just some visuals

nice ring, fag

tickets, please

Outside Edfu/Horus Temple. Fufu, me, Melike, Mahmoud. Our felucca-sailing team.


Hieroglyphs inside the temple.


Mahmoud HAD to get his picture with this replicate of a boat. Some angry, British faggot got angry at us because we were monopolizing the photo opportunity.


So, I responded to that by getting MY picture taken with it, as well.


Mahamoud and Fufu on the new felucca!!!


You know how much I love being in the mud. They had put these weird shoulder-pad things on me, too. Not sure the significance. Is Fufu looking at my dick?

Mahmoud.


Naj' Faras. All houses painted this beautiful blue. Narrow corridors between the houses.

Dr. Seuss trees.

Fufu hand-feeds Mahmoud all meals.

Selling bread off of bicycles is better than selling bread off of the street.

Election posters. Like most places with high illiteracy-levels, each candidate is assigned a symbol that voters can look for at the voiting booth. Mr. Dabab's symbol is the camel. Shocker!

Went down South to visit the infamous Mahmoud (Cheeky Monkey) with my friend, Melike. We had a very relaxing 5 days.

We did a few days on the felucca, visited a few temples, stayed in Mahmoud’s village with his family, stayed in Ashraf’s village with his family, spent a day lounging the pool, and endured two hellacious overnight train journeys.

Things we learned on this trip:

- Female circumcision runs as rampant in the South as the NGO's report. Even though women report that they don't have an orgasm from sex ... and even though men say that they get no pleasure from a woman who just lays there like a slab of meat as a result of her circumcision ... everyone agrees that it's 'necessary'. I mean, how can a girl with a clit get married?

- Many believe that HIV/AIDS was spread by women having sex with animals - most probably dogs. Women love to have sex with dogs and the pornography (which is nearly impossible to procure in Egypt) showing this is evidence enough.

- People will go out of their way to tell you how they love Muslims, Jews, and Christians equally. We all worship the same god, blah blah blah. Ten minutes into the diatribe, you start wondering, "Wait, you're assuming I'm Christian?" and "What are you so fanatical about something so basic and obvious?"

- Women, make sure you look as pissed off as possible at your wedding celebration. Make it obvious that you hate the man that's been chosen for you, make it obvious that you hate the fact making bread and babies 24/7 is your future, make it obvious you don't know how to blend your make-up. Everyone will love you for it.

- Everything is either black or white, haram or halal, forbidden or allowed, good or bad. There's no need for self-analyzation (or any analyzation, in general) because it can only be one, or

the other. Don't be surprised if someone tells you what you're doing is bad even if you think it's good.

- People have no concept of culturally inappropriate questions, despite dealing with foreigners on a daily basis.

- Cleopatra Pool in Aswan is clean, with a good view, and only costs $2 to use all day. If you complain enough, you might even get a free day-use room!

- Pay $2 to the train assistant and he'll make sure you get a private cabin. Even if the train is sold-out.

- Always travel with a sheet and a pillow. You never know where you'll need to sleep, which sort of creepy-crawly will want to impregnate you in the middle of the night, and as a barrier to the sicknesses you'll receive from dirty air-con filters (or maybe filter-less?)

- We're all going to heaven. Even if we're bad people, we'll hang out in hell for a bit, get a tan, have a few cocktails, and eventually end up in heaven with the rest of the hairless virgins.

- Swimming in the Nile and contracting Bilharzia (liver-infecting parasite) is a great trade-off for not sweating like a pig 24/7.

- Don't drink alcohol mid-day in 100+ weather

- Liver sandwiches are the new kidney sandwich

"i’m so hot in a hot country"

Above quote from niqab-ed (veiled), fat woman in bikini on Adultfriendfinder.com in our lame attempt at finding dirty, gay parties in Cairo.

Have decided to skip school on a routine basis, lately. Things are winding down after 4.5 months of non-stop, relatively hardcore studying, and I just don’t any energy left to devote my life to such things. That, and the fact I’m leaving for my 3- month Asian adventure in a matter of days. So much last minute planning (visas, and other bureaucratic nonsense) to take care of.

Schedule is as follows if anyone is interested in meeting up with me along the way. At the very least, it could serve as a trail for the FBI if I were to become kidnapped or eaten alive by some cannibalistic hilltribe.

July 30 – August 25: Chaing Mai, Thailand (Muay Thai Kickboxing, Village work program)
August 8 – August 25: Japan!!!!!
August 25 – August 27: Bangkok, Thailand
August 28 – September 5: Cambodia
September 6 – September 16: Vietnam
September 17 – September 30: Laos
October 1 – October 27: Macau, Hong Kong, China

look what i found

From almost two years ago!!

Sucking banana dick in the Western Desert. Guess Fantastic without Plastic was busy. Look how content May is. Look how slutty I always am.


Was totally playing with myself in this picture. This was pre-underwear-throwing-shenanigans at the cops...of which, I'm told, the village still talks about. Gurl lives on in the Egyptian desert.

starved for entertainment

Enjoyed a night of Algerian and Egyptian music at the Citadel over-looking ALLLLLLL of Cairo. Beautiful.


And at night.

Doesn't matter where I am. My friends are always spazzes. (Melike)

Their spasticness is hiding behind some half-smiles. (Fierce Bec, my crotch, and Elisa)

tittie bits

I just passed my three-month Cairo anniversary. I know I've had a three-month anniversary previously, but this one isn't tainted by tour leading hell. Here's a few things I've learned along the way.

On teaching English:
Decided I needed to stop hemorraghing funds and find some sort of 'job' that would pay SOME of my bills. I have four students, or three, not really sure. In general, they're pretty hard-working and not a total pain-in-the-ass to teach.

Ahmed likes to work in religious conversations as much as possible. He'll ask me questions like, "Mr. Eric, do you drink wine?" And of course, I say, "Yes....sometimes." And he'll be all shocked like, "Mr. Eric, really? You drink wine?!" What the fuck Ahmed, why ask the question if you thought you already knew the answer?

Adham is a total booze hound and studies with Ahmed.

Doraya has nicknamed herself DoDo. I'm not sure if it's pronounced DoDo like the bird or DoDo like kaka (baby word for poo). Today I met her to collect some cash and to cut the meeting as short as possible I said, "Okay DoooDooo, I have to go meet my friends, so I'll see you on Tuesday." And she replied with (I'm still shocked by this), "Oh, you have friends?"

I kind of just looked at her like, are you serious? I know that students never think their teacher's have a life, but come on!!! I thought the other day when she asked me if I had ever heard Arabic music was as stupid as she could get. No, DooDoo, I've never ridden in a taxi or a bus or watched music clips or had to endure high-pitched voices for my past two and a half years in the Middle East.

Then there's Ali. Ali is 40-something and gay. He's a masseuse in his spare time and likes to learn body part vocabulary. He had a minor break-down a month ago and started crying about his Saudi Arabian friend/lover that died 15 years ago. I haven't seen him since that last meeting, though he tells me when his work has calmed down, he'll resume classes. Which brings me to my next topic.

On Lying in Egypt:
I met this girl, who turns out to be Miss Arab World 2000 and something. She's a petite, spunky little thing. I've made two drinking dates with this sassy little number and she stood me up both times.

First time, there was an excuse that I actually believed.

Second time, she never showed up and didn't call back or text after two days worth of calls. A week later I finally got an MSN message from her saying that she was in a motorcycle accident and just suffered a few scratches, hence her non-communication. She assured me it was just scratches and nothing more serious.

I relayed this information to my Egyptian man and he immediately said that she was lying. He said this is bonafide Egyptian behavior.

To say, "No", isn't an option.
To not show up is okay.
To say, "It's my fault," will never happen.

I've since bounced this idea off of other Egyptian friends. It's true. To take fault for something and say "I'm sorry" is a character flaw, whereas in my culture it's a character trait we strive to have.

On finding new roommates in Egypt:
Like Craigslist in NYC, Craigslist in Egypt provides a fair share of whackjobs. Victoria from Washington, D.C. was a retard and a half. She had a nervous breakdown on my couch about how ugly Egyptian men are and how she'll never get laid. She wanted me to answer the question, "Why can't I be living in Lebanon where everyone is hot?!" Um. Move to Lebanon then, you dumb bitch.

On riding the subway in Cairo:
Metro etiquette:

1) If you're on the train platform, make sure to push your way onto the train before anyone is able to get off.
2) If you're on the train, make sure to push your way off the train before anyone is able to get on.
3) While the doors are still open at the stop prior to yours, run up to the door in preparation for your stop, making sure not to allow anyone on the train.
4) If you are getting off at the next stop, ask at least 12 people around you, "Are you getting off at the next stop?" If no, trade positions with them so that you are 4 inches closer to the door. If yes, don't say Yes....say "God willing".
5) Don't buy a ticket, just hop the gate
6) Ride in the women's car as much as possible because the lack of armpit stench is worth the fine if you get caught
7) Stare at any and all foreigners. Talk about them as loudly as possible because there's no way they could understand Arabic.

On speaking Egyptian dialect:
Forget everything you've ever learned.

In the North, replace all Q's with A's.
In the North, replace all J's with G's.
In the South, replace all Q's with G's.
In the South, keep the J.

Don't ever speak properly, because you won't be understand. It's all about being common.

Ask "How are you" at least 5 different ways before you start any conversation. Here's a translation:

How are you?
What's your news?
How are you?
Is everything good?
Is everything okay?
Is everything excellent?
Is everything beyond excellent?
How are you?
What are you doing? (Which really means, how are you?)

And then Thank God.

If you don't understand what someone is saying, just say, "God is Great" (like terrorists do before they kill people), "God Willing", or "Thanks be to God."

On drinking in Egypt:
Try to drink as much as possible.

Make sure to keep a log of all friends and friends of friends passing through so that you can keep your Duty Free liquor cabinet topped-up. Afterall, Egyptian-made alcohol is a death wish.

Belly-dancing clubs can offer very cheap drinking options and each table get's it's own girl-for-hire. She'll hold the fucking straw to your mouth while you suck your cocktail down if you pay her 25 cents.

long time no see

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. It's been a while since I've updated with something mildly amusing. Heres' a photo montage of my last three months in Egypt....errr.....my new home.

Went down to Edfu to visit the infamous Mahmoud. This is a picture of his village on the banks of the Nile. Beautiful. His mom sat next to me at every meal, watched every bite, waited for a reaction, and would clap her hands in joy that I liked her food. She said, next time, I have to stay for one week so that I become strong. Obviously implying that my current stature doesn't scream 'strong'. Does it scream weak, sissy, fag? Mumkin.


When I wasn't hand-sewing the sail for Mahmoud's new felucca with the rest of the villagers, we hit the markets. And yes, I am capable of manual labor, folks. And yes, sewing is manual labor.


Just a little snap of Old Cairo. Decay and mosque. Pretty typical.

Just a little tour of Old Cairo with my dialect class. On the left is Argentinian who was kinda hot stuff. Then the Deutsche who had a jaw like this trannie I once knew in NYC that never wore underwear. My teacher in the hijab. Canadian Elisa, my good friend, even though she wears pig-tails. Then Colombian man. Coke dealer.

Went out to the Bahariya Oasis to visit "Fantastic without Plastic" aka Waheed. Stayed with his family for a few days which was not the holiday I had planned. Basically everyone was sooooo excited to have a foreigner/guest and it was show-and-tell for two days. This is me dressed up in Egyptian desert gear holding a doiley that the Mom knitted for me. Also inspecting my hand probably because I wanted to make the picture look even more gay.


Because one picture isn't enough. Here's another one of me holding a crocheted dish that was given to me as a gift. The Mom was a true artist. Wish she gave me the yarn/birds nest/dollhouse/stranglation 'mobile' she had hanging from the ceiling instead.

Since I never got a hicky in high school. I'm making up for lost time. Come on guys! Hickys are the new summer accessory and you know it.

My first 'real' published article. (Not counting that Yemenia nonsense). I'm now being paid for my monthly column. But I'm still accepting donations.

My bedroom. Not as fierce as the Lenora. Yes, I do use the Swiss ball as a chair. And yes, I do fall off of it periodically. (And I have a balcony AND air-conditioning, living large)

did someone say sass?

Part three of my three-part article for a Cairo magazine. They've officially given me a column, but I don't know what that means in Cairene speak. So, we'll have to stay tuned for further developments.

Here we go again!

Dubai: All that glitters

In the last issue of EGO, we hitchhiked from the Yemen/Oman border to one of the most boring Omani cities imaginable, watched as giant turtles pooped out mounds of eggs on the beach, and didn’t interact with any Arabs. Will Dubai be able to wake us from our Omani coma? Let’s hope.

After a week of pure and utter boredom in Oman, my fond farewell came in the form of an offer for oral stimulation from an aged man in the bus terminal restroom. I admit I would have appreciated a little pick-me-up to get me through my last hours in Muscat, but I was thinking of something more along the lines of a tumbler (or four) of Jack Daniels. Needless to say, whiskey wasn’t on the gentlemen’s menu and I waited for the bus to Dubai alone.

The journey from Muscat to Dubai was a pleasant, air-conditioned experience. No ear-piercing Quranic recitations, no homeless people selling tissues, and certainly nobody throwing bags of vomit out of the window (am I the only person to witness such behavior in the Middle East?).

The bus stops near the airport which, thanks to urban sprawl, stands pretty darn close to the Dubai skyline. From there, I caught a taxi to the one-and-only youth hostel in town – certainly the best value at $20/night for a 5-person, shared room.

The first stop on my Dubai itinerary was the Museum. Let’s face it, the Emirates was a nomad stomping ground until about 5 minutes ago, so the area’s heritage isn’t exactly awe-inspiring. Visually, the museum was pretty fierce, as it’s one of the only surviving buildings from the 1800s. It has a slew of rooms depicting various periods in Dubai’s history, as well as extensive displays of weaponry and clothing. And, best of all, it was air-conditioned.

After seeing the one historically significant thing on offer, it was time to take care of something that had been bothering me for the past three months on the road – a craving for Mexican food. During my abundance of free time in Oman, I performed extensive research on the burritos and chimichangas on offer in Dubai, and decided that Maria Bonita’s Taco Shop was the way to go. I worked up an appetite trying to find the place with my clueless taxi driver, so it was no surprise I managed to devour an appetizer of ‘loaded’ nachos and a ridiculous number of fajitas. Sadly, margaritas weren’t on the menu, so I consoled myself over Italian gelato next door.
I had one giant spatula full of dark chocolate-orange and one of date-marzipan. Not even in Italy had I consumed such orgasmic gelato. And not even in Italy did I pay so much money for such a small portion. Welcome to the Gulf!

I think I was drunk off of the Mexican/gelato combo because I started chatting up a woman sitting at the next table. She turned out to be American-Iranian with a Louis Vuitton bag full of problems. She didn’t know why she was in Dubai, where her life was going, nor why her bank account was empty. She was a ticking bomb, so of course I decided to spend the entire day with her jet-setting around Dubai in other people’s cars. She didn't have her own vehicle, so she would actually ask random people to give us lifts to the nearest taxi stand. I totally support hitchhiking, but hopping from Mercedes to Jaguar to Porsche was a little out of my league.

We checked out some hotspots like mOre Cafe and the art galleries Third Line and B21 in the Al Quoz Industrial Area. Sitting in mOre was very reminiscent of my time in Oman – again, I found myself asking, “Where are the Arabs?!” Don’t get me wrong, Arab-spotting isn’t a sport for me. However, without discussing the obvious monetary aspects, am I the only person that finds it bizarre that so many foreigners have decided to settle in the desert? At the risk of sounding like Sex and the City’s Carrie Bradshaw, are fashionistas the new Bedouin?

I was surprised by the progressiveness of the galleries – a male prostitute photo series and living with HIV in Ethiopia were components of the exhibitions showing at the time, with future plans for works by Golnaz Fathi, a Tehran-based artist. But we started to get ancy, so we caught a lift with a fancy Lebanese lady to the Medinat Jumeirah for our date with quite possibly the most ridiculous thing on offer in Dubai at the time – 100% Kylie.

For those who haven’t yet been exposed to this fabulousness, 100% Kylie is a two hour engagement with a Kylie Minogue impersonator. I’m not kidding. “Kylie” and her team of dancers replicated an entire concert, complete with costume changes, strobe lights, and confetti. The audience, a healthy combination of gay men and families with small children, were totally feeling the outrageousness and cheered her on with off-beat hand-clapping and outbursts of 'You go girl!'.

No night, especially this one, would be complete without a drink at the infamous Buddha Bar. It’s the perfect place to get up close and personal with Dubai’s pretty people while drinking yourself into an overpriced stupor.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to end. The next morning, I awoke to the housekeeper in my room sweeping the floor. As I watched this frail, South Asian man through my haze of one-too-many mojitos, I realized how easy it is to lose oneself in the most vacuous lifestyle imaginable. I had read the magazine articles and news reports, but I guess I became blinded by the glean of Swarovski-adorned abayas, never noticing the pervasiveness of Dubai’s underbelly. Until next time…

arabian peninsula style

Some shit I got published.

Yemen: Sex, Drugs, and Rock & Roll live on

I was at my uncle's house feasting on a medley of meat from his most recent hunting trip, when my cousin approached me and asked accusatively, "So, where have you been?''

Feeling like an unwilling participant of an interrogation, I mumbled with a hint of self-doubt, "Um, Yemen?"

"Yemen , huh? Which state is that in?"

Curiously enough, this was not the first time I had been asked an asinine question about Yemen, or the Middle East for that matter. These scenes always play out at family functions where the line of questioning revolves around camels, September 11th, and hummus.

"Well, Cousin Tim - Yemen is, believe it or not, a country in the Arabian Peninsula and I traveled from there to. . . ."

My three-month journey from Yemen to Dubai began with an unforgettable early morning taxi-ride from Sana'a International Airport to my Old City accommodation. Men lined the streets performing the squat-toilet-crouch as they drank their morning beverages and sported their weapon of choice – usually a handsome dagger, sometimes an old-school Kalashnikov. Little boys in suits, presumably their offspring, quite possibly street children, chased each other through the maze of gingerbread houses that UNESCO has deemed World Heritage List-worthy. Women struggled with layers of fabric wrapped around their bodies as they balanced an assortment of culinary treats on their heads.

To the naked eye, Yemen appears to have changed very little since mass conversions to Islam in 630. Funny enough, the trained eye agrees. Sure, the Yemen Arab Republic (North) and People's Democratic Republic of Yemen (South) unified in 1990, schools have been built for women, and central business districts have been erected, but the country is not exactly making great strides in anything tangible. Sitting around while chewing qat (mildly-addictive plant leaves that are chewed for hours and stored in the pocket of one's cheek), thinking about all the great things one could do if he were not chewing qat still reigns supreme. This is evident particularly in Sana'a and the areas further north.

My first official qat chew took place as I drove north from Sana'a to Shaharah. Travel outside the capital usually requires obtaining a simple piece of paper from the police after registering one's itinerary. However, travel outside the capital for Americans often requires armed security. My companions and I were fortunate enough to have six eager Yemeni recruits escort us in a jeep with a long-range machine gun mounted on its roof. You know, just in case.

We stopped along the way to eat a traditional Yemeni stew called faseh, but instead of ending the meal with something a little sweet, we wandered over to the row of men selling pre-weighed, bagged leaves. Hamdani, Shami, and Gatal were the varieties of qat on offer that day at an array of prices. We chose something mid-range and picked up a few extra bags to keep our security as doped up as possible. We began to sort through our unwashed, pesticide-laden bags as our jeep slowly climbed the terraced mountains that typify Northern Yemen . We passed slender houses, girls in fluorescent party dresses, and men with qat-stuffed cheeks as we continued to chew and not swallow.

I felt like Ibn Batuta as we arrived in Shaharah as people poked their heads out of windows to see what the cat dragged up the 2,500 meter mountain. Like Batuta, we came for one thing and left with another; an appreciation for what it means to be a Shahari. The famous Shaharah Bridge was interesting, but the disastrous effect qat is having on public health and the environment is more so. See, the unfortunate thing about qat is that it uses somewhere between 35-90% of the country's water supply (experts have yet to concur). And for Shaharah, the only industry is qat production which means water is in short supply. Wells are drying up in villages similar to this, feuds are erupting, and people can be killed because of water scarcity.

These problems are quickly forgotten as you move south to the port of Aden. Since the British left Aden in 1937, the city has become a hodge-podge of cultures and ethnicities contrasting the homogeneity of the rest of the country. Most startling is the prevalence of African prostitutes and the rich Saudis that love them. They tend to co-mingle at the Sailor's Club, a den of iniquity on the Gulf of Aden serving up spicy seafood spaghetti and even spicier entertainment. Women sport a range of clothing from full hijab/niqab to spandex cat suits and dance on a stage to live music. The men try to hold themselves back, but it does not take long before they use one hand to fling wads of cash at the women while the other hand clutches a string of prayer beads.

Most people only spend a few booze-filled nights in Aden before traveling the coastal road to Al Mukalla and then north to Wadi Hadramawt. Sayun, Tarim, and Shibam are all cities within Hadramawt offering excursions. Who could pass up a town boasting one mosque for every day of the year or an outcrop of mud buildings referred to as The Manhattan of the Desert? I can. I chose to bypass the inland desert and continue on the coastal road to the border of Oman . Even though I could not find any information about this border crossing, I convinced myself it would be easy-breezy. Wrong!

From Al Mukalla there is a bus to Al Ghaida, where there is a bus to Oman every day, but the day I arrived. Not being the type of person to sit around in oppressive heat swatting flies away from my face, I found a small group of men going to Hawf, a city in Yemen that was within walking distance to Oman . I must have been severely dehydrated because I actually thought this was a better option than finding an air-conditioned hotel room and waiting for the bus that would take me directly to the closest Omani city, Salalah.

Journey with me in the next issue of EGO as I hitchhike across the border and into areas of Oman that few foreigners have ever seen.



Oman: Just passing through

In the last issue of EGO we parted ways at the Yemen-Oman border after journeying together through the backwaters of Yemen, meeting the drug addicts, prostitutes, and shameless Saudis that litter the country. Now it is time to pick up where we left off – in a service car on its way to the border-town of Hawf.

After 3 hours of sitting in an Al-Ghaida service car, chatting with the driver about the obvious Somali refugee situation along the southern coast of the country, a select group of Yemeni men and I began our journey to Oman.

The road to Hawf hugged a coastline that had not yet seen the disastrous effects of plastic bags and other modern-day pollutants. After a few hours, it slowly veered away from the water and inland to a landscape that resembled some sort of Jurassic Park biosphere. I had my camera out, documenting the lushness of the region, when the Yemenis started preparing themselves to exit the vehicle en masse. I could not figure out where exactly they were planning to go because there was no obvious sign of life in the jungle, but apparently this was Hawf because within seconds, all the bags, including mine, were being unloaded onto the muddy terrain.

The Yemeni soldiers and I were looking at each other with the same expression of disbelief as none of us knew what to do next. I guess someone had issued an agnabi-alert because the Big Boss came out and asked me a series of rapid-fire questions, made phone calls, and held my passport up to the light. Finally, with a shrug of the shoulder I was processed and began making my way towards the Sultanate.

The Omani guards were not impressed by me. They reckoned that only idiots would travel this border without an itinerary, tour guide, or private transportation, and asked me where I planned on sleeping because I would probably be here for a while. I thought I would lighten the mood a bit and tried my hand at humor, "If worse comes to worse," I said, "I'll just ride a wild camel the 150km to Salalah." It was a stupid joke, but I was expecting a more light-hearted reaction than an emotionless, "Sir, there are no camels here." P.S. Just for the record, there were camels.

After examining every shred of dirty laundry in my bag, they allowed me to set up camp beside the road (with the camels) and wait for someone to either a) give me a ride, or b) run over me and put me out of my/their misery.

Most of the cars were so full of cheap, Yemeni-bought, Asian-made junk or munaqabat that my entrance into any of the vehicles was prohibited. But after achieving mild sunburn, a fairly empty car inched its way through the gates. I ran up to the driver and sputtered out some crap in Arabic that made me look as hard-up as possible. It worked, because before I knew it I was on the road with Ahmed and Hilal – a father-son duo on their way to Muscat, via Salalah.

Salalah is situated in the Dhofar region, typified by outcrops of mountains and plunging valleys. It just so happened that I was being chauffeured through this region in September, when the summer rains had stopped and the vegetation was as green as ever. It is a shame the beauty abruptly ends upon entering sandy Salalah proper, because the city needs all the help it can get. Maybe it was the fact that I had arrived on a Friday, maybe it was the fact that Salalah is just a lame place, but I could not find anything that managed to be both cultural and interesting at the same time. Except for the fact that Oman, like many of the countries in the region, is inhabited by a ridiculous number of migrant workers. Even though the country is going through an "Omanization" at the moment, 15-20% of the 2.6 million residents in Oman are still migrant workers primarily from Pakistan , Bangladesh, India, and the Philippines . Day by day, Omani-nationals are replacing foreigners in all sectors of business, even though I saw no evidence of this; it seemed everywhere I went, I overheard conversations in Urdu, not Arabic. Maybe the Omanis never venture outside because there is too much money to be counted?

I high-tailed it out of Salalah for 800 kilometers and I hit up Nizwa for some fortress action. Nizwa once stood at the intersection of an important trading route and the fort, built in 1668, served as a focal point for much of the activity. Now, most tourists visit the fort, the Sultan Qaboos mosque, as well as Jebel al-Akhdar or Jebel Shams for some hiking. Although, such hiking trips are usually too expensive for the lone backpacker, or anyone on a budget. Actually, Oman is prohibitively expensive for anyone not on an expense account. The cheapest hotel I found in Oman was in Nizwa and it cost a sweet $25/night, not exactly a bargain for someone used to paying $1-5/night while on the road.

Even though neither Salalah nor Nizwa floated my boat, Oman eventually gave me something that I will never forget. No, it was not body lice or debilitating diarrhea (I saved those experiences for my trip to Pakistan ) – it was the chance to witness hordes of giant turtles laying hundreds of slimy, white eggs on the coast of Ras al-Jinz. My guide was extremely eco-conscious and was sure not to disturb any of the turtles during our midnight expedition, as any disruption in the 6-hour egg-laying process would force the turtles to abandon their exposed eggs, leaving them as food for the foxes that roam the area.

