Memphis in the Meantime

I first arrived in Memphis in July of 2006. Other than the good folks at Lausanne Collegiate School who had hired me in March, I did not know a soul in Memphis; no friends, no family. Just me and two small pieces of luggage. The rest of my stuff was packed into three cardboard boxes and was in route from London (that is another story for another time). I remember walking off the jetway and into Memphis International for the first time. Nice, neat airport. The smell of coffee and bagels. A very proper, male voice over the sound system welcoming me to Memphis International, telling me that I can smoke in Maggie O'Sheas. I remember an inward chuckle, thinking that the man's voice was about as un-Southern as a voice could get. After a very long wait for my luggage (why?!) and a rambling search for a taxi, I recall being struck by two pressing thoughts: 1) I did not know anyone in this city, and 2) having made rental property arrangements entirely on-line, I could not help the taxi-guy out when he asked me to direct him to a particular section of Mt. Moriah Road. I had never been to Memphis. I had no idea where Mt. Moriah actually was.

In the days and months that followed, I began to really discover Memphis. Where pilgrimages to Graceland are made. W.C. Handy fathered the blues here. Humble Memphis recording studios launched the careers of Elvis Presley, Johnny Cash, Howlin' Wolf, Carl Perkins, Roy Orbison, B.B. King, Otis Redding, Aretha Franklin, Jerry Lee Lewis, and still stand proudly. On an April evening long ago, the great beacon of hope, Dr. Martin Luther King, was forever extinguished here. The Lorraine Motel where Dr. King fell still pays tribute to his death just as the National Civil Rights Museum that has grown up around the Lorraine pays tribute to his life and works. 

Memphis. Where bluesy chords still reverberate from cramped honky-tonks down on Beale Street. Where narrow shotgun shacks and stone mansions are parts of the same neighborhood. Soul food and the world's best barbecue are served in Memphis kitchens. Where majestic parks are integral parts of the urban landscape, now connected by a series of paths for runners, walkers and cyclists. Where children's hospitals work for cures and where Fedex ships to a myriad of global destinations. And all the while, the mighty Mississippi flows past the city's bluffs.

I met the woman who would be my wife in Memphis, and it is here that we were married and have established a home. It is here that I enjoyed the great fortune of working alongside dedicated and inspiring individuals. I have been doubly-blessed in that many of these talented individuals have become good friends. I have hiked this city's sidewalks and pathways, and I have cycled the labyrinths of her streets. I have rejoiced in Memphis gospel, and I have found comfort in her blues. It is here that I have witnessed an astonishingly progressive and civic minded ethos take shape and transform the city. I have sat on dusty Memphis riverbanks, lost in silent reverie and watching the river run by.

Fast forward. It is December, 2013; 1:30 in the morning. Ours is the final commercial flight into Memphis International tonight; or perhaps the very first of the day, depending upon perspective. There is no guy with a sign to meet us, no waft of coffee or bagels. No welcoming baritone over the PA system. Still, through the gauzy mist that is my consciousness after 30-plus hours of travel, I feel a strong sense of homecoming. In the span of a few, short years, this city has become my home.

A couple of days later, Dana and I have recovered from our jet lag. We have rented a bungalow in Midtown for the holidays. Renting a home beats living out of a suitcase in a hotel. Almost as a bonus, the Midtown bungalow puts us in a central location. As the neighborhood narrative goes, "Midtown is Memphis." Although I think this is a rather narrow definition of all that Memphis is, I like Midtown; it's Bohemian atmosphere and its confluence of cultures and lifestyles. 

Dana and I decide to go for a morning walk in the Cooper-Young district, the heart of Midtown. We are heading to the local Easy Way, a Memphis food store founded in the 1930s that specializes in local produce and products. Easy Way stores are like overgrown, orange-painted, highway fruit stands but located in the heart of Memphis. With low overhead, wonderful produce and some of the nicest, most knowledgeable grocers in the area, Easy Way is a great, inexpensive alternative to places like Whole Foods or Fresh Market.

About halfway through our walk to the market, we approach an office building being remodeled. Up ahead, in the center of the walkway not far from a work truck parked by the curb, a man is working at a portable table saw. He is dressed in heavy jeans, work boots and a couple of layers of heavy-gauge sweatshirt. He is covered in saw dust. Sensing us, he stops cutting and looks up. We are surprised see a familiar, beaming face. 

We worked with Chris years ago at Lausanne. He is what we call, "good people." He always wears a smile, and he is as genuine as they come. When we last saw Chris a few years ago, we was working in the corporate, PR side of a health care outfit. Seeing that he belonged to the truck and the saw, we ask him what he has been up to.

"Well, I have always been a wood-worker. It had been a hobby of mine; something different than my day job. I have always enjoyed it, though. A couple years back, I got so that I was making wood furniture and toys for friends and then local shops. I kept getting more and more requests. One day I was at my desk at work and I asked myself, "what are you doing." I went home and talked it over with my wife, and she was real supportive. So I put my notice in at work and started this wood-working business. So now, I'm livin' the dream. I'm down here working on a custom interior. C'mon in, and I'll show ya' if ya'll got a couple of minutes."

"We sure do. Absolutely!"

Chris shows us the interior wall he is working on at he moment. He has carefully and creatively joined wide lath pieces of different colors and grains to create a natural but yet very modern look. He is visibly proud of his work, and he should be.

He tells us that the working for himself is not always easy, and that he and his family are having to "make do" with less. He jokes that his children are doing their bit by not complaining about a nightly, mac-n-cheese menu. Apparently he has just this week become something of a superhero to his children, the result of having added bits of hot dog to the mac-n-cheese. He is however, finding the work far more rewarding.

"You just cannot really put a price tag on doing something that you are passionate about."

We chat a little while longer and then say our goodbyes. What Chris is doing now strikes me as part of what I love about Memphis and the people of this community. The re-focus on simplicity after having taking complicated paths. The idea of finding a richness in doing something that is not necessarily financially lucrative. The focus on something real, tangible, practical and grounded. The ability to appreciate the beauty in rolled-up sleeves and dirty hands. The desire to make a better place while taking a different route in doing so.

We leave Chris to his saws and his passion, a passion that is now his livelihood. I am feeling inspired by our friend's journey just as I am inspired and impressed by the community in which he lives. 

I am also more than just a tad bit envious.

Trading sandals for blue suede shoes

United Airlines flight 9025 leaves Cairo at an ungodly hour; 3:00 am. It lands in Frankfort, Germany five hours later. Dana and I will be on board. Six and one-half hours later, United Airlines fight 8878 departs Frankfort for Denver. This is a ten and one-half hour deal, and Dana and I will be on this one, too. Five and one-half hours later, United Airlines flight 4090, a little shuttle, departs for Memphis. One and one-half hours later, Dana and I will touch down in the land of the Delta Blues, twenty-nine hours after having left Cairo. Ain't gonna be pretty. I understand now why Elvis bought the jet.

