Boys Will Be Boys, or, Why Arab Chauvinism is Faintly American

By day five in Egypt, most Western women would be ready to claw out the eyes of most Egyptian men. In this instance, I am like most Western women. Since about 99% of Egyptian women wear the veil, the other 1% who don't, plus tourist women, get an unfair share of attention. Beyond the typical tourist racket of "Welcome! Where are you from?", women can expect not only creepy staring that takes on a desperate and pathetic quality, but comments like, "Hello Princess. You are looking for me, yes?" and a fairly standard ice-breaker like, "are you marriaged?"

Of course, eye-contact and a response, no matter that you're spitting venom, is considered a reflection of mutual interest, so your retaliation is limited. If you can figure out how to say, "You should be ashamed of yourself" in Egyptian Arabic, you are taking a step in the right direction, but it is hard to be appropriate hateful and remember the correct phonetics simultaneously. The other option is the quote the Qu'ran and remind men to "Avert their gaze," but unfortunately my Arabic language skills are limited to "cat," "dog," "airplane," and "car."

The constant harrassment is more offensive than I recalled in Istanbul, and while I understand that blonde women aren't a common site in the middle-east, the incessant need to verbalize obvious physical differences suggests a certain daftness. H explained that this behavior is considered acceptable, under the rationale that women are temptresses, therefore it is their (our) duty to dress in such a way as to prevent temptation. After a few days of wearing a jacket and long skirt in 100 degree weather, in an attempt to respect cultural differnces, and still being harassed, I was increasingly inclined to tell these pigs to show some self-restraint.

Ultimately, that is the issue. Self-restraint. Responsibility. Dignity. Men walk around drooling a the sight of a shapely calf or a rounded breast through a thick jacket, and feel the liberty to comment at will. In some cases, they paw and grope as well. H revealed that in her year living in Cairo, she has learned most women wear the veil not out of piety, but due to social pressures from their friends and family and to avoid harrassment and the threat of danger from men who essentially roam wild. In many ways, it is reminiscent of small-town America, where high-school and college aged boys get away with everything from petty vandalism to date-rape under the premise that "boys will be boys" - they can't help themselves, and why should be expect them to?

H shared a couple stories that confirmed my suspicions. A couple years ago, at Ramadan, some men who were being entertained by a Russian belly-dancer (from behind a glass wall) were driven so wild, that when they left, they raped veiled women on the street. Of course, the justification for this was that they were so libidness, that they couldn't help themselves. Imagine this defense in a Western court - the "I can't help myself" defense is not going to get you very far.

H mentioned some personal incidents she and her roommate had experienced, including, once having a cab driver fondle her leg when she sat in the front, and, after learning their lesson, an instance where a cab driver started masturbating with them in the car. Other horror stories included, driving them around the city and refusing to take them home. (I am somewhat glad I didn't hear these stories until the end of my trip).

The other cultural justification for this oversexualized mentality is that men cannot marry until they are capable of providing for their wives (when they are typically in their 30s), and since premarital sex is forbidden for both genders, the result is spending their 20s in a state of constant sexual frustration. It remains difficult for me to wrap my mind around the concept that individuals are not responsible for their behavior. Additioanlly, despite the prohibition on premarital sex, men find a way to "sow their wild oats" (another great American idiom on the subject!), typically with Eastern-European prostitutes that live in semi-slavery.

I don't mean to pass judgment and I'm sure there are some Egyptian men who aren't pigs, but my experiences have led me, generally, to believe that Arab men are actually more like children than Western men(!)

Riding a Camel Isn't as Comfortable as it Looks

When you arrive at the Pyramids in Giza, you experience a familiar scenario. As soon as local hawkers catch a glimpse of my Chuck Taylors and blonde hair, they flock - offering me everthing from personal, guided tours of the pyramids, monuments and tombs and camel and horse rides.

