A lot of things happened on our second day of Cairo, but perhaps the most important thing is that we rode camels and I witnessed firsthand the horror of domestic violence. It happened when we got to the Giza Plateau. Since they had already been to the Pyramids, Cody and Brian separated and went to see if they could tour the inside of the second one, a separation that ended up proving financially disastrous for me. Beth and I walked towards Cheops’ Pyramid and were soon approached by a couple of guys on camels. When you go to the Pyramids, you’re bombarded by merchants offering you anything from postcards to papyrus scrolls, beaded caps to Coca-Cola. Guards will beckon you over and tell you that where they are standing gives a great view to take a picture, and then expect a tip when you pull out your camera. We had gotten pretty good at tuning all of these wallet-siphons out, but Beth had earlier said that she wanted a picture with a camel, so we allowed these guys to stop us.
What was only supposed to be a picture standing next to a camel soon turned into Beth on top of a camel wearing one of the guys’ headdresses. I, as the photographer, was soon relinquished of the camera, wearing a headdress of my own, and being told to get on a camel. I had no choice in the matter. The camel rose hind-legs first, so that I was pitched forward at a forty-five degree angle, squeezing the camel saddle with my thighs and hanging on for dear life. But then the front legs were up to, and we were on a pleasant ride in front of the pyramids.
The whole ride took probably three minutes, and it was kind of fun to be on a camel in Egypt. They took a ton of pictures of us and for a moment, I was able to enjoy the rocking motion of the camel, the warm sun, and the beautiful view. They took us down an alley (the only alley in the wide expanse of desert that stretches in front of the pyramids) and asked if we wanted to end the ride there or continue. We opted to end it, and Beth’s camel was led off around the corner. As I watched her disappear from view, I realized I was also watching the disappearance of the last reasoning force that stood between me and the camel guys. I was let off the camel, with the same terrifying near-topple forty-five degree pitch, and they immediately started asking about payment.
Let’s just get this out there: I paid them way too much. You knew that even before you started reading this. If you know me at all you know that of course I didn’t stand up for myself and say that a three minute camel ride is in no way worth X amount of dollars. But in my defense, and I know this is a weak excuse, there was a scene of semi-horrifying camel abuse taking place while contract negotiations were going on. It started with my camel, who had been kneeling down after he had let me off, falling down on his side as if all he really wanted to do was take a nap. Now I’m not an animal behaviorist or a zoologist, but I don’t think lying down on its side is an indication of overall camel health. His owner didn’t like this, and flicked its belly with a switch while telling me to pay him in Euros and not Egyptian dollars. When the camel kneeled back up, the owner hauled off and punched him in the snout. Let me repeat that last part: he hauled off and punched the camel in the snout. When I close my eyes and replay the scene in my mind, which I do probably once a day, there is one of those punching sound effects that foley artists add in boxing movies, making the whole thing more upsetting. But at that point, I had just seen a camel get socked and it was hot and I didn’t know where Beth was and I just wanted to get away, so I gave them the money and walked away.
As a side note, I have no idea how much I paid them. I forced myself to forget the exact amount because I knew I was just going to obsess about it and I wanted to enjoy the rest of my time in Egypt. But if you estimate what you think a ridiculous amount of money would be for a three minute camel ride, it is probably in that ballpark.
Beth and I were soon reunited (she had paid well less than half of what I had, the little barterer), and Cody and Brian joined up. We took more pictures, ones that we didn’t have to pay for, and then got back on the bus back to the ship.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Cairo, Part 1
On the last cruise, when we docked in Alexandria, the cast all went on a crew tour to Cairo. Here we got to go inside pyramids, tour the Cairo museum, visit the Giza Plateau (with and without laser light show), and ride a camel. I will attempt to recount it.
Our day started at 7 am when we boarded the bus that would take us to Cairo. We were introduced to our tour guide, driver, and armed escort. Our tour guide was Hannah, our driver’s name was Ahmed, and I never caught our armed escort’s name because I was too distracted by the submachine gun poking out from the back of his suit jacket. Let me repeat that last part: a submachine gun poking out from the back of his suit jacket.
