I just remembered a food story:

When I was walking back from that wonderful mosque, Ibn Tulun, I thought to buy some mangoes for the trip from Cairo down to Aswan to see Abu Simbel (Ramses III's tomb), the Egypt dam (and effectively, Lake Nasser, which you are invariably roped into). I was about to go on the sleeper train trip with my new friends sort of Charlie and Sophie, whom I met when I was at the Ramses Train Station in Cairo. I was able to convince them to share a cab with me as we went and saw the pyramids at Giza, Saqqara, and the other place that I can't remember right now and am too lazy to read up on right now. (Just checked: Dahshur).

They agreed to come with me and we got into the taxi that I hired for the day to the tune of 100 EP. We talked all the way to Giza and learned a bit about each other. They were from England. One of them was a school teacher and the other I think WAS a school teacher or somefing like that. (Fey do pronounce feir "th"s as "f"s to my annoyance). When we got to the pyramids, I made to give the driver some money for food and drink—as we would in the Philippines, give our chauffer some lunch or merienda money. But he started demanding the whole fare for less than 1/3 the trip.

So we paid him 30 instead and dismissed him, shaking the dust from our slippers. Which was quite useless, since there was dust and sand everywhere. But we were able to get a new cab, thanks to Adam, a bedouin who quite aggressively latched on to Sophie (the second sidelong photo up above), inviting her to his village, talking woefully about his wife who mistreated him and whom he divorced.

So we got Iman, who is the man on the right in the group shot in front of the pyramid (that's Red Pyramid to you). At first, I didn't trust him. Actually, I was feeling generally distrustful of all Egyptians at that point thanks to our cab driver and to Adam who was being a bit testy. He never asked for money but he was kinda bossy, which is good, I guess when you belong in a developing country being bullied by foreign powers at will.

But as the day wore on, it turned out he was the nicest guy in the world. I think he had never been out to see the pyramids in Saqqara and Dahshur, so whenever we explored and went into the Red Pyramid (hence the tunnel view from the bottom of the shaft, a stupid photo of me with my mouth open as I'm staging a recreation of exiting the dark void, and a nice high res video of being inside the pyramid).

Inside the Red Pyramid

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He was so cool (and we were paying him exorbitant EP) that he bought us a round of really cold coke in can as we had about an hour of travel to go. He was a trooper though. And all the water in the world would be the same to him because he drinks from the tap while we carried our 1.5s of water everywhere we went. (Egyptians have a really interesting public water system. I will have to get back to this someday.)

So as I was buying these mangoes I went up to a stall owner. And, you know how we do it in the Philippines. Pick up the mango, pisil pisil (squeeze squeeze), and put it in the bag or put it back. When he saw me picking up mangoes he came up to me, snatched the one mango about to get pisiled and shooed me away. "No! No!" he said driving me into the street.

I was so puzzled and said in my mind, Ok, Effe you! and even looked to a teenager who was watching and the kid just snickered and shook his head, not really knowing (it seemed) what had happened.

But now that I think of it, having taken all the lessons from that Muslim country, I know exactly why he shooed me away. I was picking up the mangoes with my left hand, and that's a no-no, especially if you don't pick it up to take it.

Haaaay. good memories. I will post again soon. In the midnight good time.

Oh, you mean ”Babes”

I was told as I was leaving for my one-month vacation that I would have ”great vacation romance”. Apparently, this is an essential part in traveling—meeting fellow journeyers, the mixing of hows and whys of their lives up to the moment that it all spills out on the simple tabletops of coffee houses, hostels, and tourist bars so that our souls would mingle and would homogenize into a puddle of shared bodily fluids.

Unfortunately, whomever it was that imagined those vacation trysts for me wasn't aware that the Lonely Planet guide to Egypt strongly cautions single women against traveling alone. So, everywhere one looked there were tourists of all colors and sizes and beauty, but with either their parents, boyfriends, girlfriend, and the occasional gaggle of older women that reminded me of the cast of The Golden Girls, but on spring break.

Fortunately for me, I was too much in love with Egypt and the complexity of her people to feel sorry for myself for not having brought my own girl companion.

For starters, the local girls were gorgeous. The scarves around their heads give them all this air of innocence and sweetness. The smoothness and flatness surrounding their forehead and cheeks highlighted the contours of their features and the darkness of their eyes. Compared to the European and Eastern Bloc girls who wore cute, skimpy shorts and tank tops, it was so much easier to fall in love with the home team.

