshit." My mother asked what I meant, and I explained that that was no miracle, or rather, there was no divine intervention. The man had managed to save his granddaughter because he acted quickly, and thought to grab something heavy as he left the campsite, and because he simply wouldn't stop hitting the bear about the face until the bear let go of the girl. If there was a miracle that night, it was one of his own making.

Which brings me to the Islamic lion in Turkey, who gets up in the morning, before dawn, and the first Call to Prayer, and says "Allah" many times while aiming his head at the sky. I am not sure why it was such a hot topic while I was in Egypt, as the film from YouTube suggests that it happened several years ago. However, one thing I noticed in Egypt is that the nightly news, and the newspapers, are entirely devoid of what Western journalists would call "human interest" stories, and what I would call "the bullshit which pads out the rest of the news broadcast". Al-Jazeera, which is sort of the CNN or the BBC of the Arab world, is based in Cairo, and it has a regular broadcast every evening. However, the entire broadcast is full of the misery of life in the Muslim world--refugees fleeing the Swat valley, lives still disrupted by the conflict in Gaza, people still looking for their dead in Iraq. There's just so much bad news they don't have time to report on "fluff" stories, which is, perhaps, why it has taken so long for the Turkish lion to become a hit in Egypt. And he is, believe me, a hit. Ask a Muslim with an iPhone, or other device capable of storing a video clip, and chances are good they'll have it on their device. It's a bona fide miracle, and people are eager to talk about it, and about the implications of an animal calling out the name of God.

There's just one little catch, a catch I was polite enough not to mention while there. And if someone should talk to me about the lion now that I am back in the US, and I see the light of faith in miracles in their eyes, I won't mention it to them, either. The lion isn't saying, "Allah." He's vocalizing, to be sure, but it's a specific sound which big cats, including lions and tigers, make on a regular basis. As explained to me by the wife of the former head vet at our local zoo, it's the sound they make when they know it is about time to be fed. They are, essentially, saying they are hungry, and are ready for their food. (I used to work with the woman, and she's one of the neatest people I've ever met. The subject came up one day when we were working together, because I wondered why lions and tigers, which are very different animals, should make the same noise. She told me she was positive she knew the noise I was talking about, and that she was positive she knew what it meant, but that she'd check with her husband, the vet. A few days later, she confirmed that they make that noise around feeding time. Since animals at most zoos are fed on a regular schedule, you can generally hear the noise around feeding time. As the first big cats are fed, the rest get louder and louder, as the smell of blood tells them their meat is coming. Many thanks to Cindy for the explanation, wherever she may be now.) So, while the lion in the video is saying something, he is not actually praising God. The fact that he does it at the very same time every day, just before the sun rises, suggests that it's tied to another schedule. Unfortunately, that schedule is not the schedule for Muslim prayers. It's the feeding schedule for the big cats at his home zoo in Turkey.

I believe in a Divine Creator, but I must admit, that where others see a lion calling the name of God in Arabic, I see a lion who is ready to eat. Where others have seen the Virgin Mary, or the face of Christ, I have seen only a window with water spots, or a piece of toast or a potato chip. I know for a fact that the waters at Lourdes have healing properties. I also know for a fact that the Placebo Effect is real. (When I was studying medical transcription, I read of several studies where the results for the group given the placebo were almost as impressive as those for the group given the actual drug.) And I know that faith is a very powerful force. If a little blue pill made up of sugar and some bonding agent can cure someone of debilitating pain which they have suffered for years, why can faith in the restorative powers of sacred waters not do the same thing? To argue otherwise would, I fear, make me a fool.

So what then? Am I cut off entirely from the miraculous? Absolutely not. I do see miracles. It is a miracle when a pre-pubescent child pulls her younger sibling's lifeless body from the family pool and performs CPR long enough for the EMTs to get there and take over. It is a miracle when a trapped hiker finds the courage to sever his own arm and drag himself to safety. And it is a miracle when a pilot, realizing his plane has suffered a double bird strike, blowing out the engines, puts the plane down safely in a nearby river, saving all on the plane, and countless others on the ground.

Many may argue on the nature of its origin, but there is no denying we humans have a highly developed brain. I believe we are supposed to use it. Doing so can result in the miraculous.

Final Dispatch From The Desert (#7)

The last day here is always the hardest day here. I am not very good at saying good-bye, and that's especially so when I am saying good-bye to someone I love, someone I may not see again. I come because my father is elderly, and when I leave, it's always with the hope that I will return to see him again, and to see this country which I love so much.