The ride took about two and a half hours, and Hannah spent most of the time on the microphone telling us the history of Cairo and a brief rundown on the major Egyptian dynasties. It was a little dry, and I admit that I kind of drifted in and out of it. She spent a lot of time stressing the difference between Neferiri and Nefertiti, as well as the fact that Ramses had 35 wives and 150 children, a fact to which the rest of the crew responded to maturely and appropriately.
The big stop of the morning was the Archaeological Museum of Cairo. Here we got to see everything that you associate with mummies and Egypt: Tutankhamun’s burial mask, his sarcophagus, figurines left in the tombs, jewelry, and of course, actual mummies. I feel like from my two visits to Capuchin Crypts and the mummies we saw in the Vatican Museum, I’ve seen my fair share of preserved corpses this summer. But the Cairo Museum pulls out all the stops and refuses to let you walk through its cavernous rooms jaded, as if you’re somehow too good for a mummy exhibit. My favorite was the room devoted to animal mummies. They had cats, dogs, gibbons, and a gigantic crocodile that was pretty terrifying (and made me rethink Tomi DePaola’s depiction of Bill in his “Bill and Pete” series).
Later that evening we were taken to the Papyrus Institute. Hannah told us that since it was government-run, it was one of the few places where you could buy actual papyrus paper. Apparently a lot of the street vendors try to pass of banana leaf paper as papyrus (if you have bought papyrus paper in Egypt and it has turned brown and you can not see the cross-hatchings of the leaves, you have been swindled). While papyrus paper is something I have never had an opinion about, after being told that I was at its epicenter and seeing a halfhearted demonstration of how to make it, I had Paper-Fever. I bought a couple of gifts and Beth bought a small picture for our apartment. It’s of a goat and a bull playing chess. When I asked her what its mythological significance was, she said, “Who cares? It’s a goat and a bull playing chess.” Paper-Fever had infected us all.
From there we went to a laser lightshow at the Great Pyramids. I remember somewhere else in this blog saying something was one of the best shows I had ever seen, but the light show easily supplants that other, now forgotten, show. It was narrated by a number of British actors. I was never able to figure out who they were, but it was as if the cast of “Clash of the Titans” was genetically spliced with the cast of the Harry Potter movies to create an elite race of Uber-British Actors. I’m not exactly sure what “stentorian” means, but I know it perfectly describes the voices that narrated this show.
The best part of the show was that it projected a face onto the Sphinx, so that you could see what it looked like thousands of years ago, when his face was intact and painted. They also projected animated depictions of how the pyramids were built, burial ceremonies, and wedding ceremonies. I loved every minute of it.
From there we went to a dinner cruise on the Nile. This spring, in preparation for going to Egypt, I reread one of my favorite books from childhood, “Death on the Nile.” Therefore when I stepped on our barge, I was kind of expecting that our fellow dinner guests would include a glamorous heiress, a jilted lover, and an American insurance agent posing as a hapless tourist. Not only were none of those people in attendance, but also the riverboat was parked next to a paintball court and our scenic views included a TGI Fridays. The captain did wave me down at one point and let me sit behind the steering wheel and wear a captain’s hat, so that made up a little for the lack of international intrigue. But since I had a hard time dealing with the reality of an armed escort with a submachine gun poking out of his suit jacket, perhaps I should be grateful for an uneventful evening.
Our day started at 7 am when we boarded the bus that would take us to Cairo. We were introduced to our tour guide, driver, and armed escort. Our tour guide was Hannah, our driver’s name was Ahmed, and I never caught our armed escort’s name because I was too distracted by the submachine gun poking out from the back of his suit jacket. Let me repeat that last part: a submachine gun poking out from the back of his suit jacket.