I wish I could blame some other idiot on these less-than-ideal flight arrangements. I cannot. The idiot is me; sort of. You see, this series of flights was born one year ago. Dana and I had just found out that my high school (grades 9-12) principal position was transforming into an upper school (grades 6-12) principal position. The change meant that I would be competing for this newy-created job along with the sitting middle school principal. I might be successful in getting the job or I might not. Not being in a place financially to be able to possibly take a year off, Dana and I had to go recruiting for new jobs given that one of us - me - might not be gainfully employed for the upcoming year. So we made arrangements to attend a educational recruitment fair in San Francisco. As fortune would have it, we secured good jobs in Cairo (bless you, Skype) ahead of the fair. 

So we had this flight ticket. We cancelled, and according to airline policy, we had one year to change the ticket into something else. That "something else" started out as a one-stop, round-trip excursion. Then there was a flight cancellation and a reshuffling of tickets. One stop turned into two stops. Then there was a rescheduled flight; and then another. All of a sudden we are facing the 29 hour marathon that I outlined earlier; and that is IF all goes according to schedule.

In some respects, our transitory flight schedule resembles our five months in Egypt. We took jobs expecting certain situations to occur. Some did and some did not. Example .... when we signed our contracts back in February, we signed on for a two-year stint as an assistant principal and as a lower school counselor. That has not changed. But back when we signed our contracts, Mohammed Morsi was still President of Egypt. Morsi had not yet begun to tinker around with the constitution. The protests that avalached as a result of Morsi's actions had yet to transpire. 1500 or so Egyptians souls, forever departed in the wake of the violence that that has been Egyptian politics since, were still very much alive in February. Our school's enrollment last February was a bouyant 1300. It is now 900 including 75, non-fee-paying, faculty children. Dana and I had yet to dodge groups of protestors, hundreds strong. We had yet to hear the chants. We had yet to walk by the tanks. We had yet to be stopped at the checkpoints. We had yet to see the trucks of security forces, the scared faces of the young men about to be deployed, putting themselves in harm's way.

Samples of 'khayameya" in the Khan El Khalili

Like our flight arrangements, there have been surprises, albeit many pleasant ones. We have seen struggling people offer charity and hope to other people struggling even more. We have seen taxi drivers greet us warmly every morning, even though we have never ridden in their cabs. We have experienced the spectacles of Karnak and the Valley of the Kings. We have walked in the steps of St. Antoni and conversed with eccentric Coptic monks. We have purchased a khayameya from a tent-maker in Cairo's Khan El Khalili; a tent-maker who also sells his beautiful pieces in Paducah, Kentucky. We have dipped our toes in the Red Sea. We have visited the City of the Dead, and we have met the recycled goods vendors who live and work in Garbage City. We have dined in the palace of King Farouk. We have sailed the Nile. We have stood atop mountains to see the broad expanse of the Sahara open at our feet. 

But now our feet are weary. Our sandals have become worn and dusty. Our venturing spirits long for the comforts that we know Memphis can provide. Being with family and friends. Walking down Summer and Beale. Eating the best "down-home" cooking in the world. Living among Tigers and Grizzlies. Watching as the mighty Mississippi flows gently down to the Gulf. Longing to be home. 

We are on our way.

Beale Street, Memphis

The Mermaid

Our little portion of Cairo is called Ma'adi. Ma'adi is a large "suburb" of Cairo situated to the south of the city proper and on the eastern bank of the Nile. Cross the Nile from Ma'adi, and you are in the tangle of urban clusters and farming communities that make up Giza. Stand on a third-floor of a Ma'adi balcony, and you can see the Pyramids (on a clear day). Ma'adi has been a wealthy enclave of Cairo ever since "ever-since." Ottoman "pashas" lived here during the days of the Ottoman rule of Egypt. After the Ottomans left their grand homes, embassies moved in, and they are still here. During World War II, Eisenhower and Montgomery used Ma'adi residences during their brief stays in Egypt. Today, Ma'adi is home for many of Cairo's million-strong, ex-patriot families. When Egyptians in faraway places like Luxor and Hurghada ask us where we live, we say that we live in Cairo. Curious, they ask where in Cairo. We respond that we live in Ma'adi. They always, and I mean always, smile and sigh as if recollecting their own wonderful, past trip to Ma'adi. Ma'adi is a lovely, verdant oasis amidst Cairo's dusty, urban bazaars.

One of Ma'adi's main thoroughfares is "Road 9," and it is a stone's throw away from our flat. Road 9 is one of Ma'adi's main shopping streets. It is reminiscent of a small Floridian seaside town before the hyper-development began. Narrow one, two, and three story buildings, each sharing a common wall with the adjacent buildings, line either side of the roughly paved street. Here and there, a few of the older Ottoman dwellings, still proudly standing and framed by massive, well-tended desert palms, break up the links of small boutiques, fruit stalls, carpentry workshops, bistros, and cafes. It is here on Road 9 that old intersects with new, local mixes with ex-pat, and laboring melds with idle-rich; all in a delightfully Bohemian social fabric.

Set among a jumble of fruit stalls, carpentry shops, cafes and small lamp stores is "The Mermaid." The Mermaid is one of the older eateries on Road 9. Established in 1981, The Mermaid was one of the original, western-style, small restaurants that opened during the early portion of the Mubarak investment boom in Egypt. Despite all of the changes since, The Mermaid has remained relatively unaltered. Her wooden, one-story facade is a curious mixture of dusty saloon and weathered nautical. The restaurant name is carefully scripted in red neon, a prominent fixture in one of the tall, story-high, bay windows in front. At night, the front of the restaurant looks like something from an old Genesis album cover. 

Open the door and some kind of music from the 70s or 80s is playing. As we come in this evening, Boston's "More Than a Feeling" is blaring. Like the facade, the decor inside is a curious mix. Imagine a cross between your grandparents' favorite steak house and 70s porn. I half expect to see Ron Jeremy, Snoop Lion and their respective entourages sprawled out at a corner table, sharing a blunt over a couple of cans of Shlitz.

{Rod Stewart, "Young Turks"}

The restaurant is divided into two smallish, dimly lit sections; one side for smokers and one for non-smokers. With no ventilation fans, there is little difference, and whisps of blue-gray cigarette smoke hover and drift just below the ceiling. There are perhaps 20 booths and tables in total. The chairs are ancient relics, faded brown leather thrones from a bygone era. The tables are hulking slabs of granite and dark wrought iron. Generations of young Egyptians and expats have left their mark, Arabic and English script scrawled in the wood-paneled walls. Lamps suspended from the ceiling float above every table, each one muted with a beige, gauzy lampshade. Suspended pieces of flat sculpture that look like purplish, fallen chess piece adorn both main walls, punctuated by black-and-white photos of the restaurant's past regulars. 

{Michael Jackson, "Thriller"}

One of the wait staff motions us to a table by one of the bay windows. We sit. I am more than a little afraid of sticking to the chair. We wait. And wait.

{Eddie Money, "Two Tickets to Paradise"}

{Carly Simon, You're So Vain}

Finally the menus arrive, and our drink order is taken. Dana has a Stella, and I have a lemon-mint juice. More waiting ensues.