The one good thing which happened today was that Horace turned up. One of my little visitors spent the night last night with her Mama, the cook. (Yes, her foot is still broken, but she had the cast removed, and came back to work the other day.) When Azhar came to ask if there was anything she could do to help me (we communicate in sign language, and I use the few words of Arabic I have learned), Hagar, age 3, walked right into my room, and right to one of the sofas. Her Mama was trying to talk to me, but Hagar was so focused I was sort of watching her, wondering what she was doing. What she was doing was pulling Horace out of his hiding place. She had taken a tissue off the table, and wrapped him carefully, and put him to bed under the cushions of the sofa, just at the center where they meet. He emerged from his long nap safe and sound. As I watched, she removed his "blanket" and set him on the table with my things. She speaks very well, but she is afraid of me, so I just said "Shukran" (Thank you) to her when she rescued him. She gave me the funny look she always gives me, and turned around and walked away. Her Mama didn't even notice, and wondered why I was saying "thank you." I didn't try to explain. I did, however, learn a valuable lesson. When searching for things which may have been moved by children, get down on the floor--the world looks very different when you're only 2 feet tall.

So, I am at least happy I won't be traveling alone. Silly, the power of one little frog. But maybe my affection for him is good. Maybe it means I am still young at heart, and haven't become too adult. Maybe it means nothing.

I was so happy I took several photos of Horace, posing here and there. I chose to post the one of him investigating a veritable relic: an actual pull-tab can of Coca Cola. They still have those here. I had to force myself not to save the tabs this year--I saved a bunch last year, and even more the year before. Perhaps that's another sign of being young at heart. Or, perhaps I am full of shit.

Whatever I may be, one thing is certain: in 6 hours, I will be on my way to Cairo International Airport, and in 10 hours, I will be on a plane for Amsterdam. That leaves me with very little to say, except for maybe this:

"Open your heart, I'm coming home..."

~Pink Floyd, "Hey You"

Dispatch From The Desert #6

I am doubly sad tonight. First, I am sad because tonight is the last night I will sleep here. By this time tomorrow (2320 hours), we will be loading my suitcases in the van, and I will be looking around my room one more time, making sure I didn't forget to pack something. I am sadder still, however, because when I leave, I will be leaving without my faithful traveling companion, Horace.

That's Horace, enjoying some sun in a planter at the Schiphol Airport, in Amsterdam. I know he made it safely to Egypt, because I remember placing him where he normally stays when I am here, which is on the nightstand. But he's been missing forever, and I don't know where to find him. I first noticed he'd gone AWOL the week after I had arrived. He wasn't on my nightstand anymore. Since then, I have looked all over the villa for him, with no success. I have had several visitors to my room from the 5-and-under crowd, who have been treated to little gifts and things like chocolate snack cakes and small bags of potato chips. I know for certain that none of my little visitors could have left the villa with Horace--their Mamas are all too careful. But a small visitor could have taken him from where he was sitting, and placed him someplace else in this big old house, without Mama, or me, for that matter, noticing. I am sure that's what happened to him. I am also sure that wherever that is will probably remain a mystery.

The only comfort is that when he turns up, meaning when someone opens a drawer I haven't thought to open, or looks in a closet I haven't gone through, they'll know immediately who he belongs to. I have no doubt that when I return, he'll be sitting on the nightstand in "my" room, waiting for me. But it makes me sad to leave without him.

There were many places I wanted to take him--I especially wanted to take him to the Khan El-Khalili bazaar. I thought he'd look great among the goods. But as I said, his vacation intinerary and mine were destined to part at some point, and they parted early. And now I'll be going home alone.

I have a lot of photos, and things to tell about which will have to wait until I get home. I just haven't had time to do it while here. Well, I've had time, but not access to the computer. Dad is older now, and he spends a lot of time napping in his recliner, and he finds the rapid-fire click-clack of my typing annoying, so my computer time has been limited. It's all good--my computer is waiting at home, and I can post when I get there.

But I won't be going home with Horace. It may sound strange for a grown woman to be sad about the loss of a little green suede frog. But Horace is more than that. He's been with me on many trips, trips I have taken with my husband, trips to other places besides Egypt. He's small enough to fit in a pocket, or in a corner of a purse, yet he's a powerful reminder of home. Looking at him reminds me of where I come from, and where I will return. This is the first trip I've ever taken where I thought I would take photos of him, showing where "we" have been, but there are no photos, since he's gone. I am comforted, though, to know that despite his loss, I can still make it home, even if I get there alone.

