Wednesday, March 31, 2010

An Open Letter to the Gropey Guy in a Barroom Bathroom in Kairouan

Dear Sir,
I was having a pretty good day today until you stepped into it. I took the early bus to Kairouan, south of Tunis. I wandered the kasbah, taking pictures of all that was picturesque. I ate diamond-shaped sweets and drank a glorious macchiato looking onto Islam's fourth holiest city. And for the upteenth time, I pretended to belong to a group to which I did not actually belong in order to see the interior of a building whose interior I as an outsider was not supposed to see. If that were a sport, I would be at least a AAA player by now.

Basically, today epitomized everything that I enjoy in my off-project time - food, wandering, and architecture. Then I went to a bar in Islam's fourth-holiest city. That itself should have set off warning bells, but sometimes I have to take a break from pretending to be religious. I had a few Celtia, the Tunisian local brew. You and I talked in my tipsy-fluent Arabic.

Then I went to the bathroom and you followed. Look, I understand how difficult it must be to be gay and closeted in North Africa (or single and extremely frustrated with social norms), but sorry, the area betwixt my navel and knees is off-limits. Especially for randos in bar bathrooms.

I hope the elbow I delivered to your sternum was a clear enough message, but in case it wasn't, American isn't code for gropeable. Seriously, just move to Tunis or Paris where there are real, live gays instead of being a creep in Kariouan.

And you surely were joking when you asked me to pay for your beer. Chivalry is positively dead when the anonymous bathroom groper doesn't even pick up the tab. I mean, that's just common courtesy.

I hope you will understand when you figure out the phone number I gave you is phony and probably a digit too short.


Best,
Edward




Location:Kairouan, Tunisia

Sunday, March 28, 2010

He brews Aquavit?

The Jewtective

After my project failed to pan out in Egypt, I was basically to resigned to the same fate in Tunisia, where the tiny community of Jews is roughly 1,500, a far cry from the 8 million Copts in Egypt that I hoped to meet.  However, I've learned this year that strange opportunities come when you least expect them.

After a bit of research before my departure, I knew the name of a prominent member of the Jewish community here.  After I arrived, I tracked down his phone number.  Then the drama started.  If it had been in montage form, you the viewer would have seen me sitting by the phone, dialing the number, then pressing cancel, thinking about what to say, getting nervous, etc.  It was like a teenage crush that I wanted to impress.  I was a wreck, and I was just calling an 80-something year old man.

When I finally got the courage to press "call," other than me being terrible at French it went well.  He invited me to his synagogue for shabbath.  When I say "his," I mean: he built it in 1956.  Apparently, my project is going to work out here.  However, what I could not understand was where it was.  He said, "La Goulette," which is a seaside suburb of Tunis, but he didn't say where.  So Friday was spent wandering around a large suburb, looking for any signs of Judaism.  After a few hours of wandering, I found a well-kept, but otherwise unmarked building.  The block on which it sat was barricaded and there were police.  Okay, I think I found it.

----

Edward Bar Columbo

The next morning, I took an early bus and train to get to La Goulette for services.  When I arrived I met a few older gentlemen of the congregation, but the rabbi wasn't too pleased with my presence.  They were under the impression that I don't speak French (true), but they didn't know that I can follow a conversation in it, and this one was clearly about what the hell I was doing in their synagogue.

[I should note here that I have very mixed emotions about basically the real work of my project.  I feel like an interloper, a phony, and like I'm using people.  I frequently say things I don't believe to meet people and get into places.  For now, at least, this is my job.  As to my Jewish identity, it's a good bit more cultural than religious.  Basically, the God of the Marx Brothers and Sandy Koufax is okay in my book.]

Despite the initial questioning about my parental origins and why I only know a tiny bit of Hebrew (I went with a "those silly Americans" defense), I had the man who built the synagogue on my side, so I was staying.  In the past, I've only been to Carleton Jewish services, which, for better or worse, are hippy-dippy, everyone-is-welcome affairs, and they were probably about 80% English with lots of explanation, perfect for a shy kid with no Hebrew education.  This service was old-fashioned.  It wasn't Orthodox, but only the sermon (apologies for the Christian terminology) was in Arabic/French, and everything else was in Hebrew.

A few hours into prayers, the Torah was removed from the tabernacle, and reading began.  All the men got up to read, but as mentioned previously, I'm a big phony who can't read Hebrew.  They called me up.  I pleaded that I couldn't read.  They were not having it.  So I was up with the Rabbi.  He asked my name in French.  I told him.  No, he said, your Hebrew name.  In Arabic/French, I said that I didn't have one.  After some back and forth about my legal name, there was a moment of recognition on his face.

"OH, LIKE COLUMBO!"

