To see what I could see

I betook myself car camping this weekend, in part to try it out. While I generally prefer to use transit when moving about the world, some places can’t be seen without a car. I also wanted to visit the area known as the Lost Coast. Apparently it is so named because it is so rugged that highway makers decided to move inland rather than try to make a road through it. It is indeed filled with rugged hills, steep ravines, and as a result- tortuous roads that sometimes turn into a one lane road, more suited to the moniker of ‘trail’. Sometimes the broken and heaved asphalt turned into gravel without warning. My little car got a work out maneuvering through and around ruts and holes, and recovering from swales in the road that were hidden in the dappled sunlight as seen through my dirty windshield. There were no guard rails or warnings of precipitous drop-offs. The roads were a series of switchbacks, and at times so narrow that I approached a hair pin curve around which I could see nothing in second gear and really, really hoping I was not about to meet an oncoming car.

Despite the demand for focus on the road, it was a lovely sojourn on back roads, through very small towns and junctions. I stopped at an abbey found deep in the woods on Briceland Road, picked rose hips from roadside bushes, and gathered driftwood along Mattole Road.

I slept in my car on a moon-lit night, and discovered that I need a better sleeping pad. I made coffee and breakfast in the morning, and took off at sunrise to explore. It was too many miles in just a couple of days of sitting in my car- another thing learned. But as a test run, it served very well.

The modern oasis- airport lounges. My tickets for this jaunt were business class from Oakland to Cairo by way of LA and Paris, due to a screaming deal I saw on Faredrop. It made the long flights, and even the layovers, a very different experience than flying economy. I may have started with a bit of imposter syndrome but I quickly adapted to the lie-flat bed, free food that is pretty good, assurance that I won’t have to worry about overhead bin space, and just being treated nicer overall. It’s not fair, and part of me struggles with why we have to pay to be treated well. But it really made a difference in places strange to me, where I didn’t know the language and didn’t know how to read the signs to know where to stand in line, or what order to do things in. A flash of a boarding pass with ‘business class’ on it just changed things. I was able to compare the experiences in a fairly close parallel because my flights between Cairo and Casablanca were coach, whereas when I flew into and out of Cairo at the beginning and end of the trip I was flying business class. Wooeeyy.

By the time I got here to LA early this evening, I’d been in transit about 24 hours, and I smelled like it. But here in the lounge I was able to take a shower -and put my dirty clothes back on, because I didn’t plan well for that. Still, the shower made such a difference. And of course, free food, drinks and wifi, all in the comfort of a clean, spacious waiting area with copious amounts of power outlets.

I’d like to say I came to some kind of new understanding of myself or the world this trip. Rather than a grand awakening, it has been more a combination of brushing up some skills made rusty by non-use the past 3 years, and a further accumulation of awareness of the larger world. It’s very hard not to develop tunnel vision in the day to day rhythms of life, so even though it was hard to pull this trip off for a few reasons, it turns out that I needed it. I found myself stretched and challenged anew to look beyond my presumptions. And to be ok with being soaked with sweat. And to see getting lost as part of the experience too- that I did plenty of.

I leave you with some of my favorite photos from the trip. Thank you for coming along, it has been a pleasure to try to share what I was seeing, tasting and experiencing.

Today was my last day in Cairo, which meant I had a couple of housekeeping tasks. I checked in online, of course. In addition to packing, I needed to arrange a ride to the airport at 0 dark thirty (2 am), make sure my passport and other needed documents got moved from what I refer to as deep storage into a ready access place, that kind of thing. I also had a bit of work to do.

I decided to spend the earlier part of the day doing a bit more exploring, and save the chores for the heat of the day. However, I got a later start than planned, as my stomach was announcing it’s displeasure with something I ate.

