Reflections on Other Things I Lost While Travelling: The Chamsa

Earlier on this trip, I lost a much less expensive and much more easily replacable thing. But I like the journey it made between the time I bought it and the time I lost it.

I bought the Chamsa necklace for 15 shekels in Tsfat during the Birthright trip in February.

The Chamsa is the famous Middle Eastern handprint. Jews, Arabs, and I believe Druze and Christians have all used it at one time. I definitely saw Chamsas all over Israel and Egypt- in jewellery, on walls, in cars, in buses. Some of them just look like five-fingered hands ("chamsa" is "five" in Arabic), but most have four straight vertical fingers with a thumb pointing distinctly to the side, making it slightly resemble a chicken. Most also have an eye in the middle - it's to protect you from the "evil eye," I've been told.

The first time I saw a Chamsa was at the Hebrew Academy. It was while we were learning about Sephardic (Spanish) Jews. We made chamsas in art class by tracing our hand, then making a design, and then transferring it to a sheet of aluminum. I think the aluminum chamsa I made in elementary school is still on my parents' wall. Other than the art project, I don't remember much else about the lesson except that the teachers made an example of Aaron Levy, who was the only Sephardic Jew in the class.

Usually, when someone in the family travels, my mom gives them a chamsa with the traveller's prayer written on it in Hebrew and English. In English, it says that you will be protected from the "perils of the road," but unless you look at it closely, it looks like it says, "penis of the road," which is fodder for many corny jokes.

Enough anecdotal background about the chamsa. I found a nice, small chamsa necklace in Tsfat, which is one of Israel's holy cities, where many kabbalists have lived and studied. Much of it was built by Spanish Jews in the 15th century while Israel was a Turkish colony, and the city looks a bit like both Spain and Old Jerusalem (which was built by the Turks). It's on top of a mountain and is built mostly of tan bricks, and all the streets are cobblestones. Unlike Old Jerusalem, it's a quiet sort of tourist town. It's full of jewellery and art shops but you can relax while you browse them.

I bought the necklace pretty painlessly. I just sort of saw it, and decided it was good, and then gave the shop owner fifteen shekels, which is less than five bucks. I put it on and it just felt normal.

I also remember walking through the tourist area and looking at necklaces with Ido one of the soldiers who joined the Birthright trip. He found one of the popular Israeli bullet necklaces. (If you haven't seen one before, that's really what it is: a bullet. In Israel, bullet necklaces are sold alongside Jewish stars, chamsas, and Hebrew letters at all tourist shops.) We made fun of it together. "Israel, tough! We shoot Arabs!"

I don't usually wear necklaces, but sometimes I do. I don't wear jewellery in general, but some necklaces just seem to fit me. I bought one made of obsidian in Guatemala, and I wore it every now and then.

In Haifa, when I stayed with Ariel and Hagai, who I met on couchsurfing, the Guatemalan necklace suddenly broke into pieces in my pocket. On the surface, it seemed symbolic: I came to Israel, bought a Jewish necklace, and then the old Central American hippie necklace broke.

That night, I confessed to Hagai that I stole my towel from a hotel in Haifa. The water was cold in the shower and the hotel was both expensive and in a bad location, so I didn't feel bad, I told him. "That was very Israeli of you," he told me.

In retrospect, I think I did start to feel a little bit Israeli in a harmless, superficial, funny way.

In Israel, when people saw it, they said, "Oh, you're Jewish?" Before I went to Egypt, I was afraid it would give me away to people. Once I got there, not only did everyone who figured out I was Jewish not care, but in Cairo, a female student saw it and said, "You're looking very Egyptian."

I got the idea to tell people a story behind why I wear the chamsa necklace: I decided I would tell people, if they asked, that I wear it because it's a symbol that's part of both Arab and Jewish cultures, and it reminds me of how close they really can be. I definitely didn't think about that at all when I bought it, but it seemed like a good story to tell.

But I never really told that story. I mostly told people the truth: that I liked it because it looked cool. It was silver and had a turquoise stone in the middle.

I nearly lost it at the Sun Hotel. I spent a few hours one night looking for it, and then the next morning, I woke up and found it next to me on the bed. I wore it the rest of the time I was in Egypt, and brought it with me to the kibbutz.

One day at Neot Semadar, I realized I hadn't seen it in a few days. I haven't seen it since.