My heart beating through my chest in a small synagogue in Tunisia, I couldn't help but laugh at the influence of a television show that's been off the air for a couple of decades.  I stumbled through a transliterated version of "baruch etah adonai" and was allowed to sit down, looking like a fool, which is pretty normal for me.

---

A Terrorist Attack

A bit later, the door in the back of the synagogue opened, and a gunman entered.  Women shrieked.  Men covered their eyes.  He advanced up the aisle, letting off a few rounds in the air.  It was tense; no one was sure how this would end.

The rabbi walked towards him, grabbed the gun, put a yamulke on his head, and give him a firm spank on his rear.  Crisis averted.  The rabbi's son sat down sullenly in his seat.

---

Are you sure you're not Catholic?


After service ended, the congregation sat down for a snack.  Cookies, trail mix, and soda were passed out to all in attendance.  Suddenly, a bottle of aquavit appeared.  As plans for passover were discussed (I snagged an invite!), the men in attendence poured shots.  There are many things that I've witnessed or experienced this year that I just would never have guessed would happen to me in a lifetime, and this certainly falls into that category.

I've reread the following sentence several times, and it just never makes any more sense:
"I was taking shots with a rabbi in a synagogue in Tunisia."

And that, dear readers, is what is happening in Tunisia.


[I decided not to write about the rest of my time in Egypt.  It wasn't fresh in my head anymore, so I figure I'll just keep moving forwards.  More about Tunisia hopefully soon.]

Sunday, March 14, 2010

Frodo, sometimes the closest place to danger is the farthest from harm

After our first few days in Addis Ababa and Debre Libanos, we travelled to Bahir Dar through some of the most beautiful land I've ever seen. After passing through a few hours of highland villages, we descended precipitously into the Blue Nile Valley. I'm terrible at estimating, so I'll just say the way down was really steep. Really really steep. Thanks to a new road, a gift from Japan, it was also unexpectedly smooth.

After crossing the river where a sign proclaimed the Ethiopian millenium (by their calendar, it's 2002 presently), we drove across what seemed to be an endless plain. I hate Orientalist terms like "traditional," "tribal," and the like, but other than the odd foosball table and Coca Cola cooler, this area was a different world, even from Addis Ababa. The people there baled hay and plowed their fields as we sped by. The baboons just stared, as they are wont to do.

We arrived in Bahir Dar unexpectedly early. (I think Ethiopia is the only country that overestimates travel times.) Situated on Lake Tana, into which the Blue Nile flows and out of which it emerges, Bahir Dar was a welcome break from the onslaught of Addis Ababa. Other than some tout pressure, it was a very nice little town, which we made our base while we explored the monasteries of Lake Tana and visited the now just trickling Nile Falls.

Monasteries dot the islands and peninsulas of the lake, ranging from modest recent churches to beautifully decorated complexes of medieval (and still active) churches, religious schools, and villages that support them.

Of the five we visited, two stood out:

The second monastery on our itinerary was situated on a small island. Though the interior of the church was closed for a restoration that may never happen, it was incredible architecturally. Like most of the churches, it is a round structure with an outer colonnaded porch and an inner cella/sanctuary. Chimes hung from a weathervane that topped the thatch roof. It was simply beautiful. We sat outside as strange birds, black with long white tail feathers, flew around the clearing. After my experiences in Egyptian monasteries, I wondered why anyone with a choice would choose to enter such a sad, often miserable place. Seeing the Lake Tana settlements made me think that a life reading on a beautiful island wouldn't be so bad.

Later in the day, we landed on a peninsula to visit the most active of the monasteries of Lake Tana, whose name escapes me. After making our way into the church, we saw some of the most beautiful painting in the country. Scenes from the Bible, saints' lives, and Ethiopian history covered the large inner cella, surrounded by a round enclosure with a thatched roof and reed-screened porch.

We had only been inside for a few minutes when preparations for the services began. A monk walked around the cella swinging incense and others gathered. As we exited to the field, an almost royal procession of priests and attendants walked towards the church.

Before we got on the boat to return to Bahir Dar, we stopped at the huts of some of the monastery's young noviates or seminarians, who for a few birr were happy to chant scripture for us in Ge'ez, the ancient language of Ethiopia.

After visiting the beautiful but sadly low-pressure Nile Falls, we ventured north to Gondar, the former royal capital. I'm pretty ignorant of Ethiopian history before the 20th century, but castles don't really need explanations, do they? They're big and old, and you run around them.

[A while ago, a friend asked me if he should visit Krak des Chevaliers in Syria. "Were you ever an 8 year-old boy?" I asked him. "Yeah?" "Then you'll love it."]