I walked to the metro and bought four tickets, which turned out to be good planning, because I rode to the wrong connection point and then compounded my error by going the wrong way on the wrong line for a bit before I figured it out. Eventually the metro spit me out near the area known as Islamic Cairo. I wandered in a semi- purposeful fashion in the general direction of the next metro stop, taking in the sights of everyday life, at least for some Cairenes. I know there is a lot more to the city, but what can one really see in a few days? I saw a donkey pulling a cart with propane tanks stacked in on the cart, men sipping shishka and watching the world go by, vegetable stands, fish markets, and of course cars, buses and motorcycles vying with pedestrians for the streets.

In the center of the city, a traffic cop urges traffic to move quickly, quickly, until the light changes, then his imperious hand points to the red light. While traffic sits, e sees someone he knows, walks over miss intersection to shake his hand.

I happened to find myself near a beautiful looking church- St. Mark’s Coptic Orthodox Cathedral, and decided I’d like to see the inside. It was heavily guarded however, with a concrete wall around the perimeter. I found the entrance and followed a school group to the metal detector/bag scanner place. A man looks at me and says, who are you? I had no idea. At least not in any fashion he would want to know. As I stood there a few others behind me came up, and pulled up their sleeves, displaying a tattoo on their inner arms that apparently marked them as Christians, as he waved them right in. Eventually he decided I was harmless as an American, and he waved me in. However, I never got inside the church itself. Perhaps there was a way, but I could not see it, and it turns out today was the day for hordes of school children to come visit. The sun beat down and I fled in defeat.

The ride home on the metro was uneventful and easy. Orang had notified me I was out of internet, so I made a stop at an Orang store, where the woman who waited on me apologized for keeping me waiting, little knowing I was reveling in their air conditioning and really not in a hurry. Resupplied, I headed back out in the heat, because the hours were dwindling. Speaking of dwindling hours, I have to leave for the airport in 6 hours, so I’m hoping to sleep shortly.

Sometimes I get lazy when I’m traveling. I’d been out walking pretty much all day, got back to my room around 6:30, and thought about calling it a day. But. There’s this shawarma place just a short walk from my hotel, and it’s always super busy with locals. Insanely busy. And I really hated to give up on figuring out how in the world to order, and of course taste what is clearly well regarded. Following a conversation with myself, where I said something along the lines of ‘you’ll regret it if you don’t try’, I put my shoes back on and sailed forth. In the wrong direction. Twice. There are a lot of options for turns here. So even though the restaurant is really close to my hotel, I took a bit longer than most to get there.

This view awaited me. At first it looks like a huge crowd of people just standing there waiting to get in, and no one is moving. After I stood there a bit though, I could see that it did actually move. I figured out where the end of the line was, although I still had no idea why so many people were just hanging around – not in line, not eating, but not leaving. A short time later, a man also waiting in line told me there is a women’s line and it was shorter. So it was. Being a woman, I went to that line. As we snaked forward, tightly packed but not touching, I studied the menu posted high on the walls without enlightenment. It was all in Arabic, except some prices. There were a few photos but to order I would have to be inside and away from the pictures, so pointing at them wasn’t going to be possible. At this point, I wasn’t sure if I would actually get any food, but I was by then determined to try. I asked the two women in front of me if they spoke any English. Neither did, but a woman behind me spoke up. She offered to help me order. At some point in the very polite scrum, one of the young men taking orders also passed an English menu to me. That would have been helpful indeed, but it was only in English and he didn’t know English. So the usual pointing method left us both in the dark. Fortunately my new friend interpreted for me and it got done. There was another woman behind her who also did not speak Arabic, and I passed the English menu to her as I squished my way out.

I thought they said it would be a wait of 45 to 50 minutes. Then they call out your number. In Arabic, of course. So I set a timer on my phone and figured I would take my ticket up about the time it ran out, and start showing it to people. However, I ran into the helpful woman again, and it turned out she was waiting with her mother, who really wanted to talk with me. We had a lovely chat as we waited, and then about 15 minutes in, Gege took my ticket and hers, and went up through the crowd, coming back with both orders. We said goodnight and went our separate ways.

I’m sitting in a coffee shop, gathering myself to launch the day officially, and knowing I’ll miss this as I return to everyday life and all its busyness. I can see the street from here, just noticed a man ride by on a scooter with his cane tucked in behind him.