I managed to buy a ticket in relative peace, before a guy introduced himself to me as an official guide, showing me a badge whose legitimacy I, obviously, had no way of authenticating. He showed me along the pyramids and tombs for a bit, before he insisted that I ride a camel, since the distance between pyramids was far. I tried convincing him that walking was fine, but, figuring I probably won't have the chance to ride a camel in the near future, I accepted his offer and climbed onto a gangly-looking camel named Moses. I asked if he was 900 years old, but Ali, my guide, didn't really get the joke and said he was 10. Oh, well. Moses, for all his horrid teeth and awkward joints, was friendly enough and maintained a steady pace, which is definitely what you want, when you're perched precariously 10 feet up on creature with stilts for legs.

After a few minutes on the camel, we reached a more secluded area, and Ali stopped to tell me what the rates were for various tours. Of course, I had not expected any part of the experience to come without a price, but the underhanded way he handled didn't sit particularly well with me. Despite that, we came to an agreement on a reasonable price, and since I repeated I was a student, I managed to get a somewhat discounted rate. Over the course of two hours, Moses took to me to all nine pyramids (three large, six small) and the Sphinx. I even entered one of the Pyramids, whose significance escapes me, a feat that is definitely to be avoided by the claustrophobic. Scaling down a tunnel only 4 feet high and angled at 45 degrees, in 90 degree weather is not for the faint of heart. About a hundred feet down, even I started to have my doubts, but I just kept sipping on my water, telling myself that this is a once in a lifetime opportunity.

Back to the camel - let me just say, two hours straddling a giant hump is not as much fun as it seems. Just 24 hours later, I am limping along like I spent yesterday wrestling with a 300 lb gorilla. Since a camel's body is significantly wider than that of a horse, the process basically involves pulling your legs in directions they were never intended to move, while you use your stomach muscles to maintain some type of balance. Needless to say, nothing I have ever done at the gym replicates this combination of muscle strain.

After my adventure to the pyramids, I retreated to lounge by the pool. My evening plans involved meeting a friend of a friend, H, who is studying in Cairo, for dinner. Luckily, getting together wasn't too difficult, since I stick out like a sore thumb. She took me to a delightful Lebanese restaurant, where I continued to indulge my recent diet of hummus, babaganouj and kofta. It is always interesting to meet other ex-pats, especially those immersed in different cultures, because while we share different experiences in many aspects, living abroad unites all of us some fundamental ways.

Luckily, we hit it off, so H invited me to join her with her university friends for a weekly event known as Sufi dancing, an art form practiced by devout, mystic Moslems. The dance ritual is based on the principle that the act of spinning can bring you closer to God and create a state of rapture. Bizarre as it sounds, it was a fascinating blend of atonal music (windpipes, drums), and a few dancers, dressed in brightly colored, layered skirts, that spun in tandem with their movements, like giant, cloth hula-hoops.

Afterwards, the two of us went to Khan-al-Khalil market, where I had been the day before, but to a famous ahwa (hookah lounge), Fishawi's coffeehouse, to smoke cantaloupe flavored tobacco and drink hibiscus and mint tea. After a few hours of lounging, people watching and talking, we parted ways. Experiences like these are virtually impossible to have on your own, and I am grateful to have met an ex-pat who revealed these elements of Cairo.

Today, I ventured into Coptic Cairo, the only Christian section of the city. While Copitic Christians have lived essentially in peace with their Arab brothers, there has been some tension in recent years. There are some obvious cultural differences at the onset - mainly, you can tell you are in the Christian section of the city by the noticeable lack of harrassment from male passersby. You also notice more women without veils, although many commute through the area, so it is not totally isolated from the rest of Cairo. The churches run the gamot of traditional Coptic (similar to Greek Orthodox), Greek-Orthodox and Greek-Catholic. The interiors are beautiful, but very similar to standard Orthodox/Byzantine iconography.

Afterward, I met H again for lunch at a cheap, cafeteria style restaurant downtown and we spent a few hours on a walking tour of the city. This evening, I will probably join her with her university friends, but the rest of the day will be spent by the pool, trying to keep my core temperature below boiling.