{Hall & Oates, "Private Eyes"}

The drinks finally come, and the waiter is about to return to the back when we tell him that we are ready to order. He seems genuinely surprised. Clearly we are two rare customers that do not have four or five hours to lounge about in The Mermaid. I order a Greek salad and a meat calzone. Dana takes a bit of a risk with the fettuccine and a white, mushroom sauce. More waiting.

{Thin Lizzy, "Whisky in the Jar"}

{Kool & the Gang, "Get Down on It"}

{Wham, "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go"}

By now the soundtrack is so good that we don't really care how long the food takes to get to the table. It takes a long time by the way, but it is worth the wait; for me, at least. Dana's fettuccine is passable, but her order was a risk in the first place. My Greek salad comes a bowl the size of small washtub, and it is excellent. The calzone is as big as a football, and is a lovely hunk of meaty, crusty goodness. We split the salad and the calzone, and life is all good. A couple of Stellas and mint-lemons later, accompanied by Hendrix and Janice, and we are stuffed. We have also enjoyed a couple of hours of a delightful soundtrack and some great conversation; just like it used to be back in the day. Back before we had more important shit to do.

Then it happens. Just when I thought the evening was finished, and that the soundtrack could not get any better, the impossible occurs. Marvin Gaye, "Let's Get It On." This is amazing. Surely we are in some cool, funky diner orbiting Neptune. Surely St. Marvin himself has descended from above to christen our little evening out, blessing us with a big send-off and ensuring that the wait staff are left with a big-ass tip. They are, and we depart.

Bless you, St. Marvin, and bless you, too, Ms. Mermaid. When next we have a few hours to while away, strolling down amnesia lane and stuffing our faces full of calzone, we will be back for more.

A Journey to Luxor

Al-Qurn, "The Peak" that overlooks the Valley of the Kings

Down along these hillsides,

Many miles ago,

Lived a man of vision, child,

Little did I know,

He was always talking, child,

'Bout the heart and soul,

'Til one day some pharoah came,

And offered up his dole,

In the valley,

In the Valley of the Kings.

Marc Cohn

"Valley of the Kings"

Leaving the lobby of Luxor's small but modern international airport, we are ill-prepared for the onslaught of taxi drivers jostling toward us. Though our flight is full, most of our fellow travelers have arranged transport in advance or are returning home to Luxor and their own vehicles. We are among maybe five other sets of passengers that require transport into the city. There are at least fifty idle drivers forming a loose, mobile barricade between us and the parking lot beyond. 

With the tide of drivers breaking around us, a brown hand, sinewy and weathered, shoots forward, clamping down on one of the straps of my backpack. I do not sense a pull. Just a firmness and an immense presence.

"Come this way, sir." The sonoroous voice seems to emanate from far above me. I look up to see the face that matches the voice. Rye colored skin with a deeply lined face and blazing eyes, the driver towers above me. He is very tall, his height accentuated by a bulky turban and flowing, sage dishdasha. 

He loosens his vice-grip and takes a couple of steps toward the lot. Dana, overwhelmed and nearly surrounded now by a host of drivers, is nonetheless following behind. We halt as a fierce argument breaks out. A couple of jostling drivers in front of us spit harsh Arabic slurs at the tall driver. He barks back, menacingly.

"Umm," I start.

Whirling around, his snarl instantly vanishes, replaced immediately by cherubic smile.

"No problem, sir. No problem. Come." His teeth are a flash of alabaster set against the dark crags of his face. 

Spinning around to face his rivals, he lifts one arm high in the air, fist clenched. He seems to be holding aloft some sort of invisible staff. He is all at once the Moses of the Luxor cabbies. And before him, the Red Sea of complaining drivers parts. He marches triumphantly into the breach. Dana and I are in tow, reluctant Israelites following an inspired prophet; or a madman.

The tone of our three-day journey to Luxor is established by our first 30 minutes in Upper Egypt: running pell-mell into a series of situations for which we are completely unprepared.

The Great Hypostyle Hall, Karnak

First, let me say that Luxor is a marvel. Straddling the Nile, the city boasts an urban side dominated by Luxor Temple and the Temple of Karnak  Then there is the rural side, the West Bank of Luxor, dominated by the necropolis and the Valley of the Kings  Over 3000 years old, the temples of Luxor and Karnak are amazingly well preserved masterpieces of ancient Egyptian architecture. Both sites feature soaring columns and richly carved hieroglyphics. In Karnak some of the ceilings still remain, beautifully painted in various hues of blue, gold and bronze. The West Bank of Luxor is reserved for the dead, the burial chambers for pharaoh's and their spouses, for nobles, and even for artisans. The final resting place for Tutankhamen, a relatively small tomb as we come to discover, is found here in the Valley of the Kings. Tomb chambers, hundreds of feet deep, snake their way into the escarpment. Several are open to the public. In the Deir el-Medina, the tombs of the artisans who worked in the Valley of the Kings remain almost perfectly preserved along with colorful paintings depicting the lives of more ordinary Egyptians.

However, I come to the conclusion that an amazing dis-service has been perpetrated upon the people of Luxor, and they are suffering lasting, negative consequences. Some two hundred years ago, Napoleon and his troops revived an interest in ancient Egypt. Thomas Cook brought the first formal European tour group into the region in 1869. Since then, Luxor has been sculpted and shaped by the tourist industry. Over time, residents with other skills have slowly abandoned their various trades to take jobs in more lucrative industries tied into the tourist trade. Since the coming of the revolution in 2011 however, there has been no tourist trade. The world-class hotels erected here are empty, as are the restaurants, shops and docks that once catered to thousands and thousands of foreign tourists every day. Dana and I check into the 4-star Steigenberger Hotel, for example. With 200+ sumptuous rooms, the hotel is a jewel. Dana and I are among maybe 20 of its current occupants; maybe. For most of our stay here, we feel as if we have the hotel to ourselves. When we go out of a walk, we are bombarded by street merchants, taxi drivers, carriage drivers, and boat captains all looking for that one crumb of business for the day; just one speck, one scrap. There is a desperation here that I have never encountered in all my years of travel. With virtually no tourists, the people of Luxor are making a torturous return to the days before Thomas Cook and Napoleon, and we are heartbroken to bear witness.

With extremely mixed feelings, we depart. The driver who has guided us through the city and the ruins comes to pick us up from the Steigenberger promptly at 7 am. His name is Said, but he is known throughout Luxor as "Mr. Hero." With two wives and four children to support, Dana and I get the strong sense that he works various jobs for most of the day and night. He bids us a cheery good morning, but his weary eyes betray a deep fatigue. Silently, he drives us back to the airport down roads that snake through verdant fields of sugar cane, cabbage, cauliflower, and banana. At this time of the morning, mists rise from the rich soil as villagers emerge from their simple dwellings to begin their day. Some of the farmers are already at work in their fields. Everything is done by hand; we see no signs of machinery anywhere. When Said drops us off at the airport, we say our goodbyes, we wish him and his family well, and we pay him. There is a lot extra in today's payment. What else can we do? We shoulder our packs and walk towards the airport. I look back for a second. An elderly man dressed in a ragged dishdasha and turban, wheeling a baggage trolley, approaches Said. I get the sense that the trolley was for us, but the man is quite old and a minute or two too late. 