Dispatch From The Desert #5

(Image of Honey Bunny from "Pulp Fiction" borrowed from blogs4bauer.blogspot.com. I sure hope he or she doesn't mind.)

I am losing my patience. The cook, Azhar, is out with a broken foot, which I believe I alluded to previously. Consequently, we've dined out every night since she got hurt. That's where my patience, or lack of it, comes in.

When I am in the city proper, I blend with the rest of the tourists, but when I stay in 6th of October, there are a lot less people to blend with, so I stick out. I've spoken about the middle class, and how...unkind...they can be. And since we've been eating out, I have really felt the brunt of that unkindness.

Part of the problem is that no one can figure out exactly which slot to put me in. I look Arab when you look at my skin, hair and features, yet I have a pierced nose, tattoos, and I am dressed as a Westerner, often complete with a cigarette butt hanging out of my mouth (well, it's not really that bad--I mainly hold it in my hand while I smoke--it only hangs out, unaided, when I have to get in my purse). So the class-conscious people can't figure out where to put me. The poor people don't care, but the snooty middle class people sure do. Which brings me to Honey Bunny from "Pulp Fiction."

The other night, we dined at the Engineers Club. Clubs are a big part of life here. They are private, and have all sorts of facilities for the members, including things like a nice restaurant, a pool, tennis courts, and special items for sale offered at reduced prices. My father, being a retired civil engineer, belongs to the club.

We walked into the dining room, and suddenly, I found myself the object of approximately 80 curious stares. After looking at my clothing, many people simply dismissed me as a "hawaga" (foreigner), but a lot of the women kept staring, and staring in a very rude manner. When we took our seats, we were seated near a family of five: parents and three daughters, ranging in age from approximately 8 to 13. Unfortunately, I was right in the line of sight of the mother, and she immediately began giving me ugly looks and speaking to her husband and daughters about something. If looks could touch you, I would have been covered in bruises and bleeding profusely. The girls, not yet having learned the subtle art of covert peeking, just turned around in their seats and gawked. They were staring in such a focused, intent manner, that others in the room started staring, as well. Since my father was busy speaking with his driver about various things, I had nothing to do but look around me at the decor in the room. But every time I met a pair of eyes, my smile was returned with either a frown, or a funny look they have here, which includes pursed lips and grumpy eyebrows, which is meant to show displeasure. And they were the ones staring at me!

As we waited for our food, I became aware that almost every woman in the room was giving me disapproving looks, and many were staring and making comments. I made a comment to my father about it, and he looked around, and said, "Maybe you should just ignore them." I tried. I really did, but it was pretty annoying. So then, a thought struck me. "Dad? How much does a well-paid professional engineer make here? Per month, I mean." It turns out that unless the engineer works for a foreign firm, which is very rare, as foreign firms bring in their own people from other countries, he makes approximately $1400-$1600 per month. That's right. Per month. I asked some more pointed questions, and finally, trying to figure out who makes a salary comparable to any American salary, I asked if there is no one in this country who makes more than about $2500 per month. The answer was yes. Someone who sits on the board of a company, or the general manager of a big firm, might make as much as $3000 per month, but part of that will be money from "baksheesh," meaning, in this case, money paid in bribes or skimmed for personal use. And that's when I lost it.

Sitting there, having all those women just...staring...and in such an ugly manner. No smiles when I made eye contact. Nothing but disapproval. And cataloging my faults, complete with pointing fingers. And mentioning them to everyone at the table, and then not even being discreet about their laughter. And most of all, acting like they are better than me, probably largely due to money! I started to fantasize about pulling a Honey Bunny.

What I wanted to do was stand on the table, and scream, "Alright all you smarmy motherf*****s! I've had it! I won't take your money. I won't take your lives. (I was planning on just being armed with a dinner fork, anyway.) But I also won't take your bullshit looks anymore. Either look at me nicely, and smile at me, or don't look at me at all. I'm done with your shit! And by the way, my husband makes more money than your husbands do. Bitches!"

After that, after I had Honey Bunny firmly in my mind, I found dinner quite pleasant. She may not be a nice girl, but she makes a wonderful dinner companion.