I had intended to go to Alexandria this trip, but Cairo is a city of 20 million, with many notable historical monuments, so I will probably have to save that for a future trip. All in all, despite all the inappropriate comments from men, I like many elements of Egyptian culture. It is obvious that culture is divided between old values and modernity and only time will tell how this division will continue to manifest itself.

More later.

Al-Qahir

I finally arrived in Cairo yesteray after a day that began at 330am, but really began the day before, since I hadn't slept all night. As soon as you get off the plane, the heat hits you and then, sometime thereafter, you notice the thousand Egyptian men offering you a taxi. Of course, before the haggling begins, you have to buy two visa stamps and get through customs, a process that is simpler than it sounds.

Although I am one of the few Western women in the customs line, I notice most of the Arab/Egyptian women, covered head to toe in dresses and scarves, carry a fistful ofAmerican or Canadian passports for their passels of children. In fact, I don't see many local or even regional passports at all.

Once you leave the customs area, the onslaught begins. Egyptian men are very aggressive, and they probably manage to put Egyptian women in their place, but I find that a combination of ignoring them and responding in curt, vague phrases seems to neutralize them. After a few minutes of deflecting them, I find a less aggressive driver who I manage to talk into driving me for 20 Egyptian pounds less than the going rate, and we leave for my hotel, in Giza, on the other side of the city.

It's only 430pm, but not having slept the night before, I am not really up for a tour, although the driver can't help himself and offers a thousand times anyway. I have found that you can't leave a taxi without their name and number, either scribbled on a receipt, or on a typed on business card.

The hotel, although in a dilapidated part of town, is very modern. The main draw for me is a pool that is infamous for being the largest in Cairo. I spend the rest of the daylight hours swimming and lying in the somewhat less fiery sun, before a dinner of Egyptian mezze and some much needed sleep.

Today, I am heading to the Egyptian museum to see Tutankhamen and other artifacts and the famous Kala-al-Khalili market. More updates later.

Coney Island, Ukrainian Style

The last time I had been to Hydropark, the local summer beach on the Dnipro, women wore their underwear to swim and stood stategically around the beach, positioning foil reflective sheets carefully toward their faces, attempting to get as much sun as possible. Things have changed since then, but a trip to Hydropark is still an inevtiable reminder that you are in the FSU and maybe, just maybe, you like it.

The crowds are heavy, kiosks selling soda, beer and ice-cream are scattered every few feet, but best of all, the air smells sweetly of grilling pork and fresh adzhyka (Georgian spicy tomato sauce). Wandering around, every inch of the waterfront is claimed by sunbathers or fisherman, and usually the areas are not distinctly separated.

The dress has improved significantly since the late 90s, the last time I frequented Hydropark, but it's not clear if that's for the best. Relatively good looking women wear string-bikinis with thong bottoms, heavier women stick to more modest two-pieces and men of all sizes prefer European-style speedos and/or underwear. There is no shortage of gelatinous, pasty-white flubber.

Perhaps more so than on a normal, weekend day, there are a lot of young men who are clearly three sheets to the wind by mid-day. Beside the carnival section for children that I wouldn't wish upon the spawn of my worst enemy, stands a crane bearing the weight of an elastic cord for bungee jumpers and other suicidal types. Other activities include a fake firing range and a series of ping pong tables. By the end of the day, everyone piles onto the metro and the smell of beer and sweat is overwhelming.

You might not see the beauty in all this and you probably find it fairly revolting, but this is the cultural experience you never get from museums and churches and guidebooks. Moments like these are the highlights of living abroad.

Today was definitely not my last day at Hydropark.

Some Top 5s from the Balkans

I am on my way back to Kyiv, but I have had some time to reflect on the last two weeks' travels, and I have decided to summarize them into two top 5 lists. Of course, this isn't interesting at sifting through each place with its pros and cons, but this provides a neat package for anyone thinking of going to the Balkans anytime soon. Suffice it say, not everyone thinks traveling to former war-zones and areas of mass genocide is as interesting as I do. For those folks, the second list is what you are looking for.