They talk for a second. Both are smiling. Said reaches into the side pocket of his dishdasha and hands the old man some money.

*This week's photographs taken by Dana Purpura.

New Adventures in Dial-Up

We arrive in Egypt in August. Our school meets us at the gate, ushering us from the airport immediately to our school-provided flat. I am immediately grateful for so much: that the 34-hour trek from Memphis to Cairo is finished, that the school has arranged to breeze us through customs and that the internet in the flat is ready to go. Dead tired, we drop our bags, we post on Facebook, we fire off a couple of emails, and we sleep for the next 14 hours. The posts upload no problem, and the email rockets through cyber-space right away. Cloudy though my mind is at the time, I remember thinking that this is great, that we have forever waved goodbye to China-style, slow internet.

The following day we traipse through school tours. Jet lagged, we try to stay awake through a couple of orientation sessions. The guy that speaks to us about our home internet is nice but drones on and on. That much I remember.

"Blah, blah, blah, bandwidth wifi router ... blah, blah, blah, Mbps download ... blah, blah, blah data limit dial-up ... blah, blah, blah." On and on. He finishes. We awaken from our trances, and we sign the papers he wants us to sign. That much I remember.

November is our first full month here in Cairo. Given generous school breaks, we have enjoyed long weekends or week-long holidays in both September and October. And we have taken those opportunities to travel. When in Rome ... The point is that we have yet to be resident in Cairo for an entire month. Sure at the end of September and October, I notice a couple of days where the internet is really slow. But it is Egypt, right? Given that we experience weekly, rolling brown-outs, times when the electricity shuts off for about an hour, I should expect there to be times when the internet is a little sluggish.  So I really do not think anything odd about the end-of-the-month sluggishness until mid-November.

Then it hits. On November 12^th I notice that the internet is remarkably slow. And it is slow on the 13^th and then on the 14^th, too. So I ask at school.

"Ah, that'll be your data limit," says John, a Liverpudlian and tech guru.

Data limit? Nobody told me about a data limit.

Then it clicks. Our first full day in Cairo and the blah, blah, blah internet dude droning on and on. We signed papers. We agreed to ... the dreaded data limit.

Today, I am not certain what our actual limit is. I do know that the data cycle runs from from month to month and is calculated on the last week of every month. I know that this month we blazed through our data limit by the 12^th. I also know that after a household has exceeded the data limit, the internet speed of said household drops down to {gulp!} dial-up. I know that I have spent two of the longest weeks of my life trying to struggle against the brutal pain of plodding download speeds. I now know that I would rather eat shards of glass than suffer creeping, idle internet. This much I know.

I now have a few other nuggets of knowledge. Thanks to a lovely, little iPad app, I know that we normally enjoy a 1.1 Mbps average download speed here at the flat. This is four to five times faster than our connection to the slow-net in China but four times slower than our high-speed hookup in Memphis. Not great, but better than the snail's pace of China and not bad for a developing nation in North Africa. This much, I expected.

But dial-up is something different. Dial-up is old school like your grand-pappy's internet. Like it was back in the day when email was a revolution. With dial-up, you can watch the code slowly unfurl to reveal one small image, line by painful line. With dial-up, your mind fills in the oceans of silence with the babbling cacophony that modems used to emit. With dial-up, you can cook dinner and eat it while waiting for that website you really wanted to see to load. It may or may not be fully up by the time you finish the dishes.

Within a couple of days after the 12^th, I shake off the hypnotic lethargy associated with watching the spinning-circle animation of a website loading to get the problem sorted out. I find the number of another internet service provider that can install DSL cable in the flat. I am on the phone for at least an hour, but I finally reach a customer service agent who speaks English. Yes, DSL can be arranged for our address, and yes, we can purchase a plan with unlimited data. It is even reasonably well priced (for us ... not the rest of the country)! Success!

There is a slight catch, though. The next available time slot for an installation crew to swing by is in March.

Chimes of Freedom

What started three months ago with a bang - a loud "bang" during which hundreds and hundreds died - ended Tuesday with a cavalcade of partying. Egypt's three-month old military curfew has ended, and Cairenes are taking to the streets. This time around they are here to celebrate. Three months ago, Egyptian security forces backed by regular army units hammered groups of sit-in protestors at Cairo's al-Nadha Square and Rabaa al-Adawiya Mosque. Sensing that there would be major social unrest expressed as a result of this crackdown, the government under the stewardship of Adly Mansour and General Abdel Al-Sisi ordered a one-month, sunrise to sunset curfew to be imposed by Egyptian security forces. Over the course of the next few weeks, the curfew was moditified to relax those time constraints involved but was also curiously extended from one month to three months. Although security forces remain in place on the streets of Cairo, as of Tuesday, November 12th (2013), the curfew is a thing of the past.

Friday being the holy day throughout the Muslim world, the Cairo work week stretches from Sunday to Thursday. Thursdays mark the beginning of the weekend, and Thursday evenings are usually boisterous affairs. When we leave work on Thursdays for our walk home, we usually weave through streets congested with honking Fiats and ramshackle busses. We are invariably greeted by a couple of street merchants. One merchant in particular wears upon his back a mobile grinding apparatus designed to sharpen tools and knives. 

This Thursday is particularly boisterous as it is the first Thursday in three months where weekend revelers know that they can remain out for as long as they wish. I am just finishing my chaperoning duties at our annual school homecoming dance, so I am leaving school at 11 p.m. The street in front of the school buzzes with drivers and taxis waiting on our students as they depart. Other taxis - dilapidated Fiats as well as luxury, three-wheeled tuk-tuks - whiz by hoping to catch any fare that has not already made prior transport arrangements. One of the uber-luxurious tuk-tuks sports disco lights and blaring music - Journey's Don't Stop Believing. Almost 30 years after the song was recorded, it has become one of a couple of American "anthems" popular among tuk-tuk drivers in Cairo. Tonight's version comes complete with driver belting out the lyrics in a jocund melange of English and Arabic. As I shift my satchel over my shoulder and head home after a very long day, I cannot help but smile along with the jubilant driver. 

I walk further toward Victoria Square, one of the landmark squares in Ma'adi. Even from a distance, I hear honking, laughing and singing. The square is packed with noisy vehicles and raucous pedestrians. Traffic is going nowhere, but the drivers and their passengers do not seem bothered in the least. Music of every cadence imaginable is pumping from almost every one of the cars. Smiling Egyptians lean out from windows waving and singing. Street merchants bob and weave amidst the traffic, selling water and flags. One merchant is even selling life-size Daffy Duck balloons.  I duck the balloons (pun intended), zigzagging my way through the traffic. 

Success. Now I have only Port Said Road to cross. Like Victoria Square, Port Said Road is a partying parking lot.

I cross the busy street heading toward a knot of tea-drinking, off-duty drivers. They are laughing. All are smoking the potent cigarettes readily available at corner kiosks throughout the city. I can smell the strong tobacco. One of the drivers has his music blaring, although the song is unusual.

Tolling for the rebel, tolling for the rake
Tolling for the luckless, the abandoned an' forsaked
Tolling for the outcast, burnin' constantly at stake
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.