I won’t miss the constant horns of taxis as they pass, an invitation to an obvious tourist. I stick to the shady side of the street wherever possible.

There are street sellers everywhere, one thing that appears to be consigned to the lowest of the pecking order is to try to sell small packets of kleenex. A man just offered as I passed, to which I shook my head and just kept going. The offers are endless and nothing is as it seems. Just after I passed him, another man appeared on my left, to say ‘ say la shokran’ which I know means no thank you. But then, he proceeds to suggest a market for me to visit. And that today everything is closed. This is a constant line to try to get you to go where they want, then they either charge for their services or get you to buy things. I’m fair game, being a woman asking who is clearly not Egyptian.

I took the metro to El Zahraa station, which is five stops. I’m trying to keep track on my fingers but I get distracted by all there is to see. I chose the women only car on purpose this time, for ease mostly. Here too we have panhandlers, vendors and apparently a mentally ill woman who began yelling loudly and pounding the door. There are fans but not AC, so I’m already sweaty.

I caught a ride in this minibus, and got lucky by being the last to arrive- I got the front seat and also we left right away. I have to say, these kinds of situations make me nervous, not about safety but about how to communicate and to understand what is said to me. I walked up, showed the driver my map on my phone, and said ‘the National Museum’. He grunted and nodded, reached over to unlock the passenger door, and that was it. With the windows wide open, the breeze felt wonderful. For about 17 cents, I was saved a hot walk in the sun.

I saw about 20 mummies, all Egyptian kings and a couple of queens. Some still had hair, you could see their toes, hands, the faces. Alas, no photos are allowed in that area. I can’t recall the oldest but for sure some were from 1400 BCE. The museum was interesting, albeit fairly limited in the amount of items on display. They were well put together. There is a lovely lake next to the museum that for some reason we could only look at from afar. However the museum was air conditioned. All in all, worth the visit.

The trip coming and going was interesting as well. I got a taxi for part of the way, then wandered through back streets to a metro station. While the back streets were the most interesting, it is also hard to take photos in those places. And then more wandering, with stops from time to time for sustenance and hydration.

It will surprise no one who knows me, but one of the places on my list was the bookstore at the American University Cairo’s old campus. Once inside the gates, a serene, green oasis awaits.

I wish I could share the chaotic, noisy streets of Cairo with you. I took a short video tonight standing in a corner, but still I felt a little uncomfortable doing it. And I’d have to upgrade my wordpress account to share it. It’s a cacophony of horns, people talking, hawkers handing out perfume samples, people eating, and so many pedestrians, cars and motorcycles all sharing the same space. It was 11 at night when I left my hotel, yet there were families out, the stores all open, and street vendors doing business.

I arrived in Cairo via a flight from Casablanca, and after passport control, retrieving my checked bag and going through customs, I emerged on the sidewalk and almost immediately saw that one of the many standing across the street held a sign with my name on it. I used the time in the car on the way to the hotel to work on Arabic numbers, since some of the license plates have both Arabic and, well, Arabic. Our numbers are called Arabic (or Hindu-Arabic), but they are not the ones used by those who write in Arabic. For instance, our 5 looks a lot like a slightly squashed O, and their 2 is a sort of backwards 7. And so on.

I had wandered out in search of food. The shawarma place is clearly the place to eat but – how?

There’s no apparent rhyme or reason to the mass of people working their way inside to order, or how to then retrieve it? So, from raw oysters and Moroccan salad last evening, to a chicken sandwich at McDonalds tonight, that’s how that went. I just wasn’t up to navigating anything that hard.

My hotel is on the 3rd and 4th floors of an old building in old Cairo. It opens onto a dirty narrow street that at first glance appeared to have a large group of young men gathered. As I walked out of the hotel, it gave me pause. However, on closer inspection, the group of young men was largely made up of mannequins.

Mannequins are an interesting topic here. Because of religious beliefs, most mannequins have no face. But then you’ll see a display window filled with mannequins in negligees- with no face. I’m sure we are just as puzzling to outsiders looking in.

