[deep commercial announcer voice] Find your seats ladies and gentlemen. Tonight is the highly anticipated yet bittersweet series finale of Gilligan's Isle: Sands of Egypt. Butter that popcorn; top off your soda because this will be one magnoon (crazy) moment. It just got interesting!
I had fallen asleep at 9:30 the night before, leaving me overly rested. I raced my alarm to 8 a.m. and rose victorious. A day like any other, except I was in the middle of a desert town, somewhere, surviving only by the grace and mercy of the locals and a quirky German speaking Egyptian-wannabe. Good morning, world.
Our rescue vessel, as well rested as I, lounged in its parking spot awaiting our luggage. We piled our bags, pillows, equipment and bodies into the back seat immediately following another imitation breakfast. The sail set for Maadi, we shoved off that tiny desert island.
All of us gazed out our respective windows mused. I don't know what splashed around in the head of my fellow shipmen and maids, but the ripples of the wavy sand drew me into a state of worship. Leaning overboard, I could see my reflection crashing the tides with the rhythm of the craft's bouncing and bobbing. From dust we came, to dust we shall return.
In the distance, I could see enormous, tsunami-sized sand wave that could have been mistaken for a mountain. Repetitions of far off power line towers wobbled in the wake of the ensuing tidals. Mammoth rock formations surfaced to spray out mists of sand from their blow hole.
Smaller, more agile dolphinic dunes leaped and bounded across the tanned expanse. Heat waves added the gloss that transitioned from sea to sky, steps from earth to heaven, Gilligan's Ladder.
My attention rotated back into our vehicle to observe how the rescue captain would give a weary and nearly unnoticeable motion to greet passing travelers. I tinkered through our collection of fossilized and petrified sea shells that had been kicked around by thousands of years of beach bums. Despite the oxymoronic beauty of the desert, the boredom of travel sunk me into a short nap washing me in and out of consciousness.
Startled by the rumble and thump of brick, concrete, and other debris in our path, I reinstated my gaze though this time something new grappled from my peripheral. Glancing left, the colors had changed. A dark gray, perhaps even black now dominated the landscape. Shorter dark waves crested with a light beige floated by on occasion. I rolled right. The same shadowy omnipotence now the glaze. An uniquely extended surf had mutinied for ownership of this shady place. The 40 million year old volcanic rock lingered at the surface to give the same darkness to the wave passively framed by a railroad track (nearly the same age) that foamed a dirty white atop it all. Endless.
The Dark Wave, as I came to call it, exuded old wrecked train cars, land cruisers, and barges that obtruded an drowning warning to any who might attempt to ride the beast. Fierce, merciless, indiscriminate. We past other broken vessels steadily bailing water just to keep afloat. Others thumbing their way home. Nothing was too far from the oil rigs that had been anchored into the inky belly, speckled with trash and veiling oil spills that can only be expected when one crosses the path of "Petroleum Co. -- Welcome to Visitors."
It was about the time my soul started to shake that the tears and traces of attempted communities littered the once purer place. Unfinished or fallen walls. Half piles of bricks forever waiting to be cemented into place. Rod iron bars croaked, hunched out of eroding pillars. It was an combination of Water World and Mad Max with an Arab flavoring. As we inched closer to some semblance of "normal" life, what was once an oasis and sanctuary for burdened travelers had morphed into arid wasteland plundered by garbage, rubbish, sulfur, smoke stacks, and row after row of graying vegetation choked by the popular, prized pollution.
There was a moment when it seemed as if the people we now passed rusted into a functional absorption of the ashen aridity. Even the ruddy flowers tinted of a desert frostbite. Beauty lives by the contrast of a wretched counterpart.
Disgusted, my eyes lifted to notice not only the Great Pyramids of Egypt but also clawing and scratching for attention were the innumerable plastics, papers, and violating trash clustering along kilometers of fence lines. "These people don't deserve claim to such rich culture," I vomited. Just as vomiting relieves the stomach, it also varnishes the mouth with a great distaste for what just spewed.