Dahab to Eilat

I have more to say about Dahab. More to say about all of Egypt. More to say about Israel, even.
But what I'm thinking about now is this:
In Egypt, people smiled too much, and in Israel, people don't smile enough.
There were exceptions, of course. But it blows my mind that I came back to Eilat feeling completely differently than the way I felt last time I was there - feeling more positive - and trying to keep stereotypes and expectations out of my mind. But it's the same. I smile and people rarely smile back.

Dahab Gold

When I first decided that I wanted to travel to the Sinai, Dahab was the destination I wanted to hit. I planned to head down there, meet some other travellers, and then go on to Cairo with them.
I decided that I wasn't comfortable going through the Sinai alone, on account of travel warnings and the general stress of border crossings (especially a crossing from a country that's more or less an American colony into one of the wildest regions of a country that's more or less a third-world nation). Fortunately, I met Mark and Jay in Eilat. But they didn't want to go to Dahab- they wanted to go to Nuweiba, on account of its proximity to Mt. Sinai. I was a little disappointed.
But I'm so glad I saved Dahab for last. It's an awesome place that is as awesome as it is partially because of what a great transition it is from the rest of Egypt.
I took the midnight bus here last night. I almost didn't make the bus. After being misled to the wrong station by the Rough Guide as well as a cab driver, I figured out which bus station was correct. I got off at the nearest Metro stop and asked people how to get there. They all pointed me in a general direction but I saw no sign of the station. I saw many scattered buses. I walked under dark overpasses with garbage burning under them. The only other pedestrians were alone and the cars were even more vicious than in the rest of Cairo. I was more worried about mugging and/or getting run over than I'd been in a long time- in Egypt, usually I'm just worried about annoying people approaching me to sell me something and ask stupid questions.
I asked a few stray strangers how to get to the buses and they pointed me toward a parking garage with a deserted parking lot in front of it. There were two security guards and a small fire outside, and the security guards were neither minding the fire nor trying to put it out.
I walked into the garage and I found it full of buses. A guard pointed me in the direction of a ramp that looked like it wasn't made for pedestrians. I knew that if a car came down it, I'd probably have no warning, but I walked up it, and sure enough, at the top was a fancy bus terminal. I bought the ticket to Dahab at 12:10. The bus departed at 12:15 and it took the teller about five minutes to get my ticket and then get me change. Because this is Egypt, he didn't give me change until I stood there for several minutes. I'm not sure if money-handlers enjoy taking a long time giving money to foreigners, can not count, hope that foreigners will leave without change, or a combination of the three.
But I made the bus. Ten sleepless hours, ten checkpoints, and one Mubarak-encrusted "welcome to Dahab" billboard later, I was in a magical, low-key hybrid of Buzios and Eilat. This place is blowing my mind so far. There are so many foreign tourists and so many restaurants here, but somehow there aren't too many. I'm going to get out of this internet cafe and enjoy it. I think I'm going to dive.

Back in Cairo

It's amazing how much you can get to like slightly familiar places when you're in an unfamiliar place.
The most familiar place to me in Egypt is definitely the Sun Hotel in central Cairo, and the second most familiar place is probably the internet cafe nearby, called "Virus." I asked the owner (who speaks English quite well) why it's called "virus," and he just laughed.
The Sun Hotel costs $5 to $6.00 a night including breakfast, a towel, semi-decent water, and English-speaking staff. The Virus cafe costs about $1.00 an hour and it has headphones with microphones for skype. In Egypt, all of the place's qualities - price, fast internet, and skype capability - are not easy to find.
I hope to stay in Cairo long enough tomorrow that I won't be sad to leave, and I hope to leave soon enough that I will not be sick of it. After Alex, Matruh, Siwa, Alex again, and then the disappointing Port Said, Cairo is surprisingly refreshing. I never thought a city that started out as exciting and then became annoying could have such a calming effect on me.
When I first arrived here, my travel buddy Jay and I took a taxi to our hotel. The taxi zoomed in and out of traffic, over highways that winded around minarets. We got so close to other cars, it felt like bumper cars, only more fun, because in bumper cars, you sort of end up staying in the same place, getting banged around. Riding in a Cairo taxi for the first time, with a massive, exotic city zipping by, was one of the most fun experiences I ever had in a car.
When I returned to Cairo, I decided to take the now-familiar Cairo Metro instead without hesitation. It was a much more efficient way to get from the bus station to the Sun Hotel.
I think I'll be heading back to Israel soon. I reckon I'd like to work at Kibbutz Neot Smadar in the Arava. It doesn't require the registration fee from the Kibbutz Program Center. It's also not far from the Red Sea, so it'll be easy to get to from here. Lonely Planet describes it, in a very brief recommendation of their restaurant, as "very alternative." According to one travel blogger (http://www.createdestroyenjoy.net/mideast.html), the people there have a "twinkle in their eye." It's in the middle of a desert full of colorful rocks and it has a lake. It also has colorful, playful architecture, as can be seen in the wikipedia article.
If I pay registration and go all the way to the program center in Tel Aviv, and then make another trip all the way to the Lebanese border, I can work on Bar'am, the classic kibbutz, with lots of volunteers, trees, organized excursions, a pub, lots of history attached to it, and all that sort of thing. But at the moment I feel like going to the Arava - and saving the money I'd pay for registration and insurance, as well.
I've been in the Virus Netcafe for about 2 hours . I'm going to pay the owner the 10 Egyptian Pounds I owe him and call it a night, internet-wise.