It is one of those moments where I do not know whether to laugh or cry. On this occasion, I choose the former rather than the latter. The driver with the music is the first to spot me.

"DYLAN!" He pronounces it "DEE-LAN."

"I know! That is awesome!" I blurt out, laughing.

"DYLAN! DYLAN!" The men are all laughing and chanting. One even gives me a high-five.

"Masalamah, masalamah!" I say as I bid the drivers good-bye.

"MASALAMAH, SIR!" They pronounce it like "SAIR."

I walk on, the din of Victoria Square and Port Said Road fading into the distance. As I walk, I marvel that in the span of just a few short months, Egyptians have experienced everything from the profane to the sacred. And in an odd way, Dana and I have experienced this, too. I cannot help but wonder which way we are heading.

Cairo Rain

Rain in Cairo comes as a surprise. At first, I hear the sounds of small dry leaves tumbling along the pavement. At least that is what I perceive. Then I feel a light tap on my shoulder. Again, I think of the trees. Surely a parched kernel of a seed has fallen, dropping upon my shoulder. But then there is the sound of more leaves scuttling as I feel another tap upon my shoulder. And then another and another. I look up to see the purplish hues of an evening sky veiled by gauzy, grey strands of stretched cotton. Impossibly and immediately, buckets of rain begin to fall. Adults around me run pell-mell, seeking the dry shelter of a nearby overhang. At the same time, children emerge from the buildings around me, shrieking with delight. Rain has come Cairo.

Shirt soaked, I walk to a covered terrace. I stand next to an old, smiling man, and together we watch the children jump up and down amidst the downpour. In the next minute, the rain simply stop just as abruptly as it began. Adults, now animated and chatty, emerge from their shelters, picking up where they left off. The children are now leaping from puddle to puddle. The old man standing next to me nods and slowly walks away. I linger for a moment watching the kids splashing one another while the adults go about their business. Although I am jarred by the sudden rain, I am certain that the adults will take their children home and the trees and the pavement will dry as if the rains never came at all.

Deposed Egyptian President Mohamed Morsi has not been seen since he was removed from power on July 3rd of this year. In the days following his removal from office, different segments of the Egyptian populace have publicly celebrated and protested. Hundreds have died in the violent aftermath. There is still a curfew in place, enforced by thousands of Egyptian security forces and regular army personnel. Daily protests continue in Cairo and Alexandria. Egyptians are polarized, although Morsi supporters are in the minority. They are a sizable minority, however.

After months of imprisonment, Morsi emerges today to formally face charges of incitement to riot and murder. All of Egypt has halted to watch the spectacle. Everyone is expecting the worst.

We are, too.

Mercifully, we have a school holiday today. The Muslim New Year is tomorrow, but our school is officially celebrating it today Good thing, too. In the past week 20,000 security forces have been deployed in the area in an attempt to discourage mass political protests. Most roads in and out of the area are closed to through traffic, so many of our students would not have been able to make it to school had we conducted classes. Today we are home, and were glued to our Twitter feeds and Al Jazeera apps.

As we log on to a very sluggish Internet, we discover that the military government has, at the 11th hour, changed the venue of Morsi's hearing to a heavily fortified police training facility many kilometers away. We learn that the judges in the trial have barred any live broadcast from occurring and are only allowing a handful of the state-run media reporters into the courtroom for the hearing. Not to be deterred, we listen to BBC and Al Jazeera live broadcasts from outside of the facility. We also monitor some rogue reporters tweeting from the hearing.

After an hour or so, a handcuffed Morsi appears surrounded by hundreds of heavily armed, military guards. He is hurried into a large fenced-in area within the courtroom, and there he is greeted by other ranking members of the Muslim Brotherhood (MB) that have been stated to stand trial with him. According to our Twitter reporters, Morsi is dressed in a business suit while his MB co-defendants are dressed in prison-whites. When he enters into the makeshift defendants' cage, pandemonium breaks out in the courtroom. His fellow MB compatriots and cell-mates embrace him as hundreds of courtroom spectators shout all at once. Some of the shouts call for immediate execution while others are in support of the defendants. The judge calls for order and then adjourns the hearing to order to let the military guards establish quiet in the courtroom. We hear that order is restored, lost and then regained. We hear that Morsi is defiant and that he waives his right to counsel. We hear that he repeatedly tells the judges that he is their president and that they have no right to try him. We hear that he refuses the lead judge's order to change clothes into the white, prison fatigues that all defendants are by law to wear during a hearing. After just an hour, we hear that the judge adjourns the hearing, postponing the trial until January. Morsi is then apparently helicoptered to a maximum security prison in Alexandria while his MB associates are imprisoned here in Cairo. Later on we see some of the video transcripts that the state-run media outlets were allowed to post, seeing for ourselves that our rogue Twitter reporters were accurate in the reports posted.

Fearing a wave of pro-Morsi militancy, we brace ourselves for the worst, staying indoors for the day. But we hear nothing; no distant chanting, no drumming marchers. Nothing. The day passes quietly, and so does the night. In the wee hours of the morning, I wake up, half expecting a phone call announcing the cancellation of school. None comes.

As usual, Dana and I walk to school the next morning, traipsing down the tree-lined streets of Ma'adi. The streets look exactly like they did two days ago when we last walked home, and we are not sure what to make of this.

Storm Coming

We are sensing a growing feeling of public unrest. It is like watching a stalking lioness about to pounce. The week's national news has been disquieting, adding to the feeling that violence is approaching. There is an unusual lull in the fighting in the Sinai. We have had several days in Cairo without an organized protest march. The streets at night have been unusually quiet these past days. This should point toward an easing of the crisis here in Egypt, but we do not feel as if this is the case; neither do our Egyptian friends. These positive prognostics are overshadowed by ominous events happening around us.

We are reading other disturbing reports in the news. In the center of Cairo, the 50 people participating in the constitutional convention are at an impasse. The conservative, religious members of the convention, members who have sworn to provide this nation with a viable and sustainable constitution, are readying themselves to quit the convention, feeling that they are being betrayed by the proceedings. There is talk of upcoming elections being further postponed. Here in Ma'adi, several judges that were overseeing the trials of prominent members of the Muslim Brotherhood have stepped down this week, forcing the trial process to reset and also lengthening the period of time where the defendants in these cases remain imprisoned while awaiting trial. Again here in Ma'adi at the Constitutional Court, the highest court in the land, the trial of deposed President Mohamed Morsi is set to begin in just a few days.

We are seeing sinister portents. All this week trucks carrying scores of blue-clad security forces, their M-16s glittering in the sunlight, somberly pass through our neighborhood streets. We have never seen security forces passing through our neighborhoods. Several times a day we hear the thudding of massive military helicopters thundering over our heads. One week ago, there was just one tank installation on alert outside our local police precinct. Now there are three. The grocery stores have become more crowded this week. We usually see quite a bit of mirthful banter among shoppers and store owners, but this week the banter has been replaced by a quiet and nervous resignation. Our Egyptian students are telling us that their families are discussing their fears at their evening dinner tables. For the first time since we have arrived, I hear students expressing their worries.

I share their sense of worry. I feel like there is a hurricane coming, and we are not prepared.