I tried to secretly steal MaryAnn's ruby red shoes and heal-click my way back to where there's no place like home, there's no place like home, there's no place like home...
I couldn't find them.
We left one desert isle only to find ourselves trapped back on another. Oh, the irony.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Gilligan's Isle, Part 3
Like a shy banana*, he peeled slowly the corner of the sleeping bag timidly from its nestled place, tempting a single ray of light to pierce my snuggled hibernation. Slow yet sure, yet quite slow, it let loose a nasty warning snarl keeping away other antagonizing creatures, only to uncover the dismantling warmth of the fresh air. The furry beast simply sat for quite some time hoping the grogginess would fade without initiative. Another more thunderous bellow echoed this time when his sunglasses had gone missing.
The sand, cold and snickering, got a kick out of the stiff old bear watching him stumble and bumble and tip-toe atop its inhospitably chilly grains. Distraught settled in with morning hunger leaving him to forgo the search for his absent sunglasses. He matched a disappointed leg hug with periodic nibbles of slightly burnt and sweaty pita bread. If the rest of the Kingdom did not wake soon he would need to gargle another gutteral guffaw. Lucky for them, about that time the blanket rolled from Kevin, unsealing his cocoon. Others followed.
Much puttering transported the lifeless bodies from tents to "breakfast" back to tents or mats used for laying out (a concept I will never understand). This last long enough for everyone to become sweaty and irritable. By mid-morning, the lifeless mutated into hairy werewolves. Egypt often does things strangely and without explanation so it is not surprising that it took a full sun instead of a moon to transform the staff into illogical mythical creatures. But soon we were on our way.
As instantaneous as Belle's kiss for Beast vanquished the curse, so did the embrace of our team to civilization semblance. In form, everyone took to their resting form - some reading, some sizzling in the hot spring, some back to tempestuous slumber. Ironic, especially since we had only sat and waited all the day long anyway.
Annie casually invited anyone for a stroll through tiny town Bahariya. Up for a run with the locals, I responded and we left the crowds for a quieter place. Misspelled signs and clever postings boasting "Popular Restrunt" or "Cheepest store in town" provide me for the most entertainment and function as perhaps my favorite idiosyncrasy of these Egyptian towns. It took some time but we tracked our footsteps back to the hotel.
An hour later, a monstrous plate of spaghetti intimidated the tomato sauce into one pitiful pile atop its layers of weaving strands. All ended well when our friend Peter lilted us with a welcome back story about the Bedouin people. Thanks Pete, old boy.
*This is only funny to me because "shai ba anana" in Arabic means "tea with mint." It was a bad joke, I know.
The sand, cold and snickering, got a kick out of the stiff old bear watching him stumble and bumble and tip-toe atop its inhospitably chilly grains. Distraught settled in with morning hunger leaving him to forgo the search for his absent sunglasses. He matched a disappointed leg hug with periodic nibbles of slightly burnt and sweaty pita bread. If the rest of the Kingdom did not wake soon he would need to gargle another gutteral guffaw. Lucky for them, about that time the blanket rolled from Kevin, unsealing his cocoon. Others followed.
Much puttering transported the lifeless bodies from tents to "breakfast" back to tents or mats used for laying out (a concept I will never understand). This last long enough for everyone to become sweaty and irritable. By mid-morning, the lifeless mutated into hairy werewolves. Egypt often does things strangely and without explanation so it is not surprising that it took a full sun instead of a moon to transform the staff into illogical mythical creatures. But soon we were on our way.
As instantaneous as Belle's kiss for Beast vanquished the curse, so did the embrace of our team to civilization semblance. In form, everyone took to their resting form - some reading, some sizzling in the hot spring, some back to tempestuous slumber. Ironic, especially since we had only sat and waited all the day long anyway.
Annie casually invited anyone for a stroll through tiny town Bahariya. Up for a run with the locals, I responded and we left the crowds for a quieter place. Misspelled signs and clever postings boasting "Popular Restrunt" or "Cheepest store in town" provide me for the most entertainment and function as perhaps my favorite idiosyncrasy of these Egyptian towns. It took some time but we tracked our footsteps back to the hotel.