Dispatch From The Desert #4

A BORED AMERICAN INSOMNIAC IN EGYPT

(The following tale contains material which may not be suitable for all readers. Parental discretion is advised.)

I had a fun night last night. I was silly. Very silly. But first a bit of background.

I have chronic, severe migraine. I have had every test imaginable, and tried every medication available in the rather large and formidable arsenal available to doctors in the US. The result is that nothing works, and I take a narcotic pain reliever, called Stadol, which is delivered via nasal spray.

I brought 3 unopened bottles of the spray, plus a bit in a fourth, with me in my luggage, but it was confiscated in Amsterdam. I believe I know the reason for this, but it's mainly an educated guess. Something someone said to me on the plane from Amsterdam to Egypt didn't register at the time, but I realized later that the little bottles look just like poppers, which are available in Amsterdam (but illegal). I just had my husband call our doctor and ask what kind of meds I should look for here for pain. He suggested several types, and I figured everything would be fine.

Well, things weren't fine. Everything that my doctor suggested is not available here. In fact, most pain relievers stronger than an 800 mg ibuprofen are unavailable here, unless you are actually admitted to a hospital. When the cook broke her foot, I took a look at her "pain management" medication. It amounted to a steroid to control the swelling in her foot, and prescription strength ibuprofen under another common generic name. (I was horrified--in the US they'd give you a shot of something strong in the ER, and send you home with strong pain relievers in pill form--she got an aspirin in the ER.) My father even tried to get me cough syrup with codeine, which used to be availabe OTC here. I could have managed with that, since the syrup tells you the concentration of codeine. But even that has been made illegal, and actually isn't available even in a hospital.

My father's solution was to acquire, for me, some of the local *herb*. I ended up with a ridiculously large amount--probably an ounce, if not more--which will simply be tossed in the trash when I leave. I had tried it several times, trying to assess its strength, as well as using it for migraine. When I first tried it, I thought it might be "creeper", which seems like nothing but hits you after a bit. No soap. I had to pee (it relaxes muscles for about 20 minutes after smoking), and then it does absolutely nothing, except for maybe making you slightly relaxed, but not even really sleepy. I had actually decided that if I were a marketing director for the growers, their slogan would have to be, "It's not creeper. It's just crap."

Which leads me to last night. I was bored. My body clock has now adjusted to the time change, and my insomnia is back. I eat chocolate every night after taking my meds, as the serotonin boost helps my meds work, and generally makes me sleepy, but even that hasn't been helping. So there I was. It was 11:00 pm, my meds had been taken much earlier, and weren't doing anything. I was bored, though I am reading a good book. I figured I'd smoke a little bit, and hope it made me sleepy. And wouldn't you know it...it finally crept! All I could think was, "Holy crap! That's why it's popular here!"

The result was a very amusing evening. I don't know if I finally got some good buds, or if I got some pesticide, or what, but it was just nuts. I read some of my book, and heard different voices "speaking" each part. Everything seemed very deep and interesting, and I could really "see" the characters, who seemed to have left the page and be acting just for my pleasure. I ate one, then two, then finally four Bounty bars (like Almond Joy bars, only denser, and better), partly because of munchies, but also because they felt so glorious in my mouth--tiny chewy bits of coconut, and chocolate like silk dancing on my tongue. I went outside for a cigarette, and when I came back in, I noticed all the Persian rugs, and decided to try them all out. Do you have any idea how many rugs there are in this house on the ground floor? Neither do I, but I can confidently report that the ones in the front hall, which are the really thick type which are "carved," are much nicer and softer than the others. And finally, there was fencing. Yes, fencing. I finished reading "The Three Musketeers" the other day, and I happened to see it sitting on the table. I decided I wanted to look like a musketeer. I think you can see the result for yourself. Somewhere in this house, I have seen a large, decorative scimitar in a heavy scabbard. I needed it so I could duel the crystal in the dining room. Fortunately, I didn't find it. I tried a wooden hanger, but it wasn't the same. I had to satisfy myself with dancing around with a scarf tied decoratively around my waist, and a wooden hanger tucked into it, thrusting it at flowers in the night-silent garden. As with all good things, it came to an end. I got thirsty, and went back to my room. Then I got involved in my book again. I read until the first call to prayer, which happens at about 5:00 am. Then I slept. I did, however, take a photo of myself as a musketeer. Lucky me. Or maybe, lucky you.