For years after seeing Casablanca for the first time, I dreamed of visiting. I’d heard enough times since then that it’s not at all that city in the movie, so I came to Casablanca only as the point of departure from Morocco. Having more realistic expectations, I found the central marketplace, where my lack of French has resulted in me getting raw oysters.

They’re not my favorite anytime, but having just passed a horsemeat stall, and a fish market, and not being sure of food standards, it seems maybe a little dicey. But several people worked together to help determine what I wanted, and so I’m going to cross my fingers.

My hotel overlooks the port, and is right next to the Casa Port train station. Train stations here are architecturally interesting, clean and very busy. Tomorrow I’ll just zip across the street, buy a ticket and ride the train directly to the airport.

This is the Marrakech train station, and the inside is just as interesting.

I am having the hardest time saying Essaouira. It’s a lot like ‘eso-warah’ but what my brain knows, my tongue cannot do. I found myself walking down a street today, saying ‘eso-warah’ ‘eso-warah’, over and over. Still, caught off guard, I stumble on it.

Tomorrow I have a 3 hour bus ride back to Marrakech, and then a train to Casablanca. Google maps has been a bit spotty here, and I really didn’t want to be lost at 6 am on dark streets, so I took a walk to the bus station today. Tomorrow I’ll follow the bread crumbs back.

Only steps from my hotel, a treasure! And then, having been shown to my room, I think I may have squealed out loud when the person opened the windows. I shall sleep tonight to the sound of the Atlantic Ocean.

Later, having taken care of some work, I ventured out in search of food. I confess I’m a little bit tired of tagine and couscous and hadn’t tried bastilla (pastilla) yet. Traditionally made with pigeon, I got mine with chicken (I hope). Surprisingly it came topped with powdered sugar and cinnamon. Not bad, but no need for a repeat either. The salad is known as Moroccan salad, and it is a lot like a salsa. I’ve been eating it daily, which may have contributed to my stomach issues early on. Or maybe it helped, who knows? Olives are served at every meal, including breakfast.

All of Morocco seems to have a heavy French influence, but it seems more marked here than in Fes or Marrakech.

Khobz is stacked in piles, carried about in wheelbarrows, and handled by who knows how many before it shows up in a basket for me and the inevitable flies at the table. None of that stops me, I just close my eyes in a virtual sense, and partake of the manna.

I’m on the bus to Essaouira this morning, with a book and the passing desert to keep me company. I had an interesting conversation yesterday with Noumin, my driver. As we neared Marrakech and the end of our time together, we came back to his prior comment that he had attended university for three years, studying law. Now he told me that need like to be a judge someday, but that it is difficult to be an honest judge in Morocco, because there is a lot of pressure about decisions, and a lot of money to be made of you make the desired ones. He said, “you get a call from a minister [governmental] about changing a decision… it is difficult to say no.”

He then talked about his friend in Florida whom he had hoped to marry and thus obtain a visa to the US. Visas are very hard to come by if you carry a passport from certain areas of the world. However she has married an Angolan, and is now not responding to his WhatsApp messages. We explored his options as he drove. When I asked about France (everyone here is fluent in French), he was quick and firm in his refusal to consider it. “They are racist against Muslims.” Based on what I’ve read, I think he’s right. I had no answers for him, but it made me thoughtful again about the accident of birth, and the scope of options that is largely determined by that. Again, no answers. I know how fortunate I am, especially as a woman, to have been born in the time and place I was. It boggles my mind that it is this way.

I’ve adopted a rollie bag now, picked up yesterday in the souk for 200 dirhams. A thing of beauty it is not.

Trying to see what I had come for, I explained during the drive to Noumin that my father had been a farmer when I was a child. I didn’t say ‘my parents’ as I knew already that he is not able to view women as being in charge. So the fields, the crops, the ways of the farmers, all of this interests me far more than, say, carpet shops. I look at dry stone walls and see a work of art. And I wondered how they make things grow in this rocky soil, but clearly they do.