After staring at turtles' butts for a few hours, I made my way to Muscat to catch the public bus to Dubai. Muscat is the sprawling capital with little to offer in terms of tangible heritage, but delivers if you are in need of some sushi or designer clothing. It is a good place to visit if you have a friend there that can take you around; otherwise, Dubai is only 6 hours away and is said to offer much more.

The bus service to Dubai is a well-oiled machine with efficient passport control and toilet stops at all the right places, but nothing prepared me for what I would find in the desert metropolis. . .

in full form

peacocks = not fierce enough

In normal situations I would have pulled out my camera and documented the nonsense. But when you have a broker whispering in your ear, "this is very luxury," you try to pretend like this isn't the most shitacious apartment you've ever seen.

I have spent the last week of my life (a week that I'll never get back) looking at flats in Cairo. I thought I'd be able to find something 'very luxury' at a rock-bottom price. But no. Basically, what happens in Cairo is that everything is done through a simsar, or broker. They have a list of names/numbers/places that they call upon your request. They show you the places and then charge you 10-100% of the first month's rent. Fine, whatever. I've slept in enough roach-infested places with no hot water in my life that sometimes I'm willing to pay a bit extra for convenience.

The problem is, unlike most brokers in NYC, these dudes don't have their shit together. I have sat in fat, old men's apartments for hours on end while they finger their chicken-scratched diaries and call people who they THINK MIGHT have a place to rent me. And when they do find a place that's 'available' they don't make the necessary arrangements with the landlord to get me in there.

For example:

Broker: Hi. Do you have a studio, 1 BR, or 2 BR available?
Landlord: Yes.
Broker: Okay, how big/ how much?
Landlord: Such and such.
Broker: Thanks, bye.

Broker to me: She has something available, do you want to see it?
Me: Yes, why didn't you make an appointment with her? You knew my budget.
Broker: This is out of my hands.
Me: What is out of your hands, you shithead?
Broker: The tenants are on holiday and its against the law to let you in without them being home.

What?! Against the law? I'm sorry, I thought we were in fucking Egypt!! Even if we were in America (a land that isn't exactly lawless) and the broker could smell the cash oozing out of my pores, he'd do everything in his power to get my scrawny, white ass in that flat and my cash in his greasy hands ASAP. Am I wrong in this assumption?

The other problem is that a lot of landlords were willing to give me a place for 2-3 months, but wanted me out or to pay more in the summer. Between the months of May and September, the city is flooded with people from the Gulf, men primarily. They descend upon the city for a no-holds-barred sex-fest with anything they can get their hands on. Everyone knows about this and actually encourages it - otherwise the rents wouldn't be so grossly inflated.

Anyway. After seeing one too many places that were either a) disgusting b) full of gold furniture and mirrors with peacocks etched into them (I did actually consider moving into one of these peacock palaces because it was cheap and so tacky it was fierce, but I need a place that doesn't make me feel like a Kuwaiti), I decided to exploit my network of friends here.

I ended up moving in to a place in Garden City. I actually never even considered moving to this area in the first place even though it makes so much sense now. It's near downtown, 20 minute walk to my gym, close to the metro which takes me to my school, it's fabulous. It's not gross and it's not luxe, it's somewhere in between in a Lenora-on-Hooper-sort-of-way. I even have my own balcony! Although, my roommate is lame-o. When I first met her I thought she was cool, but I was wrong. I realize I'm a terrible judge on character, but I don't know how I didn't see this one.

Fortunately, she's moving out in a month or two and I can get someone fierce up in that shit.

koos on koos

This is a picture from my travelling companion, Koos. I decided not to go to Afghanistan with him and now I'm totally kicking myself in the ass for not going. He went to a 'sporting event' where guys try to wrestle a dead calf carcass onto the horse they're riding and then put it into a ring or something. Anyway, this is a picture of the crowd, with Koos in the middle (with the red-ish coat, not the guy looking at the camera). Very National Geographic. Loves it.

yemenia fame

After my totally whoreanus journey on Yemenia (yes, that's an airline) from Cairo to Sana'a 6 weeks ago, I've decided to write an article for their in-flight magazine. No, I won't be discussing the implications of not using metal detectors, not having female security to search burkah-ed bodies, using mobiles while in the air, and harassing the airline attendants. And no, I won't explain my shock when the Yemenis exhibited Pavlovian traits. Instead of drooling when they heard the "fasten/unfasten your seatbelt" beep, they actually fastened and unfastened their seatbelts! I'm slightly confused as to why, of all the other verbal/aural/physical indicators, they've chosen to take notice of this one. Fucking freak shows.

Anyway. Here's my article in both English and Arabic (just for the wow-factor). I will admit that my teacher tore apart a good portion of this, but still, I think it's pretty fierce. Clearly, it's not as witty and un-lame as I would have liked, but it was written with the intention of translating - and as I've learned, my humor just doesn't translate.

In the meantime, I've been hired by a Cairene magazine to write a two-issue travel article on a) all of my time in Yemen b) my retarded overland journey from Yemen to Oman and Dubai. So stay tuned for that fabulousness. This won't be translated and the magazine is kind of fierce, so hopefully I'll be able to spit something out that's mildly amusing.

**
Ya Sadiq!

Wandering the small lanes of Sana'a Al-Qadima, amidst the voices of children asking to have their pictures taken, I sometimes hear an old man's mumbled inquiry, "Why do you people come to my country?"

I come from a nation with the largest Yemeni population outside of Yemen, so I cannot help but think, "Why are 15,000 Yemeni's living in MY country?" Although, I already know the answer to this question as Yemeni motivations are more clear than our motivations as tourists. Nevertheless, his question remains a valid one. Of all the places in the world, why would I choose to live in Yemen for six months?

I came to Yemen as a result of doing what so many of us only dream of -- I quit my job, sold all of my furniture, and left home. It was time to start enjoying life by experiencing new cultures and learning a foreign language, or two. I enrolled in a language institute in Sana'a Al-Qadima, began volunteering at a non-government organization (NGO) for women's education and the welfare of street children, and participated in organized language exchanges with university students.

I will admit that I have experienced a few emotional breakdowns during my time at the language institute - who knew learning Arabic would be so difficult?! Luckily, my teachers have been kind enough to take me under their wings and expose me to true, Yemeni culture and tradition. Home-cooked meals and mafraj qat-chews have been weekly occurrences. And with approximately 70% of the population under the age of 25, participating in wedding celebrations can be a daily activity if you like being around men dancing with knives.

On the weekends, I take a break from tearing my hair out over Arabic grammar and volunteer at a Yemeni-founded NGO. Many NGO's in Yemen are funded by European governments and multinational corporations, but there are a few that have been home-grown. And not surprisingly, those involved in women's issues often employ an all-female staff, which was the case at my NGO (until I arrived!). Regardless of nationality or religion, few men have the opportunity to interact with the women of Yemen. Though I have found it difficult to work with women whose faces are concealed, I took advantage of the situation and learned a valuable lesson contrary to popular belief: these women are human-beings and not just black shadows wandering the streets.

This lesson has been reinforced during my afternoon language exchanges with a group of university students. As the majority of English students in Sana'a are women, most of my conversations are with females. I quickly learned that educated youth around the world are one-in-the-same; we have radical ideas, are interested in taboo subjects, and dream of conquering the world. In between heated debates on the situation in Palestine and Iraq, we have discussed Nancy Ajram and American rap music. Yes, 50 Cent does live on in Arabia Felix. And sadly, so does the soundtrack to "Titanic".

I think about my life once upon a time in New York City -- the soy lattes, celebrity sightings, and sit-down toilets. It was fun while it lasted, but it was all so long ago and admittedly unfulfilling. I wish more people would come and visit the Middle East so that he/she can educate him/herself instead of relying on biased Western media for the facts. And this is precisely the reason why I came to Yemen and precisely the reason why you should, too.

**

يا صديق!

كل يوم أتجول في أزقة صنعاء القديمة, أستكشف جمال المدينة و أستمع إلى أصوات الأولاد و هم يلعبون. أحياناً, أسمع عجوز يستعلم مستغرباً "لماذا تزورون بلدي؟"

أنا من شعب يوجد فيه أكبر عدد من المهاجرين اليمنيين, لذلك أفكر حالياً, "لو سمحت! لماذا يسكن 15,000 يمني في بلدي؟" طبعاً, سؤالي مجهول لأنّ أهداف اليمنيين واضحة في حين أهداف الأجانب غير واضحة و هكذا ما زال سؤال العجوز ساري المفعول. و كذلك ما زلتُ أنا أسأل نفسي من كل الأماكن في العالم, لماذا أسكن في بلد عجيب لنصف سنة؟

جئتُ إلى اليمن نتيجةً لرغبة نفسي في الخروج من أمريكا و لذلك تركتُ عملي, بعتُ أثاثي, و هاجرتُ من أمريكا. قررتُ أنّه كان من الضروري أن أبدأ أستمتع بحياتي من وراء التعرف على ثقافة جديدة و تعلم لغة أجنبية. لذلك التحقتُ بمعهد اللغة العربية في صنعاء القديمة, و بدأتُ أتطوع في منظمة غير حكومية لتعليم النساء و رعاية أولاد الشوارع, و شاركتُ في التبادل الثقافي و اللغوي مع طلاب الجامعات اليمنية.

وصلتُ إلى اليمن و أنا لا أعرف شيئاً عن اللغة العربية و لذلك لاقيتُ مشكلات قليلة طوال وقتي في المعهد. ولكن لحسن الحظ, كان أساتذتي لطيفين و عرفوني بالعادات و التقاليد اليمنية الحقيقية. مثلاً, كانت هناك زيارات إلى بيوتهم اعتيادية. أيضاً, بسبب العمر من 70% من عدد سكان اليمن أصغر من 25 سنة من الممكن أن تصبح حفلات الزواج حدث يومي فإذا أحببتَ أن ترقص مع رجال مسلحون تكون الفرصة كبيرة.

أنا أذهب في الأجازة الأسبوعية إلى العمل و تطوعتُ في منظمة غير حكومية يمنية. في اليمن كثير من المنظمات غير الحكومية ممولة من حكومات أوروبية و بشركات عالمية, ولكن توجد قليل من هذه المنظمات بتمويل يمني فقط. بالأضافة إلى ذلك, توجد المنظمات غير الحكومة التي تتضامن مع قضايا المرأة و توجد فيها موظفات فقط, مثل منظمة عملتُ فيها. باختلاف الجنس أو الدين, توجد حدود بين النساء اليمنيات و أي رجل آخر بسبب الثقافة اليمنية. أدركتُ أنني كنتُ وحيداً فانتهزتُ الفرصة لأتكلم معهن كثيراً. و مع أنّي وجدتُ الحال صعباً بسبب النقاب, تعلمتُ درس عكس العقيدة المنتشرة إن هؤلاء النساء لسن ظلال سوداء يتجولن على الشوارع فقط بل أنسان له أهدافه و آماله.

كان الدرس معززاً خلال التحاور اللغوي مع مجموعة من طلاب الجامعة. الأغلبية من الطلاب الذين يدرسون اللغة الإنكليزية في صنعاء هن نساء, و هكذا كانت معظم مناقشاتي مع الأنثى. تعلمتُ بسرعةً أنّ هؤلاء الطلاب مثل الشباب في كل أنحاء العالم. عندنا أفكار جذرية, نهتم بمواضيع متعددة, و نحلم بحكم العالم. من بين المناقشات النشيطة مناقشة الأحوال في فلسطين و العراق, حيث ناقشنا نانسي عجرم و موسيقى أمريكية. (فيفتي سنت) موجود في العربية السعيدة و للأسف ما زال موسيقى فيلم (تايتانك) موجود أيضاً.

جئتُ إلى اليمن لخبرة سابقة و تكررت نفس الخبرة. الآن, أفكرعن حياتي في مدينة نيو يورك و تبدو أنها ما كانت موجودة. تصبح الوجبات الفاخرة, الملابس الغنية, و المراحيض بشكل غربي غير مهمةً في هذه الأيام. تعلمتُ كثيراً من اليمنيين و أرجو أكثر غربيين سيزورون الشرق الأوسط لأنه يختلف من البرامج الأخبار الغربية.

mi casa

This is my house in Sana'a. I share it with a British 'journalist'. It's 5 floors and fierce.



The doors into all of the rooms are ridiculously tiny, which begs the question - what came first, the stunted, malnourished, drug-addicted Yemeni or the mini door frames?


This is my room. But I don't spend much time in it.

Because it's sunnier and quieter in the mafraj (top level of the house used for social gatherings).

This is the view from our roof.

misr mommy

Mom and I DID Egypt about a month and a half ago. She loved everything. She is totally hilarious because she's often a bit menopausal which really added to the atmosphere. As if I need to be around 73 million crazy Egyptians AND a menopausal Mid-westerner.

Favorite part:

When we were in an elevator without closing doors.

When it went up/down, you could see the floors and concrete between the floors. You could reach out and touch whatever you wanted. Between the floors were painted numbers for ... duh ... the floor level. I said something along the lines of, ''Can you hit #4," thinking she'd hit the button when we entered said elevator. But I guessed she didn't hear me and I pushed the button myself. Oh no no no, lo and behold! While ascending, she saw the painted #4 on the concrete, and hit it with both her hands like she was slapping a Chippendale's ass, while yelling "Four!". She immediately realized that this was perhaps the most retarded thing she's ever done. Of course, I never let her live it down.

Us, on camels, in front of the sun.


Mom on a camel. She screamed the entire time. I bought her that bag from REI. She planned on carrying a serious bag with her at all times. So when she saw this she didn't believe me that it was all she needed. She soon realized that not only was it fierce, it was functional.

Prayer time.

What else did we do besides stare at Egyptian ass?

- Encountered men with broken bottles behind their backs at the pyramids

- Didn't buy anything because it's all imported from China

- Felucca's and dancing around fires with the infamous Mahmoud. Mom brought her own plastic cutlery for felucca meals.

- Dinner at Muharram's house in 'the Nubian village' - his house was pimped out AND the food was delish. Mom decided to use his cutlerly.

- Saw a million and one sights, of which I attempted to be the guide for all of them. Only to realize how much I've forgotten in the past two years.

- Road bikes in Luxor to the Valley of the Kings while Mubarak and Condi Rice were in town. Every single road was lined (every 30 feet) with un-armed military personnel. They stood outside for 12 hours without a break. I'm glad we could at least give them some entertainment.

- Hung out at Donkey Khalid's house on the West Bank of Luxor. He hates his life. Was so born in the wrong country.

- Mom got her hand kissed and was proposed to by Christian George. She asked if he had any friends instead.

- Seafood, movies, sights, booze in Alexandria.

All in all, a success. When I get some pictures from Mom, I'll post them.

witches and midgets

After a so-so dinner at an overpriced hotel restaurant last night, I accompanied my housemate and friend to a different hotel that my housemate's friend runs. The reason for going is because hotel manager's brother works for the mobile phone company and can block the phone calls from my friend's Yemeni harasser.

After that was all sorted out, we started discussing the mystical side of Yemen. Or shall, I say, THEY started discussing it - I don't know jack about this.

Apparently there is a book of magic called Shams al-Ma'arif. Nobody knows who wrote it (but popular opinion is the Jews) and there are still a few hand-written copies floating around. This dude got his hands on one of these and took it to his house. Needless to say, some Harry Potter-esque stuff started happening and he returned the book to the owner. I guess the Saudis come to Yemen to look for such things because 'they're all dogs looking to hunt women' and the Shams can help with that - as it's a recipe book of sorts.

Also, there's a slew of tunnels under the old city all linking up with this hotel. Apparently the hotel was an old castle (though you wouldn't know now) back when the Turks occupied Yemen. In this hotel, they actually built a 'false floor' about 1.5 meters in height where they hid all of their valuables. After years of being scared of what they might find inside, the owner recently opened it and found wooden boxes full of old Turkish army armor. Fierceness.

It's the only building in all of Sana'a that has a Turkish hammam on it. And the tunnels? Where do they go? The Yemenis are too scared to find out. But one thing is for sure. The people with tunnels under their house are convinced that once the government finds out, they will take their houses away from them and fill in the tunnels.

They've found ancient hand-written Korans in the walls of a mosque in the capital. Apparently, the stories in the Korans are different from what's in the 'real' Koran. I'm sure of a lot illiterate, brainwashed people know about this, but have dismissed it as being untrue/unauthentic/unIslamic. Wonder who has the manuscripts now and/or if they've been destroyed.

There's also some theories going on that despite the fact that there's 500 Jews in Yemen (which the Yemenis take great pride in because they 'respect one another' - despite the fact all of the Jews have been moved into a hotel and have around-the-clock security because a group of Shi'a called the Hoothi have threatened to kill all of them), some Muslims are actually Jews. That is to say, they practice Judaism in their homes, but nobody knows. A group of them supposedly went to the American embassy, told them this, and got passports as religious refugees or whatever refugee box you can check off for such things. They said they were forced into Islam.

I've been discussing these things with my teachers and they want to know:

a) how the fuck I know this
b) why I want to know this
c) if I actually believe Muslims were forced into a religion of peace. because they weren't!
d) if I think juggling is magic (because my teacher is convinced its the devil's work. that, and dancing)

leave it to mom

When not watching the absolutely whoreanus Rachel Ray show, I've been following the Larry vs. Anna Nicole baby saga on Inside Edition/The Insider. But then I received this email from my Mom.

anna nicole smith died today. last nite on t.v. she looked pretty stoned and could barely speak. most likely suicide i think.

Fuck Palestine, fuck Indonesia. Mom sends me the real news.

peter luger's finally

After talking about it for years (literally), Marian and I finally took a car service 5 blocks from The Lenora to Peter Luger's for a very over-the-top lunch.

First, I should say that both of us were pretty much a mess, even though we got mani/pedis before going. At least Marian had a floppy hat and Pocahantas boots to smooth over our un-fierceness. All I had was a rain-proof jacket. And let's face it, that ain't fierce.

We ended up getting the "Steak for Two". This dish was bashed on CitySearch because the meat is bathed in butter. Who doesn't like butter?! We loved it.

We also had a side of creamed spinach because they were out of a majority of the other side dishes. Really, how hard is it to bake a potato?

And a bottle of red.

And we finished it off with a "Holy Cow!" ice-cream sundae.

It was worth every single penny. And every single calorie.

So hot.



Loves meat.

da whore

Lahore was pretty fierce. I ended up spending about 5 days there because a) it was fun b) I became very ill there. This city is defintely the cultural hub of Pakistan. There's so much to do, eat, buy. Lots of little markets and small streets to get lost in.

This is the big mosque in da whore. I don't remember it's name, but it was fierce. I got in a fight with the shoes-check people. I knew that even though it was a place of worship, that they'd try to extort money out of me to get my shoes back. I held back and watched what the locals paid for the shoes - something like 5 rupees. So I asked for my shoes, then gave him the 5 rupees and dude flipped shit. He wanted 20. Naturally, I took the 5 back from him and walked away. Beggars can't be choosers, right? Of course, he didn't like this and came back over and said 'Okay 5, Okay 5'. Nope, no money. I started saying Allah and Masjid over and over again, then someone threatened to hit me with a stick. What? This is God's house, bitches.

Inside the mosque. The view from the outside is deceiving because the inside is actually tiny.

tall men, long moustaches

I made a few friends at the hostel in Lahore, even though I wasn't staying there (I officially do not do shared accommodation with strangers anymore). Unfortunately, there were two Australians in the group of our 4-some, but dare I say it, they were actually bearable.

We headed out to the border between Pakistan and India to watch the closing ceremony.

Being the thrifty folk we are, we decided to attempt public transportation out there. I mean, it's only 30km, how long could it take?

Will I ever learn?

First of all, let me tell you that we were riding the bus with two clowns. Seriously. Two dudes from Italy were trained clowns and were on their way to Varanasi for a 'clown workshop'. One of the guys was mime-ing his fucking brains out and doing lame walking-invisible-dog-type-"tricks". I think I've finally found people with a craft creepier than dudes that perform magic.

To make a long story short, the bus ride took forever, and the clowns were cutting it close. After all, we were going there to watch the closing ceremony and they were going to cross.

They never made it and had to camp at the border. I'm sure they mime-d up a tent and some food and it was all a-ok.

This is what the dudes wear. I think they found the tallest guys in Pakistan and then stuck these fans on their head to make them even taller.



And this dude runs around with the flag chanting 'Zindabad Pakistan' (long live Pakistan). And then the crowd starts screaming it, too. Meanwhile, you can hear the Indian side scream 'long live Hindustan'. Then, of course, the Pakistani side starts chanting about Allah and how great he is, which is kind of nauseating. But then you have to remember why Pakistan was formed in the first place.



And then these guys march around. It's all very exciting.

pesh pesh peshawar

Just some dudes I picked up on the Afghan border metropolis of Peshawar. This is where all those bombs have been, and continue to, go off. These guys took me around for two days. It obvious they're completely bored with their lives (ie. we hung out at a clothes and cutlery craft fair for two hours), but they're all very educated and plan on fleeing ASAP.

Verbatim from Peshawar internet cafe.

honorably requested
you are requested:
Don't visit Bad sites, which may cause degrade your personality
visit good and informative sides, which could enhance your personality and knowledge
students are not allowed durings school hours
smoking is not allowed its injurious for your health
you are requested to visit some islamic sites during web-surifing (www.islam.com and www.quran.com, and there are sooooooooo many more islamic sites please search google
thanks for your co-operation
administrator

seriously swat

Made it to the Swat region after a grueling journey over the Lowari Pass. It was yet another exhausting ride with 8000 men in a vehicle designed for 10. All spitting their tobacco refuse between their legs and onto the floor, only to drip over to my bag. Loves it.

The Lowari Pass is a very scenic journey. Lots of zig-zagging to get up and over a mountain, and then back down it. This was basically my last chance to get out of Chitral and into Swat, as the snow was moving in. (As a sidenote, a few days later, the newspapers read 'Chitral is cut off from rest of Pakistan'. Basically what happened was that the pass finally closed due to snow and all flights were also cancelled, so the Chitral region would have to rely on its own resources for however long they could). I later met up with a guy that crossed the pass by foot with a few locals and nearly died. He doesn't remember much of the experience, except being carried through waist-high snow up and over the pass. See, I'm not the only retarded tourist in Pakistan.

Made it to Swat, which is touted as yet another 'most beautiful place in Pakistan'. And yes, it was beautiful, but while I certainly hit the more Northern areas at their peak time for loveliness, I just missed it in Swat; the leaves had already fallen off the trees and it was starting to get very chilly.

So, basically I holed myself up in Madyan, a small village in the valley for 3 days at the Madyan guesthouse. There were only two other tourists in town, a Swiss couple, who I hung out with the entire time on their balcony.

When I arrived, the police wanted to assign me a private armed guard to follow me around, but I had to decline that especially after my mistake early that day.

Basically what happened was that I needed to renew my visa. I thought I had found the correct office to do so, but before I knew it, I was getting a private, armed escort to the bus station, not the visa stamp I had originally asked for. He had 6 men in a jeep take me to the bus station. Hello, awkward. Make me a target much? I vowed to decline all future escorts, unless of course they were really, really hot.

This is the main street in Madyan. It was the first place I found that you could buy chicken liver on the street. Seriously my fave.

scabie love child

My final day in the Kalash Valley, I realized I had contracted scabies. Not sure if it was my lack of bathing or the gross places I was sleeping. But people had warned me that I'd get it at one time or another while in Pakistan, guess my number was up.

So here's a visual of my Scabion lotion. And it wouldn't be complete without an equally disgusting visual of what routinely comes out of my nose. Yeah, that thing on the right is a tissue with my coal miner's snot on it.

guru

Embarked on a journey to the Kalasha Valleys. The people that live here are called Kalash (shocker) and are not Muslim. They believe in a wide array of gods and do that whole animal sacrifice thing once in a while. I stumbled upon one of these altars which was nothing more than a pile of rocks and wood, so I didn't take a picture. But while I was up there, all of the villagers started freaking out and started yelling at the guesthouse manager that he can't be letting the female tourists up there. Yes, they thought I was a girl. First, Japanese. Now, a girl.

Many of the Kalash are converting over to Islam at very young ages because of people coming in and preaching to the youngsters. They'll give the children gifts and promises of virgins in heaven. What I found interesting is that the kids will convert at really young ages without their parents involvement at all. Needless to say, the Kalash people (because you can't be Kalash and Muslim) will no longer exist in a couple more decades.

This is the entire village of Guru. Only about 300 people live on this mountainside.




We ended up staying in this house. It was the only guesthouse in town and was more of someone's home than a guesthouse. We spent a lot of time hanging out in the kitchen playing cherades with everyone.



This is me with a Kalash lady on the right and the Austrian anthropologist that'd been living there for two years. She spoke the language and was very helpful with letting us know about the inside scoop on everything. Koos and I decided that she'd been living there for a bit too long, though. Craaazzy.

This is what the all the females wear - even to bed. They keep their caps things on by a braiding their hair into five plaits at strategic points to always keep it propped up. The little girls have mostly shaved heads, except for a large braid in the front. They are allowed to grow their hair when they've, you know, ripened.

After Guru, we proceed to the Bombaret area. This is still technically Kalash. We did some hiking, caught some bedbugs, ate shitloads of delish food. To get out, we took this jeep. There were 23 people in it, but comfortably fit about 8 or 9. I kept thinking of Lisa 'Left Eye' Lopez as we were pretty much falling off the side of the road and down into the gorge.

Okay. They thought I was girl because I was always prancing around in this fierce headgear.

this place has danger written all over it

Early it was. 10 of us and a driver piled into a jeep made for 6 + driver. We braced ourselves for 3 more hours of un-tarmac-ed riding to reach our final destination of Chitral. It sucked.

But after 1.5 hours we did reach tarmac. It was as if God had finally answered my prayers of providing road conditions that didn’t leave bruises on my delicate ass cheeks.

And we arrived in Chitral just in time for a lunch of tasty kebabs and peanut cake.

We also had to register with the District Police Officer, even though, as he said in his first sentence, (after grilling ME about MY life and ignoring the Jap and Dutchman) that Chitral was a ‘no-crime zone’ – no killings, no stealings.