Not as if I was magically attracted to and chatting up the local ladies, either. To be honest, the only Egyptian females I spoke to over there was this girl selling cokes and cigarettes at the bus station, and only because her mom and younger sister (?) were there. It was too scary to talk to the local girls on the street because you never know who is lurking about keeping an eye on their ”sisters” and making sure no George Bush loving aggressor would defile their virtuous women.

But back to the only Egyptian girls I spoke to. There was no one else in the bus terminal except for three male passengers waiting as well and there was about an hour before the bus from Luxor to Hurghada arrived. I tried to buy a coke from the girl with a 20 £E bill that had a hole in it, taped over, and she looked through the hole at me and told me that no one would accept the bill from her in that condition. I gave the defective bill back to the station master (who had given it to me as change, anyway), and I went back over there to hang out and chat.

She was quite pretty, very dark, very native. She mentioned almost immediately that she had a husband and I said that that was great and that I was very happy for the both of them. I'm not sure if I understood her, though, as she struggled with her English as she asked me if I were a husband and proceeded to say that she was looking for a husband as well.

I hovered around their makeshift stall long enough for her and her mother to teach me some words like ga-zee-lan (very much) and book-rah (tomorrow) and another word for day after tomorrow that I can't remember. Her mom also was able to ask me what it was that I did for a living. She pointed to herself and her wares and said ’market’ and pointed to me in question.

I'll tell you, having to describe ’I am in advertising’ to a non-English speaker put what I did in perspective. I pointed at the Coca Cola and Pepsi logos, picked up packets of chips and wafer biscuits from her box of wares and thrusted them in their faces trying to get them to buy it. I think it became more clear when I mentioned television and pretended that I was a commercial complete with Price is Right Lady hand gestures and with an announcer's voice extolling the jolly virtues of Alybaba Biscuits.

Eventually, I had to go. The bus arrived earlier than expected and I was on the way to Hurghada, a horrible, horrible beach resort location that I would never want to revisit ever again.

It was in Hurghada, however, where I met a very pretty and very nice Russian girl named Ana, who spoke, aside from Russian, English, German, and some French. Really modest young lady who painted in watercolor as a hobby, was studying linguistics in her academy, and who introduced me to the Japanese proverb, ”He who travels alone travels fastest.”

Ironically, she was in one of those large tour groups that descended upon Egypt's historical sites and monuments en masse. (Apparently, she had a grant to study her languages abroad, but paperwork stalled her initial plans, and came to Egypt instead on an offhand recommendation by her travel agent. Sound familiar?)

The Russians on vacation based themselves in the resort town, Hurghada, and would take day-short excursions to Cairo (no doubt whizzed from the pyramids at Giza to Coptic Cairo to Islamic Cairo for the evening market), Luxor (Valley of the Kings, the temple of Hapshepsut and Medinat Habu, Temple of Ramses III), and all the places in between. Really a cheap, piecemeal way to see Egypt. Of course, considering these were people from probably the hardest countries in the world in which to live, with an economy bedraggled in the dirt of globalization, corruption and exploding inflation before, during and after the cold war, it was understandable that they would be find the idea of sitting in the sun (albeit without sand) and swimming in 80° water half of the time a dream vacation.

But I was only to be in Hurghada a day, as I was leaving for Dahab the next morning, and therefore, under no inclination to ”get to know her more”.

After all, I have this unfair stigma attached to my long hair, daring pirate looks, and aggressive behavior that makes women think that when I talk to them, all I want to do is have intimate relations. They think that all men who chat them up were just looking to get laid, and every exchange I had with a woman had the pall of suspicion that any moment hence, I would pop the question, ask whom she was with, did she have roommates, and whether her room was air-conditioned or not. In any case, my England-Egypt-England trip was blessed by the powers of traveling alone without commitment nor fear or insecurity.

It's a wonderful feeling, really, getting to meet all of these souls and learning a thing or two at a time for free, without feeling guilty for walking away and not leaving any part of my soul behind.

I'd poke for pork

The first new thing that I think of when I recall my "aventures gastronomie" is my last two days spent in Egypt. It was in Dahab, a very chilled out diver's paradise where the shopkeepers ignored the passing tourists—such a change from being pulled into one shop to another with everyone calling you friend and getting "best price" all the time.