The ride took about two and a half hours, and Hannah spent most of the time on the microphone telling us the history of Cairo and a brief rundown on the major Egyptian dynasties. It was a little dry, and I admit that I kind of drifted in and out of it. She spent a lot of time stressing the difference between Neferiri and Nefertiti, as well as the fact that Ramses had 35 wives and 150 children, a fact to which the rest of the crew responded to maturely and appropriately.
The big stop of the morning was the Archaeological Museum of Cairo. Here we got to see everything that you associate with mummies and Egypt: Tutankhamun’s burial mask, his sarcophagus, figurines left in the tombs, jewelry, and of course, actual mummies. I feel like from my two visits to Capuchin Crypts and the mummies we saw in the Vatican Museum, I’ve seen my fair share of preserved corpses this summer. But the Cairo Museum pulls out all the stops and refuses to let you walk through its cavernous rooms jaded, as if you’re somehow too good for a mummy exhibit. My favorite was the room devoted to animal mummies. They had cats, dogs, gibbons, and a gigantic crocodile that was pretty terrifying (and made me rethink Tomi DePaola’s depiction of Bill in his “Bill and Pete” series).
Later that evening we were taken to the Papyrus Institute. Hannah told us that since it was government-run, it was one of the few places where you could buy actual papyrus paper. Apparently a lot of the street vendors try to pass of banana leaf paper as papyrus (if you have bought papyrus paper in Egypt and it has turned brown and you can not see the cross-hatchings of the leaves, you have been swindled). While papyrus paper is something I have never had an opinion about, after being told that I was at its epicenter and seeing a halfhearted demonstration of how to make it, I had Paper-Fever. I bought a couple of gifts and Beth bought a small picture for our apartment. It’s of a goat and a bull playing chess. When I asked her what its mythological significance was, she said, “Who cares? It’s a goat and a bull playing chess.” Paper-Fever had infected us all.
From there we went to a laser lightshow at the Great Pyramids. I remember somewhere else in this blog saying something was one of the best shows I had ever seen, but the light show easily supplants that other, now forgotten, show. It was narrated by a number of British actors. I was never able to figure out who they were, but it was as if the cast of “Clash of the Titans” was genetically spliced with the cast of the Harry Potter movies to create an elite race of Uber-British Actors. I’m not exactly sure what “stentorian” means, but I know it perfectly describes the voices that narrated this show.
The best part of the show was that it projected a face onto the Sphinx, so that you could see what it looked like thousands of years ago, when his face was intact and painted. They also projected animated depictions of how the pyramids were built, burial ceremonies, and wedding ceremonies. I loved every minute of it.
From there we went to a dinner cruise on the Nile. This spring, in preparation for going to Egypt, I reread one of my favorite books from childhood, “Death on the Nile.” Therefore when I stepped on our barge, I was kind of expecting that our fellow dinner guests would include a glamorous heiress, a jilted lover, and an American insurance agent posing as a hapless tourist. Not only were none of those people in attendance, but also the riverboat was parked next to a paintball court and our scenic views included a TGI Fridays. The captain did wave me down at one point and let me sit behind the steering wheel and wear a captain’s hat, so that made up a little for the lack of international intrigue. But since I had a hard time dealing with the reality of an armed escort with a submachine gun poking out of his suit jacket, perhaps I should be grateful for an uneventful evening.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
G.I. Joe!
With this new itinerary, we (meaning everyone on board the ship) are more susceptible to catching gastrointestinal viruses. This has caused a couple of changes. We are no longer allowed to serve ourselves in the buffet lines (to limit the spread of germs caused by thousands of people picking up the same barbecue chicken tongs). Also, when you walk down the hallways there is sometimes an unpleasant odor best described as “Stinkydipe” (a term coined by my godson when his younger sister was born and he was subject to an onslaught of dirty diapers. I think its correct usage is as a swear substitute, like “Oh, stinkydipe! I left the keys on the counter.” Or “That’s such stinkydipe that we have to come in early for a meeting.” Or just, "You are stinkydipe.") So far the cast has managed to remain healthy and the rumor is we get to feed ourselves starting next cruise.