Top 5 Places to See Before You Die*

1) Sarajevo, Bosnia/Hercegovina
2) Tirana, Albania
3) Pristina, Kosovo
4) Dubrovnik, Croatia
5) Coastal Montenegro


Top 5 Cities to Visit When You Are Craving the West and Stuck in Ukraine**

1) Ljubljana, Slovenia
2) Zagreb, Croatia,
3) Bucharest, Romania
4) Sofia, Bulgaria
5) Belgrade, Serbia


* these are primarily places that are culturally, architecturally/geographically interesting, but not necessarily full of Western conveniences
** these are primarily places that have Western conveniences (5 star hotels, shopping, cafes), but don't necessarily have a lot of culturally interesting attractions

Welcome to the West - Can I Go Back Now?

Ljubljana is gorgeous and Venice is beautiful, but give me decrepit, crumbling, post-communist apartment buildings any day of the week and I will be as happy as a pig in mud. As soon as I reached Slovenia, the backpackers and tourists increased exponentially (hardly the case in Albania). Of course, Venice is even worse, despite the fact that tourist season technically has not begun yet. Although both of these cities are beautiful and carry much historical value, they don't have a lot of personality, having had it stamped out by all of their visitors.

While the Slovenes are ethnically Slavic, they are culturally German: clean, organized and occupied by the Hapsburgs for centuries, Ljubljana is full of pretty canals, short walking bridges and more Baroque style architecture (enough already!), but it's simply not that interesting. My dorm-mates at my hostel - a couple of girls from Alabama said they thought Ljubljana was very Eastern European looking and I almost laughed. Their comment was especially funny, since they are architecture students in Rome. I wanted to suggest they should choose a different profession, since they were floundering in their own field.

I arrived in Venice this afternoon, and it is just as spectacular as I had always imagined, not nearly as dirty as Rome or Naples (which I found degoutant, as the French say). Even so, after wandering for a few hours down the narrow cobbletsone streets, over tiny canals and by historic Cathedrals and monuments, I feel like I'm done. In fact, I am going to visit Florence on Thursday for the day, before my night train to Budapest. I suspect this is the closest I will be to Firenze for a very long time and I should seize the opportunity.

Anyway, although it is nice to be in the West in some ways, primarily the convenience of Western luxuries like hot water and a standing shower, the crowds and expense gets old quickly. I am very much looking forward to my trips to the Baltics and the Caucases in June, and trying to enjoy what little time I have left here.

The Unexpected Beauty of Zagreb

Despite a fairly uncomfortable night train from Belgrade to Zagreb, in which one of my fat, Serbian couchette-mates kept getting too close for comfort, I felt pretty good at 530am when we arrived. I must digress- if you´re not familiar with the couchette setup, it consists of cabin with two rows of three seats facing each other. All seats recline fully to create three narrow beds and mine ended up being the one closest to the window.

Of course, I was stuck with two gianormous Serbian men, one of whom kept letting his hands stray in my direction over the course of the night. At one point I felt his hand on my knee and hissed at him, but he pretended to be asleep. I considered causing a scene, but I figured explaining the problem in Serbian/Russian would be more of a hassle than it was worth. Plus, I promised myself I wouldn´t cause any international incidents this trip.

Anyway, the train arrived early, and after booking my tickets onto Ljubljana and checking my baggage, I began my tour of Zagreb. The train station is near several large, beautiful parks surrounded by baroque style buildings, museums and ornate fountains. Zagreb truly feels like Western Europe - I have not seen a single pair of steel-tipped stillettos or men wearing tracksuits.