An hour later, a monstrous plate of spaghetti intimidated the tomato sauce into one pitiful pile atop its layers of weaving strands. All ended well when our friend Peter lilted us with a welcome back story about the Bedouin people. Thanks Pete, old boy.
*This is only funny to me because "shai ba anana" in Arabic means "tea with mint." It was a bad joke, I know.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Gilligan’s Isle, Part 2
We set sail late that afternoon to drift into the majestic setting sun, refracting light off the dust canvassing the painted sky. It was supposed to be a 5-hour tour to the Hot Spring Hotel. Slowly but certainly, my desire to control the time faded as well it should on retreats and vacations.
Upon our check-in, we checked out the room briefly but wasted little time in bee-lining for the fanatically anticipated hot spring. Rusted brown, or more aptly, a muddy auburn color. Skeptical, our starvation for any type of hot tub-like experience nudged us past sweating ambiguity. And oh, how it was worth it. (note to parents: next Christmas, I’d like my own personal hot spring. Thanks in advance.)
We sloshed around the next morning, zombified into the cafeteria following the plopping of our luggage somewhere near what we felt might be our transportation for the day. If I’ve learning nothing else about this culture, I have learned they do not understand the importance of starting one’s day off with a healthy, hearty breakfast. This is a nagging disappointment to a husky American boy who dreams each night of a generous morning meal. Instead, we compromised with an imitation and lackluster pancake flavored with either honey or your choice of apple jelly or peach, and pita bread (served at every meal) with orange slices.
After consuming something disguised as breakfast, another fun encounter stood waiting for us in the door of the lobby darned in traditional Egyptian galabaya and head covering. However, accidental entertainer lacked one common denominator among Middle Eastern men: skin tone. The man was whiter than any of us, because as it turns out only a true German can yodel like that. Indeed, our host and owner turned out to be a true blue (eye and blonde hair) European boasting a whopping 140 pounds hidden under his pastel Arabic man dress who had established this enterprise strictly by accident but welcomed it with a motherly embrace. You can imagine that when each individual member of our team ocularly scoured the grounds of this humble hotel when our Arabic-anticipating ears fell victim to the lilting German accent of Mr. Peter. Pandemonium calmed when our combined wits gathered to acknowledge the absurdity of this soar thumb.
Accepting and celebrating, we greeted and ol’ Pete abruptly commenced his history lesson of the “40 million year old desert.” I nearly thought aloud, “I suppose that means the rest of the world is not as old as this desert,” that is, before Tact and Respect double-slapped me in the face. Petey persisted unbeknownst to my unaired comment. We paid our attention in backsheesh* and loaded the Land Cruisers to wander the dry and pure sands of this rich, ancient land (40 million years worth).
Much of the drive time drifted us over road as rough as the off-road paths that solicited the more entertaining parts of our trip. But after 3 or 4 touristy stops, one extended lunch break at our Bedouin guide’s smokin’ oasis abode, and a couple seemingly unnecessary minor detours explicated in Arabic, the shadeless plot we called “home away from home… away from home” velcroed to our affections swiftly and without permission. 7 hours had left us hungry, grouchy, tired, and achy. Good thing we were on vacation.
A game of 3-on-3 football formed leaving us exhausted, beaten, and defeated for the night. Sand glued by sweat provided new color and UV protection. Unfortunately, the sun had left us with only the twinkling stars to keep warm.
A truly satiating dinner matured into a time of story telling and truth exposure as only a dimly lighting campfire can do. We laughed, we gawked, we drank tea. We sang, made fun of each other, and reconciled with awkward heartfelt explanations. Eventually we slept; some of us with the stars as a blanket. It had been a good first day of retreat.
*backsheesh – the petty cash given as tip to “valets” and other menial occupations flooding the Egyptian streets.