“Okay, so why do we have to register? Because 2 Frenchmen a couple months ago got lost in the forest or because your borders between Pakistan and Afghanistan are unstable and insurgents can easily cross?”

“Oh, because of the Frenchmen, of course. This is a no-crime zone.”

He was a tool. He stank of nepotistic Paki bureaucratic regime nightmare grossness. After all, I was never very good at obeying authority figures – especially such transparent ones.

Especially after the Jap who was exhibiting symptoms of verbal diarrhea blurted out – your town is rary beautiful!

The officer looked at him without saying anything, but we all knew what his eyes said.

“Are you fucking kidding me? This place is a shithole! I’m just here for the money, free booze, and bricks of opium. What rock did you crawl out from under?”

He even had people standing around his desk waiting for him to request something that they could fetch and then return to him with a slight bow – it was all so contrived and sickening. It was all I could do to not pop a cap in his ass to break him out of this narcissistic wet dream he was caught in. It makes me so mad just thinking about it. But it makes me even sadder that he’s probably the best of the regime and that normal, everyday Pakis have to put up with much worse – no wonder they say their hopes and dreams have been crushed.

The electrical situation outside our hotel. Good thing it was raining.

Chitral traffic. Transport trucks going to/coming from Afghanistan.

Chitrali gun shop. I like that there was no shop-keeper. My fave is the automatic non-sense in the upper/middle of the picture. Loves it.

mastuj madness

Seeing as we had such a whoreanus day yesterday, we decided to sleep in and try to find a jeep to Chitral at the reasonable hour of 10am. But because nobody sleeps-in in Mastuj – all jeeps had left at 6am.

So we ended up chilling in the ‘center of town’ with all 12 of the other inhabitants of Mastuj staring at each other hoping that someone would provide entertainment so that they didn’t have to go back to the boring confines of their boring homes with their boring wives and boring children.

Mastuj to the right.

Mastuj to the left, featuring a participant in the staring contest. Loved his saggy drawers so much, I bought a pair of my own.


We sat for 2 hours. Waiting. But no jeeps came.

We went back to the guesthouse and sleep the rest of the day away. An early day was ahead of us.

my wife is a prostitute

LP described the journey to Mastuj as a grueling one. Fuck yeah, it was grueling – it was also nauseating and suicide-inducing.

Actually, I handled it alright, but Koos was about ready to kill someone, anyone. It was then that I learned he hasn’t yet acquired the skill of tuning out ear-piercing music, the endless dribble that you have to listen to from the one dude that speaks English, and the throbbing pain you must endure in your ass bone as the bus jostles its way up endless, rocky roads.

Needless to say, he lost it a few times which made me feel a tad uncomfortable. I never know how to act when a friend goes off the deep-end and starts kicking up a storm about something so trivial to a local, yet so unbelievably annoying to a foreigner.

But I can lose it, too, I guess. Usually it’s more of a hurtful sarcastic comment.

What I hate is that everyone we meet asks the same, stupid questions – where are you from?, where are you going?, how many days will you stay?, how many days in Pakistan?, 1st time in Pakistan?, and maybe some off-handed remark about the easy life that Westerners have vs. Pakistanis, or our shitty foreign policy, or a request for a visa recommendation letter.

So whenever some person begins the conversation with ‘Which country from you are where?’, I don’t allow any breaks in my response, answering all foreseeable questions in one run-on sentence. Which I think is rather annoying for traveling companions because it just makes me look like a pompous asshole.

But then Koos will add something genius, like – Yes, I’m married, but my wife is in Amsterdam, she’s a prostitute – which will smooth everything over.

After a few bus break downs and scavenging for anything edible along the way (and having the dudes stare at us because we stand while we pee in nature instead of squatting like the Pakis), we arrived in Mastuj at 1030pm.

1030pm in Mastuj might as well be 3am because the town was D-E-A-D, ya’ll. No lights, no people, no nothing. We did end up finding a place to stay after someone at the 'bus station' was nice enough to call a friend of a friend for us. I’d even go so far as to say that the place was cute. it was a little guesthouse able to accommodate about 6 people. It turned out that there was a British girl who had been living there for two months already because she was teaching at an English-medium school for an unspecified amount of time (and I was under the impression that she was banging the 20-something Paki kid running the place – body odor, and all).

This wasn't the bus we rode.

euro love

Returned to Gilgit. It was my 2nd time, Jan’s 3rd, and Koos’s 4th. It’s nice to return to a place that you’ve visited before. Of course, you don’t have the new sights and scents (we won’t go into what those scents usually are), but it’s comfortable. You know what to expect. Unless, of course, gun-fire breaks out. Which didn’t happen on this Gilgit experience, but I’m just saying.

We had a separation/breaking up dinner in the evening because Jan was going to Swat and Koos/I were going to Chitral. It was slightly awkward – straight men, goodbyes, etc. – even though they’re Euros. I tried to break it up by asking Jan not if, but how much, he’d miss me. I think he responded with something about hot beef injections.

The only gay in the village.

ballet bitches

Ridiculously early wake-up to go to Passu, a town further North on the KKH and one of the last stops before the Chinese border.

Passu was closed when we arrived because of a wedding. Not surprisingly, the entire town was at the wedding – so why leave things open? We figured we might as well follow the sounds of beating drums and gunshots to find someone with a bed, food, water.

We hung out long enough at the wedding to take a few pictures and for someone to notice that our backpacks needed a better resting place than a manure-covered field.

I don't have words to express their dancing.

This super-high quality picture is of the bride and the groom. The bride is in the blue head-dress and looks very unhappy, but very well-fed. The man to her left is the groom, he also looks very happy, but suspiciously like a maharajah. The man to her right is a queerface and hiding his head in fashion shame.

Later, after enquiring about places to eat – we proceeded in the direction of our hike-starting-point, which was also in the direction of supposedly the best restaurant in Northern Pakistan.

But since local advice is akin to LP-advice (seriously, the locals don’t even know what’s going on), the restaurant wasn’t open. NOTHING was open. How were we to hike 6 hours with no provisions?

Then suddenly, some wealthy Paki showed up in a jeep. He was sightseeing his own country. He asked the same fucking questions everyone else asks, but all he got in response was ‘Food. Do you have food? We want food.’ He got the hint and pulled out a box of half-eaten biscuits. Of which we devoured.

We started our “2 bridges walk”. The bridges were very Indiana Jones-ish. At the 2nd bridge, we had lost our way a bit, forcing Koos and I to stand on each other to get up onto the bridge. Jan, on the other hand, decided to ‘wade’ through the river. (It should be noted that the river water was water that was coming off of the snow-capped mountains). Before we knew it, he was up to his neck in the river and swimming across with his bag over his head.

One of the "2 Bridges". That's not a harnass around my waist; it's my fanny pack, ya'll!

Of course, the sun was just setting by the time Jan made it across making his health situation a precarious one considering we were miles from home and were planning on hitchhiking back. Who knew how long it would take for a car to come along?

Jan was a novice traveler. He was hiking with his passport, all of his currency, camera, visa letter from his school, pretty much everything of value. I realize that you probably shouldn’t leave things of value behind in your room, but…..

Instead of waiting for transport, Jan ran the 6km back to the hotel to keep warm, while Koos & I decided to buy cookies for what would turn out to be a very, very long walk back.

On the way to the market, we met two old biddies. I’d say they were 50 and 60 years old, but looked 65 and 85. They literally ran up to us and shook our hands, which simultaneously asking us if we were Japanese. Yes, Japanese.

Observations:

1) Refreshing to see women take a human role and acknowledge the fact that THEY are indeed humans and initiate contact in the form of PHYSICAL contact. It’s so refreshing to see this in a predominately Muslim country (after especially after having live in such environments for so long).

2) When the Egyptians used to ask ‘which country?’, I’d respond with ‘Japan’ because I was just so annoyed by that question. I mean, really, does it matter where I’m from? But they never fell for it even though I tried to reason with them that I have white skin, but it was possible that I could have been born in Japan, therefore making me Japanese. But the difference between nationality and heritage wasn’t something many of them were able to differentiate. But then we have the Northerners in Pakistan – have they not noticed the ONE thing that differentiates non-East Asians from East Asians???? (As a footnote, I was asked about 5 times during my stay in Pakistan if I was Japanese – are these people suffering from fetal alcohol syndrome?)

While Koos and I tried to maneuver our tired bodies around the stream running directly in front of the shop, the old women mumbled something. I joked that they probably said, “Look at these sissy mother-fuckers trying to hop-scotch their faggoty-asses over this trickle of water – let’s show these bitches how its really done.”

And they LEAPT like fucking ballet dancers over the stream!

They were fierce. Love them.

This is a view of the Passu Peak. There was a picture of it in the Lonely Planet that Koos and I talked about non-stop. It was the most amazing picture ever and really, we only came to Passu to figure out if LP had edited the picture to make it look so hot. Of course LP edited it (they are LP afterall), but I think it still looks TFO.

respirator chic

I honestly don’t want to relive what happened today, but I’m sure one day – in a decade, or so – I’ll think my near-death experience was a total hoot.

It all started out as a 6-hour round-trip hike up to about 10,000 feet to a place called Ultar Meadows. The ascent was no problem. Yeah, we had to scale a few cliff-sides, but I’ve always been relatively strong in this arena. It’s the ‘going-down’ part that I’m a little unsure about myself and am therefore overly cautious, which usually ends up hurting me in the end. (This is my attempt at foreshadowing)

Scaling cliff-sides. Jan totally tries to give Koos a helping hand, but I don't think he was sufficiently lubed yet.

Me in Ultar Meadows with the dainty Ladyfinger peak in the background.

There were three ways to get down –

1) along a small path about 200m high on a sheer face
2) same way we came up (still don’t know why we didn’t do that)
3) a path that we had no idea what it was like

This is a visual of Option #1. The path is that tiny line on the left in the middle of the mountain.

The same path is on the right side as well. We were able to reach this at one point. And it's not like you're able to cling onto the side of the wall as you're walking, because there just so happens to be an irrigation canal there. Who built that? (The free-balling fort is in the background)

Koos somehow persuaded me that #3 was the best option. Duh, clearly!

All was going dandy as I was clinging to rocks like a fucking chameleon. No problem. Easy breezy, I thought. But eventually I had to cross a sandy bit that was at such an angle that the slightest movement – even a dung beetle running across it – would trigger a huge sheet of sand and loose rocks to slide 75 feet down into the rocky, rushing rapids.

I couldn’t get a secure footing anywhere since the cliff-face kept breaking away whenever I moved. I had gotten to a point of no return. I was stuck.

I was stranded on a semi-solid boulder in a sea of what amounted to quicksand. Koos somehow made it across on a lower portion of the face, but I wasn’t willing to re-enact it. I kept having visions of myself sliding down into the rapids and not necessarily dying, but turning into some vegetable that Jeb Bush refuses to pull the plug on. And honestly, that’s one look I know I can’t work. I can work a lot, but not a respirator.

I refused to go any further. I told Koos to continue the descent without me, find help in some form or another, and come back to haul my ass up to safety. He told me that was a shit idea and phrases like, “I know you can do it” and “if I fall will you catch me?” started to come out of our mouths. Which I had to roll my eyes at even then.

After 45 minutes of our made-for-TV dialogue, Koos started walking towards me on the ‘wall of death’ and somehow made it to my general vicinity. What a manly man!

We created a most-unstable chain using our most-unfashionable fanny-packs so that we could support each other’s weight as we took turns maneuvering back to safety.

It worked. Alhamdulilah!

I ended up with a few bruises and I tore Koos’s forearm to shreds with my death grip, but we survived.

I thought I had been scared at other points in my life, but the violent leg shaking was a new thing.

Once we made it to solid ground, we sat down, and I thanked Koos for saving my life. He said that it was no problem, but it could become one if Café d’Hunza was closed/out of walnut cake when we got to the bottom. (This is before we learned about the semi-permanent closure of Café d’Hunza). It made me giggle and wish Koos was a pillow-biter like me.

We ended the day by rolling joints from the huge marijuana bush that many a tourist had pilfered before us. A little something something to calm our nerves. But curiously, we never got around to smoking them.

apricots and walnuts

Made our way to Karimabad – where we’d spend the next few days exploring. The town was small, but well-maintained. It was obvious that it catered to tourists, but since we were there in the off-season we literally had the place to ourselves.

A view from town into the Hunza valley.

We had a tour of the ancient fort dominating the village by a free-balling man without a belt. He eventually asked us to sign the guestbook – gave us a chair and a pen. I flipped through the book to find inspiration from past entries. But all of them were same-old, lame-old things like – ‘Wow’ and ‘I can’t wait to return’.

Koos and I decided to be our usual obnoxious selves and wrote:

“Why isn’t the sultan here? We came to see the sultan. And to eat apricot cake. Where’s the apricot cake?”

The fort. I'm sorry, but this picture is pretty hot.

Afterwards, we settled our asses in the Café d’Hunza. LP recommended their walnut cake. Since I hate LP, I didn’t get my hopes up. We ended up splurging on a whole loaf of said cake for 4$. As the boy was cutting it, it sounded as if it had been sitting in the display case long enough for it to become fossilized.

But once we spread that bad-boy open and looked inside we found that there was only about ¼” of cake surrounding a good 3” diameter worth of pure, candied walnut log-roll. And we all know how I love them log-rolls. Hello!

Unfortunately, we took for granted that they’d be open in the evening for an after-dinner snack, but no. They ended up closing after our snack and didn’t open up again during our entire stay in Karimabad.

put those boys on rok rok

Jan and I set a departure time of 630am for Rokaposhi base camp, but didn't actually get around to leaving until 730 because of a delayed breakfast and Jan's bowel problems.

Me in front of a very large mountain.

I was a bit scared of what lie ahead because the guestbook at the hotel used words like 'nearly impossible ascent' and 'dangerous paths' - plus, the term 'base camp' has a whole slew of difficult-to-attain connotations. But within an hour of the three-hour-initial-ascent I said to Jan that I expected worse as he forced himself up with his less-than-fierce cramps. But being the determined Czech man he is, he made it to the guesthouse before the final ascent to base camp at 10,261 feet.

I had to leave him there. But we parted on unclear plans as to whether we'd meet again and where - of course, I didn't realize the implications of this until later.

So, I was on my own for this leg of the trek. Great, considering the map/instructions we had were vague and I couldn't find the path that I was supposed to use to get to the top. So what I did was set my sight on the mountain pass and made straight for it - scaling over boulders, through snow, clinging onto tundra-like shrubbery on cliff-faces. You know, totally safe. Anything to get to that fucking snow-covered pass that I was promised would provide me with the best views November can provide in North Pakistan.

The path I was taking was retarded and unnecessary. I had to take frequent breaks because it was very hard and so very wrong. Great opportunity to take pictures of myself against the beautiful scenery so that my family and friends would have recent pictures of me should I tumble to a very foreseeable and likely death.

Guess now is as good a time as ever to eat that Granny Smith I've been carrying around in my fanny pack.

But alas, after two hours of a full-body workout hauling my ass up the mountain, I made it to the pass and proceeded to base camp which involved scooting on my ass on a 6-inch wide 'path' on the side of a mountain with a sheer, 50 meter drop into a heavily-crevassed glacier.

So I started the scooting while humming the lyrics to 'Like a Virgin' to calm myself.

Made it.

Woo-hoo!

Took pictures of myself and base camp which wasn't much more than a few eco-friendly toilets and a rock hut - base camp was officially closed due to the season (out of season).

The things on the bottom are crevasses from the glacier - huge, but you can't really tell on the picture. On the left is a rounded-tipped (yum) mountain in the clouds ... it's 21,000 feet tall. People climb it.

Yep. I'm bad with directions, but at least I pre-planned this bangin' photo opp.


On my way back down, I found the trail I was supposed to have used on my way up. It was a lazy, zig-zaggy trail that eventually led me to where I left Jan. But there was no sign of him - no note, no poopy toilet paper.

So I tended to nature and waited around a bit for him to show, but he didn't. I know from various films that one should never leave another person on a mountain, but I figured he must have gone back down due to his debilitating diarrhea.

I made it down to the village one hour before sunset and Jan hadn't arrived ahead of me. Shit!

I was very worried, since I should have seen him on my way down given the views of the valley.

But in the end, he showed up. He had napped for three hours and because I hadn't come back, he assumed I was injured and went up to find me. He left 5 minutes before I arrived and used a path I couldn't see him on.

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief and we proceeded to feast on some meat-stuffed chapatis.

how much money does america give your country?

Befriended Jan from Czech Republic and Koos from the Netherlands. We'll be travelling together for the next week or so in the North. I'm the shortest one of the trio. We made our way to Minapin - the base for our trek to Rokaposhi base camp at 10,261 feet.

Jan and Koos playing that 'chasing a metal ring' game with local kids.

On the way, the man next to us in the bus told us that Prince Charles and Camila were gracing the Hunza valley with their presence. He even pointed out the huge messages the villagers had spelled out in English on the sides of the mountains.

I inadvertently deflated this man's bubble by telling him that Prince Charles doesn't actually do anything. He just shakes hands and smiles his fucked-up-toothy-smile for cameras.

On the way we stopped to buy stomachs wrapped with intestines. I think the fly really adds some dimension to the picture.

Then when we unloaded our bags, we realized there was a live sheep tied to the roof. I assume he/she defacated all over our belongings during the journey.

Arrived in Minapin to a slew of slogans in English and Urdu wishing the demise of USA & Israel. It was clear that this was an uneducated village and that the people believe what they're fed. I mean, I know we're evil - but to scrawl slogans on the mountains is a bit immature, don't you think?

A passing child even whispered 'Down with America'.

Everyone told us what a beautiful hostel and village it was - not sure if it could live up to my expectations, but it did.

The scenery was stunning with the jagged, snow-covered peaks. To think tomorrow we'd be climbing up into those snowy regions.

turn that frown upside down

Easy, breezy day of Polo-watching.

There were no floppy-hats to be had. It was a total sausage-fest. I joked with my new-found friends that all of the women must be running through the streets naked while simultaneously combing their hair.

The crowd was very subdued - sedated possibly. There was no cheering. Just gormless, Yemeni-esque staring.

I asked a few people 'why the long faces?'

a) cricket is better
b) it's the police vs. the post office, we already know who's going to win

After the match, we were led into some bunker of a restaurant for tea and cake that tasted like soap. Delicious, I say.

gunshot vodka, part 2

Got the hell out of Multan as early as possible.

Decided the South wasn't for me and worked my way North to Gilgit.

I lost track of the time after the 30th hour of my ass-bones rubbing against the metal rod in my seat.

But once I arrived, wow. Gilgit was/is Shangri-la. Absolutely stunning town and wonderful people.

Just a little restaurant that reminded me of Blade Runner for some reason.

I befriended some kid that would classify me as a pedophile. He ended up escorting me to my hotel. But then the fucker stood me up for our ComSat Internet date. But I forgot about him when dinner time came along. Small problem.

Just a little shoot-out directly outside our totally exposed restaurant. Needless to say everyone dropped to the floor and pulled out their concealed/smuggled weapons for a full-scale exchange of gun fire. Happened not once, but twice. (Of course we couldn't go out onto the street, that's why we were in the restaurant during the second incident) Surprised I didn't shit my pants. Things are starting to heat up with the bombing that killed 80 people in the town that I'm supposed to be going to in 2 weeks. Of course they're hypothesizing that the Americans are involved, if not DIRECTLY linked - so there's been some anti-America protests going on. And seeing that I'm in the province that's ruled by tribal law and not real law, I thought I may have to zip out of here sooner than I expected.

Earlier this day, I took pictures out of inner-city public transport system. Upon later inspection, I realized that every picture had military personnel in it. All the pieces are starting to come together.

multan this!

Arrived in Multan. I still hate Multan.

But the people were nice and the tandoori chicken was devine. Until I hit a bone, I wasn't actually convinced it was chicken - tender-to-the-max.

While eating said tandoori chicken, a group of teenage-somethings came over and wanted to practice their English. Honestly, they had no idea what they were saying, so I took a picture of them to remember the retarded-ness of it all.

Then I met these dudes - both are policemen and married. I asked where their wives were and they said, "Oh, they are at home. They don't like to leave the house unless they're with us. They don't like going outside." Hmpf. The one on the right is alright though.

So I got a picture with him. Don't I look pretty?!

On my way home, two boys on a moped started following me. And then shouted, '"I'm not a terrorist, I'm just a student." Which was funny enough to make me stop and attempt a conversation with them. But actually, they couldn't speak English, but they wanted so badly to have a conversation that they spoke in Urdu very, very slowly hoping that somehow I'd magically understand. We stood there staring at each other for about 2 minutes in silence, then I left. I had things to do, like follow the shit LP map back to my hotel.

just grunt

I arrived in Bahawalapur at some un-Godly hour, slept at some flea-bag truckdriver hostel for more rupees than it was worth. But it was some place to crash and it had a screen on the window to keep the little malaria beasts way.

I woke up a few hours later and scavenged the market for something to eat. I found daal. And a man to feed it to me. Seriously, dude tried to spoon daal from his dirty hand into my mouth.


I then proceeded to Uch Sharif to visit the shrine of Bibi Jawindi. It was beautiful. But not nearly as beautiful as the man that walked me around to all the sights for two hours. Even though he was probably on a work-rehabilitation program, he was sweet. We communicated in grunts.

labor pains

Lonely Planet strikes again. It's officially official that the writers of what some people refer to as 'The Bible' don't actually travel the way their reader's do. My bus ride from Karachi to Bahawalapur wasn't the 11 hours that LP writes, but rather 18! Hello, that's a huge difference. And of course, I didn't find this out until hour 11. At least I got to sit in the front and was able to stretch my legs for a good portion of the journey. That is, when the locals weren't inch-ing their way to the front of the bus to take a sip of water from the communal glass.

a) glass on a moving vehicle = dangerous
b) communal drinking vessels = a recipe for the herp

There was this bizarro gurney-type thing located next to the driver. It resembled something in a Gyno office, but without the stirrups. I later found out it wasn't for pot-hole-induced labor, but rather for the assistant to sleep when he wasn't busy sucking on opium-laced tobacco.

cover boy

I have so much to up-date about my last days in Syria:
- pervy taxi driver stroking is 300 year old dick and asking me if I lived alone
- a sit-down chat with my Syrian roommate about 'my thoughts on religion' and his full-fledged belief that the hoax in Germany (tree's grew into the arabic letters, reading - There is no god, but Allah and Mohammed is his messenger) wasn't actually a hoax
- the sit-down chat with my Syrian roommate that ended in him drawing a map of my path to hell
- a drunk, gay, British 20-year old telling me that I have one year to figure out my life or I'm just going to be one of those sad hippies

And my time in Beirut:
- hello, fierceness (minus the blown-up bridges and dead people)

And my time in Dubai:
- oh yeah, it was just me on the toilet for 9 hours until my flight left to Karachi. My plans for binging on Mexican and Maragaritas was foiled! Damn you spaghetti bolognese.

But now I'm in Pakistan. I've been here for a week now and I think I've travelled through all of the hell-holes on offer in the country. So, folks, I've checked out Southern Pakistan for all of us - you DO NOT need to go there. Just stick to the North.

I just endured a 32 hour bus ride up the Karakoram Highway - considered to be the 8th Wonder of the World. It's the 8th Wonder for me - I wonder how many people have jumped to their death on that road because of the severe ass-pain one must endure on the hardest seats on the bumpiest road for 32-fucking-hours. Anyway, I made it. I've decided to hike through the mountains for two weeks (pending weather conditions - I'm am here in the off-season, afterall) and work off the pain.

However, it was worth it because the North is like Shangri-la. Huge mountains, clean villages, and immaculate polo grounds. The annual competition starts tomorrow - I'll be the one in the Phillipe Starck glow-stick hat.

But America had to go and fuck things up for me yet again by bombing a madrassa in the province I'm in - and killing 80 students. They're protesting here ... and everywhere else. We'll see just how hot things get.

The people here are so nice - it's like the twilight zone. Women are so colorful with bangles up to their armpits and body decoration to the max. The men sport henna-ed hands, hair, eyeliner, and funky jewelled caps. I love it.

But I did have one bad experience the other night. Some douche of a rickshaw driver tried to charge me some exhorbitant price which I just wasn't willing to pay. Of course (and hindsight is 20-20) he parked me in a desolate spot for the purpose of holding onto both of my arms until I gave in. So what did I do? I mustered up as much Tina Turner (during the Ike years) as I could and screamed like a fucking banshee. It scared him, attracted people that I could use as shields, and I broke out of there like Whitney needing a crack-fix fast.

i smell hungry people

Like my last Ramadan experience, Syria has taken on the stench of starvation.

Let's elaborate. I spent last Ramadan with Laura (pictures of her dancing with Nubian barbacks can be seen below) in Jordan. Because of company policy and the fact that we were working on tourist visas, we had to bring Khalid - our token Egyptian - along with us. Seeing that Khalid is Muslim, he was fasting during our trip.

Laura and I weren't sure if it was Ramadan that was doing it, but we had to rename Khalid. Khalidtosis was more fitting.

Laura actually had the balls to ask him if brushing your teeth and gum-chewing were allowed during daylight hours. I about shit myself, not because she asked the question, but because both acts are indeed allowed.

I'm re-living Khalidtosis all over again in every conversation I have with a non-Christian Syrian. Everyone's breath stinks exactly the same - its like hot, stale bacteria. It's so potent I can almost touch it.

Therefore, I have an idea for a new product line - Ramadan Gum, Breath Spray, Mouthwash, and super-potent toothpaste. Of course, it will need the approval of some revered Islamic authority. But I figure if there are commercials on Syrian television of a doctor promoting the consumption of corn oil during every meal, then surely I can find some dude with a beard to help me with this project.

i'm telling you, they are very 2007

My fabulous friend whom I met in Yemen during Round 1 of my studies has just arrived in Damascus. She'll be studying here for one year at the French Institute with Oxford.

I went out for dinner with her friends (and her) the other night. Needless to say, two years on the road has made me forget just how (I don't even have an adjective for this behavior) some people (younger than me, by the way) can be.

Dinner was at this fabulous old Damascene house. I was expecting it to be pricey, but at $1/appetizer it was actually quite a bargain AND delicious. No problem there.