After a delicious apple strudel and cappuccino for breakfast, I wandered through the old town area. There are two sections: Gradec and Kaptol, two neighborhoods that once were warring medieval towns, until they encountered a mutual enemy - the Ottoman Empire, circa 1300. Both neighborhoods, known as Upper Zagreb today, consist of winding, narrow cobble stoned streets, cafes, restaurants, churches (Catholic, since Croatia is predominantly so) and the famous Dolac market, which sells fruit, flowers, baskets and the like.

Although Zagreb is a big city (almost 1 million), it is by far the cleanest city I have seen this trip, beside the seaside towns. Beautiful architecture interspered with vibrant parks give you the sense that this is what Vienna may have looked like 100 years ago, before it became a major financial/commercial hub in Central Europe.

I must catch my train to Ljubljana now, but more later, as always.

The White City

Belgrade has a reputation of being an ugly, communist-looking city and while it is ugly, it is hardly because of communist style architecture. It is ugly in the same sense that any major urban area can be accused of - dirty, crowded, sweaty (today) and ripe with a bustling commercial center built for its practical measures, not for its aesthetic appeal.

So far, Belgrade is the most modern of any of any of the capitals I have encountered, excluding Bucharest (the indicators of modernity I have selected include the presence of both a Zara and a McDonald's). Really, The White City has everything any serious European city has to offer - an ancient citadel on the hill, a cobble-stoned Bohemian district full of art galleries and cafes and main street/square that goes for miles, every inch lined with shiny storefronts selling Western shlock.

Despite my relatively glowing review, there is not much more to say. Perhaps I have eaten too many bureks over the last 10 days or perhaps I am just tired of traveling and no longer as appreciative of these (relatively) exotic destinations. Mostly, I am not looking forward to sleeping on the train tonight, which gets into Zagreb at 530am.

Now, I am off to find something besides burek for dinner.

Dubrovnik Dissapoints, but Sarajevo Saves the Day

So, shortly after my last post, it started raining, really, seriously raining, so I ended up spending zero time on the beach and the bulk of my time stuck indoors, since Dubrovnik doesn't have much in the way of museums. A resort town, it is mostly known for its gorgeous beaches and a nightlife that consists of eating and drinking at delightful, outdoor restaurants. Obviously, neither of these activities are suited to torrential downpour.

On a positive note, I found a bakery down the street from my apartment that makes the most amazing creamfilled, chocolate covered, drooltastic cakes, so I had a couple of those, some burek [cheese or meat filled rolls] and spent most of my time reading, resting up from my crazy schedule.

This morning, I took a bus to Sarajevo, which entailed driving up the Dalmatian coast, before veering inland through Mostar [known best for its historic and spectacular bridge that was destroyed during the war in 1993] and then on to Sarajevo. The Bosnian/Hercegovin [hereafter known as BiH] countryside is beautiful and the lush mountains and valleys are divided by numerous rivers that appear to merely be an extension of the clear, blue adriatic. They are sparkling and shockingly unpolluted.

About 20 miles into BiH, you begin to notice buildings that are pockmarked, missing windows or roofs or some that are barely standing. The war ended barely a decade ago, and the scars are still apparent. The further you drive into BiH, the more shell-ravaged structures you see, and by the time you reach Mostar, you are almost prepared for virtually an entire city of hollow, steel-hull remnants of apartment buildings and crumbling brick mosques and schools.

Initially, Sarajevo is equally appalling, since it seems to mirror the havoc seen in Mostar. The main bus station is located near the famous Holiday Inn where journalists were stationed during the war, on a street that used to be known as Sniper Alley, since Serb snipers would essentially pick off locals running from shelter to shelter. Of course, the street is perfectly safe now, but there is something eerie about it - people seem to walk a little faster and look over their shoulders. The first people I see on the street are policija in kevlar vests, which doesn't inspire me with confidence.

After a few minutes on a tram, I am in the center of old town, in a piazza colloquially known as Pigeon Square for the absurd amount of fowl congregating in the area. A far cry from the area near the bus station, this part of Sarajevo rivals Istanbul. There are at least half a dozen mosques in sight, charming storefronts selling scarves and copper coffee pots and dried spices. Outdoor restaurants and cafes serve Bosnian cusine, traditional [intensely strong] coffee and pastries. The streets are cobblestoned and narrow, extending for several blocks in every direction.