The only times you got hassled to check out wares was passing by the many waterside restaurants (none of which stood out by the way, except with varying elements in the decor and music, which ranged chill out to reggae. Well, what did I expect from Dahab?). People in the restaurant business aren't any more chilled out either. One can and will get harassed
equally by these plate pushers.

When I first arrived, however, there were a couple of restaurants that had the folding signboards out in front working to their advantage. With advertisements for bacon and ham, I thought that I had indeed arrived at my paradise, my personal mecca. I could hardly wait for morning, when I could finally wake up and smell the pig fat a'sizzling on my plate.

At the bar that night, I met a lady who had been living there for 5 years hence, who cautioned me on the pervading adherence Dahabians had for the Laws of Islam. She told me that real friends came bearing gifts of solid chunks of pork in their suitcases, and that I would be disappointed when I sat down to breakfast.

Indeed, breakfast time rolled around, and I, hoping against hope that the restaurant that I chose was the rebellious, avant garde, risque establishment du swine, ordered an omelette.

Sigh. It was the longest 2 weeks of my life.

Eating Up Islamic Cairo

When you order a salad in Egypt, don't expect to be asked what dressing you'd like on it. In fact, I think I would prefer to be asked what goes under the dressing.

A ”salad” over there is mainly tabbouleh, which is bulgur wheat (apparently), parsley, and tomato. Different restaurants had different variations on this, with some having more onions, some included peppercinis (yum!), but my favorite was in this street side place in Cairo that I happened upon on the way to Ibn Tulun, one of the grandest mosques in Islamic Cairo.





Maybe it was because I had spent all day walking and looking for the most majestic mosque and I had been in the heat and sun—oh, and I walked around all day in a long, black sleeved shirt hoping to get a little feeling of what the women felt spending all day and night in their full on sweat garments.

But back to the food: as I passed this place on the way to Ibn Tulun, I noticed sausage links hanging from the frying deal they had in front of the corner eatery. Of course it wasn't going to be ground pig insides stuffed inside its insides, but it looked deceptively so so that I craved it like the heathen that I was.

I went on my way and visited the Gayer-Anderson Museum and the mosque of Ibn Tulun, where I sat and drew for about 2 hours in the spot approximately where that guy is walking in the second batch of photos. In the overhead shot of the central building in the mosque, I was under the fifth arch, sat on rugs, with my feet in canvas protection.

Anyway, on the way back I stopped at this place where I had encountered the faux sausage. I had to try it. But first they gave me the salad which I maintain was the best I have ever had in my whole life. Instead of parsley, I thought, it tasted of cilantro. Soooo good and stuffed into the bread that you open up and turn into a sort of catching glove but for food.

Then I had the sausage, which is apparently boiled with rice inside the ”pig intestines” and possibly some ground meat, and then fried to crispness. It was pretty good but quite greasy. It was served on a plate of greens and tomatoes and kofta balls, which I thought were a little better.

The company that I kept however, was the best. There was a teenage boy there who ran the shop with his older counterpart and he gave me a cigarette without my even asking. He must have known that I would have wanted one after the meal, so I asked him to sit with me.

He didn't speak much English and I only had my Lonely Planet guide book, facial expressions and hand gestures to communicate. I think that we had a great time talking to each other this way. That and the wonderful food makes that place so memorable, I would definitely go back there just to relive that moment.

There was another restaurant there that I really liked, but it was far more upscale, and I will leave that to another post.

The Shortest Distance Between Two Points is a Wacko Behind the Wheel

There is nothing like the first trip from the airport to give visitors an idea of what a city is like. San Francisco would be about the undulating terrain, views of the bay and fog. Seattle would be all about the treed mountain- and hill-sides. The route from the airport in Manila to my first usual destination, mom's house, would be the longest trip covering approximately 3km as the crow flies.

When I had cleared immigration in Cairo International, I stepped outside into the hot and still night of outer Cairo. Immediately, I was reminded of Manila, air heavy with pollution and overpopulation. Mind, it was past three in the morning, and contrary to my earlier opinion, I wouldn't have had it any other way. Imagine coming out of an airconditioned plane after 10 hours and stepping into 40°C and onto airport tarmac that would probably be hitting 60°C. Yeah, I'm glad I waited in the Amsterdam terminal for eight hours for my connecting flight.

I was greeted by the owner and manager of the Lialy Hostel, Mostafa, who is half responsible for the video at the head of this blog. That is us in his Proton Wira or somesuch, driving—nay, screaming down the highway at 90 kph, without seatbelts (on him), without headlights, and without his hands on the wheel whenever I pointed the camera at him which, really, delighted us both.