Mykonos, or My Big Fat Greek Scooter Adventure
The day after Izmir we were in Mykonos. We decided to rent scooters, an activity for which everybody else was seemingly well-equipped. Beth is licensed to ride a motorcycle, Cody had rode 4x4s during previous visits to Mykonos, and Brian had even taken the time last year to rent a scooter in Chicago, so as to prepare himself for the Greek Isles. I, however, brought nothing to riding a scooter except my lack of hand-eye coordination, spotty driving history, and adolescent belief that nothing bad will happen. We were also with Jack, a friend of ours from the Broadcast department. I don’t know if Jack has ridden scooters before, but he is from just Philadelphia, so I assumed he had excellent automotive skills.
After a brief tutorial on how to operate a scooter, conducted mainly in Greek and broken English, we were off. Now, while Mykonos is a charming resort island, it also is not stuck in the eighteenth century. It’s not like we were sharing the road with Zorba and his trinket-laden donkey. As I zipped into speeding traffic (still not sure how to control the speed of the scooter, so the scooter moved about three seconds ahead of my body), I was reminded of word problems about accelerating masses, the laws of motion, and my own mortality.
I managed to survive the first street and subsequent turn, but faltered when I had to navigate a rotary. I was stopped at the corner and had to make a left turn. When I started the scooter, I accelerated too fast and turned the handlebars too sharply, so that a second later I was comfortably on the ground, my scooter on top of me and the fender of an oncoming car in front of my head. I got my scooter up, assured the very nice people in the car that I was fine, and continued on.
I’ll be honest, the first fifteen minutes of driving the scooter I thought I was in over my head. The curves seemed to sharp, the hills too steep, my body suddenly felt vulnerable to the slightest wind, and I was sure I would be sent toppling over the rocky Grecian hillsides. But there was no turning back, and I vowed that while I was battered, I was not beaten. We soon stopped at a Citibank and Starbucks (they were two stores in the same complex, I don’t want you to think the bank-coffee store combo is an example of gross overseas synchronicity). One of the dancers and her boyfriend were at Starbucks and gave me the Mocha Frappucino that had been incorrectly made for them, much in the same way you give a three year-old an ice cream cone after they skin their knees. But, just like the three year-old, I was easily placated and ready to hit the road.
After that, my confidence increased exponentially and I developed a love for the open road. Or, rather, the open road at twenty-five miles an hour while gripping the handlebars and keeping your eyes glued to the road, no matter how many times Beth points out the “adorable” goats or “breathtaking” coastline. I might have been confident, but I wasn’t stupid.
Our first stop was to Ilya (sp?) Beach for lunch. A bunch of the male dancers had rented a car and were there as well and we all ate together. After lunch we all went to the beach, the dancers changing into their European-cut swimsuits and we changing into our more figure-covering ones. We walked over to where the dancers had set up camp, but realized it was in the epicenter of the nude section of the beach. Most of the clothing-optional advocates were well-fed middle-aged men, reclining in what Cody termed “Venus of Urbino” poses (these are the kind of jokes you make after you visit the Uffizi Gallery). We ended up setting up shop a discreet distance away.
After a quick swim, we hopped on our bikes and with a cry of “Wild Hogs Forever!” were off to our next stop, Paradise Beach. This site was where the majority of the crew had gone. When we arrived most had been there for a couple of hours and the scene looked like an outtake of a “Girls Gone Wild” video. The Spa Girls were doing cannonballs in the kiddie pool and one of the Principal Singers was standing on a table and drunkenly gyrating to “Umbrella.” The Russian Gymnast had taken control of the DJ’s microphone and was ordering everyone to “make some noise” and be “party people.” Then he would get up on the pool table and, with cigarette in mouth, do a handstand that morphed into a version of the worm. I watched just long enough to make sure there weren’t any career-ending neck injuries and then went with the others to a quieter section.