Still in Alex, writing about Siwa, and more

Siwa Oasis is a place that seemed so awesome in theory, there was no way it was going to live up to my imagination. But it was still awesome.
The image of Siwa that made me decide that I had to go there is the image of a gigantic mud-brick fortress sticking up out of a forest of palm trees which, in turn, are in the middle of a vast desert.
This is truly how it looks. And, in Siwa, there are plenty of opportunities to explore this beautiful area by bicycle. But the town of Siwa itself reminded me of a hastily underdeveloped Sinai beach resort.
I'll backtrack a bit here. On the road from Eilat in Israel down through the Sinai peninsula, you will find some of the prettiest water and mountains you'll ever see along with some of the most depressing half-developed resorts and beach camps you'll ever see. You will see some nice-looking camps, but you will also see the shells of never-finished camps and kilometers of indistinguishable fences with huts behind them with names such as "Happy Beach Camp," "Soft Beach Camp" (where I stayed) and "Paradise Camp." It's not the development of the natural habitat that's depressing as much as the haphazardness of it. You really get a sense that no planning went into this tourism development- that everyone and their brother decided to open some sort of tourist facility and nobody stopped them.
What's depressing about the Sinai is that the supply of accomodations way exceeds the demand, especially since the bombings there in the last five years. The camps lie there, unfinished and useless, like the hundreds of camels and guides that offer to take people up Mount Sinai or to the pyramids.
Anyway, Siwa is not depressing in that way, but the town center is full of anonymous restaurants, juice stands, handicraft stores, and tour operators. Nearly all of the signs look the same (most are brown with white writing, and have the same font), and all of the buildings are part of the same massive block of buildings. Restaurants often do not have menus displayed near their entrances. You usually have to gamble or take someone's advice. If you explore the town looking for a place to eat, you'll be confronted by a sea of anonymity. Well, maybe not a sea. A pond, anyway.
So the town center of Siwa is anything but idyllic. The area surrounding the town, however, is full of lakes, hot springs, and barely-standing ruins. It was fun in the day time, but more fun at night. The owner of my hotel charged me 10 bucks to drive me to a hot spring on his motorcycle. The motorcycle was fun. I loved feeling the air and seeing the mud-brick houses fly by me so quickly. The next day, when I rode there by bike with a Canadian and a German, I realized how short the ride actually was, and that, even in America, the ride wouldn't cost so much. But I forgave the dude. (To give you an idea, the bus from Marsa Matruh to Siwa cost about 3 bucks.) I didn't tip him.
And I'm timed out at the internet cafe.