Romping around palaces and lion cages, sneaking into towers and dungeons, this is why I remain so grateful for this year, in spite of the difficulties, illnesses, and homesickness. As my time left traveling in North Africa draws short, part of me is relieved that by late summer, I'll be living a normal life with hot water, clean sheets, and people who speak English. But mostly I wish I could do this for just a little longer. Like five years or so.

---

Stories of meeting an oracle, freezing in the desert, an Egyptian haircut, and my arrival in Tunisia coming soon.



Location:Tunis, Tunisia

Thursday, March 4, 2010

In West Ethiopia, born and raised

After finishing a trying and eventful few months in Egypt, I spent the last two weeks of February in Ethiopia with a couple of friends. Ethiopia was an interesting change of pace for me, as I've only really travelled in Arab countries in the last few years. I'll tell a few stories from the first part of the trip below, but in terms of initial impressions:

Despite hailing from the same Semitic linguistic family as Arabic, Amharic is totally different, with even fewer cognates than Arabic shares with Hebrew.

Ethiopia is very poor. Egypt is by no means a wealthy country, but its poverty pales in comparison; there were a lot of sights that were hard to see.

Being "ferenji" or white made me stick out like a sore thumb. I can pretend to be an Arab and often get away with it, but no one would confuse me for "habash," a real Ethiopian. I was a magnet for pickpockets and scam artists for the whole time there.

Finally, injera and Ethiopian food are quite good. I've had it in the states a few times, but in Addis Ababa and Bahir Dar, it's incredible. Mutton stew, barbecued goat, and vegetarian "fasting food", eaten throughout Lent, were all delicious and a great change of pace from my diet in Egypt of koshary, rice pudding, and sahleb.

---

Wounded by Cairo, Blinded by Addis

Before my departure from Egypt, rush hour traffic, a bit of sand, and a brisk wind implanted in my right eye some debris. As I frantically prepared to depart, it had exploded into a massive swollen monster. (Upon his arrival in Ethiopia 24 hours after me, my friend David said I looked like Quadimodo.)

Arriving in Ethiopia was an ordeal, as it was 4am, my right eye was completely swollen shut, and the left hurt too much to blink, leaving me with an excess of tears, blurring the good eye. A kind Portugese man helped me fill out a visa application and I changed my US dollars to Ethiopian birr. I was ready to go, so I thought.

The visa office only accepted US dollars and Euros. I had foolishly changed all my dollars to birr. And of course they didn't accept their own currency. I wnt back to the money changer, who had on her desk the US dollars I had just changed. She refused to change any birr back to dollars (This was my first experience with what others have termed "Ethiopian logic"). She told me to go to the bank, which first of all was AFTER customs/entry stamp and second of all was closed, because it was 4am. After dropping a few f-bombs in the general direction of the money changer, Jesus H. Christs above, and eye-pain related tears to the floor (that's my story and I'm sticking to it), I found a group of Germans, who I offered a very good rate of exchange, but they just gave me 20€ as a gesture of goodwill, or possibly because I looked like Quasimodo and they were frightened by my eye.

Visa in hand, I got a taxi to the hostel and waited for David and Evan to arrive.

[My attempts at and final acquisition of medical care while mostly blinding Addis Ababa could fill their own post, but in large generalizations: clinics are poorly-equipped and usually closed, doctors aren't particularly well-trained, needles in sub-Saharan Africa are terrifying, and thank Allah for antibiotics.]

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Debre Libanos is for Lovers

After a few days seeing the sights and drinking the delicious coffee of Addis Ababa, before we left for Bahir Dar, we took a day trip to Debre Libanos, a monastery town 100km north of the capital. After haggling for a taxi as all the buses were gone, our taxi promptly became a bus, stopping for any passenger on the road. After a long and bumpy three hour ride, the driver told us, through a makeshift translator, that he was leaving back to Addis in thirty minutes unless we paid more, despite us negotiating a round trip with waiting. He wanted to leave even before the monastery opened. My companions left to me the task of, excuse my French, bitching out foreigners over money, due to my skills and experience in this field. Eventually, he agreed to give us an hour and a half total, of which the monastery would be open a half hour. After hiking to the cave where St. Tekla Haimanot prayed until his leg became gangrenous and fell off. Apparently, he stood and prayed another seven years on one leg.

Climbing back down and entering the monastery, we repeated a familiar pattern of becoming a spectacle wherever we went. A cathedral full of men and women in prayer turned to watch the feranji walking through the church.

After hurrying through the compound, we returned to the waiting minibus, and began the journey back to Addis Ababa, from where we would depart for Bahir Dar and Gondar in the north the next morning.

More adventures from the Ethiopian north and an Egyptian oasis to come soon.