Upon our check-in, we checked out the room briefly but wasted little time in bee-lining for the fanatically anticipated hot spring. Rusted brown, or more aptly, a muddy auburn color. Skeptical, our starvation for any type of hot tub-like experience nudged us past sweating ambiguity. And oh, how it was worth it. (note to parents: next Christmas, I’d like my own personal hot spring. Thanks in advance.)
We sloshed around the next morning, zombified into the cafeteria following the plopping of our luggage somewhere near what we felt might be our transportation for the day. If I’ve learning nothing else about this culture, I have learned they do not understand the importance of starting one’s day off with a healthy, hearty breakfast. This is a nagging disappointment to a husky American boy who dreams each night of a generous morning meal. Instead, we compromised with an imitation and lackluster pancake flavored with either honey or your choice of apple jelly or peach, and pita bread (served at every meal) with orange slices.
After consuming something disguised as breakfast, another fun encounter stood waiting for us in the door of the lobby darned in traditional Egyptian galabaya and head covering. However, accidental entertainer lacked one common denominator among Middle Eastern men: skin tone. The man was whiter than any of us, because as it turns out only a true German can yodel like that. Indeed, our host and owner turned out to be a true blue (eye and blonde hair) European boasting a whopping 140 pounds hidden under his pastel Arabic man dress who had established this enterprise strictly by accident but welcomed it with a motherly embrace. You can imagine that when each individual member of our team ocularly scoured the grounds of this humble hotel when our Arabic-anticipating ears fell victim to the lilting German accent of Mr. Peter. Pandemonium calmed when our combined wits gathered to acknowledge the absurdity of this soar thumb.
Accepting and celebrating, we greeted and ol’ Pete abruptly commenced his history lesson of the “40 million year old desert.” I nearly thought aloud, “I suppose that means the rest of the world is not as old as this desert,” that is, before Tact and Respect double-slapped me in the face. Petey persisted unbeknownst to my unaired comment. We paid our attention in backsheesh* and loaded the Land Cruisers to wander the dry and pure sands of this rich, ancient land (40 million years worth).
Much of the drive time drifted us over road as rough as the off-road paths that solicited the more entertaining parts of our trip. But after 3 or 4 touristy stops, one extended lunch break at our Bedouin guide’s smokin’ oasis abode, and a couple seemingly unnecessary minor detours explicated in Arabic, the shadeless plot we called “home away from home… away from home” velcroed to our affections swiftly and without permission. 7 hours had left us hungry, grouchy, tired, and achy. Good thing we were on vacation.
A game of 3-on-3 football formed leaving us exhausted, beaten, and defeated for the night. Sand glued by sweat provided new color and UV protection. Unfortunately, the sun had left us with only the twinkling stars to keep warm.
A truly satiating dinner matured into a time of story telling and truth exposure as only a dimly lighting campfire can do. We laughed, we gawked, we drank tea. We sang, made fun of each other, and reconciled with awkward heartfelt explanations. Eventually we slept; some of us with the stars as a blanket. It had been a good first day of retreat.
*backsheesh – the petty cash given as tip to “valets” and other menial occupations flooding the Egyptian streets.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Gilligan's Isle, Part 1
Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale,
A tale of a fearful ride
That started from a smoggy Port (Said)
To rest in the sandy tide.
The mate was a mighty intern man,
The skipper brave and sure.
Youth staff team set sail that day
For a white desert tour, a white desert tour.
The drive there started getting rough,
The youth staff getting cross,
If not for the humor of the tour guides
Their salvation would be lost, salvation would be lost.
The Land Cruisers make camp that night amid the crowdless sand
With Gilligan (me)
The Skipper (Travis) too,
The millionaire (Brophy) and his wife (Mo),
The movie star (Ashley)
The professor (Kevin) and Mary Ann (Annie),
Here on Gilligans Isle.
So this is the tale of the youth staff team,
Stuck in the desert land,
No comforts and no luxuries,
but smoking contraband.