In the Biblioteca Alexandrina

My time at the computer in the New Library of Alexandria will time out in thirteen minutes so this blog will be very rushed.
I went across the whole western coast of Egypt and it was pretty awesome. From Alex, I went to Marsa Matruh, which, as the guidebooks say, is a lackluster town, but it has a grade-A waterfront. In fact, I think it's the most beautiful waterfront I've ever seen. (And I unfortunately can't upload pictures yet.) A white railing follows kilometers of white sand and light blue, sometimes clear water. The beach is not especially clean - and let's be honest, hardly any beaches really are - but it looks so pure and clean, it's easy to overlook the trash. And come to think of it, the trash was still minimal compared to Sinai.
I decided to go swimming. I saw a little, abandoned brick house on top of a hill and went inside it. I felt really cool, like I'd found my little hermit's house. I had to pee really badly, so I peed inside it. I felt bad for soiling it. Then I discovered that there were three piles of shit inside the same house. Some people had also discovered this tiny house, but they went much further than myself in making it their own. I changed behind a rock instead. Then, I realized it was too cold outside to go swimming.
This beach is named Rommel's Beach, after the German general. There's a Rommel Museum inside a cave. Apparently he devised some great plans to defeat the Allies in the cave. An Egyptian approached me and said, "This man, he was from your county. He was a great man." "I'm not German, I'm American" I said. He looked disappointed. "But yes, Rommel was very smart. Patton was smarter, though." He seemed puzzled. "Patton defeated Rommel," I said. I thought of George C. Scott and felt a little bit proud to be American. This Egyptian (his name, like many Egyptians, was either Ali or Ahmed) introduced me to some of his cold friends who were swimming and offered me a ride back to town. I said, "I'm going to walk, but thanks."
After Matrouh, I went to Siwa. I have two minutes left, so I won't say much now. It was a nice, isolated place, although it still managed to be loud and it had lots of flies.

Alex and Yad Vashem

I just walked several kilometers through the streets of Alexandria to find this internet cafe, apparently the single one in the city that is open past midnight. (In Cairo, I was spoiled by having a 24hour right next to my hostel.)

I asked many Egyptians for directions, and they were all good people who did not call me "friend." I spent a good amount of time walking alone next to a tram track with decayed white European-looking buildings from the eary 2oth century with balconies and large windows. Egypt is full of decayed and decaying European buildings, but it's a bit more pleasant in Alex. The air is much cooler and cleaner. The decay along the waterfront feels harmless rather than depressing. And the desertedness of the streets is not threatening, because every block or so there is a cafe full of Arabs playing backgammon. It's also a Sunday night. Sunday nights feel depressing in some cities, but in Alexandria, the low-key Sunday night vibe seems to fit the city's personality.

I just ate an oversized "Greek salad" of cucumbers, tomatoes, peppers, and sweet cheese accompanied by shisha, baklava, and some other sweets. I was the only person on the street save for a few groups of Egyptian boys holding hands and Egyptian girls holding hands and two people who tried to sell me watches. The place I ate at is called "Athenios." I think it's been around since the city was full of Greeks, Jews, French, and Englishmen, and now, it's a Greek pastry shop owned by Egyptians. Fortunately, the Egyptians still understand how to make excellent baklava.

So, going back to Israel, the next place we went after Tiberias and the Golan was Jerusalem, as far as I can remember. The first place we went to there was Yad Vashem, the holocaust memorial. It disturbed me in more ways than I thought it would. But it's not. Many times throughout my life, I've seen memorials like it and been upset that something like that could happen, as most people are. When you build a great memorial to something, it's a way of signifying that it's over, and Yad Vashem made me upset that holocausts and genocides continue to happen all over the world.

The section devoted to people who resisted their governments and saved Jews was the only hopeful part of the museum for me, but it also reminded me just how exceptional those people are. I'd like to think that I'm capable of being Raoul Wallenberg if the opportunity presents itself, but I don't know.

The most disturbing thing about Yad Vashem was that it offered relief. There was something comforting about walking through a massive memorial to the Holocaust in the midst of the picturesque Judean hills. But it was a misleading kind of comfort. The museum sits there in Jerusalem and Holocausts continue to happen throughout the world while Yad Vashem reassures people like me that all I need to do is "remember."

That night, we went out in Jerusalem to Ben Yehuda street. It's one of the coolest pedestrian streets I've ever seen. But I'm going to call it quits now, because I'm tired and I'd like to navigate across half of Alexandria earlier rather than later.

Egypt Glossary

Before I continue to recollect my time in Israel, I am going to publish an informative glossary-like guide to Egyptian English.

Friend


The best single word translation for this term is "sucker."

If he calls you "friend," however, he is probably one of the following:

1) An overcharging hashish dealer
2) A desperate hashish addict
3) A shop owner who is either greedy or short on change
4) An artist who will make you something personalized and then try to make you feel guilty for not buying it.
On account of these people, I've been taken for about $70 US. Egyptians who don't call me "friend" include the managers of the hotel in Cairo and the owner of the internet cafe I'm typing at now. The owner of the internet cafe returned my camera to me after I left it there. The owners of the hotel charge $5 a night and don't care if you take a shower after you've technically checked out. Friends in Egypt are interesting. I used to say, "they pretend to be your friend, and then they cheat you." But I'm pretty sure that, for many Egyptians, your friends and the people you cheat are one in the same.