Dispatch From The Desert #3

That is the villa next door to Dad's. As you can see, it's filthy. It's also empty, which was why I took the photo--the house on the other side is occupied, and I have a feeling they would not appreciate me taking a picture of their home. Which brings me to the topic of the day--Cairo, in general, is a dirty city. Egyptians, in general, are not a dirty people.

It's not that people don't take pride in what they have, because they do. It's just that in a city of millions (14 Million was the last count I heard), where there the roads are clogged with vehicles belching God knows what into the air, where one of the largest deserts in the world is all around you, and where many smaller secondary streets aren't even paved, it's impossible to keep things like buildings clean. If you look closely at the house, you will see several lighter-colored streaks near the top, and one really long one running down the side of the room with all the windows. That is from water leaking from the roof, and clearing away some of the dirt. The fact is, it's just impossible to keep things clean, especially when so much of the outside design of buildings includes textured stucco, which holds dirt like mad, and which is, due to its texture, nearly impossible to keep clean. I used that house as an example, but remember that Dad's villa is in the newly created suburb of 6th of October-all the dirt on that house is from dust storms which come in from the desert, which is where we are. In the city, it's dozens of times worse, with many buildings looking almost black from a combination of dust, soot, exhaust, and everything else that nature and man can devise. I can honestly say that I have seen three really, really clean buildings in all of my visits to Cairo. They are the American Embassy, the English Embassy, and the Canadian Embassy. They, too, have used stucco, but they smoothed it out, so it's easier to clean, and the last time I was at one of the embassies, which was last year, there was a crew working on a scaffold on the west wall, scrub buckets in hand, hoses draped over the scaffolding, and no doubt thinking the American Ambassador and his staff are crazy for having them clean something which will, inside of four weeks, be filthy again. The big international hotels, like the Sheratons and the Hiltons, have used a clever method to keep the building looking clean--they are either entirely faced with marble or a similar stone which doesn't hold dirt, or they use colored stucco--reddish, desert colored stucco is popular because you cannot easily tell when it's dirty. Besides, when a building has 30 or 40 floors, no one can tell what anything above about the 10th floor looks like, anyway.

Unfortuately, because the buildings are dirty, people who visit and don't take time to think about the circumstances of the placement of the city tend to assume that the Egyptian people are dirty, as well. That's not true. There are, of course, people, mostly fellahin, who do not have the opportunity to bathe daily, because they live in small villages where water must be hand-drawn from a well which is shared with many others. I have heard people say horrible things about those people--they are pigs, they stink, they reek of body odor, etc. For those people, I can only say that if you lived in a mud hut, with no bathroom, no hot water, no washing machine, and not even money for deodorant, you'd probably smell by the end of a hot day, as well. Westerners simply cannot hold people in a third world country to their own personal standards of hygiene--the people do the best they can. People who live in the city tend to live in crowded buildings in flats of varying size. They do bathe as often as they can, generally every other day, because water is very expensive, as are the water heaters for heating water. Additionally many of those small flats only have a small shower, and a water heater which holds, at most, enough water for a five minute shower. Consider that there are probably at least four or five people sharing that flat, and you can see the problems. I think we Westerners, with large homes, huge bathrooms, and water heaters which hold enough for a 45 minute shower tend to forget those things. But I still say the people are clean--they wash as often as possible, use deodorant and shampoo when they can afford it (and plain water and soap if they cannot), and take pride in themselves and their homes. If a visiting busybody from Wisconsin could see inside one of the tiny flats in one of the filthy buidings, she would find a home which is cared for proudly--the furniture might be sparse, and old, but it will be as clean as the homemaker can make it. The tiles in the kitchen and bathroom will be clean, wiped down daily, even if it's only with cold water and a cloth. The floor will be swept, and if there are rugs, they will have been aired on the balcony, and beaten with a rug beater, then replaced with the fringes lined up as neatly as possible. And the laundry, usually washed by hand in the sink, since washing machines are a luxury, will be well-scrubbed, and hanging from a line on the balcony, drying in the sun. I must admit, I am always amazed at how white the white clothing seen hanging all over the place is. I really don't know, if I had such limited resources, if I could keep my whites looking that clean.