When the Going Gets Tough, the Tough Go to Greece

This photo of Nikitas is courtesy of TripAdvisor

 Dana and I are sitting in a sidewalk taverna in Athens called Nikitas, a family-owned ouzeri in the Psirri district in Athens. An ouzeri, we have come to discover, is a traditional Greek eating and drinking establishment. Although the name implies lots of ouzo being imbibed, none of the patrons at this jam-packed, outdoor restaurant are partaking. Most, like Dana, are drinking a small carafe of red wine or the local white retsina. Some, like me, are having a potent, Greek-style coffee with a carafe of water. All are eating. Nikitas has been here since the late 60s, serving up simple, Greek fare to a mostly local clientele. Nikitas is a favorite among Athenians looking for a wholesome, home-cooked meal. It does not disappoint.


The small ouzeri straddles both side of the Agion Anargyron, one of the main pedestrian-friendly thoroughfares that meanders through the Psirri district. With a nondescript, white, clapboard facade, the doors of Nikitas' two entrances are never shut. One entrance opens to the bustling kitchen. The other entrance leads inside to a couple of small rooms with tables. When the weather is warm enough, which is almost always the case here, everyone eats outside. The patrons of Nikitas sit at simple painted pine tables and chairs, dining under a host of square-shaped, mottled canvas umbrellas. Most of the tables are across the street from the taverna, sandwiched between the sealed brick of the Agion Anargyron and a lovely, 200-year-old Greek Orthodox church. It is a splendid setting on this warm, autumn day.


We start our meal with large loaf of fresh, olive bread and a Greek salad. The Greek is served no-nonsense, with a massive slab of herbed feta balanced atop the tomatoes, cucumbers and olives. Before we are half finished, Sofia, one of the owners, brings the mains over. Dana has ordered the roast pork with a side of fries, while I have gone for the moussaka. Although the fries are passable, the pork and the moussaka are divine. Halfway through the meal, Dana and I are wondering whether we can sell the house in Memphis to buy a place in Athens. Although I would end up looking like Marlon Brando, I could eat like this until I was corpulent enough to be buried in a piano box. Dana and I have officially found our favorite eaterie in Athens, and we are already planning to return before flying back to Cairo.

Artful graffiti, Psirri district

We chose Athens and its gritty, Bohemian, Psirri neighborhood weeks ago after an exhaustive research session. We knew we wanted to travel during the Muslim Eid holiday, but the situation here in Egypt did not make us confident that traveling inside the country to anything other than a Western-style resort on the Red Sea was a good idea. Sadly, we have not travelled much in Egypt since our arrival. We still have not gone to the Pyramids, for example. For the most part, travel inside Egypt is safe, but then there are those days. And in our defense, one cannot really tell when one of those days is dawning. So Athens won out over close challengers, Beirut and Munich.


When we travel, we like to avoid resorty-type places or splashy, starred hotels. We stay in those kinds of places when somebody else is picking up the tab for us. When we are making our own travel arrangements however, we like to stay somewhere local. Places like the Xiangzimen Hostel in Xian and the Saphaipae in Bangkok offer accommodating and comfortable private rooms while being incredibly tied into their local communities. And these places do not break the bank; something important for us traveling teachers. Staff at these kinds of places understand our desire to avoid heavily touristed experiences and make sensible recommendations accordingly. With such limited time, we appreciate this. So when we can, we seek out these kinds of places.

Foyer wall, City Circus

City Circus in Athens is one such place. Just over a year old, this locally-owned and operated, upscale hostel is deeply integrated into the local community. The proprietors for example, encourage residents to dine in neighborhood establishments that serve meals based on locally available fruits, vegetables and meats. We see another example in the sumptuous breakfast served every morning at the massive oak table in City Circus' main lobby. The main parts of the meal - the fresh yogurt, the best bread Dana says she has ever eaten, the fruits, the muesli, the jams, the honey - are all locally sourced. When we ask about shopping, the owner encourages us to take a look at some of the small, locally owned shops that showcase the work of local artisans. This is our kind of place, and when we come back - as we most certainly will - we will book the rooftop, balcony room again.

Acropolis amphitheater

Athens itself is an amazing city and much larger than I had thought. The city sprawls for miles and miles, radiating out in all directions, emanating from its still-vibrant, ancient heart. At the center of Athens, as it has been for millennia, is the Acropolis with its ruins. The Acropolis with the Parthenon on top, dominate the Athenian landscape, just as it should be. 


The visit to the Acropolis is a must see, so we head out on the first full day of our visit. We had not planned on seeing the beautiful ruins with thousands and thousands of our dearest friends nor had we planned on a torrential downpour, but that is what happened. The site is breathtaking despite the jostling crowds and the rain. The New Acropolis Museum, built in 2009 at the western end of the ancient site, spectacularly houses the remnants of the history of this ancient place. Some of the pieces in the museum's fine collection are just now seeing the light of day after having been locked away in storage for 200 years. 

Ruins at sunset

Perhaps the most amazing part of the city is its energy. Given the recent news on the state of the Greek economy,  I half expect to see acres of vacant lots haunted by one-time tycoons now morphed into derelict hobos. Far from it. Athenian streets teem with shoppers and food carts. Sure, there are a few empty windows here and there in the Psirri district, but for every empty window there seems to be two more new shops opening. After the sun descends behind the nearby craggy mountains, a vibrant night market rises up on either side of one of the city's central commuter rail stations. The Plaka, the center of tourism in Athens, is constantly buzzing with tourists from all over the continent and from the Arab world. All around the city I see the signs of a strong sense of urban renewal, from dilapidated buildings being lovingly restored to the city's push to encourage more sustainable development and artisan-friendly tourism. If there is a Greek recession, someone should have told the Athenians.

Tumbled Roman ruins in the heart of Athens

Still, the Greek economy has experienced record-setting decline in terms of GDP, leaving almost 1/3 of the Greek workforce without some means of gainful employment. Various news agencies report the unemployment rate being particularly acute among young Greeks, where up to 60% of people 25 and younger may be unemployed. Pessimists worry that the situation will continue to worsen in the face of massive cuts in government spending. Just off of Athens' busiest and most bustling thoroughfares for example, you will find once frenetic cafes and restaurants now just yawning caverns, silent and empty. 

Back at Nikitas' however, the tables are packed and the conversation is lively. Customers, including Dana and me, are enjoying yet another superb meal, dining without a care in the world. After the meal we thank Sofia, the owner who has been waiting on us this evening, for the lovely meal and the equally lovely atmosphere. We tell her that we will definitely be back. She thanks us, mentally making the sign of the cross, and says that God willing, Nikitas will still be here when we return.

 
This week's photos by Dana Purpura except where noted.

In the Steps of St. Antoni, Part 3

Greeted at the gate by Father Rawais

He has a wizard's white beard, and he wears black, flowing robes. Atop his head, he wears a religious skullcap identical to the other 144 monks in St. Antoni's Monastery. His short stature belies a robust, expansive and sometimes contradictory personality. Having been in the monastery for 35 years, he is one of St. Antoni's most senior members. His name is Father Rawais (pronounced ru'-eez) Antoni, and he is at the moment, very angry.