But the conversation was completely mind-numbing. Let's re-inact a segment that I haven't repressed just yet:

Girl: Do you play chess?
Boy: Yes, I quite like it.
Girl: I quite like it, too. But I'm afraid my skills are abysmal (how do you even spell that?)
Boy: We should play.
Girl: Yes, we should. You're good, aren't you? I'd quite like to improve my skills.

Personally, chess can wait. I'd quite like to improve my hand-stand skills, being able to thread pasta through my nose and out of my mouth, and basically just 'working it'.

Was that for real? What happened to talking about body shots at the all-you-can-drink and Lindsey Lohan's knack for not wearing knickers?

Fortunately, I've found this German girl to discuss such hot topics with. Even though she corrects my Arabic all the time, we have fabulous discussions. However, since people are always listening in on foreign and domestic conversations, you can't actually say what you want. Let's re-inact the heated discussion we had on the bus yesterday:

Her: Well, are they in America?
Me: Most. But I don't think health insurance covers it anymore, so the numbers are going up.
Her: I wish health insurance would cover it in Germany, because sometimes it's just not pleasant.
Me: Well, I don't think it's the problem of having it or not, it's the fact that some people are just disgusting.
Her: I know. But it's nice when it's not there.
Me: Hmm.
Her: But sometimes it makes things easier.
Me: I know. Like. You know.

free winona

So I've been hanging out with Mr. Emirati semi-frequently. We're officially acquaintances and are pretty sure nothing is going to happen between us. Which is fine. Really, it is.

Instead of talking about his cancer-ridden mother and his addiction to coffee, cigarettes, and anti-depressants, I decided to delve into his love life the other night.

Basically - he's just a guy that fucks guys. And therefore not averse to giving the random hot beef injection to willing women. Whether or not bi-sexuality has been clinically-identified as an actual state of being . . . what the fuck?

Is this 1992?

Do I have an American Eagle flannel tied around my Levi 501s?

I'm not sure I can smell the wicked Ethiopian brew that Janeane Garafolo is clutching on her way back from munching carpet at Chasing Amy's house through this haze of Axe body cologne.

No, no. I can smell it now. It smells of Summer's Eve breath.

you should start your own business

Even though the Egyptians would take home the gold in crotch-clawing, the Syrians are definitely dominating the category of 'Shitty-ass direction-giving'.

One thing I have a relatively good grasp on is directions in Arabic. This being said, when I ask someone where the bus to X is, I generally expect a detailed list of instructions. But no. What I get is

Me: Excuse me. Where is such and such?
Syrian: "[point], [grunt] over there".
Me: So would that be near, far, to the left, to the right?
Syrian: No, by that man
Me: So would that be by the man with the chest hair or the man with spray-painted-on jeans or that fat man?
Syrian: No, go to that corner over there
Me: Oh, now I see. You're really helpful. I think you should open your own tourist kiosk so that others can benefit from your fountain of wisdom, intelligence, and overall helpfulness.

It's fascinating, really.

I currently have a hideous growth on my neck - the result of a combo in-grown hair and skin infection. I'm swollen, red, and basically just a mess. It's hard being fierce when you look like a bloated alcoholic.

Since I live most of my life here in Damascus in my super poor area, wandering into the monied areas is always an eye-opening experience. Today I went to get coffee and baked goods in the Christian (ie. rich) area. The establishment was very modern, super fashionable 20-somethings, delicious American-style chocolate chip cookies, and a healthy dose of Mid-East sleeze.

Why do boys take out their camera phones, aim it in your face, and snap away? It's fine if you want to jerk off to it later, just have some common courtesy before acting like such a tool.

corn hole ing

Just some randomness that I really can't make any sense of:

- Walked by a man that pulled a cob of corn out of his pocket, take a bite, and then put it back.

- What did I do in a past life to be plagued with small-dicked men?

- Why does my Syrian roommate give me a glass of "orange-flavored fizzy-drink'' everyday?

- Do Christans not eat during Ramadan? Because seriously, gurl, nothing's fucking open when I'm hungry.

- Crotch-grabbing/scratching/clawing is officially in full-effect in Syria. Is there any Middle Eastern country that doesn't partake in this pastime? If there were a contest, the Egyptians would win, though.

- How does everyone stay so thin on a steady diet of meat drench with fat from sheep's tail, mini-cheese pizzas, fried dough covered in honey, and cheese pastries? Maybe we have something in common - liquid poo.

could be fun, could be the hiv

I've been hanging out with the group of kids that are using the same service that I'm using for my living situation. They're all super-good at Arabic and I'm always the stupid one. Which is difficult for me, because let's face it, I'm pretty good at most things.

Anyway. A new kid arrived from Texas and he doesn't know jackshit, so I thought I could start feeling good about myself again.

But then I tried buying my 1000th schwarma sandwich the other night (and let me say that I've never had problems with this task previously) and the schwarma man asked me if I was speaking English or Arabic to him. Excuse me, and I'm that terrible? Then he went on to say that my Arabic is neither good nor bad, but that he can't understand me. Again, excuse me? Do I know you?

Needless to say, I've since enrolled myself with a private Yemeni conversational teacher. I told him my sob story, he felt my pain, and told me that the Syrians are stupid and that he can understand me. He may have been lying, but it made me feel better.

But in more exciting news, I've had two "dates" this week (what is a date in the ME anyway?). I know. Shocking. I'm just going to come out and say it because this is the way its done here for obvious reasons, but yes, we totally met on the Internet. I can officially say that the Internet is a viable portal for meeting people - maybe not the right people, but you can reach out and touch someone if you really want to.

Number 1: Told me to meet him in a park. Cool. Should I wait for someone to stick a dick in my ear while I sit on the bench? Don't only hustlers and drug addicts meet in parks?

Whatever. I complied.

Was at least tall, but not as fit as I like them to be.

In the first 5 minutes I felt like I was on some sort of NYC public access drama about guys picking up guys in parks. Dude was in therapy, but then his therapist came onto him, but he's still on his meds, and they make him feel really good. Daddy gives him an allowance for such things like iPods and designer chocolate chips cookies. His allowance at university was $50,000/year. I asked him what he had to show for it and he said nothing, except a $400 DKNY shirt. I'm sorry, but since when did Donna Karan's shitty offshoot start producing $400 items? I hope it said DKNY in big, reflective letters whatever it was.

God, what I'd do to be an Emirati.

We're going to 'break fast' together next week. We'll remain friends but nobody's getting poked with the cattle prod.

Number 2: For those in the know, there is officially a Middle Eastern version of Grant. Fierceness. While it's fun playing around with elfs, it does feel slightly pedophilic. Like hanging out with my kid brother or something. "Do you want to go on the swingset later, Bobby?"

I thought it all went nowhere, but then I got the requisite - "Beer, my house, extra bed" schpeel. I've long since outgrown my teasing phase and basically said, "I'll take the beer and hang out at your place, but I can tell you now that I am not sleeping over." I thought that was very grown up of me sonsidering my past behavior. I'd usually hem-and-haw, end up shit-faced and naked, and then "come to" and realize that I'm a massive retard and that I should just roll over and die.

And while I'm not a huge fan of talking about myself, I'm not exactly sure if even one question was thrown my way. There should be some sort of reciprocality in any relationship, even if its an acquaitanceship, right? That's what Tyra says at least.

Regardless. It could be fun, but it could be a really good way to catch a disease.

mangina

Had a whirlwind past couple days. Somehow managed to squeeze in 3 weekends worth of trips into one long weekend. I'm totally a warrior tourist - why am I not on the Amazing Race?

I started off in the desert at Deir a-Zur. A big town where the inhabitants are channeling the Yemeni way of life - screaming things at tourists.

I found this experience rather depressing since I don't get any comments in Damascus - I once wondered, could I possibly be passing for a Syrian?

Clearly, not. I think the Damascenes are just jaded and used to seeing long, greasy hair.

But since I don't wear tight jeans that transform my package into some sort of Hedwig-esque mangina, I'll never pass for a local.

I travelled from Deir a-Zur down to the border of Iraq at Albu Kamal. I stopped off at the sights on the way back which were a yawn and a half. I also had two policemen trailing me the entire time. I eventually turned around and asked them, "are you mukhabarat (secret police)?" This is a question you shouldn't ask, and they weren't thrilled by it, but they said that they were just tourist police. Fine, but maybe you should introduce yourself before you start trailing my ass, fuckers. They ended up giving me a ride.

I continued onto Palymra - the ancient city. Maybe I'm a bit jaded or maybe I've exhausted all of the good sites in the Middle East, but again, a bit of a yawn-fest.

Then onto Krak des Chaveliers, the Crusader fort. This was actually pretty cool even though it was a bitch to get to. The best part were the local women wearing stilletos in the castle. Given, castle = made of stone, therefore castle + stilleto = broken ankle.

Finally, I ended up in a town named Hama known for its water-wheels. Clearly, I didn't travel 3 hours for these ancient masterpieces, but rather for the local delicacy called 'helawayat biljubn' (sweet with cheese) drenched in honey and topped off with a ball of ice cream. Not as good as the orgasm I had in Dubai from the Date/Marscapone gelato, but worth the trip to Hama, nonetheless.

Transportation was fierce, as usual. A combination of:

- micro-mini-buses transporting 8000 people and a few animals in one vehicle
- hitchhiking with old men who offered to mix a few Cola/whiskey's for the drive
- coach-sized buses full of puking burkahs
- and taxi rides with taxi drivers who never tire of asking inappropriate questions and trying to rape tourists of their hard-earned cash

Now I am back in Damascus.

University is in session tomorrow. Should be TFO.

Oh, Happy Ramadan! Bottoms up.

toolbag

I like to think that I'm a relatively humorous person. Though, it's been brought to my attention that I'm not funny in Arabic. Apparently, dry humor doesn't come across. Maybe it's a cultural thing or maybe creativity isn't part of the Arab psyche. Afterall, stimulating games for children don't exist other than football and chasing tires. Chasing tires is a seriously a pasttime. Oh, and tying animal appendages to string and swinging them around really, really fast.

you said it sista

I know, I know. It hurts when people don't understand [that YOU don't understand that you're a raging queerface], I wish there was a support group or something.

smoker's cough

Moved into my flat this morning, after sharing a room with absolutely no ventilation with 3 Japanese tourists last night. On my way down to the lobby, I ran into Chris who I studied with in Yemen. He and his girlfriend were deported (they have the passport stamps to prove it) from Yemen because of Chris's drunken behavior and his girlfriend's supposed involvement in a spy ring. Only in Yemen.

Chris was a bit shakey at first, but after he had a few Johnny Walkers straight-up, he got his act together and we were able to carry on a normal conversation.

My flat is in some district. I don't even know where I am at the moment. But the two guys I live with are super nice and tomorrow we'll be begin an 'Arabic-only living environment', but not today. Both me and my flatmate are a bit ill and can't be bothered speaking backwards.

All hell seems to be breaking loose at the moment in Yemen because of the presidential elections and the amazing intelligence levels of that nation. Kidnappings, stampedes, and attempted bombings of oil refineries. This is definitely an 'I told you so situation'. This is what you get when you have a nation of uneducated drug-addicts.

In other news, there was an attempted bombing at the American Embassy in Damascus the other day. The man that set me up with my apartment was there when the shooting started. He didn't have an adjective to describe the situation though. I had to go to the Embassy myself to get some retarded documentation about my existence in Syria - there are bullet holes in the windows. Jacky corrected me and said they were glory holes. Which is quite possible considering everyone here is walking a very fine line between craving D or V.

I take my placement test on the 19th, then begin classes on the 24th through the entire month of Ramadan. Can't wait for the Ramadan antics to begin. I hope everyone's as bitchy and aggressive as they were in Egypt during this Holy Month. PS. I'm so not fasting.

tap that - tap this!

Arrived in Syria. Totally unexpected environment here. Must start taking care of myself - ie. perhaps combing out the knots in my hair and moisturizing more rigorously. The people here are seriously fashionable and hot. In that Middle Eastern-sort-of-way. There be some ass that needs tapping.

i thought it would be bigger

I made it to Dubai. Of course, its been a roller-coaster of 24 hours since I've been here.

Initial thoughts:

- I thought it would be bigger, more impressive, have more of a wow-factor.
- Is it always this hot?
- Do Arabs live here?
- Everyone lets me use their phone, which is nice.
- Everyone lets me use their toilet and they have toilet paper, which is nice.
- Why is there no public transportation?
- Where's Maria Bonita's Taco Shop? And is my margarita going to be ready when I arrive?

I went to Maria Bonita's Taco Shop for lunch yesterday. I think I scared my waiter when I hoovered every single thing on the table. But I was hungry, ya'll. It was DE-FUCKING-LICIOUS. They didn't have any margaritas, sadly. So, I consoled myself over REAL italian gelato next door. Hello, loving Dubai - Mexican and Gelato 2 feet away from each other!

I had one giant spatula full of Dark Chocolate/Orange and one of Date/Marzapan. I know it sounds nasty, but I seriously had about 24 orgasms in a period of 5 seconds. I wanted to rub the Date concotion all over my body and sing something loudly and out of tune.

There was a woman there who I started chatting up. She seemed to be a bit of a mess and therefore, must have a story to tell. I mean, look at me, I've clearly been around the block a dozen or so times.

She turned out to be from D.C., but her family is Iranian. She's in a state of flux at the moment, doens't know where her life is going, what she's doing, or why her bank account is empty. Don't know, maybe its the Louis Vuitton bag and Prada sunglasses? Whatever, work it, gurl.

I ended up spending the entire day with her, jet-setting around Dubai in a very Rosalyn-esque fashion. She didn't have a car, so we ended up hitchhiking! But hitchhiking here is more of a casual leaning over during lunch at a fabulous Meatpacking-esque area and asking the people at the next table if they wouldn't mind driving you in their latest edition Mercedes to the nearest taxi stand. I loved it.

We went to the Mall of the Emirates which has the indoor ski slope. Fierced it up outside the Burg al Arab hotel since we're not allowed inside. Went to a few art galleries where it was all about name-dropping, but unfortunately no dress-dropping. Actually, I was quite surprised by the progressiveness of the art: male prostitute photo series, living with HIV in Ethiopia, etc.

Then I finished off the night at the 100% Kylie show. Yeah, a Kylie Monogue impersonator for a full 2 hours of absolute gayness. So over the top. So Dubai.

I have to go check out of my youth hostel now, buy a samosa, and then meat Sabi for lunch by the 'World Trade Center'. Oh, Dubai. I think I like you.

oman in an itty-bitty nutshell

I've changed my flight from Sharjah to Damascus for 4 days earlier than planned. I'm saying مع السلامة to Oman a bit early because I'm bored and its a drain on my bank account. Must remember that I'm officially unemployed and if I'm not getting any bang for my buck, then really, I've got to go.

My thoughts:

on the Women in Oman: There's women? Seriously, it was the biggest sausage-fest I've been to. But when I did see an unveiled woman, I cringed. Granted, I only saw a sampling of about 10, but I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that they're not the most beautiful race on the planet. Whatever, I'll see you in hell.

on the Men in Oman: There's Omani men? When I first arrived in the country I wondered if Ahmed and his lazy-eyed father Hilal had somehow transported my body to Bangladesh or India without my knowing. It's a nation of immigrants looking to earn a strong currency for their weddings. What's with this universal urge to get married and mate? Anyway, I saw about 90% South Asians and 10% true Omanis. And the only way to tell the difference is the Omani's wear the white dishdash and the South Asians do the bobble-head thing when they talk.

on the Weather in Oman: Like an oven at Aushwitz.

on the Food in Oman: There's a restaurant that serves 'traditional, homecooked Omani food'. I was still served Asian dishes. Oman has such a strong history of immigrants that, like America, their food culture is a melting pot. But the food was good. It was a nice change from beans and bread in Yemen.

on being a Trannie in Oman: Trannies do exist in Oman. With drag rot, and all. Again, not the most beautiful creatures on Earth, but its hard to be fierce when you're wearing 8000 layers of clothing in 110 degree heat.

on getting Hot Beef Injections in Oman: Just pick your flavour. But don't be expecting a Super Size option. *snap

on Not being Asian or Arab in Oman: I've been a celebrity for the past two years. When I walk down the street everyone stares, says things, honks horns. I'm fierce, I know. But in Oman, the Omanis (the dozen that I saw) don't stare. They're very polite and respectful. It's the South Asians that stare and say shit. What the F? I feel like if you're an immigrant you don't have the license to be a douche. Do you?

on Turtles in Oman: Certainly the highlight of my trip at Ras al-Jinz (of which, if you pronounce incorrectly means 'Head of Sex' - whatever that means). I saw about 20 HUGE turtles (1 meter long perhaps) pooping out white, slimey eggs on the beach. It's a 6 hour process for the turtles, but since there were so many, I got to see all the steps in 1 hour. It was all very primal/TFO.

Oman has been checked off the list. In retrospect is was an alright experience, I'm glad I did it. I don't feel like I missed anything by spending only 5 days there. Now I'm off to Dubai. They have mexican restaurants there - I can't tell you how badly I be needing a chimichanga. Ay ay!

wait, what?

I'm officially on my first leg and if its any indication of what's to come, this is going to be the most retarded period of my life.

I splurged on the $55 flight to the border town of Al-Ghaida in Yemen. Decided the extra $35 was worth it to not sit on the bus for 20 hours next to someone who would undoubtedly be obese and/or have a flatulence issue.

After having woken up late, having to listen to Ashit stutter out the same question for the 1000th time 'Are you going to America now?', and not realizing the ramifications of a 6am flight in one of the laziest nations in the world (why WOULDN'T there be a plethora of taxis available at 430am?), I had to run with my 30kg of stuff to the nearest interesection. But I'm not surprised by this chain of events as I'm never on time for a flight.

Made it to the airport. Received the 'why the fuck are you on THIS flight?' stare from every passenger. Had to kick someone out of my seat. Sat amongst a group of men that decided to scream at each other for the next 1.5 hours. Who knew people could be so hyper at 6am? Landed. Exited on to the tarmac (it's more glamourous this way, right?) to find snipers on the roof of the airport in the middle of what seriously looked like what I imagine Kabul to look like. Dude next to me at 'baggage claim' (if you can call a 4 foot trolley a Baggage Carousel) was puking into his Yemenia barf bag. Other dude next to me was dripping water from his asshole as the Arabs don't believe in toilet paper. And again, the obligatory 'How the fuck did you end up in THIS shithole?' stare.

Got a taxi to town. Found out there was no bus leaving today to Oman - tomorrow, 4pm (6 hour bus ride). No thanks! I need to get the show on the road, now! Found some dude going to the 'dangerous border town' where I could cross on foot and 'maybe' get a taxi on the other side.

Waited for 3 hours for the 3 hour bus ride in his bus shooting the shit about life in Yemen. Considering he asked me what language we speak in America, I decided to behave myself and not talk about sex or sex changes, as I've been prone to do lately.

So, we chilled and stared at all the passers-by. The women wore long, bright dresses that dragged on the disgusting pavement. And the men wore their skirts super long, too. Don't they want airflow up in that shiznit? I had my pants rolled up to my knees and the legs were WAY apart.

The drive to the border was seriously magical. Seriously. Ocean, cliffs, greenery. Then we got to an area that looked like the middle of Africa. Very lush.

Oh yeah, this is where I'm supposed to get out? In the jungle? Apparently so.

I put my bags down in what I later realize is a puddle of urine and get to work. I'm armed with copies of my passport, Yemeni and Omani visas, and the permission I was able to secure in the capital from the Ministry.

Nobody is happy to see me at the border check since an American = more work. Phone calls are made, the passport is held up to the light (?), and everyone else is taken care of before me. I'm eventually pulbished the stamp that I need to cross the border by foot after being subject to 100 questions about my personal life. But since I'm already over the entire situation, I pay some dude an astronomical price ($2.50) to drive me to the border. I get there and do the intial eye scan and realize that many a tear has been shed here. Oh, there goes a crying man! Fierce.

It's become quite obvious that there are NO taxis OR buses OR humans that don't look like they just had the organ-on-ice they were carrying for Aunt Khadija stolen from them.

I'm asked by the military, 'Where do you plan on sleeping?'

'Moi?! Have you not been alerted that I was on my way? Is there not a burkah-ed bitch in the back cooking up a scrumptous feast? Where am I sleeping? Don't be silly! In the best room, of course.'

Clearly, I've become spoiled by the Yemeni hospitality. Checked myself. And said, 'If I have to, I'll sleep on that rusty bench.'

The guards went through EVERY single piece of my luggage (even skidmarked undies for my week 'o liquid poo). I know it wasn't because of security; I know they were interested in what the stupid foreigner was carrying. They saw that I had a library of Arabic books and began quizzing me! Bastards! Was this the key to unlock the secret door that would let me out of this insanity? I complied. But there was no key to be had.

I answered the obligatory nationality, religion, why are you studying arabic questions. They asked if I wanted to pay $150 for a taxi to the nearest town. NO! And then they left!

I strategically positioned myself on my sleeping bag and king-sized pillow (I knew it would come in handy!) ready to stop any and all cars for a lift. They watched me for an hour groom, read, talk to the crying adults. And I think they realized this dude is in it for the long hall and is going to need some provisions.

I got invited inside for tea and biscuits. Got a dissertion on how great Islam is. So I asked him why he had a giant hole in his ear. Apparently, the Beduions stick 1/2" thick pieces of gold through their childrens' ears. Learned something.

Oh look! A car. See ya's!

Now's my chance to prey on the charity of Muslims. Bam. I scored a 3 hour ride with Ahmed and his lazy-eyed father Hilal who were not at all enthused by my dirty nails, the knot that had formed on the crown of my head from the wind, or my 1 sunburned arm from the ride there.

Again, I behaved myself. Didn't talk sex. And they didn't ask me if I was one of them. We stopped, took pictures together. It was all very bizarre and family-like. Minus my dad cradling a Coors Light (a Silver Bullet for those in the know) between his thighs and my mother's muffled tears.

They pointed out a few sights, got me a discount on my hotel room, and continued on.

Planes. Buses. Taxis. Tears. It wasn't fun. But it worked out.

the plan

So this is the plan:

- Overland Yemen to Oman - Sept 7
- Sept 7 - Sept 15 - Oman
- Sept 15 - Sept 19 - UAE
- Sept 19 - Oct 19 - Syria
- Oct 19 - Nov 28 - Pakistan
- Nov 28 - Nov 30 - Cairo
- Nov 30 - Dec 4 - NYC
- Dec 4 - Dec 29 - Detroit
- Dec 29 - Jan 8 - NYC
- Jan 8 - Cairo

fire in the hole

Seeing as how I grew up in a medically-orientated househould and became accustomed to discussing stool samples and skin tags over holiday dinners (and on a daily basis), I was sure to email my mom during my lastest bought of the big D. (Diarrhea, for all you pervs)

I'm still blaming it on the fungus that dripped into my beans and eggs while the tube-man carried the meal to my table.

Anyway, my mom promptly replied to me with this email:

hope you feel better soon. i had mexican food in warren, nj friday nite and i was up at 1am trying to give birth to a mexican child on the toilet. so i know exactly what you mean.

Hello, fierce much?

i hate you so much right now

If today weren't Friday and if all the pharmacies weren't closed, I'd be chewing Valiums like my OCD grannie. (And my friend, Kate, sitting next to me just confirmed that she'd be doing the same).

Yemen is getting more retarded by the second. I'm sorry, do I need to hear about the virtues of Islam while I'm buying half a rotisserie chicken?

This morning I had a huge blow-out FOR Ashit (my creepy building mate). I don't know if I was just looking for someone to unleash my anger on, but I truly feel that my words and actions were justified.

I was living in the school that I was teaching at. The school moved yesterday because of problems with the management (which is all becoming very clear). But, Ashit and I had to stay behind for various reasons. Two random dudes of whom are affiliated with the management decided to sleep in the building last night as well. Fortunately, my door and windows locked. (And unfortunately for them, I had a handful of colon blowouts surely as a result of my tube-man dinner). In the morning, the two random, knife-wielders went out for breakfast and locked us in from the outside. Okay, not a problem. I climbed out of my second-story window and at the shock of our neighbors scaled a few walls, clung to a tree, and safely landed. Once I got to the door, I found that it was locked with a DIFFERENT padlock of which nobody (except the owner) had a key to. So. They intentially locked us in the building! When were they planning on letting us out?

Good thing the two random guys and the 'owner' (we'll call him the owner even though I know he's not the real owner) were loitering about. Regardless of customs, language, or religion, when you lock someone inside a building (hello, fire risk!) there's no need for polite formalities like, 'Hello, my name is Eric, and who might you be?' No. You get sassy Eric. 'Who locked this door? Unlock it now [fuckers]. You know we are inside. Shame on you.'

Of course I get the usual response of, "Oh, where are you from, are you Muslim?"

And of course they got my newly acquired response of, "None of your business [fuckers]"

I realize that my behavior spawned what was to come next, but their behavior is what spawned mine!

Ashit and I were going to leave the compound to run errands, one of which was to fill Ashit's propane tank for cooking. The owner was not having this. He said that the propane tank was his and that we were thieves for taking it. He took it from Ashit's hand, put it in the corner, and stood guard.

For all of you out there that are unsure as to whether I am going to stick up for you when times get rough, let this be an example of Eric Gone Wild. You get screaming, crazy-eyed Eric!

I marched over there and told him to get his ass away from the propane tank, that it was mine, and that if he wanted a receipt, I could produce one for him. He grabbed it out of my hand and threw it on the ground. Oh no you din't!

I took it back, gave it to Ashit, and told him to follow me out.

The two tag-alongs just stood there with their trademark, gormless, Yemeni stares. Once in a while I'd get that Middle Eastern hand signal of 'Wait' and they'd mutter 'papa'.

Papa?! This punk is your Papa? I told them that I don't care if he's President of Yemen Ali Abdullah Saleh. This is my tank!

Owner-man made the mistake of touching my arm one too many times. So I promptly told him not to touch me. So what did he do? He took his shoe off (which is the Middle Eastern - "let's take this outside"). I told him he was very strong and that I was very afraid of his jelly slip-on.