The first mate and the Skipper too,
Will organize a game,
But working on their summer tans,
The girls would just act lame.
From 10 am to 5 pm,
We jumped from dune to dune,
Like Bob Barker or Mr. Burns,
We dried up like a prune.
So join me here the next few days,
You're sure to get a rile,
Reading 'bout our adventures,
Here on "Grilled Again Isle." (We roasted in that hot sun...)
A tale of a fearful ride
That started from a smoggy Port (Said)
To rest in the sandy tide.
The mate was a mighty intern man,
The skipper brave and sure.
Youth staff team set sail that day
For a white desert tour, a white desert tour.
The drive there started getting rough,
The youth staff getting cross,
If not for the humor of the tour guides
Their salvation would be lost, salvation would be lost.
The Land Cruisers make camp that night amid the crowdless sand
With Gilligan (me)
The Skipper (Travis) too,
The millionaire (Brophy) and his wife (Mo),
The movie star (Ashley)
The professor (Kevin) and Mary Ann (Annie),
Here on Gilligans Isle.
So this is the tale of the youth staff team,
Stuck in the desert land,
No comforts and no luxuries,
but smoking contraband.
The first mate and the Skipper too,
Will organize a game,
But working on their summer tans,
The girls would just act lame.
From 10 am to 5 pm,
We jumped from dune to dune,
Like Bob Barker or Mr. Burns,
We dried up like a prune.
So join me here the next few days,
You're sure to get a rile,
Reading 'bout our adventures,
Here on "Grilled Again Isle." (We roasted in that hot sun...)
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Don't Push Me 'Cause I'm Close to the Edge...
My whole life I've been known as the chill guy who functioned as a wall to anger, frustration, and stress. Much of last semester I would question why all the expats seemed so aggresive all the time, as if compassion was canceled from one's vocabulary.
Even as I write now, anticipating what I am about to say, my blood pressure boils and my chest is pressed in like a vice grip. It is not that I ever had anything against my fellow expats but I stood and watched their screams from afar, keeping my distance as if to post a chasm between me and the infectious disease of instantaneous outrage. Without warning, without precedent, without invitation, after building this barrier, I climbed out of the valley and smiled content when I looked around and realized my company... Greetings my fellow expats.
That's right. I am Kyle's ever-complaining, ever-aggravated feeling of mistreated, misunderstood, and maligned. What led me to this? I have some speculation on which I will not embellish but the important article is, this malice chokes quicker than the Cairo pollution.
Americans (and perhaps other cultures also) claim an old axiom, "The bigger they are, the harder they fall." Life experience teaches me how true this is. Falling from a tree didn't hurt like jumping from the 3rd floor dorm stairs onto cardboard boxes. This same truth retains its thudding impact even when the impact is not physical. Before when anger rose in me, a simple snuff out would cool my jets.
I hate being angry. Cyclical crossness. I hate this anger; my disdain for this anger builds onto and furthers my own.
Even as I write now, anticipating what I am about to say, my blood pressure boils and my chest is pressed in like a vice grip. It is not that I ever had anything against my fellow expats but I stood and watched their screams from afar, keeping my distance as if to post a chasm between me and the infectious disease of instantaneous outrage. Without warning, without precedent, without invitation, after building this barrier, I climbed out of the valley and smiled content when I looked around and realized my company... Greetings my fellow expats.
That's right. I am Kyle's ever-complaining, ever-aggravated feeling of mistreated, misunderstood, and maligned. What led me to this? I have some speculation on which I will not embellish but the important article is, this malice chokes quicker than the Cairo pollution.
Americans (and perhaps other cultures also) claim an old axiom, "The bigger they are, the harder they fall." Life experience teaches me how true this is. Falling from a tree didn't hurt like jumping from the 3rd floor dorm stairs onto cardboard boxes. This same truth retains its thudding impact even when the impact is not physical. Before when anger rose in me, a simple snuff out would cool my jets.
I hate being angry. Cyclical crossness. I hate this anger; my disdain for this anger builds onto and furthers my own.
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