We stayed for a few hours and then drove back to town. When we returned the bikes I had to pay forty bucks for the broken reflector and scrapes on the side (or, as Cody called them, “fireworks”) incurred by the crash. But by that point, I had caught the scooter bug, and was swaggering around like a miniature Peter Fonda. Plus, the clerk told me my damages were nothing compared to what she usually sees (probably because of their incredibly lax rental policy). We are going back in four days and I can’t wait.
After a brief tutorial on how to operate a scooter, conducted mainly in Greek and broken English, we were off. Now, while Mykonos is a charming resort island, it also is not stuck in the eighteenth century. It’s not like we were sharing the road with Zorba and his trinket-laden donkey. As I zipped into speeding traffic (still not sure how to control the speed of the scooter, so the scooter moved about three seconds ahead of my body), I was reminded of word problems about accelerating masses, the laws of motion, and my own mortality.
I managed to survive the first street and subsequent turn, but faltered when I had to navigate a rotary. I was stopped at the corner and had to make a left turn. When I started the scooter, I accelerated too fast and turned the handlebars too sharply, so that a second later I was comfortably on the ground, my scooter on top of me and the fender of an oncoming car in front of my head. I got my scooter up, assured the very nice people in the car that I was fine, and continued on.
I’ll be honest, the first fifteen minutes of driving the scooter I thought I was in over my head. The curves seemed to sharp, the hills too steep, my body suddenly felt vulnerable to the slightest wind, and I was sure I would be sent toppling over the rocky Grecian hillsides. But there was no turning back, and I vowed that while I was battered, I was not beaten. We soon stopped at a Citibank and Starbucks (they were two stores in the same complex, I don’t want you to think the bank-coffee store combo is an example of gross overseas synchronicity). One of the dancers and her boyfriend were at Starbucks and gave me the Mocha Frappucino that had been incorrectly made for them, much in the same way you give a three year-old an ice cream cone after they skin their knees. But, just like the three year-old, I was easily placated and ready to hit the road.
After that, my confidence increased exponentially and I developed a love for the open road. Or, rather, the open road at twenty-five miles an hour while gripping the handlebars and keeping your eyes glued to the road, no matter how many times Beth points out the “adorable” goats or “breathtaking” coastline. I might have been confident, but I wasn’t stupid.
Our first stop was to Ilya (sp?) Beach for lunch. A bunch of the male dancers had rented a car and were there as well and we all ate together. After lunch we all went to the beach, the dancers changing into their European-cut swimsuits and we changing into our more figure-covering ones. We walked over to where the dancers had set up camp, but realized it was in the epicenter of the nude section of the beach. Most of the clothing-optional advocates were well-fed middle-aged men, reclining in what Cody termed “Venus of Urbino” poses (these are the kind of jokes you make after you visit the Uffizi Gallery). We ended up setting up shop a discreet distance away.
After a quick swim, we hopped on our bikes and with a cry of “Wild Hogs Forever!” were off to our next stop, Paradise Beach. This site was where the majority of the crew had gone. When we arrived most had been there for a couple of hours and the scene looked like an outtake of a “Girls Gone Wild” video. The Spa Girls were doing cannonballs in the kiddie pool and one of the Principal Singers was standing on a table and drunkenly gyrating to “Umbrella.” The Russian Gymnast had taken control of the DJ’s microphone and was ordering everyone to “make some noise” and be “party people.” Then he would get up on the pool table and, with cigarette in mouth, do a handstand that morphed into a version of the worm. I watched just long enough to make sure there weren’t any career-ending neck injuries and then went with the others to a quieter section.
We stayed for a few hours and then drove back to town. When we returned the bikes I had to pay forty bucks for the broken reflector and scrapes on the side (or, as Cody called them, “fireworks”) incurred by the crash. But by that point, I had caught the scooter bug, and was swaggering around like a miniature Peter Fonda. Plus, the clerk told me my damages were nothing compared to what she usually sees (probably because of their incredibly lax rental policy). We are going back in four days and I can’t wait.
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