He then told me I was Isreali and a Jew. I had to move my family lineage up a few notches and rebutted with, 'No, my father is from Syria. I know what a Muslim is and YOU are not one. Your behavior is haram (like so forbidden!)"

Liar! No, you're a liar! Thief! No, you're thief!

Then, he called me a woman. So I told him that he was wearing a nice dress.

I got the last word! Na-na na na-na!!

I won the fucking tank!

Ashit didn't even say 'Thank You'.

have i got the cure for you!

Remember when Gwennie Paltrow showed up to that awards show in that back-less number that complimented the giant hickies on her back? Then America, fueled by the likes of People magazine and InTouch, began to buy their own hicky kits hoping it would make them pale and banal like Gwennie?

Essentially this is a watered-down version of what still exists in Yemen. Here goes:

1. I'm sick. So so sick. The medicine from the pharamcy doesn't work anymore because I've been popping prescription grade pills since the age of 15 for simple things like period cramps and swollen knees from you-know-what.
2. Oh, it hurts.
3. How did I forget? There's this woman who does bloodletting. Maybe she can help me!
4. I go to this house. This woman identifies my 'hot zones', cuts me 4-8 times in said zones, sticks a hollowed-out bulls horn on the cuts, places her mouth on the bulls horn, then sucks like any good Meatpacking trannie would.
5. The suction created inside this bulls horn (which I'm sure was sterilized) draws out the bad blood. 6. Wow, I feel better.

I've always known things like this exist out there. But its the fact that someone sucks through a bulls horn that really puts me over the edge. Glass, plastic, metal - fine. But an appendage from a dead animal?

I approached my other teacher (the one who hasn't totally gone off the deep-end as a result of his qat addiction and personal finance crises) about this practice.

He promptly showed me a scar from when he got cauterized!

Some ancient woman in his village branded his back because he was having pains in his abdomen. And it worked! Fuck yeah!

Just stick it in!

a plate of scabs

Sometimes I'm a bit harsh and calloused, but. . .

Since when was it okay to be served food at a restaurant by someone with a tube hanging out of their arm (of which was secured to said arm by a bloody concoction of gauze and surgical tape)?

No really, who approved this?

Who said, 'Hey man, you clearly have some sort of disease that could or could not be contagious. But who gives a fuck? You've got a killer ass and a million dollar smile! Welcome to the team, buddy!"?

i know, right?

I'm honest with my teachers. I'll pretty much say anything for the chance to speak Arabic.

So, I was telling my teacher (the one who asked me to suicide bomb) that I was out of money. Didn't have one rial on me.

I don't know how we got onto this topic.

But then he offered me money. I declined based on personal experience with borrowing and lending AND since I really didn't feel comfortable taking from him. I then proceeded to tell him about the miracle of ATM machines of which was new information for him.

After class, I proceeded to walk 25 minutes, with 8 million bags and a fan (since I was in the process of moving), to the only ATM that accepts my card. Of course, it was out of order. But luckily, I had my emergency $5 on me that the exchange-man scoffed at. I'm sorry, but you can't huff and puff about a $5 bill when the largest Yemeni note available is the equivalent of a $5 bill.

Then I hopped on the bus, paid the 10 cents I didn't have 5 minutes ago, and lived happily ever after.

I relayed this story to my teacher, but before I got the Happily Ever After portion, he said:

"I am very happy now."

"Why?"

"Because you got what you deserved."

"Why?"

"Because I know you are rich."

"Why?"

"Because I do. And now you see that you need to depend on people and that your plastic didn't solve everything."

"But I had emergency money on me

"Now I am sad"

I was more confused than enraged at this point and decided to think about this situation before I acted in an irrational manner.

I pondered. And then put my words into writing. Then I realized, 'Hey man, you're a fuckwit."

In my next class I carefully incorporated my thoughts into our conversation, as follows:

"I am going to Oman."

"You are rich."

"Why?"

"Oman is very expensive and you will spend $100 a night on hotel rooms."

(In my head: thanks for the segway!)

"You need to understand something. Yes, I have a lot of money. But why? Because of the exchange rate. Are you blaming me because your currency is weak and mine is strong? Do you realize that when I am in America I am the same as you? I am unable to buy everything I see. And, my family does not give me money in the way that Yemeni parents shower their children with cash. Every single dollar in my pocket is from my work. You, nor anyone else, will ever make me feel guilty about the money I have earned. So, if I want to travel, or buy new clothes, or take a taxi instead of a bus, this is my right."

He told me I used very good Arabic and nice sentences. Which made me feel like an all-star. But then he said, "It's only a joke." And that is when I decided to let the issue rest. How can you argue with people like this?

In happy news - all my visas went through! 3 months of travel ahead of me!

wood

This just in.

I asked my students to prepare a 5 minute presentation on something that interests them and will interest the other students while they read it to the class. But instead of them rambling shit off in poorly constructed English, I asked them to give me a copy first so that I can edit before the big debut.

You'd think what I received from my Palestinian student to be a joke, but it isn't.

So, there's something called the 'sunnah' - the teachings, actions, and beliefs of the Prophet Mohammed. Many Muslims live by the sunnah, since Mohammed is perfect, and they want to be perfect just like him.

And this is what my student wrote:

'The Miracles of the Quran and the Sunnah. Mohammed used toothpicks to clean his teeth. Now, there is scientific evidence that there is special matter in toothpicks that hurt bacteria. This is bacteria that is bad for your mouth. And Mohammed said we should sleep on our right side. And we sleep on our right side. Now, there is scientific evidence that sleeping on your right side has benefits. Thank God we are Muslims!'

Is it wrong to ask for a bibliography?

And PS - look around, nobody has teeth! What exactly are they picking at with these miracle-picks?

Clearly, I'm going a bit stir-crazy. I'll be out of here in 3 weeks. Fortunately, they sell Valium over-the-counter.

pop a cap in your ass

I am not going to lie. I have dabbled with the idea of converting (from nothing) to Islam. It seemed nice to have something to believe in. Sometimes a gets a bit tiring questioning everything. However, the longer I am here and the closer I get to people, the more I realize what Islam ACTUALLY means to Muslims.

Islam, of which the word 'peace' is derived, means 'submission to God'. Despite popular belive, it doesn't mean, 'submit to God by screaming God is Great before you shoot someone in the head'.

(Just like being Christian doesn't give you the right to throw bombs at abortion clinics)
(Just like being Jewish doesn't give you the right to re-inact the Holocaust on Muslims)

Maybe I'm naive, stupid, or give people too much credit when it comes to believing that most humans are good by nature/nurture, not because of spirituality.

It's like that time in Egypt when I was with a group of 18 complaining passengers and I allowed the Beduoins to sleep outside of camp since they asked. It was Ramadan and they had to wake up early to do their prayers and eat their food. I thought it was nice of them to think about the aural weaknesses of Westerners at 4:30am. So, why not? I certainly didn't want to be woken up by them. But the Beduoins never showed up in the morning and we had to carry our extra supplies of water, mattresses, and own belongings out of the desert and onto the tarmac where the bus was to pick us up. When I told this to my boss he asked, "Why did you trust them? Don't you know they lie?" Sorry, but my last experiences with them were fine - Muslim or not, forbidden actions or not.

So, when my teacher told me today that he truly hopes I see the light and convert to Islam, I wasn't that surprised. But when he told me that after my conversion, he wishes I would turn myself into a human bomb and blow myself up at the White House - I couldn't exactly stop from turning my smile upside-down.

This is only one instance of the inherent violence I am witnessing among Arab Muslims.

So, here's another. The logo for Hezbollah.

While I have to give props to the graphic artist that generated this, I also have to question - what the fuck?!

Hezbollah means 'Political Party of God'. Since when did the word 'God' have a semi-automatic weapon incorporated into it?

This is just a smattering of all the things I'm feeling at the moment. I love the region and I REALLY want to love the people, but its becoming increasingly difficult. I'm sick of people saying that terrorists aren't true Muslims, and then in the same breath say that they hate the Jews. So, I'm asking -- if anyone has any evidence that Islam today (not back in the day when it was invented) is NOT rooted in violence, hatred, and bloodshed, please show it to me. I'll mix a Pepsi One and Jameson while I wait.

ashit

I moved this weekend to a new place since my school has raised the rent yet again, and the neighbors have taken a real dislike to the students and the school. I was in Old Sana'a which meant we got all of the old minds, old sensibilities, and old, crazy people. It's fine if the neighbors want to hold us to Muslim Yemeni standards - we're very adaptable. But, if the Yemenis aren't going to abide by their own rules, well then, I'll just have to see them in hell.

So, I'm in the school that I teach English at. Even though its free and close to both of my jobs, its not an ideal situation. All of the Yemenis moved out that I was hoping to practice my Arabic with. Now I'm living with Ashit. He's from India. I don't even want to waste my precious rials typing about what a shit Ashit is, but I have a few calories to burn.

Basically, he's all up in my shit. Okay, don't knock on my door, just come in - I can Pavlovian this behavior out of him. But the constant, "I saw on TV that America is like this and that" is getting on my nerves - especially since its directed at everyone's supposed wealth and promiscuity. Unfortunately boys and girls, I am the only real-life American Ashit will probably ever come into contact with, so therefore I'm the one that has to dispell all the unpleasant rumors about our fine, fine country.

I have felt very safe in Yemen for the past two and half months, but I have to say that living with Ashit, away from the crazy Old Town, and amongst a whole different breed of crazies . . . now I'm not feeling so at home. Especially since some crazy, old guy came around to our building while I was gone and threatened to break all of our windows, while babbling something about bitches and burkahs. Do you think he saw the porno I was filming in my room the other night?

It was really hot. Hot in the 'I've been huffing my own bean breath for the past 5 years underneath this polyster nonsense so baby I be needing a hot beef in injection STAT' kind of way.

I've since abandoned my plans for the big overland Yemen to Pakistan adventure since dealing with the Iranians is like being anally probed without a sufficient amount of Wet Platinum. So, I'll be going overland from Yemen to Dubai in 3 weeks, then flying to Syria (shout out to Nicky for coordinating my visa) to study a little bit there. I'll be living with a Syrian family (oy!). A bunch of my non-Yemeni Yemeni friends will be there, too. So it'll be a huge party during the fabulous month of Ramadan. I plan to visit Pakistan afterwards, but awaiting the visa for that one.

All the Yemenis have these really bizarre short, fat, stubby fingers and toes.

And PS - Nancy Ajram is safe. I just read an interview with her. Unlike her fierce Lebanese pop-singer friends who fled to Paris to have a fucking blast during the war, she stayed at home, watched Al Jeezera, wrote a song about the war of which is already on the air, and carefully washed the stitches from her last lift. Loves it. I wonder if her studio is a studio-cum-bomb shelter. But the bad news is that she cancelled all of her concerts.

My bitch, Nancy:

do i look like an x-man?

Yesterday I got a cup of bleach thrown on me at the gym. And then, upon leaving the gym, some snatch-face hit me with his car. I swear, for all the gormless staring these people do - do they actually SEE anything?!

Fine, stare! Just don't think I'm superman and will be able to withstand hazardous chemicals and felonies.

Seriously, gurl. Get with it.

um, yeah! hezbollah!

Like should I be scared as the dude next to me (who can probably read English) searches for Nasrallah pictures. As if all the posters and stickers they're selling on the street isn't enough? There's a low-quality video he's watching on shiaweb.org with George Bush labelled as a ''criminal president'' and carrying an RPG.

Anyway. I'm jumping on the bandwagon. I thought this picture was kind of fierce.

Oh, and they're re-instituting the Danish boycott in Yemen. You're supposed to look at the barcodes on all products and not buy anything that begins with 570 through 579. I'm giggling to myself about this..... this is a pretty detailed process that I honestly doubt many people will be able to grasp. Not that I think Arabs are stupid, but most can't read. And those that can't read are the ones that are the most fundamentalist. But if I've learned anything here, it's not to flush the toilet paper and not to question anything.

be my guest, ya'll

Last night was a little special. At 9pm the square outside my building turned into a wedding party - live music, dancing with weapons, etc. I knew I wouldn't be sleeping for a while, so I ventured out to at least score a few choice photos. Everyone is very tuned into spotting white skin - its like a contest. Fortunately, little Mohammed spotted me first and dragged me to where my friends where (white friends that is).

See, since we're foreigners, we're guests. And if you're a guest, you need to be treated better than everyone else. So, where did I get seated? Next to the groom, his father, and their Kalashnikovs.

Loves it.

I ended up sticking around for an hour watching the men do a very complicated dance. If only they could apply the mental capacity it took to invent, memorize, and execute this Sparkle Motion-esque number to the state of Yemen - the country would probably be a thousand times better off than it actually is. But alas.

There was so much male-on-male sexual tension it was phenomenal. I felt like I should organize a giant circle jerk just to get it over with. But the eye-slits on the roof above probably would've had heart attacks. (There were a bunch of women on a roof adjacent to the square watching the action. The were very high up and wearing their burkahs - so all you could see were pale eyeslits against the black sky.)

Then the singer took a 5 minute break and put on some not-Nancy music. Some kid, aged 17 perhaps, got out in the middle of the crowd and did some ridiculous not-Nancy dance number that involved soccer-warm-up-moves and chest-shaking. I was seriously so embarassed for him that I couldn't even take a picture. Probably most disappointing for his loved-ones - now that he's proved to the entire quarter that he's a homo, he'll be impossible to marry off. Way to go gurl!

A few of the people standing with me were foreign ladies from my school. Okay, let's use the term 'ladies'loosely. Very loosely. First of all, women shouldn't be standing in a group of men as it is. Second of all, they shouldn't chew qat in front of a group of men. Third of all, they shouldn't perform blow-jobs, I mean, smoke cigarettes in front of men. Fourth of all, they shouldn't even consider dancing in the middle of a group of extremely horny, lonely men.

All of this was done and considered and this is when I left. If you want to confirm (since they already think) that you're a prositute, then go ahead. Be my guest. Combat the Western female stereotype with your hips. And don't come crying to me when they've all jizzed in your eye.

might as well just roll over and die

Instead of teaching my usual 2-hour beginner's English course, I was taken to the University of Sana'a by my boss. My task for the morning was to 'interview' 100 students in English. At first it was kind of fun, but it got real boring real fast asking the same questions and getting the same lame answers.

However, I got to speak to more Yemenis than probably any other foreigner in the history of Yemen. Results of my informal survey:

* First of all there were about 85% women in the class and only about 12% men. The rest were post-op trannies.
* The women were BY FAR better than the men
* Most of the men were very serious and had no idea what I was saying or what they were saying
* Some of the girls were giggle-factories, which I totally took advantage of and changed the topic to more fun things like shopping and Nancy Ajram
* Everyone understands the importance of English in getting a job in the future
* But, nobody knows what kind of job they want
* Majority of people would rather study than relax with their friends
* Only one of the guys had nice teeth. He was actually a pretty good package overall, except for the mild-cross-eyes
* Only 2 people asked me if I was Muslim and I promptly told them that that was a very rude question and that I was done talking to them
* Only 1 person asked me for a written recommendation to blow up, I mean, study in, America
* And nobody knows what they are doing tomorrow even though its Friday and the obvious answer is 'Go to the mosque'

Halas.

Now I am off to my teacher's house for another binge-fest.

summer of almost-TFO

After a completely whoreanus yesterday - of me praying to God over a hepatitis bucket in a public bathroom that I'd just puke and feel better, my teacher telling me 'today your Arabic no good', getting in a fight with one of my students about the supposed mental inferiority of women, getting lost on a public bus for a full hour, eating a meal of salt, and getting caught in a torrential downpour - then, all of sudden, off in the distance, I heard Paris Hilton's single. It made me smile and do a little head bob in my 17th micro-mini-bus ride of the day.

Once I finally made it back home, some of us students went bowling at FUN CITY. Yeah! They played Nirvana, sold non-alcoholic beverages, and kept the lights real, real bright.

Just another retarded day in Yemen.

vag heat

My female, advanced-level English student told me the other day,

"If I had the opportunity to kill George Bush, Hosni Mubarak or King Abdullah, I would. All Muslims hate America and Americans. But we hate the Jews even more. They should all die."

Then she asked me if I was annoyed by all the hate people have for my nation. How am I supposed to respond to this woman?

In lighter news, a man walked into a lamp pole and fell onto car today because he was staring at me, not watching where he was going. Tool.

from the back to the gunt

Oh girl. It's been a whirlwind of a week.

The teacher who said all cinemas should be banned because of male-female hanky panky told me that he wants a second wife. Of course I asked what one looks for in a second wife - I mean, there must be something that wife #1 isn't providing, right? He requires that she be between 13 and 22 (years old, that is). Because their boobs are nice, their butt is nice, and their front is something that I didn't care to look up in the dictionary. According to him, it's all downhill once you reach 22. Even though I'll co-sign that post-22 is the pits, like ew. And I shit you not, he wanted me to compare and contrast sex in the Middle East with sex in America - you know, since we're all ho-bags. Totally called it - perv central.

Today, push totally came to shove and I was forced to use the 'hepatitis hose' on my ass at the public squat toilet. I've refused to use the spray-hose for 19 months now, but sometimes you're not carrying tissues and you've really REALLY got to let it out. Even though I could feel the typhoid, cholera, and Hepatitis A/B/C penetrating my fragile anal lining, it was a rather pleasant experience. Not wiping is the best. But, at least with wiping, you know when to stop wiping. I wasn't sure how long I should marinate my bung hole in disease. And, walking around with a wet ass is majorly retarded - there should at least be an air-dryer.

I'm trying to plan a trip to Iran (among a million other countries) before I return to the States in December. Americans are not allowed to travel in the country unchaperoned - you need a tour, a babysitter, or something else that's a poor excuse to swindle money out of us 'rich Americans'. Since I really want to go and the fact that 'peace in the Middle East' isn't in our near future, I'm going to shell out the bucks. I sent out non-bitchy emails and these are the cunty responses I got. I know I'm the Big Satan (I can say that in Farsi now), but take a chill pill you fucking bitches.

* most guides don’t accept especially the American tourist ( they are a few and they can accept better tour rather than hard tour )

* you can contact other travel agencies they may have guides

* you think this is nightmare, you should see what we need to do in order to travel to USA! first of all there is no tourist visa for Iranian to State and if there is one then we must take more than 10 Kg of documents and papers to show to embassy

Maybe you should just have a cocktail. Oh, wait.

kirstie alley

I have a confession to make: I've become one of those people that steal other people's food from communal kitchens. I can't help myself. I ate someone's pint of ice cream last night.

In other news. I kind of let a big, fat, gay, Middle Eastern secret slip today during my Arabic class. My teacher told me that he thinks movie theaters should be forbidden (around the world) because men and women sit next to each other in the dark and all of the movies they show have some sort of sexual element to them. I alerted him to the fact that the combination of men and women is probably a lesser evil when compared to what goes on when men are sitting together. It's common knowledge (in certain circles) that there's a few movie theaters in North Africa that cater to men with, shall we say, a taste for jizz. A more often than not, these men are self-proclaimed Muslims, married, and have children.

He was absolutely shocked, ended class early, and now questions how I know such things. I'm not concerned about any of this. This is a man who says he's never watched a film before (not even on television) - only sports and the news. He's a nice man, but I'm sorry - anyone that can't discern between entertainment and reality shouldn't be trusted. These are always the guys that have their dicks jammed through holes at truck stops anyway.

you want it where?

I totally just had the most bizarro burkah experience. I was riding the micro-mini-bus home from my second job (hello, multi-tasking) and the burkah next to me said that she'd pay my fare. And I was all, ''You want it where?'' and she was all, "I want you to cum in my hair."

This is where I catch the bus - Bab al Yemen. Dudes congregate outside and stare at each other. Once in a while they'll sell a robe to someone that doesn't already have a thousand of them.


I don't get it. She was a true Yemeni, but was she a true prostitute or just being nice? She was very interested in the NGO I work for, so I gave her the web address. But I didn't give her my email - which I'm not regretting. I kind of freaked since I've been brainwashed in this short time to think a la Yemeni. She could have been a great contact for Yemen's underbelly. But then she threw in, "I'll visit you at your work.'' I have a feeling this isn't the last I'll be seeing of Fatina (NOT Fatima!, she shrieked).

The past couple of days have been interesting.

I went to my teacher's wedding. He's 28 and therefore over-the-hill. He was so giddy in class about his new wife of whom he's only seen a handful of times sans burkah. I was sure to ask him if he had any, you know, 'sex questions.' He was shocked and appalled. I was like, oh gurl, don't even.

The wedding itself was very reminiscient of a Lower East Side hipster bar. Lots of people sitting around in fancy clothes, not talking, looking extremely bored. The only difference is that everyone had huge goiters on their faces. Okay, not goiters, but huge balls of pulverized qat in their cheeks. And they weren't bored - they just had the classic, gormless, Yemeni stare. Basically, I sat around for 4 hours listening to some guy wail in Arabic, attempting not to swallow the qat (of which has caused a massive sore in my mouth), and speaking English to a throng of people 'fascinated by foreigners' (this is how they were introduced to me). All in all, an experience that I won't jump at the chance of re-living anytime soon. Especially since the mild narcotic kept me awake all night, and we all know how I need my sleep.
Bored Yemenis:

My teacher pointing at my fierceness:

The groom, my teacher. He smelled like a $2 prostitute with all those perfume-soaked flowers around the neck. I told him that, too. He already knows my looney tunes.

Then I went to another teacher's house for a group lunch with the other students. Thank god the most annoying students were out of town. I was able to stuff my face in relative peace and quiet since everyone was too scared to speak their shitty Arabic in front of each other. The students are very competitive this year - so what level are you in? The hot pink one.

The food was de-lish. The highlight was a chocolate cake, drenched in honey, covered with whipped cream and M&Ms that had been precariously perched on top of a Jell-o mold! A Jell-o mold! I totally had a high-fashion, Janice Dickinson photoshoot with that nonsense. Nobody else was as impressed by its retardedness as I was. Idiot faces. I was so full that I had to excuse myself and lay down in the other room until my dress dropped. I mean, the food dropped.

Spot the cake, ya'll.

And I've scored another job. I teach (let's use that term mildly) English to university students at an English language institute. Um. Basically, I get paid to sit around and converse with people that already speak English. Since I'm American, and therefore slutty/evil, they want me to come up with 'hot topics' for each class so they can figure out how terrible hell is going to be for me. My last topic was 'Honor Killings - How to look fierce while your father is drowning you in the swimming pool he bought with laundered oil money'. I actually got a few of the students to start thinking about what an honor killing actually is - and if, maybe (just maybe), there may be a better way to punish people than by lining up and throwing rocks at their heads.

I know a lot of people think all Arabic/Middle Eastern women are brainwashed. But based on my experiences, I've only witnessed the contrary. Not anymore. Let me tell you, there are a few brainwashed ones out there. I was told two classes ago by a woman that her gender is not mentally-capable to hold a challenging job. I've heard this from men, but to hear a woman say it has a totally different impact.

She just needs a 'lil deep dickin'.

no, the girl in the other burkah

I've positioned myself in the window of the internet cafe today, because there is some dude in a crop top that I must capture on film. I'm prepared to put up with all the hoots & hollers that I'll get in this seat, but the end result will be so worth it. Nothing like a little Yemeni belly-button to get me all hot-and-bothered. Work it!

So, apparently, I'm employed now? I had an interview today at www.soul-yemen.org. It's an NGO for women and children. Basically helping provide basic school-type education, technical training, reproductive health information, and working with street kids who peddle their bodies for 10 cent blowjobs. It was clear that I was hired before I even walked into the door - I guess my 5 sentence, mass-email did the trick. But, I'm not complaining. It seems like a great, grass-roots-type company and all of the people that work there are fabulous.

Or are they? Because I wouldn't actually know. It's all burkah-ed women. I guess the receptionist wasn't able to alert the ladies quickly enough that a penis was coming into the building. When I entered, I heard shrieks and stomping around - saw veils being pulled off of chairs and being hastily tied across faces. Since I'm a fellow gurl, I don't really see what the big deal is. But, I'm an ambassador for my wonderful country, so I decided to be culturally-sensitive and turn around. It was totally awkard. I really feel like a Madonna power-mix, some guacamole, a few helium-filled balloons, and an old-fashioned bump-and-grind dance party is called for. But guaranteed, based on what this country is all about, at least one of the women would be put in front of a firing squad if word got out. Maybe a limbo contest, instead?

Not too clear as to what my position will be since the director said, and I quote, "You can do whatever you want and we'll pay you." I was like, "Um, like, are you ladies looking for hot beef injections or are you being serious?" And she was all, "No, gurl, you can work it, it'll be be fierce." And I was like, "Alright, high-five me bitch, you're fierce. Let's teach ladies how to sew mini-skirts and let kids know that condoms are for penises, not for making balloon animals." Then we bounced hips and high-fived one more time, just cause.

As if. She wouldn't even shake my hand. But she did get really close when I couldn't figure out how to work the tea-dispenser. Risky business.

But then she ended the meeting on a sad note. She said that she liked me because I like to have adventures. Then she went on to say that she wasn't, as a Yemeni woman, allowed to have adventures. She hopes to hear about my travels some day.

The longer I'm here, the more confused I get. I used to think I had the Islamic world all figured out. But it's clear I don't. It'll be interesting to see what sort of information these ladies will give me in the coming months compared to what my male teachers tell me about Yemeni life during our lessons. Don't worry, I'll be sure to report back all the nitty gritty details.

PS. Girls are completely forbidden to straddle a bicycle seat - let alone peddle it. Must keep the hymen intact for the wedding night. I don't know how to say a lot of stuff in Arabic, but I can say 'hymen'. Thanks be to God.

oh yes, locust swarms are very s/s 2007

The plan was to holiday with my parents this summer. Two weeks with Mom and Sister in Poland and two weeks with Dad in Syria and Lebanon. I knew I was pushing it with such 'adventurous and dangerous locales', but hey, if I'm going to spend a fortune to get out of Yemen, I want some bang for my buck. Not surprisingly, they were being very American about the whole thing - very non-committal (scared) and not wanting to leave the States for more than a week. They were coming back with 'How about Switzerland, Austria, or Hong Kong?'

No.

I called off the entire thing, so now I'm entirely free to do whatever I want before I SHOULD be home for Christmas.