So yes, the city is dirty, the roads are dirty, the cars are dirty, but it's more to do with the geographical placement of the city and the huge number of inhabitants and vehicles than anything else. And some people are dirty, too, but they are so extremely poor, that they do the best they can, and should not be judged as we would judge our neighbors at home. The people are proud. Even if they wear very old clothing, it's cleaned and pressed. I have seen shoes so old they are one false step away from falling off the owner's feet, but they have been carefully cleaned to look as nice as possible. People in slightly better circumstances, logically, do slightly better. I guess my main point is that being surrounded by dirt doesn't make you a bad person, and neither does not being able to better your circumstances. As I explained before, people, in general, live hand to mouth, and that's true for many, many people. They cannot always afford luxuries, so they do the very best they can.

And there's one more thing. The vast majority of the poor people and of the lower middle class, which is mainly who I have talked about here, are very devout Muslims. That means that they pray five times daily. And part of the preparation for praying is a ritual cleansing. If water is available, they wash their faces, their necks, ears, hands and forearms, and feet. (In the absence of water, such as in the desert, this ritual cleansing is done with sand.) They go before Allah as clean as they can be. How can you say someone is a dirty pig when they care enough to cleanse themselves before bowing to God? The answer is simple: you cannot.

At home, I often see people with greasy lanky hair, food-covered clothing, and skin so dirty that their skin appears ashy colored. Those people have much more than the people here do. So the next time someone tells you Egyptians are dirty people, kindly remember what I've said. And take a look around you the next time you're at Wal-Mart. You'll see what I mean.

Dispatch From The Desert #2

"The love of money is the root of all evil."

~The Apostle Paul

The flower to the right is one of the rarer, and one of the most beloved, in all of Egypt. (For those of you who are curious, it was made with two 100 EGP--Egyptian pounds--bills, one 20 EGP bill, and one 5 EGP bill--about $40 US.) And, just as Paul warned (and there's very little Paul said which I find of value), the love of it leads to evil. Or at least to harm. Why do I say that? Because it's harming Egypt.

There are, essentially, four social classes in Egypt. First, there are the fellahin--the peasants. They don't get the credit they actually deserve. The fellahin work the fields, and they are the ones who produce the crops, including cotton, which are sold all over the Middle East, and, in the case of cotton, all over the world. (Ever been shopping for super expensive sheets? Chances are they will be made from Egyptian cotton--it's of much higher quality than any other cotton produced elsewhere in the world.) So, the peasants do the agricultural work which is so vital to the Egyptian economy.

The next class is, for lack of a better word, the service class. That includes everyone from the people who work in hotels and restaurants to the domestic staff who work in homes and the drivers who drive nearly all private vehicles in the country. This is probably the largest group of workers, and it is, also, the backbone of the Egyptian economy. The country would literally grind to a halt, and very quickly, if the service class disappeared, as they run the tourism industry.

Next comes the middle class. As in the United States, there are lower, middle, and upper divisions to this class. The lower middle class is made of people who have jobs which pay more than those in the service class, usually jobs in offices, or minor government jobs, but they don't make too much. The solidly middle class, and the upper middle class, are people who are mainly professionals. This includes anything from people who own their own businesses to lawyers, doctors, and higher government employees.

Finally, there's the super rich. No one ever sees them--they spend their time at their resort homes when they are in Egypt, and at their homes abroad. When you're rich here, you're super rich.

The problem with money is that those who don't have it live hand to mouth, and those in the middle class, which continues to grow, don't know what to do with it. They claim they don't want to be like Westerners, but everything about them screams otherwise--their clothing, the food they eat, and the places they go when they go out to shop or for dinner. The greatest problem is that it is making them forget their values, and making them stuck up. They treat everyone, including me, with disdain. They think because they make $10-12K a year, they have arrived. I find it both laughable and sad. I have been treated so poorly by people who believe they have money that I don't know whether to laugh at them or spit (a very insulting gesture here). One of their hallmarks is flaunting their wealth. Since I dress very casually while here, and don't wear makeup unless it is absolutely necessary, they look down on me. They don't realize that I have more than they will ever have, because I don't dress ostentatiously, or flaunt what I am privileged to have. They feel very good because they have a car, and a nice large flat (apartment) or a small villa (single family home), and because they can afford to buy apples imported from the US. If I told them my husband and I own a home bigger than their flat, and which is worth, even in this depressed market, about $300K, that we each have our own vehicle (a big truck for me, a slightly smaller one for him), and that my husband makes their yearly salary many times over, they might treat me differently. My concern isn't really me, however. What I despise is the way they treat the people who really are below them on the financial totem pole. I can handle ugly looks and upturned noses, mainly because I know what they do not--my personal wealth dwarfs their own, even if I don't feel compelled to show off. But I hate, really hate, the way they treat those they believe to be their financial and social inferiors. They speak unkindly, yell, throw orders at people they don't know and expect them to be followed. Find an ugly behavior, and I've probably seen it modeled by someone of the "moneyed" middle class here. It's tremendously sad. Especially since the people of Egypt are one of its greatest assets.