Surprisingly, more women wear the traditional moslem headscarf here than in Tirana, although only 40% of BiH is moslem, compared to 70% of Albania [both countries have a population of approximately 4 million]. Although moslem persecution was notoriously terrible in Sarajevo, some folks still seem to have a sense of humor. At one store, I see t-shirts that read, "Yes, I'm Muslim. Don't Be Afraid."

A few blocks away, the Miljacka river divides the city and the famous Latin bridge continues to unobtrusively bear the weight of passersby. Only about 50 feet across, it is hard to believe this is the site of Franz Ferdinand's assasination and the beginning of WWI. Following the river west, the architecture begins to morph, becoming increasingly less Eastern and more Baroque, buildings painted pastel colors and decorated with ornate trim. [BiH was one of the Hapsburg empire's favorite colonies and Sarajevo actually had street lights before Vienna, since experimenting with potentially dangerous technology was suited better to a less renowned city than the capital of the empire.] Of course, these Western style structures are also covered with pits left by mortars - it seems no one or thing in Sarajevo was spared.

Unfortunately, tomorrow I leave for Belrgrade [then a night train to Zagreb and, the following day, an afternoon train to Ljubljana]. I wish I had another couples days in Sarajevo, since it is a very vibrant community that is full of energy, despite its wretched past. Specifically, I wish I could have made it to the Tunnel Museum by the airport, which consists of the underground tunnel Sarajevans built to defend their city against the Serbs, but it's far and there really is no time.

More soon.

Finally, the Adriatic

From Tirana, up the Adriatic coast through Montenegro and on to Croatia, the topography is simply spectacular. Lush, verdant forests cover jagged, rocky mountains and seemlessly fade into crystal-clear, aquamarine ocean. I´ve been taking tons of pictures, so I have something to remind me of better times when I`m in law school next fall. Oranges grow everywhere, so every stop is an olafactory experience that I wish I could bottle to bring home.

Yesterday, I arrived in Ulcinj, Montenegro, a former Turkish fishing village dating back to the 14th century. The city consists of a newer, modern section and "Stari Grad" that has been virtually untouched for 700 years. Wandering through the old town was beautiful - surrounded by a stone fortress, inside lies a network of narrow, cobblestoned streets (six feet wide, at the most) and two/three story houses also dating back to that era. Although many restaurants have taken over, local Montenegrians and Albanians still live in these ancient homes.

My time in Ulcinj was brief, since I was due to arrive in Dubrovnik today. Of course, no bus schedule is ever accurate or timely, so after getting up this morning at 4am in order to shlep to an "alleged" bus stop, I was told the bus no longer went there, but a kilometer and a half away. Since the bus still left around 5am, I had to run there with my massive bag. Of course, by the time I got there, my bus to Dubrovnik had already left, so I was encouraged to get on the bus to Herceg Novi, a town on the Montenegrian/Croatian border. Sweaty, grumpy, tired and hungry, I boarded the bus.

The highlight of the trip was when our bus drove onto a ferry at the Bay of Kotor, in order to save an hour-long drive around the bay. The ride itself took about 10 minutes, maybe less. Shortly thereafter, we arrived in Herceg Novi and I immediately connected to a bus to Dubrovnik that was literally pulling out of the lot. I arrived in Dubrovnik around 10am, glad that I made all my crazy connections.

My lodgings consist of a pretty guesthouse overlooking the water for less than the price of a cab from JFK to Manhattan. In other words, life is good. I am about to start exploring in earnest. The weather is warm (75ish), sunny and clear and I can´t wait to take a cat nap on the beach in the sun. I am here until Saturday morning (when I leave for Sarajevo), but I am going to try to take a day trip to one of the Dalmatian islands either tomorrow or Friday.

More soon.