My Dad replied to my email with something ridiculous, so I replied back and told him what my new, revised, tentative, and ridiculous (in his eyes) plans are for the rest of the year. I mentioned my boat crossing to Djibouti, then going through Eritrea to Ethiopia (pending border regulations given the Somali situation). But was very non-specific about my overland trip to Iran and Pakistan. Sometimes it isn't worth pushing buttons.

I got an email back today that I am pleased to share with the rest of the world. PS. I love how cunty it is. You go, gurl!

On a relative basis, offering a choice between Eritrea & Ethiopia vs Syria & Lebanon - would definitely generate the excitement you would like to see from me regarding Syria & Lebanon ! I know that you weren't inviting me, but I clearly would have no desire to visit E&E and would question why you would want to - other than they are close to Yemen, Arabic is spoken and there probably aren't a lot of tourist cluttering the place (and there is always the chance that you will find the Ark of the Covenant). I have an aversion for locust swarms, infectious diseases, closed borders and land mines .... I don't want to sound too negative, but at least this time I won't leave you uncertain as to how I feel about that region. I fully realize your desire to travel, experience new cultures and see things ... but aren't there other countries with more to offer and less to risk ? Having said all that, believe it or not, I am still up to a travel adventure with you (but as I said definitely not E&E), so just keep me up to date on your plans and maybe we can still hook up somewhere before your return to USA . You mentioned your "overland trip" - what area were you referring to ?

Work it out.

This won't be receiving a reply.

it's all up for grabs

Seems no matter where I go, I have the amazing ability to give people something to talk about. The news on Azumar Street is that I am a woman because of my long hair. I'm smart enough to know that long hair on men is a fag-i-licious no-no, so I am sure to always keep it tied back in a sensible 'do. But, first of all, the women wear multiple layers of fabric over their eyes. So unless girlfriend is going to try and tease my balls with her tongue as I walk by - she's got no way of knowing if I'm hiding a vag in these ridiculous cargo pants.

As a result of these vicious rumors, I had a heart-to-heart with several of the boys and girls I play football with (read: buy low-quality footballs for because I'm a sucker). Mohammed, age 7, could not understand why I would grow my hair so long. After all, "only girls have long hair, right?" He even offered to pay to get my hair clipped off at the local barber/circumciser. Declined that one. Ahmed and Abdul, ages 11, were wise enough to ask, "In your country, do all men have long hair?" Instead of telling them that that was a very difficult question, given the wide spectrum of hairstyles on offer in America (ie. the mullet - is that short or long? You decide.), I just said, "Many. Yes, many." They were somewhat satisfied with this reply. Khadija and her younger sister, both of whom are perpetually covered in fake cheese powder or cotton candy residue, wanted to know how long it took to grow my hair and what kind of shampoo I use. I gave them a hi-five and proceeded to share my Placenta Mask secrets.

I thought the story would stop there, but no. I got spit on today! Okay, he missed - but he certainly aimed at me - more specifically, my hair! Fucking bitch. If he weren't so old and sporting a kalishnikov (the combination of which makes him a scary motherfucker) I would have spit right back at him, or at least kicked him in the shins.

So the story goes a little something like this >>

I'm strolling the back alleys looking for Shamel Al-Hadi supermarket (nicknamed She-Male Hottie by the other students). Word on the street is that this is THE establishment to stock up on western supplies. And since I'm in desperate need of facial moisturizer - I decided to troll. Just as I was passing the fake Blockbuster video showcasing the latest American releases for just $1, this old man and his burkah-ed wife stop in front of me. (Keep in mind that I did not stop during this 'transaction' - it was a total walk-by) He shows me some distugusting picture of people with their faces melting off. At first, I was like 'Oh, sad. You're family's dead.' But then I was like, 'That's not a fucking picture, you got that out of a magazine, you retard.' And then he asked for money. I promptly said, NO! So his dumb bitch screams from underneath her burkah in a very accusatory tone, 'Are you a boy or a girl?' and then he proceeds to rapid fire spit bullets at me. Naturally, I kept walking and mumbled obscenties under my breath, but WTF?! I used to always want to know what people where saying about me in Arabic as I walked by - now I know - they're just jealous cause they gots nappy hair.

The story has a happy ending though. I found Oil of Olay with SPF 15 for Sensitive Skin!

you're leaving nose-prints on the window

Sitting in the window of an internet cafe just shouldn't be done. I know I'm white, have luscious hair, and that you all want to F me up, down, and sideways. But when you stare at me, you end up walking into cars, burkahs, small children. Would you mind not staring and continue onto whatever business you were wanting to do. I know you're unemployed and were probaby on your way to drink tea, or chew qat, or to jerk-off in an alley, but you're annoying.

I almost forgot what it was like to be a foreigner in Yemen. Ay! But it is good to be back.

When I'm not being ocuarly harassed, I spend my time at class or studying. Actually, studying isn't really happening. Last year, I studied about 3 hours a day on my own. But I'm afraid that last year's work ethic is not going to be recreated any time soon. I find myself dancing to music - alone - in my room, making flashcards for words that I know I'll never learn, and hanging with the other students. I know the other students aren't really all-that, but it is nice speaking English every so often.

Everyday I have a run-in with a crazy, knife-weilding Yemeni. Today's went like this:

"I lived in Tuscon. Where are you from? Oh, New York. They have a lot of Jewish there. Yes, I said Jews. They are good at playing - playing games."

Fierce, gurl. I can't even tell you how sick I am about hearing how Jews are the most evil people on Earth. I used to defend them, but I've realized that I'm not going to change anyone's opinions. I know it's shocking, but I don't actually like speaking to men that have travelled to America, speak a fair amount of English, and feel the need to tell me how good they are, and how bad we are. Now, if you want to talk to me about the French, or the Australians, or the Kiwis, then fuck yeah! I'll buy you a cup of tea and we can rap about that shit. But the Jews, no.

Instead, I have become friends with children (Ahmed, Mohammed, and Mohammed). These boys scream outside my window all day long. We play football everyday. They're nice enough to listen to my retarded Arabic, are only about 10x better than me at football, and I don't have to listen to smack-talk about them Jews.

It's fierceness.

oy vay

EgyptAir pulled through yesterday and managed to book me on a flight that actually existed. But, they did have to attempt a few landings into Sana'a International. I guess their sheesha pipe cord kept getting in the way of the controls.

Needless to say, I made it. I managed to get a visa at the airport, even though the embassy in Cairo told me 'No, it's really not possible.' Hate them.

Everything is the same. The same gormless stares, the little girls wanting to know my name (but when I repeat the same question they just asked me in English, it becomes apparent they don't know what 'What is your name?' actually means), old men pointing their sticks at me because they're old men and like to point their sticks at sinners, men in skirts, men with knives, men with guns, men with grenades, men with copious amounts of qat in the mouths lining the streets waiting for something to happen (I'm that 'something' today), and women fluttering around in shape-less, face-less abiyas. All in all, it's total fierceness overload.

I met a few of the students today - but they're leaving shortly, so I'm not going to waste too much energy getting to know them. But what I am going to waste my energy on is getting moved into the building I lived in last year - the building with satellite TV and DVD. I don't know what my director was thinking by moving me into a non-equipped edifice. Seriously. Doesn't he know I have superficial needs?

The latest and greatest is reading other people's Instant Message conversations. Dude next to me is in the Religion chatroom, but apparently the Religion chatroom is the new XXX Suck My Tits chatroom. What's a man got to do to have a serious discussion on how great God is? And all Amy_xxx_fresh wants to do is get naked on her webcam and watch Mr. Muslim jizz in his moustache. Seriously.

i'm so back

For a moment there, I thought I was going to be a 100% total bore forever. But no, I'm back to my crazy New York open-bar, all-you-can-drink antics. I seem to be on a roll the past few days (read: weeks).

I'm back in Egypt. Loving it. I was a bit scared that when I landed and began my Western food binge-fest and quality time at the mall, that I'd associate Egypt - just the feeling of being here - with work. And I don't. I totally miss the country and am seriously considering finding permanent employment in the City Victorious.

The non-stop honking of horns in the ear and the ''it's a small world'' song installed on car brake systems has decreased significantly in the past 6 months. Two MAJOR pluses in my book. And, for some reason, everyone speaks to me in Arabic. I like that - I always get annoyed when people assume I only speak English. It's like I've spent so much time learning this impossible language and people don't even want to give me the benefit of the doubt? But not anymore. Maybe my ass has gotten bigger - we all know the Egyptians gots junk in their trunks.

Now I'm in Dahab. Chilling with my friend Laura who has been living here for the past 5-ish months. But she's fleeing next week for interviews and whatnot. She says if worse comes to worst, she has been offered a tour leading position in Southeast Asia. NOOOOOOOOOOO! She's clearly delusional.

Last night we got completely shitfaced. 1 bottle of wine each, couple bottles of beer, and maybe 5 or 6 rums. Never forgetting the tragic roof-top party in 2004 which ended up in me, in tears, calling my mother from my deathbed. I knew that mixing so much alcohol would end up in disaster, but I didn't really care. But for some reason, my body has totally embraced the mass consumption of low-quality booze and I'm totally on track for another bender tonight. Laura is another story though -I did end up carrying her home with the help of a more manly man than I. This was after she convinced the DJ to play the new Nancy Ajram CD all night. We danced and danced and danced. We even got Sugar, the massive Nubian barback, to bust a few moves.

Sugar:

Crazy faces:

Yum. Pina Colada.

Work it gurl.

If you look closely in the picture above you see this freak of nature.

And a night wouldn't be complete without me sending drunk text messages around the world to remind everyone that I'm a retarded drunk.

And running into someone that wanted me to translate magazine articles about Tupac.

All in all, fierce times.

hold my d, will you?

So, it's my last night in Morocco. And what am I doing? Sitting in the internet cafe with the rest of the pervs. Seriously, everyone just sits around watching porn here. The latest and greatest is a free site where you can talk to live Asian girls via webcam. But it's so low-budget and disgusting - all of the girls sit in the same bed with keyboards between their legs. Did I mention they're not cute - clearly, a sign that they've been sold by their families into some internet smut ring. But the Moroccan's dig them. But then again, the Moroccans dig anything. Male, female, fat, old, bald, ugly - it's got a hole? Yeah, I'll hit that. I'm serious - I've conducted a survey.

Also. Grown men really like to share computers here. One just sits and watches while the other chats to his friends on MSN Messenger. Like seriously, do you nothing better to do than hold your buddy's dick while he chats to hot girls. The two guys next to me are looking at their friends blog - basically its just pictures of all their male friends topless and hugging each other. I wish I could've gotten the name of the website before they closed the window.

I can't say my farewell to Morocco is going to be a tear-y one. I like Morocco, but working really put a damper on the whole thing. My last group was absolutely horrendous and caused me to considering committing suicide on an hourly basis. But I did have a few fierce groups that made several of my two-week blocks pleasureable. And! I've gotten to live abroad for 18 months, see some fab countries, meet some fab people, and get paid for it. So, I've achieved one of my life goals.

Okay, back to being bitchy.

My latest adventure (sans group) was my ascent up Mt. Toubkal. Mt. Toubkal is the highest mountain in North Africa - and just so happens to be in Morocco.

In a nutshell, it was a horrendous experience. Yes, there was lots of walking and nice scenery - two things that I enjoy. But it also involved trugging throw snow with socks on my hands - socks, of which, that I had accidentally stepped into a public squat toilet with. 100mph winds that had me holding onto loose rocks for dear life. Thin air that made me huff and puff like an obese, chain-smoker. Rivers that had turned to skating rinks. It was all very, very desperate.

Me desperate:

I did take a million pictures of me on top with a dorky sign that I made. I figured I have so many pictures of me on top of tall things that when all the botox has leaked into my brain, I'll be unable to decipher the photos. Plus, this is the last mountain I'm ever climbing, so I had to document it.

I was supposed to have a date tonight. But I turned my phone off because my chicken lunch isn't sitting in my stomach very well, I've been running around all day (mailed 35kg worth of nonsense home - I'm still baffled at my ability to accumulate random stuff), I smell like I've been running around all day, and really, I'm not in the mood. I don't want to be hungover tomorrow and I'm fairly certain I'll do something that I'll regret in the a.m.

I'm off to Cairo in the afternoon. I'll be chilling at the mall for an entire day - watching movies, shopping for tight jeans, and eating ice cream. Then, I'll go to Dahab and visit my friend Laura, who made the mistake of moving there for her Egyptian boyfriend. I don't need to tell you what happened with that one. And I've got to pay my respects and pump some cash into the town - since they did just get blown up a few months ago. Then, I'll return to Cairo for some more mall-action with Siobhan. Siobhan's from South Africa - we call her Puffs because she's a mess. Girl brushes her curly hair after it's dried. We've had many heart-to-hearts about her frizzy situation, but she immediately represses it.

But before we part ways - just a random smattering of 'Hold my D' - esque pictures.

Maybe he wants to hold it. Yum.

Maybe he does. Troll!

Or maybe the gross Russian at the Roman ruins:

In front of the famous 'cock rocks':

Fierce, snails.

Okay, I can almost understand this:

But, this would be what?

One of the many crazy kids roaming the country side.

So that's it. Ma'salama Maghrib!

i'm a v.i.p.

Last night was no competition for my infamously sloppy New York evenings, but you don't have much to work with when you're living in Morocco. Even if you are in Marrekesh, which IS the capital of all things gay. Therefore, fun and sleazy.

I am training a tour leader who is more experienced and a thousand times more capable than myself (I don't overextend myself on tours anymore - espcially not today since it's my last day on tour, forever!) - her name is Amber. I worked with her in Cairo. She's Canadian and is pretty far up there on the Fierceness Scale.

Amber with oranges I picked off of tree on Mohammed V on a drunk evening.


Previously, we went to the Berber Disco out in the Todra Gorge. Basically a very well-lit room with a bunch of men gyrating together to ear-piercing Berber music. I joined in at one point and we ended up doing ring-around-the-prositute. TFO. All the girls were beefy, but wearing tiny clothes, and sporting a weave of some sort or another. We drank and drank and drank. Watched a few weave-pulling, beer bottle throwing-esque fights. Then we left. Loved it.

Our Berber escort for the evening:


Post disco. Apparently Amber turned Asian and I got a body wave.


But last night was even more drama-filled. Amber and I decided to do dinner in the Djemma al Fna - the main square in Marrakesh with all the food stalls. This was after we hiked out to Lonely Planet's recommendation for a cheap Indian restaurant. It was a one hour walk and wasn't cheap, at all. Lonely Planet strikes again! Fortunately, on the way, we ran across a supermarket and stocked up on cheap, local wine. We decided to eat, then get sloshed, and then see what happened.

We hung out of our window and downed 2 bottles of wine, while making fun of the boys on a work-release program who were 'sweeping' the square. All they did was wave around their brooms and oogle at the local girls. Poor boys, no self-respecting Moroccan chick is going to sleep with someone in a reflective jumpsuit.

After the 2 bottles, we were still thirsty. We decided to head into the square and find the woman that dances with a live chicken on her head for money. We wanted not only a picture with her, but also pictures of us dancing with said chicken on OUR heads. She wasn't there, though. Sigh.

But he was. Note chicken on head and very, very LES-looking son. Grrr. Rage.


Hopped in a cab and headed over to this dodge-y hotel with an even dodgy-er bar and nightclub. Bar was closed, nightclub was dead. Then continued onto some hole-in-the-wall for cheap wine and a healthy dose of harassment. We chugged a bottle and headed over to the V.I.P. club. Neither of us had been to a proper Moroccan club and if we got there before 1am, we didn't have to pay the entrance fee of about 12USD.

We got there at 1:05 (damn my sudden case of diarrhea). I slurred a few words in Arabic that the fat bouncer enjoyed - music to his ears, I'm sure. And Amber pulled down her pants to reveal some mid-rif. Mid-rif is like showing a nipple. He let us in for free, but not before telling us that one drink is between 10 and 15USD and a bottle of wine (which costs $5 at the supermarket) is $120. WTF?!

We entered. Ate all of the free popcorn, poured the bowl of raisins into Amber's purse, and grinded the night away with all the gays and slutty girls. The music was ho-hum, but when you're drunk in a foreign country - we all know that you'll pretty much dance to anything and with anyone.

Unfortunately, neither of us pulled. Not that we really wanted to experiment with scabies and other assorted ailments. So, we went back to the hotel. I watched Amber roll some sort of hashish roll and I passed out at some point - have no recollection of that. I'm sure it was right after I said something or did something very incriminating.

small parts

Hey girl! Keep up the good work - you've never looked better!

woah

Do you think Courtney is taking the fat from Francis's ass and getting it implanted into her lips and cheeks?

Fashionating. Seriously, it is.

oh, maroc

So yeah. Almost done with Maroc. Here's a play-by-play of my life for the last 4-ish months. I've pretty much gone in circles over and over and over again. I will have led about 10 tours by the time I've gone. I've ordered the pictures in the order I travel the country. Because I'm insane! I left out Casablanca because, well, Casablanca ain't all that, after all.

This is Fes. Fes is TFO-to-the-max. 9300 streets and 800 mosques in the medina. Of course, it was only designed to hold about 50,000 people. Right now, there's like 300,000 people inside the walls. The sewer system is a nightmare. You smell that? Yeah, that's MY diarrhea.

You can't see it, but all the roofs have satellite dishes.

This is where they 'tan' animal skins. Goat, sheep, camel, and cow to be exact. God, I'm such a great tour leader. Um. The white is where they put the skins with the hair and everything on. It's a mixture of cow shit and pigeon piss. They leave it in for x amount of days and then they take it out and the hair/fur comes off easily. The colored area is where they use vegetable-based dyes to dye the skins. Pomegranate skins for yellow (they say saffron, but that's a lie), kohl for black, henna for orange, mint for green, and poppy flowers for red. The men wear short shorts. Hottt. Actually, not really. The dyes do weird things to their legs.

Even when dealing with dead animals, the men of Morocco still consume copious amounts of sugar. 42kg per person, per year to be exact. This is a boy selling pastries hole-to-hole.

Work it out girl! This guy actually posed like this for the picture. I think I said something like, "pump it!" and boy did he. This is vegetable silk - it comes from the agave cactus (also known for making alcohol in the West). You use it to weave rugs and scarves.

This is a pretty picture of the shrine of Moulay Ismail in Meknes. Ismail was nicknamed 'The Bloodthirsty' because he would organize daily torture shows and pull out the teeth of his concubines if their chatter annoyed him. Love that the Moroccans have built a shrine to him.

This is a picture of Morocco. No really, it is. This is taken around Ifrane. The snow was up to my chest.

Then you hit Midelt, where there is nothing to do other than sing and dance with the kitchen staff. The woman in the red headwrap can shake that ass. She has some black her in, clearly. I didn't know drums could be out of tune - they can! I can only sit through about 5 minutes of that racket.

Oh yeah, Midelt does a good tajine. Nice and steamy and full of liquified butter/clarified fat. Whatevs. That's Steve and Jess - fellow tour leaders in Morocco. I'll keep my comments about them to myself. No, actually I won't. I think they both have some issues that they need to work on. Issues with a capital 'I', ya'll.

Yeah, and after Midelt, you hit the desert. Dunes galore. This is me after climbing about 30 minutes to get to the top of the dune. Cardio overload. Reminds me of when I was in Morocco in 2004 with Maria and Marie. I had the most picture-esque shit of my life on top of a dune. It ended up being painful diarrhea, but it was beautiful place to have a colon explosion.

We do an organized prison march. No, I mean trek out into the dunes. I'm only complaining because I'm so completely over camels and what they do to men's nutsacks. I've chosen to walk beside the camels for a few hours. I've said it once and I'll say it again. I'm thoroughly conviced that the locals that ride camels have absolutely no feeling in their crotches. Which is evident by the way they claw at their itchy genitals.

This is the camp we ride/walk out to. It is very pretty and very quiet. I had a girl shit her pants out here. My friend Adam said that he imagined I was stone cold and completely apathetic about the situation. Yeah, pretty much. I'm sorry, but I don't wipe poopie bottoms. Whatever, I'll see you all in hell anyway.

Djellaba man pouring sugar and tea into a glass the 'Berber whiskey' kinda way.

You can ski down the dunes. I haven't tried because it requires hiking up a dune WITH equipment for something that has the potential to be reminiscient of bad sex. You know what I mean.

Alright. Let's leave the desert and continue onto the gorges. There are two main gorges in Morocco - the Todra and the Dades. I think the Todra is much more impressive because you have thousands of palm trees and lots of kasbahs. But in Dades you have the cock rocks (something of which I will get to at a later date) and the roses when they are in bloom. These are women carrying feed for their animals. What you don't know is that the roads in the gorges are extremely steep and windy - the women walk along these. In defense of the men, I have seen them do their fair share of hard work out in the fields - but usually they're watching their women work or sipping sugar in a cafe. Also in defense of the men, I've picked up one of these 'packages' and they're not THAT heavy. It's an ab work-out if anything.

Me, Todra, kasbahs. My hair is out of control, ps. I've had about 10 people speak to me in Spanish today. We all know what the Spanish hair situation is - mullets and knot-central.

Being the excellent tour leader I am - I just assume that things are going to be available when I need them to be - ie. public transportation. I took my group 30km down the Dades Gorge into town for dinner. We finished dinner at 7:30 - who knew everyone would be asleep by then and unable to drive us back up to the hotel? So I 'pretty pleased' someone from the hotel to get us, and we played pool in the meantime. This is when all of those 'asleep' people came out of the woodwork. Despite the gormless stares for an hour, we did a pretty kickass job. Most of our shots were pure luck, but of course we played it off like an good Asian pool hall hustler would.

Lindsey Lohan and I trekking through a gorge at some un-Allah-ly hour. The entire time I prayed I wouldn't break an ankle, because it was just me and a few dung beetles.

Okay, this is near the cock rocks - but not actually a picture of them. In a few years this rock will probably be finito because some retarded French tourist decided to climb on top of it just to see if they could.

More kasbahs. Probably from the 1800s, but difficult for my untrained eye to tell.

This was a nightmare of a hike for 3 hours. I had one person fall into an irrigation canal - water ended up to her chest. We had to 'balance beam' for about 20 minutes with an irrigation canal on one side a very fast flowing, very cold river on the other side - and it had a 10 foot drop. Of course I had someone afraid of heights that cursed me out the entire time. I told her to shut the fuck up.

Ait Ben Haddou from birds-eye view. That rhymes, ps. Lots of movies filmed here - Gladiator, for one. Thrilling, I know.

But one time it actually was thrilling because the daugher of the president of Peru or Chile or something (I'm STILL awaiting confirmation on this) came to visit, so the Berbers put on some local color for them. It was pretty special, I have to admit.

Special because this man was here.

Special because his friends came, too.

On our way to Imlil in the High Atlas mountains. I think this was taken in Asni, which is below Imlil in terms of elevation. Lots of rain and melting snow coming off the mountains = chocolate river. Everyone was being such an asshole this day - couldn't get a taxi to save our lives. But then this one gay who had a severe case of Berber gay face came up and asked if I was 'a gay' and I said, 'girl, you have no idea - get me a cab, bitch!'. He totally pulled through.

Ahhhh.... and this is beautiful Imlil and the High Atlas mountains. We do treks out here which I actually enjoy. This is where Mt. Toubkal is - the mountain I'll be climbing in a few weeks. Insha'allah.

Village in the area. We sleep in one just like this in some dude's house. He likes to bone our clients.

This is the village - Aremd. With a woman doing manual labor.

Me, before I realized that eating potatoes everyday = fat central. And mountains.

Me and Mubarak after a nice 3 hour hike up to the Pass. We're not really liking Mubarak at the moment, so we're not even going to talk abut him.

Woman on a mule with a live sheep in the saddle bag. Loves it.

Yay. Enough hiking. Time to go to Marrakesh. All the homos here say that it's 'The Capital of Gay' - they actually say that! It is. Everyone is TGO (total gayness overload). Djemma al Fna where they cook delish food in the evenings. I am planning on trying the braised sheep head before I leave. Hopefully it won't be a painful introduction to some heinous disease.

If Marrakesh is the Capital of Gay, then Essaouira is the Capital of Straight. All the local boys here are super bohemian - either gelled hair or long flowing lochs, tight shirts, and board shorts. The requisite uniform for guys looking for hot sex with slutty Asian tourists. Don't even get me started on the South Korean I just had on my tour. I hope she gets tested when she gets home.

Essaouira is a major shipping area. This is where they clean/sell fish. Seagulls galore. It's a miracle I haven't been shat on yet.

The blue port of Essaouira.

After Essaouira, I always return back up to Casablanca and do the same thing over again - sometimes with a little variation. But usually not.

All in all, Morocco was good times. It'd be even better if I didn't have to deal with wingey Australians. C'est la vie. At least the pastries are great.

poop

I'm a bit under-the-weather today. I blame it on sharing some soup with a stranger last night and not sleeping at all. Nothing like listening to donkey's clank their feet all night long. And certainly nothing like the all-time worst 4am call to prayer ever. Oh, then there was that 6am bus ride for 3 hours. Who thought my life was glamorous? Okay, it is. So, here's a little something I like to call SadFlower. It is on the wall in Moulay Idriss - drawn by Benasser. Fierceness? I think so.

it's the little things

Alright, so. The news is that I've quit herding sheep. I mean, leading tours. Loving Morocco, not loving the tourists. My boss ended up moving my 'quit date' one month forward - love the passive aggressive-ness, keep it up, man! So, I'll be done on June 3rd. I'll climb all 4,127 meters of Mount Toubkal, hit Egypt for a week, then to Yemen to study me some more Arabic for an unspecified amount of time.

My initial reactions to Morocco were: everyone's about the jalabiyya, the French dress like they're on their way to their first day of kindergarten, and there's lots more handicapped than I remember than when I was here in 2004.