We know this because he is telling us so.

"Right now, I am very angry." He slowly waves his hands up and down as if making a snow angel in the air. The pace at which he is waving his hands does not suggest anger however, nor does his measured voice.  Still, he continues.

"If I come to your house, I do not just walk around inside while you are away. People simply do not do this. This is why I am angry."

Like a teenager, I hang my head. Every other member of our travel group does the same. While waiting for Father Rawais to arrive to tour us round the inside of the monastery, we wandered about. We were not causing any bother or making much in the way of noise, mind you; just poking about ... in and around some of the monks' cells. No one had told us where to wait, so some of us wandered (makes for an interesting metaphor, eh?).

For the record, I was not one of the wanderers. Having spent quite a bit of time in Catholic schools and serving as an altar boy, I was taught to wait patiently while the members of the clergy tended to their business. I cannot speak for the others in my group, but my head-hanging is the product of an attempt to hide the amusement of my being chided. It has been a long time since I have been reprimanded, so I am trying to stifle and suppress a smile and a laugh.

After finishing his measured tirade, Father Rawais pauses, breathing a heavy, intentional sigh. Within a second, the thunderclouds pass over his face giving way to a radiant, beaming smile.

"My name is Rawais Antoni, and I have been a member of this community for 35 years. I do not look this old, do I?"

It is the first of many questions expressed in an almost rhetorical manner that leaves us suspended in a constant state of awkward uncertainty. Should we answer? Is an answer even wanted? If we answer, will we get scolded again? It makes for a strange afternoon, but strange in a good, light-hearted way.

The towers of the monastery

During the first half hour of our tour with Father Rawais, we discover many interesting facets of monastery. The monastery was not founded in a classic sense but rather took shape slowly after the death of St. Antoni. The monastery itself has been in continuous operation for more than 1600 years save for a few years in the 1500s when Berber marauders plundered the facility, slaughtering all of the inhabitants. From the time the monastery was reestablished after the Berber raids up until about 90 years ago, the only way in and out was through a cleverly constructed winch and pulley system that required guests to ring a bell from outside the walls if they wanted to be hoisted into the confines of the monastery. Only the promise of protection from a nearby British garrison convinced the monks to finally build a gate.

We also learn some interesting aspects about the monks who live in this place. Men wanting to become a part of the fellowship here must serve a three-year apprenticeship as a novice before being considered. All of the monks possess the equivalent of a Bachelor's degree, and several of the monks have earned Master's degrees and a few hold PhDs. Father Rawais emphasizes this last point as if to suggest that we should perhaps address him as "Doctor Father Rawais." When the apprentice-novice becomes a fully fledged member of the community, he forsakes his family name and adopts the name, Antoni, as his new family name. So there are 145 current members of the Antoni family living and working in the monastery. All of the monks have two full-time jobs. The first is to spend time engaged in prayer for others. Following in the Christian monastic tradition, the monks here pray eight times per day. The second job is to spend time in the service of the monastery. Monks here serve as builders, field workers, bee keepers, carpenters, and even as the odd English-speaking tour guide.

In time, we come to learn more about our contrary guide. Father Rawais says the simple, religious life revolves around the Bible, the Church and sincere prayer. He occupies what he says is the choicest cell in the monastery. He lived for three years in Seattle, and knows some of the Seattle neighborhoods quite well. He has an affinity for Starbucks, bold-roasted coffee ... when he can get it. He has an email address and keeps up a lively international correspondence. He has an iPhone 5 which he says is for emergencies. It rings twice during our tour, and Father Rawais excuses himself to answer both times. He likes sunglasses. He also likes one of our friend's flashlights, and he guilts her into giving it to him. He thanks her many awkward minutes later. He has a bad leg, and he proudly displays it to anyone who cares to look; I saw it twice. Because of the bad leg, he needs assistance going up and down the stairs. Being the good recovering-Catholic that I am, I volunteer on several occasions, and on each occasion, Father Rawais nicely but firmly tries to save my soul.

Father Rawais shows us his bad leg

"Kyle, you must remember three things in life in order to be happy."

"Yes, Father Rawais. I remember you telling me earlier."

"You must remember the Bible."

"Yes, Father, I will remember."

"You must remember to go to the Church."

"Yes, Father, I will."

"And you must remember the prayer; the prayer is important, Kyle."

"Yes, Father, I will remember."

And so the afternoon goes on in a similar fashion. We learn more about the monastery and the fascinating lives of the men who dwell here. We learn more about Father Rawais, and he makes a few more attempts to secure for me a sublime afterlife; bless him. 

After three hours, we reluctantly leave this beautiful place and the curious characters that inhabit it. It is easy for me to imagine the real Antoni, so torn between the life of luxury that he inherited and the life of suffering he witnessed so often around him. It is easy for me to imagine that man, forsaking everything to come here, to this beautiful oasis in the center of the Great Eastern Desert, in order to find himself and his spiritual center. Standing here, with a gentle, cool afternoon breeze blowing down from the mountains, I can understand this man and his desire for simplicity.

We file past Father Rawais one by one, shaking his hand and thanking him for his time. I am one of the last to leave his company.

"Kyle ...., " he begins in an earnest whisper.

"Yes, Father Rawais?" I am steeling myself for one last frontal assault on my pagan spirit.

"You wife is very lovely."

"Yes, Father Rawais, she is indeed."

This week's photos by the lovely, Dana Purpura. Father Rawais approves this message.

In the Steps of St. Antoni, Part 2

Crosses on the way up to the cave

We stand atop the Red Sea mount, awed, the desert valley far below us and a cool, Saharan wind sweeping our faces and roaring in our ears. It was here, over 1700 years ago, that St. Antoni would have emerged from his cave and looked out over the arid vista to the north. He called this place home for over 40 years. That I am here now is nothing short of a miracle. Standing here, I am transfixed, silent and solemn. I sense the vast desert, and I feel all at once insignificant and a part of the arid world around me. I am aware of only the wind, the sand and the sky. Moments or minutes pass; I am uncertain which. At some point I slowly regain my senses, a dreamer awakening from slumber.

I am me again instead of a small quiet speck of desert.

Entrance to St. Antoni's cave

The entrance to St. Antoni's cave is not much more than a crack in the side of a sandstone mountain, the top of which looms above us. From the valley below, the entrance would be completely unnoticeable. It is perhaps two meters high and barely a shoulders' width wide. Even from our vantage point just a few meters away, the entrance looks sufficiently narrow to make me think twice about wriggling my way in. But I have struggled up 1200 or more steps to get here, and I have brought a flashlight along; might as well chance it.

Dana and I approach slowly, and as we do we can feel and smell the cooler air of the inside of the cave. Another member of our company decides to quickly temper her intense claustrophobia, and she hastily joins us. I get the sense that had she waited a couple of seconds longer, she would have chickened out. Two steps inside of the cave, and I have to crouch and shimmy my way past a smooth outcropping of sandstone that blocks our view of the passage ahead. Lonely Planet was right, this cave is for the svelte and non-claustrophobic.