At one point, there was a driver on the highway who swerved in front of us, causing Mostafa to brake very quickly, the smoke and scream of burning rubber in the air and my bottled juice flying from in between my thighs to the floor.


Mostafa took me on a simple tour of Cairo, which I gladly obliged. He impressed me when he slowed down the car long enough for me to take this night photo of the Cairo Museum. The fact was, he decelerated without prompting from a goat crossing or an anti-tank landmine in our path. Not to say that one sees wild goats or landmines in the streets of Cairo—elsewhere in Egypt, I’m sure, it can be arranged for a small fee—but these Egyptians, they don’t brake for just anybody.

Mostafa took me on a couple of passes on the Tahrir Bridge which was like a slow parade where we in the cars were both the spectacle and the spectators, and likewise were the bystanders, the young girls blowing bubbles from the kalesh (horse drawn carriage), and the rest who were marching up and down ze bridge.



Mind, this is almost four in the morning. What were these people doing so late at night? I got the solid impression that these people just liked to party, and with 10 million people living in Cairo (yet another similarity with Manila) there have to be a couple of 100,000 that like to stay up all night.

Mostafa and I weren’t the only ones with our stereo blasting seductive rhythms. There were loads of cars full of people waving their hands out windows and clapping and were seemingly trying to get the rest of the city to wake up and join the party.

I asked Mostafa if I could have a copy of his music, and he said sure, he’ll burn me one later. At one point, the cd we were listening to was repeatedly skipping. Mostafa, in his festive ways, pulled the cd out, crushed it with his bare hands, and dropped it out the window into the street. Thus, the traditional ride from the airport was concluded, the union of land and sky consummated by near death and near life. We headed to the hostel. It was 3:45 am.

A Little Preface

My friend Jessica was off to Europe for 3 months. She had just graduated from school (or university, as it is now fashionably called) and I woke up one morning feeling quite empty. There were at least 2 reasons for feeling this way: 1) I might never see her again due to the unpredictable nature of fresh grads in their early 20s exploring Europe and the wealth of possibilities in a continent re-awakened to the fact that it can, once again, be a major player in world economics, culture, and politics.

The second reason was that unlike Jessica, I didn't have the luxury of a favorable passport that allowed me to cross borders just like that. See, Filipinos have to really plan out their travels by getting visa, setting itineraries, and packing those gigantorious balikbayan boxes that look like a masking tape chew toy for the monster that lives inside the baggage claim converyor. If you read the thick red marks on the side of the box, Procopio Cementerio, Sunnyvale Phase II, Liwayway, Bulacan, you could decode where this box was headed, and which poor bastard would bravely struggle to roll/tip it onto his luggage cart, to the incredulous looks of mere mortals.

What I did have was a ticket to watch the Police in Twickenham, London, and a discount airline ticket to England for a week’s duration. So there I was, that morning, feet dangling off my loft bed, thinking--nay, feeling quite sorry for myself, when I got inspired to extend my vacation from a week to a month, and expand my knowledge of Europe to include France, Italy, Spain, and Germany. It looked great on paper. However, having lightly touched on the setbacks of having a disadvantaged passport, it was an ugly ordeal getting a Schengen Visa.

If you want to know what it's like to go to a first-world country with an inferior visa, imagine you wanted to go to the moon tomorrow, and think about all the things you would need to know and paperwork and money you would need for that to happen. Now multiply that by 4, and that’s roughly what people from third world countries have to go through.

It wasn't long, therefore, when I was pressured into hatching a plan B in case the French Consulate denied my short stay visa. So while I was talking with one of my many friends about alternative destinations, I blurted out another country that began with E. Egypt.

That’s when things started to get exciting.

Doing some calendar math, I realized that no matter how much my friends in France helped me, there was no way I was going to get that visa. I bought my ticket online to go from LCY to Cairo International three days after landing in England, and went to the Egyptian Consul General on Pacific St., and they told me to come back in a day and half. Cheerio! No questions. No references. No bank statement or proof of ample funds for the last three months. No itinerary, no hotel bookings. Just an airline ticket in and out of Egypt.

Now of course it’s all clear, how and why Egypt accepts the tired, hungry, and poor Filipinos like me. They know what it’s like to haul hexahedra miles upon miles.