Now that I've lived here for 4 months, I've made some more observations that I feel need to be put in writing. Here goes:

- Moroccan's don't have mingin' feet even though they wear shoes that don't fit them. Seriously, there's like 3 inches of their foot hanging out the back. They do do the Malaysian shuffle though, which is like 'tres annoying.
- Speaking of 'tres annoying - why do these people speak to me in French when I speak to them in Arabic. I say Arabic, they say French, and it goes back and forth like this for a few minutes. I don't understand French, you fuckwits! I've learned a little, but ugh. Now, I just guess what they are saying to me in French and respond to that. Nothing like a one-sided, psychic conversation.
- When compared to the Egyptians - I've found some differences. Most Moroccan chicks have slammin' bods and the guys have very small penises. Evolutionary phenomenon that needs further exploration. Clearly.
- Moroccan's say 'Sorry' when they want to get your attention, instead of 'Excuse me'. Sorry, what?
- The glue huffing has calmed down a bit - maybe they're all dead.
- And there's still like 8 million thousand gagillion homeless people here. The new homeless fad is to have 'traction' implanted into your leg. Metal that goes into your bone, and then you screw and adjust yourself. They like to put that gangrene on display all the time.
- And I still hate the French. But now, more than ever. They like to push in queues, and I like to push back. I don't care how old or gray or handicapped you are. I'll push you back!

Other than the French, there are monkeys in Morocco, called Barbary Apes.



Here's a bunch of monkey's getting wasted at my favorite bar in Casablanca - La Bodega. They play with fire and these hoochie's get up on the bar and dance. I always get in trouble when I take pictures. However, I feel that since I'm getting wasted (paying lots of money) and have imported my fiercness to the country and decided to frequent their bar, they should really get over it.



Yeah, those are cats in a basket.



And those are sheepheads. Ready for consumption.



And these are baby chickens that have been dyed an array of pastels. They're ready to be played with until they die. Seriously. Parents buy them for their children so that they can play with them until they die, or are killed by their crazy kids.



Some of the kids, when they're not killing chicks, are weaving palm leaves into nonsense. A camel, a basket with a flower, and a 4x4 jeep. Cute, but really - go read a book or something!



Fridge full of meat.



German tourist fiercness for you. I think I saw his toupee lick its lips at one point.



I got up close and personal with it.



This was his on-call hairdresser. She just straining her neck to make sure everything was in place and that he didn't need a re-application of Aqua Net. He didn't, it was behaving itself.

dad time

Dad came to visit me in Morocco for my birthday. Okay, it wasn't actually FOR my birthday. I have to do a "visa run" every three months up to Spain or some Spanish enclave in Morocco since I'm on a tourist visa. Also known as, working illegally. Fierceness.

Dad managed to survive Egypt just fine (overnight bus rides, etc.), so I figured he could enjoy Morocco since it's smaller and more laid back (ie. less 'what country?, what country?'). He came over for a week and we hit the sights.

It was a lot of him filming, talking into the camera, talking at me THROUGH the camera. Here's photographic evidence. If memory serves me right, I think he was saying something along the lines of, "Eric, say something intelligent to the camera."


Of course we had to hit Marrakesh and the Djemma al Fna. Dad dove right in. The situation got control over him and he started wrapping snakes around his neck and poking at the cobra. Yet more photographic evidence.


I warned him that if he got down there with the snakes for a photo session, he'd have to pay 5 dirhams. I didn't want to get involved - so I just watched from a distance and took pictures to document the nonsense. He ended up getting convinced to give the man more money after he threw a temper tantrum. I had to intervene at this point - I don't give money to spoiled Moroccan brats. I took the money out of his tamburine, took my dad by the hand, and walked out of there. Note to self, must learn how to say "beggars can't be chosers" in Berber.

We went for a little trek up in the High Atlas. To get back into civilization, we had to take a shared grand taxi ride. Usually, the vehicle is able to accommodate 7 people, but in this case, it accommodated 8. One person may not sound like a big deal, but when that one person has to operate the clutch for the driver because the driver can't reach it - it suddenly becomes a big deal.

1,2,3,4 people sitting in the front. The guy in red is driving, and the guy to the left of him is clutching.

pretty hands, pretty feet

I'm totally famous now. A guy I studied with in Yemen put me on the cover of his dissertation entitled - The Changing Role of Tribalism and State Consolidation in Yemen.

Yemen is the new Columbine.

Don't my fingers look pretty?

gunblast vodka

This movie is playing in Morocco right now. It was made in like 2000 and stars 'real-life supermodel' Angie Everhart. But instead of talking about the film's content, let's talk about the poster lining all of Morocco's streets - there's soooo much to discuss:

- is she wearing a garland around her peroxide head?
- she runs around with two guns a la Bridget Fonda, which is fierce
- she runs around in trannie heels, which is even fiercer
- a latex teddy bear is her accessory - it goes so well with her fishnets and black Wet 'n Wild lipstick

This poster is hitting home for me right about now. Last week I finally realized why I only travel on first class trains in Morocco (other than getting more leg room and not having to smell body odor) - its because all of the really interesting people travel in first class. I wish I could've taken a picture of my last encounter because it would complement the Gunblast Vodka poster. A velour-jumpsuit-clad woman with blue/black hair and rap-around Ray-Bans rode in my carriage with her pock-marked and knife-scarred husband for a few hours. The entire time they sat with a thin, metal briefcase on their laps. You know the kind that people in movies like Gunblast Vodka carry large quantities of money in - for things like coke deals, rewards for killing a cheating husband, or payment for a container load of small Cambodian boys. Of course I developed all of these fantasies in my head about what the contents were and what they were for. Anything to keep my mind (and eyes) off of the large man across from me clawing at his crotch for hours on end.

oh no you didn't

One hour ago I was walking back to my hotel from getting an hour long scrub down at the hammam. By a guy who was seriously trying to feel my nuts the entire time. And this dude rides by me on a moped and his undies were sticking out the back of his pants. What kind of undies you ask? A frilly, blue thong. I couldn't get out my camera quickly enough -- I did at least take off my sunglasses to confirm that I wasn't seeing things. They were indeed frilly, blue panties. Fierceness in Morocco lives on.

a retrospective

I wonder why everyone thinks Middle Easterners are inherently violent. Maybe because they sell things like this for 10cents at football matches? Cairo hosted the Africa Cup this year. This is me modeling the latest in hooligan outerwear.

Sash-ay. Shont-ay.

This little piece of nonsense sat in the middle of the busy road outside my flat for at least 1 month. It's probably still there. Unfortunately, they won't open a water canon on it like they did the Sudanese lining the street. I love how they'll force out human life, but not this piece of junk.

This is a prime example of why I've gained so much weight in the last year. It's because I chomp on medieval sized lamb shanks all the time. (I'm holding it with my sleeve because the bone is THTH - too hot to handle). Grrrrrrra! Yeah, that's a beard I'm sporting. Yuck.

Me. Camel. The usual.

The Koreans never cease to amaze me with their fashion forwardness. This is an 06/07 Tyvex. It shields you from sun, wind, and flying debris from tornados, hurricanes, and monsoons. One can never be too careful when climbing Mt. Sinai.

She's definitely a sun, booze, and fags type of gal. I hope she put some sunscreen on her sensible zones because that shit is going to start sagging and stretching in like 10 minutes.

My photography skills do not do this piece of Karnak fashion justice. You know how short shorts wedge their way up obese people's inner thighs? Well, I swear I saw her tampon string hanging out the front as a result.

It doesn't take a rocket scientist to know this bitch is Russian. Hot pink lee-press-ons, a skin-tight black ensemble, the Virginia Slim, and bondage heels really complete the look for a day at Valley of the Kings. Valley of the Kings is an unpaved, extremely rocky valley out in the desert. It involves not only tripping over rocks to get into the tombs, but also many stairs and ramps. I'm sure the bottle of Butterscotch Schnappes in her Fendi fannypack killed any pain she may have experienced during the day's activities.

Alright. This photo was taken my last night in Luxor at my favorite restaurant in all of Egypt - The Oasis Cafe. It really was an oasis in the middle of tourist hell. Not only did they serve up delicious food, but they also served up this nutcase. I don't remember his name - we'll call him Christian. He had a thing for Siobhan, pictured here. Someone once said that 'Siobhan is like the sun' - she just makes you happy. I think Christian will be jacking off to Siobhan's mental image for many years to come.

I figured on my last day on our cruiseship, I'd wander up to the Captain's deck and try my hand at sailing the ship. That's me (looking obese) and the captain. In the background, there's a guy (who you can't see) that I later found out was giving passenger's on the cruiseship blowjobs. Okay, not really. But he was short and gross and he was propositioning the more handsome Australian youths we had on board. Unfortunately for him, he was unsuccessful. Doesn't he know that alcohol is the key to handsome Australian youths' hearts and not unbrushed teeth?

This was the saddest guy I encountered in Egypt. He followed my group and I around an ancient village in the Dakhla oasis because apparently we needed protection - and he was the man to offer us this protection? His circa 1840's gun is almost bigger than him.

Chilling in the Bahariya Oasis. Trying not to fall off the ledge.

Oh, Shea! Someone once asked me if I thought that Shea and I were separated at birth because we both talk like valley girls. But it was Mad Max at that crazy pub in Ipswich that really hit the nail on the head - "You both have the best teeth ever, you should really put them to use and make-out.'' Mad Max then went on to tell me that she lost 10 stone and really felt like fucking someone in the bathroom with her hot new bod.

Just an ocular showdown between the youth and I in Bahariya. Neither of us volunteered to pick up the refuse.

The inside of our safari dude's jeep. It was the gayest thing I've ever seen.

I don't think people understand how cold the desert gets in the winter. Cold enough for me to wear this silly camel hair hat that scratched my forehead so badly that I had a scab on it the next day.

Alright, pull up a chair because its going to be a while. On the left is Dee. She's pretty fierce. In the middle is this girl Carrie. Carrie was a tour leader in Egypt many moons ago and started dating one of the Egyptian TL's during her stint. She ended up going back to England for a little while and then came back during the middle of my contract in Egypt. The Egyptian TL (Emad) introduced her to me as his girlfriend and told me not ''to get any ideas.'' As if! On my second tour, Emad fucked one of my female passengers....and continued to have sex with many others before Carrie got back to Egypt. I was under the impression that this was one of those things the kids like to call an ''open relationship.'' But! It wasn't. Carrie was in the dark about all of this and really thought Emad was this lovely guy. Let it also be known that Emad is still married and has a child. His wife thinks they are happily in love.

On the right is Claire. I thought Claire was pretty fierce when I first met her, but she soon turned out to be one of those ''ho's before bro's'' types of girls. I found out that her boyfriend (yet another Egyptian tour leader - why oh why ladies do you get involved with these men) had cheated on her. Claire, having said that she'd want to know if 'her man' was cheating on her, got an earfull from me. I told her that he had indeed cheated on her. She confronted 'her man', a heated argument ensued, and the day after 'her man's' mother died. She had been on her deathbed for ages. Once his mom died, Claire sent me a slew of nasty text messages saying that she knows 'her man' and that he wouldn't do something like this to her. And that she thinks I timed my insider info poorly. I should've known his mom was going to die. So, what did I glean from this situation: Never tell your friend that 'her man' is a no good piece of shit.

Is it just me or do you think the donkey is saying to himself, "Will someone please kill me"?

On my way back from the States to Egypt, I had a 12 hour layover in Amsterdam. Not only did I get my haircut, visit Anne Frank's total let down of a house, cruise the Red Light District, and watch my very first film in one of those jack-off booths, but I also stopped at the Gay & Lesbian kiosk on the side of the road.

In Amsterdam, people really do ride bikes.

square one

Just finished leading my very first tour around Morocco. Went much better than I had expected. Fortunately, for me, it was only a one week tour, I only had three passengers, and they all knew it was my first tour in the country ... so they let me off easily when I got lost every so often in the souks.

Now I'm on to my 2nd tour. I got my file via email from my manager in London and saw that I had 5 women for 2 weeks. "Great, it'll be a gay old time with the gals,'' I thought. Wrong.

These women are so fucking lame, except for two of them. The remaining three have very strong personalities, are all self-proclaimed independent travellers, but can't grasp the fact they're on an organized tour. Basically, they want nothing to do with structure and are all vying to be the alpha-female of the group. Since, I'm clearly unable to do the job for them.

When I met them on the first night, I knew it'd all be downhill from there. The next morning, when I gave my notorious "Day 2 Briefing" about the trip, Morocco, me, etc. -- I told them to cut the bullshit and just deal with the fact that we're all in this together. I am not getting paid enough to ride their estrogen cycle for the next two weeks. Clearly, I didn't use those words exactly... but I most certainly didn't smile when I told them to stop being so un-fierce.

I guess we'll see what the next 11 days bring (I've survived 4 days already). I'm sure I'll be posting pictures and stories about their sour-faced escapades around the country. I wonder if I gave them some laxatives - would it help? Maybe they're all just a little blocked up.

PS. I totally scored Moroccan ass. *snap

love ain't soluble

A non-governmental organisation in Morocco says substance abuse among children has reached alarming levels.The Baiti association says 98% of children living on the streets in Morocco are now addicted to sniffing glue and the number is growing.They shine shoes, beg from passers-by or even sell their bodies in return for the $3 they need to buy a tube of glue.According to a government survey, more than 5,000 children are living on the streets of Casablanca alone.Almost all of them are glue addicts.As poverty and unemployment continue to rise in Morocco, more parents are unable to provide for their children, and more children end up living on the streets.Crisis worsens. Cheap and easy to get, the children use glue to numb the feelings of cold, hunger and rejection.A United Nations report says glue sniffing is making street children prone to tuberculosis, and they are contracting sexually transmitted diseases as they fall back on prostitution to pay for their habit.Najat M'jid, president of Baiti, Morocco's first and only association for the protection of street children, says the situation is urgent as some street children sniff between five and 20 tubes per day."We have to work with the street children very, very soon because when they become dependent on glue it's very difficult to build with them a life project," Mr M'jid says."The impact of the glue on the brain really is a step to marginalisation and delinquency," he says.Baiti is using sport to teach street children about the effects of glue on their lungs, and offers psychiatric counselling.But the association is overstretched and cannot compensate for the lack of state-run social services.Najat M'jid believes if more is not done soon, Morocco is heading for a street children crisis on the scale of Brazil. Loves it.

i heart crazies

The internet cafe I am in totally smells like meat. And, the computers are super slow because the Moroccans have downloaded so much crazy software so that they can watch porn movies. Gay ones, of course. Loving how repressed everyone is here.

I'm also loving how insane everyone is: handicapped people (missing eyes, jaws, half of their face, growths from their head), people that should be committed (the man in the pink lingerie and the other man that likes to pull out his armpit hair and pile it nicely), and homeless people (at least they don't smell like booze like they do in New York).

I'll attempt to document their insanity in the coming months. Including the glue sniffing phenomenon. Everyone is addicted to glue! I know it shouldn't be funny, but it is. These people have no shame - whether their 10 years old or 60 years old - they just walk around sucking on plastic bags, stumbling around, and giggling to themselves.

Also. It's totally acceptable to wear bathrobes in public. Fashionating, I say.

casa-fierce-a

I made it to Casablanca, ya'll. I got on the flight not knowing just how long it would take to fly from Cairo. I thought maybe 2 hours, maybe 3 with headwinds. The Copt got on the loudspeaker and announced it would take a whopping 6 hours. I guess I underestimated just how long it would take to cross the continent of Africa.

So, anyway. I got to my hotel, went to bed, woke up, and was orientated with Steve and Jess. I assume I'll be writing more about this duo in the months to come because we're the only 3 tour leaders in the country. If my passengers don't provide any noteworthy gossip (though, if the past is any indication of what they're capable of...), I'll have to rely on them for juicy tidbits.

First (well, second, since I was here in 2004) impressions of Morocco, thus far: everyone's about the jalabiyya, the French dress like they're on their way to their first day of kindergarten, and there's lots more handicapped than I remember.

Here's a fine example of my 2nd observation (Lucky Charms much?):

sad new year

My New year's was kind of lame-o. We did a party in Aswan on top of a hotel. They had promised me over the phone belly dancing, sufi dancing, and something called 'sword dancing', plus buffet for only 55 egyptian pounds. So, I convinced my very unenthusiastic and tightwad-ish group to shell out the money becuse it sounded like a good deal and a lot of fun. Well, after watching 3 hours of 'sword dancing' (ie. boys dancing like fools with sticks - looked like a jane fonda work-out video), the group began to get ancey. My previous questions to the staff about the whereabouts of the belly and sufis went unanswered, so I decided to investigate further. They lied to me on the phone, they weren't showing up. So, I forced them to give me a discount. Passengers not impressed. Neither was I - wish I would've dranken more.

We also spent three days on the felucca - it was probably the most boring 3 days of my life - 72 hours that I will never get back. I was hoping that the second hand smoke from the felucca boys weed would put me in such a stupor that I'd be fooled into thinking I was actually having fun. Groups like these make you super thankful for groups that actually WANT to be in Egypt and say Thank You once in a while.

I entertained myself by making Little Becky marshmallows with Ramadan.

Then we ended up playing this retard-o game where you had to guess who the person on the toilet paper sticking to your head was. I was Brad Pitt. Later, I was Agathe Christie. PS. Welcome to my world of jerri-curl.

Later on, I stole the guards funny little hat and bullet clip. That livened things up a bit.

Oh well. Only 1 more tour to go before Morocco. From what I understand, people don't go there for sleep-away camp, they go for an adventure.

sharmuta

The reason I had to rush back from America before Christmas was to run a tour that I had requested. It's called our Western Desert tour. I was going to be the first Western tour leader in a couple years to run the tour. It's a difficult one because you need to know Arabic, among other things. Well.....it was great and all, but I can't believe I came back for this:

On the 2nd day, a girl from Singapore on the tour pulled me aside. She had to speak to me in private. Fierce, I love when people ask for 'private' time so early on in the tour.

She told me she met a random Egyptian man on the street (check) and hung out with him all day (check). Then she went to his house to meet his parents (alright - 3 checks for being an idiot means I have no sympathy for whatever comes next).

He ended up giving her a full body massage which she calls "molestation". I asked if she tried to resist. She said that she didn't because he assured her it was the Egyptian way. At this point, I asked why I was sitting her listening to this.

Silence.

I asked her if when she was done getting her titties rubbed clockwise, then counterclockwise, if she ran out of the house to the police station, or what.

She said that they continued sightseeing. More specifically, he took her to the pyramids for a camel ride. I guess he didn't massage her enough down there.

It was then that one of her other personalities kicked in and she told the man that she was going to file a police report. So, he paid her $100 to keep her quiet. She took the money.

So, she told me she wanted me to not only go to the police station and file a police report with her, but also to escort her everywhere in Egypt, because she was afraid to leave the hotel.

And she drew me a map of where to find his house so that I could go with her to confront him.

I told her that I would not go to the police station because now she looks like a prostitute. I most definitely was not going to his house. And I told her that the best I could do was sign her off the tour, because I refuse to babysit adults. I didn't sign up for a Special Ed job.

Well, she's still on the tour and has been nothing but trouble.

Not only that, she has the worst acne ever. I'm scared of what the Egyptian guy looked like.

Just another day as a tour leader.

At least haven't gotten diarrhea since I've been back. Still nice and firm.

So. This is her. The worst thing about this picture is that she wears that crazy, Asian-produced make-up that is able to cover up acne. So, she doesn't look so hideous in the picture. Just for the full effect, I did ask her to push her boobs out further. She complied.

To the person that left an anonymous comment about this posting. Thank you for your input on Egyptian men and Southeast Asian women. I think your level of hatred is pretty hilarious - almost as hilarious as my ability to exaggerate reality!

family time

Family time was good. Parents are handling the divorce rather maturely and my sister seems to be coping well. This here with the necklace I got her made - her name in Arabic. She's working it and looks like a trannie which I kind of dig.

Spent a lot of time lying around and watching television. Project Runway, specifically.

Went and chilled with the grandparents.

First was great-grandma. She looks damn good for 105 years old. Yeah, 105. I got her to smile for the first time ever. I told her to give me some 'sass' for this picture. If this isn't sass, then I don't know what is.

For this one, I told her to imagine being able to chew solid foods. She loved that one.

Grandpa looks great for having beat skin and prostate cancer.

Grandma had her 2nd full face lift, lip injections, neck lipo, and eye job. I was a bit scared to see her in person, since mom showed me the initial camera phone pictures (which I wish I could post because she looks like Amanda Lepore). But, in person it wasn't so bad. She does look TIGHT, ya'll.

How much do these pictures scream CHRISTMAS!

balls are a'blow'in

Nicky and I went to the "Bodies: The Exhibition" installation down at the South Street Seaport. Here's some pictures for an initial visual:

Okay, so those are real, human bodies. Life-size, totally not fake. Who cares whether or not the 'artist' purchased, stole, or was willed the bodies from a Chinese morgue in rural China - the exhibit was TFO (total fierceness overload).

It was a big exhibit - took us 2 hours (we were moving quickly). But there weren't many people there. The people that were there were obviously in the medical profession and/or weren't thrill-seekers. Afterall, the ticket was $20odd. We were all getting up close and personal with the exhibits.

Pretty much every disorder was accounted for on the plasticized, flayed, or dissolved bodies. One thing Nicky and I learned about was a disorder where a tumor grows inside your body. This tumor is a hog-pog of different cells (skin, hair, teeth) all in one clump. Imagine a Gremlin gone wrong.

We were both flabergasted, so I asked my mom/nurse about this. She had a friend with this growth!!! It really does happen.

Some other things that kept the party going: all of the rectum's still had hair on them (no other parts of the body did) and the industrial air-conditioning caused a few testicles to blow in the wind.

An enlightening aspect of the exhibit was the 'baby room'. They had fetuses for every month, as well as siamese twins, and other oddities. A) I think its weird that he was able to find all these fetuses B) It's amazing to see just how quickly you're able to distinguish human life from a tadpole. It gets you thinking about abortion. I think it's bound to get us pro-choicers thinking about abortion.

piles are a'blow'in

So, I went back to NYC for Christmas. Well, not actually Christmas - but "Christmas Time". This is what happens when you work in a Muslim country for a Muslim boss. Just like I don't understand what it means to endure Ramadan, they don't get that being home for December 25th is not the same as being home for Dec 24th.

The flight wasn't terribly exciting. KLM. Relatively on-time. Lots of food and movies to pick from. I arrived in NYC, originally all jazzed about going and seeing everyone, getting wasted the good 'ol NYC way, etc. But once I landed, I kind of wanted to turn around and go back. Just the stresses of having to see a million people in only 10 days and knowing there'd be no 'vacation' in my vacation turned me off.

I was supposed to call Marian and let her know when I landed so that she could plan her evening. My original intention was just to borrow someone's mobile phone to make a call, instead of running around looking for quarters (since I threw all mine away when I got to Egypt). I asked 3 people and they all said NO. Some hocus pocus about stealing people's numbers and charging them a lot of money. I know it goes on in England with the pay-as-you-go type phones, but not in America. Maybe I had been away for a while.

So, I asked the toll booth to break a dollar for me. Girl wasn't having any of that. "What do I loooook like, a bank?" No, she didn't. She looked more like a double-wide trailer.

I should've known (based on previous experiences with Marian), that once I got to the apartment, I wouldn't be going to bed for many hours. We ran off to one party/bar after another and before I knew it, I was absolutely trashed. It just happens sometimes.

While at The Cock at 330am, Marian reminded me that we had to meet "Karen" about the sublet my dad would be staying in while he helped me move all my crap from Manhattan Mini to Michigan. We had arranged a 4am rendevouz with Karen since she'd be up late doing "work stuff." I had to have Marian talk to her on my behalf when we picked up the keys. All I could mutter were a few arabic words to our latino taxi driver. I was in no shape to converse with Ms. Karen.

When Nicky and I (along with my father) went to go find Karen's apartment a couple days later, I couldn't remember where is was. So, I walked up and down the block trying keys in all the doors. Blackout central.

My time in NYC was good. It was nice seeing everyone - Molly and Whitney (both still thin & fabulous), the Lowe ladies (still willing to get sloshed with me), the Asian contingent and Marie (still living in an economic bracket that I'll never reach), Nicky (still working it in Westchester), and of course Marian (working it with a *snap).

But, I don't miss NYC, in general. Which I guess is good - I guess I made the right decision.

I wish I could've documented my time in NYC - but my camera was MIA.

jazz hands

The past two weeks have really flown by. I've been running our Egypt to Jordan tour and today I start our Jordan to Egypt tour. 30 days back-to-back. Very full on. And very not about sleeping.

I had 3 Americans on tour this week. That brings the total up to 4, after having been working here since February. If it weren't for them, I probably would've forgotten about Thanksgiving. Considering Turducken isn't en vogue here yet.

I forgot my camera in Cairo, which I'm totally bummed about. Firstly, because this is my last time in Jordan before I get transferred to Morocco (woohoo! January!) - I wanted to finish all these necessary Jordanian pictures (Especially the portrait action at the exchange place. The dude that works there has a Kmart-esque snapshot of his crazy-eyed daughter sitting on some faux sheepskin nonsense. But instead of leaving it at that, he cut out 2 pictures of Saddam Hussein's head, and pasted them above his daughters head, so that the pictures are looking down on her. Oh, Saddam, won't you be MY guardian angel?). Secondly, because yesterday while at Petra, approximately 30 university-age Jordanian girls (some in burkhas, some in an understated hijab) creamed their pants in front of me. I was rocking a huge zit on my chin, but them ladies were all about their low-res cameraphone pictures. And their shreeks! I thought my eardrum was going to pop. I found the experience totally embarassing and ironic. If I were really about the cootch, I'd be the father of many Jordanian children by now. But alas. I wish I had visual documentation of these festivities.

whatever happened to peace in the middle east, ya'll?

Yeah yeah yeah, I'm alive. Dodged Amman blast. Was in Cairo. Missed all the action. I'll be back there in two weeks and will be sure to document Al Qaeda's havoc.

Maybe Jordan will get those snazzy hotel metal detectors that all the Egyptian hotels have. And maybe they'll come included with guards that sleep on the job, too. See Alexandria for a visual on this high security phenomenon.

ashabee

These are the people I spend most of my time with here in Egypt. My friends!

Waheed. He keeps trying to convince me that its fantastic without plastic. Charming, huh?


Omar preparing his sheesha. Quite possibly the skinniest man alive. Don't thank God, thank the Ganga!

Muharram. He grows the gangah that makes Omar so svelte.

My felucca boyfriend, Mahmoud. That's a catfish.

Ramadan and Mahmoud, giving me a hot rub down. It's all about not having yellow teeth in this picture.