If an Egyptian does not call you "friend," he is probably a solid, legit guy.

I Don't Care About Money
Many Egyptians will say this. It means that they will eventually ask you to buy something once you're no longer afraid of them.

Welcome
In Egyptian English, this means "welcome," but it also means both "Hello" and "Get over here!" Most Egyptians say this as soon as they notice you are a foreigner. Young children, however, have learned that "Hi" or "Hello" is a more common greeting. It's not uncommon to be greeted by a mob of "welcome"s from people over the age of 20, or to be greeted by a mob of "hi"s from people under the age of 20.

Where from?
I used to think this was a friendly greeting, but people will chase you down while shouting "Where from!?" I'm pretty sure it means, "How badly should I rip you off?" A restaurant owner ripped me off by about 5 bucks (a lot in Egyptian money, considering that a full meal can cost $.75) after I told him I was Canadian, so I have no idea how much it would've been if I'd told him I was American.

Cool Egyptians may ask you this question too, but it's tough. One guy who I thought was cool immediately tried to get me involved in a massive hashish deal as soon as I'd answered the question. It seems like such an innocent question but it has proved to be a bad omen a surprising amount of times.

First time in Egypt?
This means almost the same thing as "Where are you from?" except I think it would be best translated as "Can I get away with ripping you off a lot, or just a little bit?" If a cool Egyptian asks you this, it definitely won't be the first question they ask you.

But with many people, it will be the first question they ask- sometimes it actually precedes "Where from?" or even "Welcome, friend!" In general, if someone cares whether it's your first time or not, they probably want to rip you off.

You don't understand my culture.
"Don't leave, I want to rip you off, and I'm not afraid to play into your white liberal guilt."

I have no problem with Israeli people.
Unfortunately, so far, this one also means, "I want to rip you off." A dude who works at the internet cafe I'm currently sitting at told me "Israel is why there's no peace here," and I told him it's much more complicated than that. I started Bush-bashing and that made him happy. He charges me less than a dollar an hour for the internet. Every time an Egyptian says, "Israel is OK," I want them to be cool, but most of them have tried to rip me off within minutes of declaring their lack of hatred for the Jewish country.

The guys who work at my hotel have been notable exceptions. They started talking about Tel Aviv and how cool it is when they saw the stamp in my passport. These guys are solid and totally legitimate.

I walk with you.
This one usually means, "I want to show you my perfume shop." Keep in mind that Egypt has about as many perfume salesmen as it has mosques. If an Egyptian offers to walk you somewhere, they will most likely walk you to their perfume shop, whether the place you've asked directions to is a museum, a pharmacy, or a hotel. The museum, pharmacy, or hotel is also most likely "closed." It rarely actually is.

Baksheesh.
This means, "I want money for nothing." In Coptic Cairo, a police officer (or possible military officer, I'm not sure which he was) pointed me in the direction of the synagogue (yes, there's a synagogue in Cairo, and it's very nice. of course it's just a museum now). He didn't even really point to it, he pointed toward a wall of another building. He also said something incomprehensible in Eng-rabic. Then he said, "baksheesh." I asked him how much and he said "20 pound." That's more money than a full meal costs anywhere but inside a hotel.

On the train from Luxor to Cairo, I shared a 3-seat first-class compartment with an awesome old dude from Oklahoma named Keith. The conductor said, "No three person" (Meaning: "There will be no third person joining you"). We acknowledged him and sprawled our legs out. "Baksheesh," the conductor said. We realized the guy wanted a tip for there not being a third person in the compartment. "You had nothing to do with that. I think the ticket seller did that," Keith said. "Twenty pound," the conductor said. We said, "no," and endured a good minute of an awkward stare until he went away.

Nobody who's actually doing you a service will ask for baksheesh. (A girl who gave me a tour of a mosque said in advance, "the tour is free, but I want baksheesh." I don't really count that because it was more or less a standard exchange of money for a service. She just worded it awkwardly.)

Save your money for people who deserve it, ie the people who sell you good services and products, because in Egypt, you can find plenty of good things for low prices and plenty of nice people who deserve your foreign cash. There just happened to be enough manipulative people to provoke me into writing a blog entry about them.