St. Antoni's icon

Once we pass the sandstone outcropping, we need the flashlights. Dana and our friend are not too happy about this. Flashlights snapped on, we realize that there is a u-shaped set of stairs that leads down to the cave itself. I hear sounds of hesitation behind me. I sidestep down the stairs, but I still have to crouch in the tiny cave. The cave is crowded even for one person. Dirt floor and craggy walls, this was St. Antoni's home for a long stretch of time; unbelievable.

There are only two items inside the cave that speak of St. Antoni's long residence here. On one wall, a lovely enameled icon depicting the holy monk has been mounted into the sandstone. There is a locked reliquary set into the opposite wall. Aside from this, the cave is empty. Feeling cramped, we do not tarry as we did on the the perch outside of the cave. Despite the fact that this is where St. Antoni spent years and years praying in splendid solitude, the cramped confines of the cave do not lend themselves to evoking the sense of awe and mysticism we experienced outside.

Time to leave. 

We pass through the narrow passage in silence. The long trek down the metal-framed stairs likewise passes in near silence. The climb and the scenery are having a profound impact on us all, leaving us speechless for the most part. Father Rawais was correct, the experience at St. Antoni's cave has readied us for a tour of one of the oldest monasteries in the world.

Monks' cells, St. Antoni's Monastery

Photographs taken by Dana and Kyle Purpura

In the Steps of St. Antoni, Part 1

In the southwest portion of the Great Eastern Desert, almost halfway between Cairo's sprawl and Hurghada's seaside opulence, lies the Monastery of St. Antoni. Founded over 1700 years ago, this ancient place is one of the oldest monasteries in the world. The buildings and small plots of farmland that make up the monastery are nestled comfortably and safely within a crooked arm of the Red Sea Mountains. According to the traditions of the monks that reside in this oasis community, it is here, during the late period of the Roman occupation of Egypt, that St. Antoni gave away his lands and all of his possessions to lead a life of solitude, prayer and asceticism.

He lived in a small cave high up in the mountains, climbing down everyday day or two to replenish his water skins from one of the three fresh springs bubbling up in the nearby valley oasis. Presumably he also descended from his mountain perch to hunt and eat. After a few years, rumors of his holiness spread throughout the desert communities, and he began to attract a following. A monastic community was thus born in the oasis below Antoni's mountain cave. The community was one of the firsts of its kind, a precursor to the monastic communities that would become common throughout the Christian world.

Father Rawais Antoni

We are here on this hot, late September day, pilgrims of sorts, hoping to walk in Antoni's steps; to experience just a little of a life of monastic seclusion in the majestic panorama that is Egypt's Eastern Desert. We are greeted by the venerable Father Rawais Antoni. White beard and black robes flowing, he meets us at the great gate in front of the monastery, and he suggests that we first climb the 1200 or so steps to visit the cave where Antoni spent more than 40 years of his life. After this struggle to get up to the cave, he says, we should then be ready to tour the monastery below.

We travel to the base of a nearby, rocky mountain. Pausing in the heat of a direct, Saharan sun, we survey the metal-framed stairway zigzagging up the side of the mountain and ending in cement perch hundreds of meters above us. This will be a long and sweaty climb.

Steps leading to St. Antoni's cave

And it is.

Twenty years or so ago, I would have reveled in this kind of thing. Trudging up a thousand steps on a hot, early afternoon was just the kind of challenge I would have liked when I was 27. Now that I am 47, out of shape and with a bad knee, the challenge seems more like survival. I am one of the oldest in the group, and I take my time, lagging behind the rest. Although the sun is scorchingly hot, a cool, desert breeze swirls around us, making the climb a little easier. 

During frequent rests, Dana and I stop to take in and photograph the scenery. The wild and empty expanse of the Eastern Desert opens up before us as we slowly climb higher and higher. Maybe it is the altitude or the steps, but the oasis and the broad, arid valley below make for a breathtaking sight. Along the way up and at odd intervals, I notice that past pilgrims have walked off of the path and onto nearby rocky outcroppings to "cairn" piles of rocks. Others have staked make-shift metal crosses into the unforgiving, stony ground. Crosses that have been here the longest now lean in a gravity-defying way just like many of the weary would-be pilgrims struggling and stooping to make this climb. 

The view from the halfway point

At three-quarters of the way up I stop, red-faced and huffing from the exertion. Discomfited, I am amazed by the thought that Antoni lived to be 105 years old and that he had to have made this climb every other day for over forty years. Being half this age and much better fed, I don't have much of an excuse. Divinely inspired, I force my way up the last few hundred steps.

I am not disappointed. Dana and I finally make it to the top of the stairs, walking out onto a cement stage that the monks have built just outside of Antoni's cave. We are 300 meters or so above the desert floor, and we are looking out over miles and miles of ochre, barren valleys and the dusky purple crags of distant ridges. Far below, the monastery looks like a small model made for some museum display in Cairo. Gusty Saharan winds carrying fine grains of sand roar in our ears, buffeting our clothing and covering us all in a fine layer of golden silt. We have to yell to make ourselves be heard, although conversation here is at a minimum. Most of us are perfectly content to stand in the solitude letting the desert wilderness consume all that we see and hear. 

It is a powerful and humbling experience.

The view from St. Antoni's cave

This week's photos taken by Dana and Kyle Purpura

Back in the news cycle (again)

Although Friday is the holy day of the week for Muslims, Friday protests against the military government here continue unabated. The protestors are a strange mixture. Some are conservative Muslims, many of them members of the Muslim Brotherhood, who want Egypt's first democratically elected president, Mohamed Morsi, released from jail and reinstalled. In early July, Morsi was removed from power by the Egyptian military, and he has been in jail awaiting trial on conspiracy charges since. Other protestors are liberal-minded Egyptians, usually students in their late teens and early twenties, who may or may not have been Morsi supporters but who want an end to military rule.

Since July there have been mass protests, many of them ironically culminating on a Friday, the holy day of the week throughout the Muslim world. When afternoon prayers end the mosques empty out, and the protests begin. With the speed of a superhero, a worshiper transforms into a street protestor in a couple of minutes; no phone booth needed.

Since August, when the military government cracked down on two camps of pro-Morsi and pro-democracy supporters and killed hundreds, the weekly Friday protests have been relatively tame and peaceful. Nonetheless, they have happened. It was only a matter of time until a particularly fervent group mustered up the courage to attempt to carry their street protest into the hermetically sealed Tahrir Square, the launch pad for the 2011 Revolution.

A large and boisterous group made such an attempt on the night of October 4th. They came with flags and banners, rocks and Molotov cocktails. They were met by police squads armed with tear gas cannisters and live ammunition. Four protestors died.

This coming Sunday is a holiday here in Egypt; Armed Forces Day. Given that not all Egyptians want to celebrate the role of the military in society right now, we are expecting more trouble this weekend and on into Monday. In two weeks the religious celebration of Eid begins, and many Egyptians will have the week off. Most will enjoy a huge feasts, dining with family and friends. Others will take to the streets. Protests will continue unabated. We are bracing ourselves - unfortunately - for another round of violence. 

Postscript (October 7, 2013): Sadly, 51 protestors were killed throughout Egypt on Armed Forces Day.