The other problem, as I see it, is that they are so happy to have money, they spend it all flaunting it. They don't save. They don't invest. They don't even buy flats or villas, preferring to rent. They seem to think that if there is money in the wallet today, there will be money tomorrow. Despite their ugly attitude, I hope they never find out differently.

Dispatch From The Desert #1

When you can turn and ask someone for a specific translation from Arabic to English, it quickly becomes apparent that Arabic is an extremely rich language. It shouldn't be surprising, really, since it's a very old language, as well. I am ashamed to say I don't know all the details about it--when it was born, when it entered its present form--but I do know that it is extremely old. Or old enough, anyway, to make English of the modern variety look very young.

English is reputed to be the most difficult of all languages to learn for various reasons. For one, there's the massive vocabulary, bigger than that of any other living (and all dead) languages, which grows almost daily. Then there are the completely irregular verbs. Finally, there's the fact that it is so widely spoken, and that each region has variations, including contributing to the growing body of the language regularly.

Arabic, like English, is a language spoken over a very wide area. The written version varies very little from place to place, so theoretically, a newpaper from Morocco should be easy to read if you happen to be an Indonesian Muslim who speaks Arabic. Not so the spoken variety. Like English, it varies from region to region, but from what I have been told, the greater the distance between two points in the Arab world, the lesser the chances of two people communicating effectively, unless they both happen to speak Classical Arabic (and no one speaks Classical Arabic except professors, classicists, calligraphers, and some Muslim clerics and theologians). I even noticed last year that as we approached Mersa Matruh (a good bit of history there if you are interested in WWII and Rommel's march across the desert), which is pretty much the last real city before Libya, the Arabic sounded more and more different to my ears. So it is, definitely, a living language, one which grows, is in flux, and changes regularly.

But that isn't what makes it beautiful. What lends it charm is its richness, and the long oral traditions which have been passed down through hundreds and hundreds of years. For example, there's the daily greeting. I am not talking about the traditional Muslim greeting, "Salaam Aleikum", (Peace be with you), or its reply, "Aleikum Salaam", (And with you, Peace), but rather the regular old, "Good Morning." There are many, many ways to say, "Good Morning." I have only really mastered three, and those are the three I use regularly: "Sabah el-Kheir", "Sabah el-Nour", and "Sabah el-Fhoul." In order, they mean, "Welcome, the day!", "Welcome, the light!", and "Welcome, the jasmine!" (That photo is of a jasmine blossom in Daddy's garden, by the way.) All the rest, which I don't remember, tend to include greetings to things in nature, greetings to good things like health and prosperity, and greetings to other lovely things. The point is, there are many, many ways to greet the new day, and share your greeting with others. If Eskimos have many, many words for snow, then Arabs have many, many phrases just for "Good Morning." And that variety is repeated again and again in their language.

I was treated to an especially lovely one this morning. Since I live my life mainly at night, being here suits me well. I get up at about 9 am or 10 am, which is the middle of the night at home.(That is, truly, the only reason why I am able to get up in the morning and actually be human and cheerful.) The cook doesn't get here until sometime after 10, so I go down, and have a morning smoke, and then, if I have heard Dad stirring, I open up the kitchen. He has an electric kettle, and yesterday I watched him while he made his tea (the cook was late--she didn't get in until after noon). Today, he asked if I could go turn on the kettle, so I went ahead and started his tea. As I was working, the cook arrived, and seeing what I was doing, she immediately rushed to make his tea. I told her in my awkward mix of bastard Arabic and sign language that she needn't bother--I would take care of it. She tried to shoo me away, but I insisted. After all, I have had, in my life, precious few opportunities to make my father's morning tea. When I took it up to him, she followed me up the stairs, and as I set it down next to his chair, she said something in Arabic. I turned to see a big smile on her face. They had a brief conversation, and she repeated a certain word several times. Finally, Dad translated. "She says you wouldn't let her make the tea, that you wanted to make it yourself." "Yes," I replied,"I can make tea, I had already started it, she didn't need to hurry to finish." He continued, "She says that she could see that you liked making my tea for me." My only reply was a smile. She said that word again, and I turned to him for a translation. "Like honey," he said. I was puzzled. "What's like honey?" He explained, "You making my tea is like honey." "Oh! She means it was sweet of me," I said. "No!" was his reply. "It means many things. It means sweet, like honey. You did a sweet thing. But it also means more than in English. Here honey is special, because there aren't a lot of trees and plants. It is rich, golden, beautiful. It was, long ago, very expensive and precious. So, it means it was a sweet thing you did for me, but it also means it was good, and like a gift. An expensive and rare gift. It was something not just sweet, but special. Beautiful."