Dee, a fellow tour leader, and I on Mt. Sinai. Note her headlamp.

This is Eid. He's a bratty 12 year old that lives in the desert. He hates it there, he dreams of getting out and into a big city.

This is Farag! He's absolutely crazy. He led me and my group on a 2-day desert trek. I felt we were in very capable hands. Capable and so very dry -- someone please buy this boy a bottle of Nivea.

I don't really know Ibrahim that well. But I want to, because of his sport. He hunts eagles with this bird that he has in his hand. He tried to explain it to me, and I understood what he was saying, but it makes no sense whatsoever. All I know is that his bird gets to wear a fierce hat as it hunts.

Mostafa is a new edition to the felucca family. He cooks really well (ie. doesn't use a cup of salt in everything). Plus, he makes ME sound like a good singer.

hmmm

Laura and I went to Jordan for two weeks. She was training me - teaching me the in's and out's of the country, so that I could lead my own tour there in a couple weeks. I liked Jordan. It's a very civilized country. A country where people aren't always beeping in your ear as they drive buy. A country where they don't try to grab your ass on the street. A country where people don't always have their fingers lodged in their nostril. It was a welcome change.

Unfortunately, we had some of THE most annoying people on earth on tour with us. Only one woman really needs to be mentioned. We nicknamed her Boob Rot. She was constantly lifting up her shirt and clawing at her bra-less breasts. I don't know if she had developed a nasty fungus up in there or what, but I was astonished. She was travelling with her 'pretending to not be a lesbian' galpal. They would just winge and winge and winge. My favorite part is when she got mad at Laura because the sunset too fast.

She wanted Laura to have the bus pullover for a picture of the sunset. The sun was already half covered by the mountain below it and the bus was on a small, wind-y, one-way street. Needless to say, the sun just wasn't waiting long enough for us to pull over in a safe spot, and it dropped behind the mountain. Gurl had a trantrum in the form of the biggest eye-roll I've ever seen.

This is Laura in Wadi Rum:

We took a fab jeep safari after:

And swung by Petra:

Laura took a moment to chill with the local color. Note the teeth on this woman. And no, Laura isn't missing an arm:

This is the Monastery. It's a good 45 minute climb to get to the top. Look at the tiny people at the base. It gives you a good idea of just how large the place is. Crazy to think this was created hundreds of years ago without machinery.

Me, in the Dead Sea doing a mud pack (on the Jordanian side of course, wouldn't want to risk that nasty Israeli passport stamp). I felt smmmooooth:

I know it sounds weird, but I've never been able to float on my back before - just my stomach. So, I found it very exciting that no matter how I arrange myself, the 33% salt content would keep me on top of the water. That's me, reading the Jordanian guidebook.

Then we went to a Roman city. The weather in Jordan obviously isn't as good as Egypt.

Our camelmen. They are Beduoin. There are only about 5,000 true Beduoins living in Jordan (out of a population of 7 million). These are the real Jordanians - now Jordan is mostly Palestinian refugees:

These Bedouins are still semi-nomadic. They haven't settled into brick buildings yet. This is one family's tent:

We swung by Dahab on the way back. This crazy girl gave Laura a fabulous up-do:

Laura, her up-do, and Mohammed:

video honies

4 of my friends from NYC came to visit me in Egypt for 2 weeks. Robin and the 3M's (Marian, Marie, and Maria). Here's a photo montage of our time together.

First, we went to the pyramids for a sunset camel ride. I've never actually done this before with any of my groups. So, I wasn't familiar with the timing and what exactly was involved. Let's just say it wasn't what I expected it to be - we missed the sunset, there was a small sandstorm, and there were crazy Egyptian women with purple-tinted foundation riding horses. I think our facial expressions say it all:

After a day in Cairo, I organized a jeep safari for us out in Bahariya and Farafra oases. This was our jeep and our spokesmodel, Marian:


But before we could continue, I had to take a moment and assess one of Marian's ailments. One of many to come...


Inside our jeep were not only two fabulous Egyptian men (Waheed our guide and Khaled our driver pictured), but also a chandelier apparatus that would light your cigarette for you:


Maria wasn't going to pass up a chance to get in on the chandelier action:


We had a stopover in the Black Desert. We climbed a mountain to get a better view of the area. On top were piles of stones that previous travellers had put together. It's supposed to give you good luck. I stacked one with my father in April and my friends and I stacked another.

PS - Who said black wasn't a functional, desert color?

After the Black Desert, we continued onto the White Desert. It's absolutely beautiful. Over the years, the wind has formed these mushroom-like rock structures.

Luckily Robin isn't a heffer, she could've brought the shroom down with her.

Marian and I riding the chicken. Marian seemed rather at ease with the chicken.

I forgot what we were doing.

Marian captured us on film throughout the trip. At least I'll be able to give my plastic surgeon a reference for how I want to look again.

At night, Waheed and Khaled assembled this fierce living room for us to lounge/eat/drink in.

The next day, we went swimming at a natural hot spring in the Farafra Oasis. There was a jeepload of police watching us the entire time. They looked like clowns crammed into a tiny car at the circus. Marian decided to spice things up a bit and threw a pair of Elmo undies at them. She captured the entire thing on film. Unfortunately, the police weren't very enthused - so they yelled at Waheed. They weren't upset over the panty throwing, just the fact that their picture had been taken. Seriously people, let's pick our battles. Anyway, we knew they'd totally sniff her panties after we left.

Then we went to go chill with these dudes in a date palm garden. The dude smoking the sheesha didn't have undies on.

I'm totally sucking his pipe, while Waheed chills in the background.

Robin likes his pipe, too.

On the way back to Cairo, we had to huff vomit fumes the entire way. I don't understand why everyone in the Middle East has motion sickness issues. Luckily, we had 3 days on the feluccas to look forward to. Here's Marie getting a rubdown from Sabri.

Just a tidbit of info on Sabri. First, I called him Sobri for the entire 3 days by accident. I later found out that Sobri means penis in Arabic. Secondly, in retrospect I thought this to be an appropriate name for him since his junk was totally hanging out of his shorts the entire time. Dude, get some BVDs, it ain't pretty.

I brought a bunch of galabiyyas for us to wear on the felucca. Marian wore her's the entire time, because she totally got into the Nubian spirit. So did her hair, it was a giant dreadlock by the end.

Holding on for our dear lives on the back of the felucca. I'm willing to bet 3:4 of us were pee-ing as this picture was being taken. Marian was having stomach issues, so she was probaby doing #2. Good thing she was at the back.

After the feluccas, we hung out in Luxor for a bit. We went spice shopping one night, and I don't really know what happened. See, the thing about Egyptians is that its really easy to make them smile - which is better than getting angry at them for harassing you every minute of every day as you walk down the street. I managed to convince the guy at this shop that I was from Candyland. And when I'm in Candyland, I stand like a gingerbread man (I demonstrated with my arms and legs spread) and I jump from place to place on gum drops (I got him to jump around the shop with me!). Then he gave us some Peruvian flake and I totally gobbled it up.

In Dahab, the ladies spent a morning diving:

And then that afternoon, we moved onto St. Catherine to climb Mt. Sinai. Our goal was to make it up before sunset, sleep on top, and then walk up for sunrise. Of course, it didn't go as planned. We literally had to Fred Flinstone our car to St. Catherine. Thank god the driver was providing nutrition for Maria in the form of luggies being spat out the front window and then flying in the back window and landing on Maria. It really kept her going. Once we got to the base of the mountain, I had to go through police permissions and Marian and to diarrhea. Marian proceeded to get more sick as we got up the mountain - with poop and puke. Fierce. The sun slowly began to set and we were nowhere near the top and it was getting colder by the second. I proposed that we wait for the moon to rise and walk up under the moonlight (since none of us brought flashlights!). Well, the moon didn't rise quickly enough for us (and when it did, it was only a sliver), so we proceeded to the next guesthouse along the way. We got warmed up, ate some food, and paid the dude to lead us to the top with his flashlight. We did eventually make it up to the top, but it was less-than-peaceful once we got up there. People were constantly stepping on our feet and heads. There's an entire mountain top for the crazy, Korean holy-rollers to sit on, but they wanted our spot. Of course. This is Robin, Marie, and I (showcasing our pita bread) just before sunrise.

Yo gurl, phone home!

Maria (the most religious member of our 5-some) thought she had died and gone to heaven when this Polish group of people held a mass on the mountain just after sunrise. I have to admit, it was an experience. But, what really made it for me was when the priest accidentally knocked over the holy water or wine or whatever they use. And the guy behind him knelt down to pick up the cup, and his foot got stuck in a crack and he couldn't get it out. He kept saying Shit Shit Shit. Once he managed to get his leg free, they pulled out their bottle of Jagermeister and used that for the Holy Communion.

We climbed back down Mt. Sinai and returned to Dahab for some much needed R&R. The ladies got to meet my little Beduoin friend, Mohammed. Mohammed is a total gentleman.

This is Mohammed and his entourage playing backgammon with Marian. Backgammon is the Egyptian game of choice. Right after this picture was taken, I ordered Mo some cornflakes for breakfast (after I had denied his request for french fries). When I wasn't looking, he poured an entire bowl of sugar on top and proceeded to gobble it up. He also spoon-fed some of his gang. See, a total gentleman!

A civilized evening of wine drinking. Look how gorg everyone is. I showed this picture to some of my felucca boyfriends and they told me to put the picture away until after Ramadan.

A good Muslim gurl.

We returned to Cairo at the end of the trip and did some mosque sight-seeing. This is inside the Al Azhar mosque. Marian managed to developed a vicious leg-rash while inside.

Our crew at the Sphinx. I feel we look like an Italian sunglass advert here. Especially Maria with her seductive, boob-enhancing pose and that strategically-wrapped scarf.

working backwards

Today is one of those bad Egyptian days. You know, the days when you sign on in the internet cafe (the carbon-copy internet cafe that has been designed all over the Middle East so that nobody has any privacy - wouldn't want anyone looking at gay porn, now would we?) and the idiot before you set the homepage to fuckportal dot com. Oh no no no, but if course it doesn't stop there. Then come the 50 pop-ups offering you hot sex with horses and panties with a built-in butt-plug. So you're forced to frantically close everything as the two burkah-clad ladies beside you watch in mock-horror.

And then, as you walk down the street, everyone has to shout something in your ear. Welcome! Welcome to my beautiful country! May I help you! You have beautiful hair! What country!

Yeah, I know my locks are flowing like a Pantene girl on horseback. But you don't hear me saying, "No! YOUR hair is beautiful. Reminds me of the Gotti family reality TV show" or "Hey man, why are you and your 5 male buddies holding hands (with interlaced fingers) forming a big 'ol daisy chain as you walk down the street?"

This nonsense usually gets to me once every 10-15 days. If it weren't for Ramadan, I'd totally be having a cocktail.

Oh Ramadan, the month when you're REALLY not supposed to lie, cheat, or steal (or eat or smoke). Yet, with prayer beads in one hand and a cigarette in the other, you're still getting ripped off every corner you turn.

Otherwise. All is well! Egypt isn't so bad, most people are somewhat respectful and willing to listen to me practice Arabic.

Right now I'm on tour with 3 people. I left 8 of them in Cairo and only a few are continuing on to Siwa and Alexandria. It's a shame so few people go out to Siwa, it really is the 2nd best place in Egypt (after the White Desert near Farafra Oasis). But, I guess if more people went to Siwa, it would just be another over-touristed city.

Two of my 3 people are 50-somethings from inner-Australia. Total rednecks. And quite possibly some of the more annoying people I've had on tour. Most of their questions are so stupid that a blank stare is the only answer I can conjure up.

This weeks winners were:

- As I was reading a book on a 100km stretch of land populated with many buildings, while riding in the bus:
HIM: "Hey Eric, what was that building 10km back?"
ME: "Oh! That one! The sheikh's house"

- Riding by some tractors digging at sand:
HIM: "Hey Eric, what are they MINING here?"
ME: "Sand. And lots of it."

- This morning, as rain began to hit the windshield:
HER: "Is that rain?"
ME: "Let me check. Yes, it appears to be water falling from the sky."

- And the usual "What's that?" "What's that?" "What's that?"
Usually, the answer is something like, "A stone shelter" or "A small desert shrub"

What's that old saying? Oh yeah. Ask a stupid question, get an ever stupider answer.

This poster I found on the street in Alexandria sums up today (don't worry - next time I go, I'm totally buying it):

This was our protection at the hotel. At least we know his shielded crotch will be safe from any explosives:

stay cool with bex, ya'll

I like the girl on the right. She's perfected the stunned Kate-Moss-on-coke look:

I had a fabulous last tour. I met one real whackjob and the rest were absolutely delightful. It's not only nice to hear Thank You's, but it's nice to know that these are people you'll definitely keep in touch with and will probably see again.

Crazy Farhana, Irish girl, Holly, and Bridget (Bridget is totally crypt-keeping it):

We spent most of our time on the felucca talking about Nicole Kidman and just how much we hate her. We would often ask ourselves, "What would Nicole do?" And being the crypt-keeper she is, the answer was usually something pretaining to a receding hairline, nub-y teeth, or not using shine-reducing face powder. Bridget's crypt-keeper inspiration:

Me, Jessie, and Bridget not using bio-degradeable soap in the Nile. Maybe it'll fend off that nasty bilharzia everyone's always talking about (note: Bridget's hair):

One of the things that we do while on feluccas is run around campfires like drunk idiots. On the right hand side you'll notice a woman with a tasteful blue sarong. Her name is Little Becky. She's a fiesty 40-something that dances like she's from Arkansas. She was on holiday with her equally disturbing son. It was a colorful cast of characters that evening.

Holly's working her hat. I'm working the veins on my arms:

I managed to get two people on my tour laid - nobody ever said I don't run a full-service operation...

One night, a girl on my tour knocked on my door offering me a bag of chips and asking for antibiotics for diarrhea. Not one of the most attractive encounters I've had at 4am. Even in my drunken stupor, I could see that this was a blatant (yet so, so poor) attempt at getting my room. I know it's shocking, but I didn't let her in.

But I did wake up to a note under my door. Here it is:

"Eric. I really wanted 2 spend an hour or two in your company 2night but you blew me out! I am so upset! (Jooke!)"

It's difficult to come up with a response to this.

back to the city victorious

At Sana'a airport - enroute to Cairo. My time in Yemen is done.

I somehow managed to sleep through my alarm tonight and Mohammad-the-airport-driver woke me up at 11pm. I still had packing to do, so I scrambled. I also meant to say good-bye to my classmates. I feel like a total asshole about it, but will be sure to have the Director forward an apologetic email to the appropriate people.

Today was very interesting. The government announced a pointless 100% increase in fuel prices. Which not only means that "normal people with cars" will have to pay more, but public transport will also double in price. Not surprisingly, the Yemenis took to the streets with their firepower and starting lighting things on fire and shooting at the police. Yes, definitely the right way to go about change.

We decided not to leave the Center, so we cooked a feast. Notice the hijab action. Fierce!


I was a bit worried my flight would be cancelled tonight because of all the wreckage, but it started raining. So all the fighters went inside and chewed qat instead of getting wet. Fighting is said to resume tomorrow.

a city devoid of life

After my day of failure yesterday, I decided to wake up super early this morning to catch a cab to Shibam (something that didn't seem like a very hard task). Not only did I hope to catch early morning souk activity, but I'd also be closer to Wadi Da'wan, so maybe someone would be willing to take me there???

The drive to Shibam was very impressive - lots of abadonded mud castles.

But Shibam itself was craziness. They call Shibam the "Manhattan of the desert." 8-9 storey tall buildings made completely out of mudbrick!


Their houses may be made out of mud, but they've still got A/C ya'll!


You enter the city through tall, white gates, which made it feel like stepping back into time. I walked around for a good hour snapping photos and looking for the souk, signs of activity, signs of life - anything!

Nothing!

Only a few antique shops were open and the men inside were already asleep. Lots of other shops were closed up. I wondered what hid behind their doors. I assured myself that after an hour of sipping tea, I'd make another round and perhaps the town would be more alive.

At least they merchandise well!

I went back to the white gates and wandered towards a tea stand. It turned out that this was the only tea stand in Shibam and that the tea stand lie in the middle of the souk. I was still very confused because 1 fruit stand, 1 veggie stand, and 1 pile of dried dates doesn't really constitute a "souk". This was supposed to be the big weekly bazaar. I didn't understand how anyone would be able to eat for more than a day if this was all that was on offer.

I decided not to stress too much about their rotted vegetables and plomped my ass down in the middle of some dudes on a coal-burned rug. They smoked the ancient hose-less sheeshas with unflavored tobacco. There was a real art to rolling tobacco in their hands and preparing the communal pipe before huffing their brains out.

Nobody really seemed to notice me. I was definitely the only tourist in town UNTIL I saw a man in the typical "I'm going to the Middle East" brand-new safari gear. Tool.

Then, about 10 minutes later, before I could even react to their presence, a Japanese camera crew arrived with the tool. A Japanese woman (who I guess is a celebrity in her homeland giving how tangibly annoying she was in only a way that television personalities can be) came in shouting Salaam Alaykum's and plopped HER ass down in the middle of ME and these dudes. She had a camera girl, a boom girl, a random Japanese guy, a translator, and of course the tool. I thought it was totally rude and embarassing, but the men loved it! I refused to move even though they were slowly moving in on my territory. Once the camera girl tripped over me, I got up in a huff hoping they'd realize that they'd ruined MY Shibam experience. But of course I didn't leave without documentation.

She's totally going to suck his pipe:

I strolled around town again. Established that their was nothing else open, nothing else to see, and certainly nothing to eat. I tried to get a taxi to Hajjarayn after the guy's outside the white gates said Da'wan was impossible without a 4WD jeep. Hajjarayn was as deep as I could get that day.

One guy offered to take me to Hajjarayn for 2000 riyals. I'm not sure if that was one-way or round-trip, but at the time, I laughed at the price, KNOWING I could get a better deal if I returned to Sayun and booked taxi from there.

Ha! I was so very wrong. They all wanted 5000-8000 R/T from Sayun.

I retreated to a juice stand and just camped out. I refused to check myself into a hotel room with things so up in the air - I had a feeling something may be coming my way. After all, if you sit somewhere long enough, someone is bound to swing by and chat with you and maybe give you a few pointers.

I ended up booking a car through some guy's friend for 3500 R/T for 3pm that afternoon.

The drive took 90 minutes. The place was spectacular. 17,000 population on mountain and lower-lying communities. People seemed to be more curious than they were friendly. Not the usual gormless stares that the Yemeni's are so famous for; these people were a bit more inquisitive with their eyes.

Young girls kept asking for pictures, but I knew that there could be trouble if I actually did take any. Some of these people believe that a picture steals your soul, so I didn't want to upset anyone. I could only take their chants of "surah! surah!" for so long, and reached for my camera. The oldest one had a look of terror on her face and began screaming NO NO NO. She screamed as she guarded the children. I backed off. I didn't want the child to have a coronary at age 8.

Once I got back to Sayun, I booked a ticket to Sana'a at 6:15 the next morning. But only after I told the guy selling me the ticket that I was American and that I had no religion. (After he asked for this information) I found 2 things weird about this encounter: He asked if I was Muslim. And when I said No, he then offered up, "Are you Buddhist?" Who says Buddhist before Christian? Then, the reaction he gave my answers made me feel like I shouldn't get on the bus in the morning. Could be Bomb Central.

As I walked back to my filthy room at the aptly named Palace Sayun, I talked myself down and attributed my fears to the oppressive heat and exhaust fumes from my taxi ride from Hajjarayn.

turnin' tricks

After Tarim, I returned to Sayun and booked a room at BMC. The dude at reception want 2500 riyals a night. I was all, "No way, Jose." He kept asking what nationality I was so that he could give me what he thought was a fair revision. Do I look like I just fell off the cabbage truck? I told him that it wasn't any of his business and that I was here on my own. And that all I had was my daypack - I was roughing it, ya'll. His response was, "Are you sure you didn't come with a tour group or private car or private guide or taxi or blah blah blah." I wasn't even entertaining that nonsense with an answer. I told him I'd give him 1500. We ended up deciding on 1800, my biggest splurge of the trip at $9USD.

I guess it was worth it, the place had a killer view and an even deadlier swimming pool. Algae, anyone? There was also A/C, but hardly effective, seeing as I was in the middle of the desert in July. At least there was Star Movies. I was really revving myself up for the LeeLee Sobieski movie about the girl that contracts knee cancer (yeah, that boney thing on your leg) and dies that was playing that evening.


But first! I went and took a swim in the swamp/pool. Showered and attempted my first hitch-hiking experience ever. I had to get back into Sayun (the hotel was about 20k outside of town) and hitching was the only way to get there. I didn't really know what to do. I tried holding my thumb up a couple times like the tool I am. That didn't work. So I tried a simple wave. I tried to look slutty for one car full of boys. I think my sunglasses were too dark for them to see the red hot sex in my eyes. I eventually walked so far along the road that I ran into some Yemeni dudes waiting for a car, too. I asked them if I could share if they found a car, so that's what I did. My first attempt at solo hitching was a huge failure.

Anyway. I had to go back to town to find someone to take me "deeper." I wanted to go to Wadi Da'wan further south on a road less travelled. The only tour agency that the LP pointed out ended up being closed, internet wasn't happening any time soon, and there were no other whities in town that I could see. So I had dinner and called it a night.

still embarassed to be american

I took at night bus to Wadi Hadramaut the other night and arrived yesterday morning at 4:45am. We hit a sandstorm along the way, which is why we were just a tad late. I sat next to a large African-looking guy who chewed qat, burped, and farted the entire time. I guess it's better than huffing Dorito-breath vomit like I did on the Aden bus.

Claudia told me to get a shitload of copies made of my police permission. When she and her sister went a couple weeks ago, they got stopped at every checkpoint and were asked for the permission. Eventually, they ran out of copies and just put on their burkahs and called it a day. I didn't exactly have the "luxury" of a burkah, so made many copies, just in case.

At the first checkpoint, I was the reason why the bus had to pull over for a full hour. Lots of back-and-forth looking at my passport, my permission, my face. I felt bad since I was the only foreigner on the bus - and an evil American at that. As to not make anymore enemies, the bus driver and I made a pact. If I pulled the curtain and ducked my head if anyone were to look in, he'd tell the police that there were no foreigners on board. It worked. We didn't have to endure anymore checks after that. But I still had to endure fart-man.

Arrived to the Wadi with the Yemeni portion of Lonely Planet's Middle East edition. Yemen got a whopping 20 pages out of the book, and the Wadi got about 1. So, I'm spending the next 5 days trying to entertain myself with 1 page worth of information.

The bus dropped me off in Sayun. I wandered around a bit until after sunrise, trying to take some pictures. But Sayun is much smaller and less impressive than I thought. I mean, the Wadi is pretty and all, but I have to say that the Western Desert and Sinai in Egypt beat this.

Downtown Sayun:

Mosque action:

Action in his pants:

After a breakfast of donut-like bread, eggs, my first "chai halib" and more bread, I caught a shared taxi to Tarim.

Tarim is a very quaint town. The sagacious Lonely Planet said that Tarim had 365 mosques - which I thought would be a sight in and of itself. I soon found out that a mosque doesn't necessarily mean that a minaret has to be attached - making it easily visible from afar. I only counted about 20. I guess any old room with a mihrab and a couple of prayer mats is technically a mosque. But I liked Tarim, nonetheless. It seemed laid back and "peace" as the Kurdish/Swede described it.

I was sitting outside Yemen's tallest minaret and up pulled a mini-bus full of galabiyya-clad men.

It was pretty obvious they were converts, with all that notoriously pastey, British skin stepping out of the vehicle. One started walking towards me and I was all, "Fabulous! Just what I'm in the mood for." But 'Mohammed from London' seemed alright and so did Kurdish/Swede man. There's a school in Tarim where all the converts go, I was hoping for a free lunch or at least a free tour of the establishment. I mean, don't they get extra Allah points for such things? No luck, I was on my own for lunch.

As I walked around, I realized just how alone I really was. Children, who are usually the most friendly in any town you go around the world, were running away at the sight of me. If someone was hanging around their front door, they'd immediately run inside and drag with them as many wandering kids as possible.

I wonder if Sana'a was ever like that. Is someone feeding them lies about foreigners? Maybe they really haven't seen that many people with fair skin or are we scary looking? Why were the kids in Shaharah (a much more remote place) so different?

When I tried to buy a banana from a kid, he stood frozen, unable to move. I don't know if it was my arabic or just me being a foreigner, but the kid just stood there like a bump on a log. His friend had to step in and lend a helping hand.

he ain't no trannie

Finally ended up going to Aden last weekend. Aden is on the southern tip of Yemen - was once one of the most important ports in the world, was taken over by the British (they even built a mini Big Ben), and then basically disappeared after a couple revolutions. I was expecting it to be super hot, super exotic, super fierce, and somewhat pretty. Unfortunately, it didn't live up to any of those expectations. Someone didn't want to do a night bus, so we opted for a 7-hour day bus (7am to 2pm). With the Steven Siegal movie, followed by a voyeuristic documentary about animals killing animals in Africa, followed by people barfing up what smelled like Nacho Cheesier Doritos, it wasn't exactly the best start.


We ended up getting some very nice hotel rooms for a very nice price. We didn't stick around for long, though; we quickly changed into our bathing suits and headed to the Indian Ocean to take a dip.

The beach basically consisted of extremely huge waves that caused our suits to fly off every couple seconds. Fortunately, about 30 guys lined up along the beach to watch the crazy white people swimming. Definitely in their top 10 of spectator sports. I think the guys got a good show considering that waves + bikinis = nudity. Not to mention, my ass was all over the place -- I'm sure all sexual persuasions were fulfilled that cloudy afternoon.

After that nonsense, we decided to retreat to the hotel and get all sexy for the Sailor's Club. Todd sold the Sailor's Club to us as a den of iniquity - full of prostitutes, hypocritical Saudis, and trannies galore. Perfect, I thought -- I could use a little nasty.

We got there, and it was empty. I tried to take a picture as documentation of its lack of fierceness, but was quickly stopped by some Djibouti hookers in the corner. As if I wanted a picture of their nappy-ass weaves.<