I didn't know what to say to that, or to their two smiling faces. I could only ponder the beauty of a language where "like honey" means so much more than it does in my own. I have a feeling that the next time a gum-chewing service station clerk asks, "Whatcha need, hon?", I will remember this morning, and remember that making tea for my father was, for me, a good opportunity. A precious gift, if you will.

Damn the icebergs...Full speed ahead!

I've always been fascinated with the story of the RMS Titanic. Naturally, there's a lot to think about when you consider the people on the ship that night, and how they dealt with the sudden reversal of fortune which led some of them into life boats, and others into the frigid waters, but that's not the really fascinating part to me. No, the really interesting stuff is the ship itself. It was, to my mind, a big, beautiful, floating monument to man's hubris. And I think we all know where hubris leads...it leads down. When you give the Universe a big target, and say something grandiose about it, the Universe has a funny way of slapping you in the face, and proving you wrong. That's what happened with the Titanic. Men said she was unsinkable. And so the Universe took things in hand, and made asses of them.

This post is, in a way, my own little monument to the Titanic. Why? Well, it's because I, too, suffered from pride. I, too, built something I thought was unsinkable. And what happened? Right out of the gate, on its maiden voyage, if you will, it sank. Luckily, my personal Titanic was much smaller. It was actually another blog on this site.

I was very careful when I created it. I picked a good template, then puttered for a couple of hours, getting everything just so. I wrote a great introduction, complete with quotes from Shakespeare. I made it look really, really good. And then came the downfall. I forgot the simplest of things. I forgot to write down my password. And my memory? My memory failed me completely. I still haven't recovered the information for the other page, lovely as it was. So you are going to be treated to the short version of what I said with those carefully chosen words. Here are the main points:

1. Names are just labels. You may know me by any one of the many names I use, including the one which appears on my birth certificate. For the sake of privacy, however, I ask that you use my chosen name if you choose to address me on this page. And my chosen name? It's Jasper. That's right. Jasper. There's a Horace, too. You'll meet him later.

2. Please be warned that what I write may not always be original, interesting, pleasant, legal, politically correct, grammatically correct, or even free of obscenity. Obscenity, for me, tends to pop up in my use of language, as in bad words more familiar to sailors than nice suburban women, but it's not limited to language. I make no apologies. I would like to be real here, and if I am to be real, and if you want to read about the real me, be prepared for adult content. I don't plan to edit or keep it clean. I do, however, plan to be the real me.

3. I cannot guarantee that there will be anything worth reading on this page. There may be wondrous things, and there may be crap. I never know what I am going to write about. Just be warned that reading this may be an exercise in utter futility and boredom. And remember you can always close the window and go do something else.

4. And finally, you should be warned that I love words, all sorts of words. I collect them the way some people collect coins. Since I realize that not everyone is in love with TS Eliot, or wants to hear a quote from Winston Churchill, I will make a deal with you. When I am going to quote something, I will try to do it as a separate entry, and I will try to remember to put it in italics. That will make it easier for you to skip the words of others. But I will warn you--it may be that the words of others are the most interesting thing to be found here.

So, that's that.

I created this page now because I will be going to Egypt shortly. If you followed my adventures last year, perhaps you'd like to follow them again. And if you're new to my dispatches from the desert, well, I hope you will find something of interest here.

I am leaving in a few days, so saddle up your camel. We're going on a trip.

Worth Repeating #1

"We have been living together for many years and where you go, I go. As we have lived, so shall we die--together."

Ida Strauss, to her husband Isidor Strauss, during the sinking of RMS Titanic