Say "Cheese."

Once per week, Dana and I buy a couple of blocks of Australian cheddar cheese produced - of course - by a local dairy firm here in Egypt. The quarter-pound blocks that we purchase are about the length, width and breadth of your outstretched hand, that is if your hand was square and vacuum sealed. When unwrapped, the tawny, blond cheese has a fresh, rich aroma and a creamy, buttery taste. A versatile cheese, the cheddar works well in cooked dishes and in salads, or is perfectly fine as a stand-alone snack. We love it.

Although I do not know this, I assume that this particular variety of "white" cheddar is synonymous with the cheese making industry in Australia. I know it is not of Egyptian origin. Cheese making in Egypt goes back thousands of years, but the local cheeses are either the soft white mounds that we often associate with Greece, or a hard, smelly Parmesan-like thing called, "Roumy." My sole experience with Roumy happened in late 2013 and lasted for approximately five very unpleasant minutes. That's how long the aftertaste loitered on my tongue. Dana and I were walking through the dairy aisle at a local supermarket and happened upon a booth where a sampling of all kinds of local cheeses was arrayed. I thought that the local Parmesan might be worth a try. Innocently poised at the end of the toothpick, the nugget I selected looked just like Parmesan. It wasn't. It wasn't Parmesan and it wasn't innocent. Far from it. It was mummy's ass. That's what I remember thinking at the time. That was right about the time when the lady behind the booth pronounced this stale, dusty bit of putrefaction as being "Roumy."

I know I made a face. I couldn't help it. I couldn't dial in my disgust quickly enough, having just ingested the dusty, moldy, assy insides of some series of faraway sarcophagi. I swallowed the nasty little blob without further chewing. It slimed down down my throat like a boogery hawker. Through gritted teeth, I forced a wincing smile, thanking the woman at the booth. I wheeled around, Dana trailing after me. She was giggling.

"That bad?"

"Unbelievably. Terrible. Mummy ass," my voice was weak.

"You're being overly dramatic."

"We can go back. I think there might be another sliver of butt left."

"I think I'll pass. You gonna be alright?" Still giggling. Not helpful, especially given the strong aftertaste of mummy tuchas still shaking its can in my mouth.

But I digress ... We love the local "Australian" cheddar. It's lovely and creamy and whitish-yellow, just like cheddar should be. If this opinion about the color of cheddar is true - and I now wholeheartedly believe that it is - then what in hell kind of orange-tainted shittiness have I been eating all of these years? American singles? Waxy and orange. Velveeta? Gooey and orange. Okay, maybe American singles and Velveeta don't qualify as being cheeses, but even a decent Winconsin cheddar is orange. And the hats that the Packers fans in Green Bay wear? They're orange, too. What gives? I was raised in a universe where cheddar is orange. Why the change?

I have been troubled by this issue enough recently to bother to try to find an answer. According to Cecil Adams of the The Straight Dope, we have the English to blame. Cecil claims that years and years ago, cheese lovers in England began to equate orangish-yellow cheddar as being of a higher quality than the tawny-colored cheddar. Back before the days of industrialized farming and cattle being cannibalized with human-produced feed made from grains and offal, dairy cows were always fed a diet of grass in the summer months and hay in the winter months. The cow milk in the summer was rich in beta-carotene, the vitamin that helps to give carrots their lovely orange hue. Not to say that summer cow milk was orange, but it was apparently a different color that the cow milk in the winter. Customers began to demand the "more wholesome" cheese made from summer milk and so farmers obliged by adding a little annatto seed coloring (a natural orange colorant) to all of their cheese-making endeavors. The dye gave the cheddars a consistent color throughout the year and the specific orangish shade that early English consumers believed to be synonymous with cheese greatness.

So much for the history lesson. Thanks, Cecil.

Now that I have a little intellectual capital at my disposal, I know enough to say that I don't like my cheddar being orange. Here's why.

I looked up some information on the annatto seed, the stuff used to make the dye that cheese makers put into cheddar. The seed is naturally occurring and innocuous enough. Annatto is apparently flavorful and may even have some health benefits. But the tree that produces the seeds is a tropical tree, and so those little seeds, the ones that are eventually crushed into the dye that turns my cheddar into something resembling the color of a carrot, have quite a carbon footprint. These days I prefer to dine locally when I can. I would like to believe that my preference for local foods may actually help local people. If I were in the tropics, I would be okay with eating orange cheddar. In Egypt or in Tennessee, I would prefer a less well-traveled, less global cheese.

I am also thinking that annatto oil is probably a little pricey, pricey enough to tempt a few wily cheese makers into using using chemical equivalents - like perhaps F, D & C powdered dyes - as substitutes for a natural oil. I'm old, and that means I have eaten enough crummy things to clog up my arteries and constrict the blood vessels in my brain. I don't need any more gunk. So I will pass on the powdered dyes and food coloring agents.

I also like the idea of eating foods that are coming to me in a more-or-less natural state in terms of color and taste. Some barmy English hill-jack a couple of hundred years ago decided that orange cheese was better. That does not mean that I have to blindly follow this decision. Indeed, now that I have a choice, I would like to make a different decision altogether. I would like to have my cheddar look a little more cheddar-like and a little less carrot-like.

So despite the ridiculousness of the idea of purchasing Australian cheddar in Egypt, I will stick with the local variety of dun-colored cheese produced here in Cairo and not dyed with a seed transported from far away, or worse, colored with some chemical agent. I will not however, go completely local to switch to the local "Parmesan." Nope, I will enjoy my expensive imported Italian Parmesan along with its massive carbon footprint. My liberalism does, after all, have its limits.

One Step Up and Two Steps Back?

One step up ... maybe

Following months of speculation, Egypt's worst kept secret was this week finally made public. Field Marshall Abdel Fatah al-Sisi, the commander-in-chief of the armed forces who led the ouster of former president Mohammed Morsi, communicated his resignation from the military in order to run for the presidency. In a televised speech aired earlier in the week, al-Sisi announced his resignation, declaring his presidential candidacy. 

For many Egyptians this is good news. Al-Sisi has an almost cult-like following.  A career infantry officer, he is cut from the same military mold as Nasser and Sadat. In his previous speeches he has focused on security and stability, two themes popular among business owners and shop keepers. He is a devout Muslim who often quotes from the Koran, a personal characteristic that is popular among Egypt's poor and working classes. In his speech this week he stressed security, unity, hard work, and prosperity. Who doesn't support these ideas?

For some Egyptians the promises of a brighter future ring hollow. For them the prospect of an al-Sisi presidency represents catastrophe and failure. In 2012, when president Morsi tapped al-Sisi to head the armed forces, conservative Muslims and members of the now-outlawed Muslim Brotherhood inwardly cheered. They saw in al-Sisi a kindred, pious spirit. Finally one of their own, a conservative Muslim, was heading Egypt's revered and powerful military apparatus. Less than a year later, al-Sisi was leading the charge against President Morsi, a charge that led to Morsi's fall and subsequent incarceration. A charge that led to the downfall of the Morsi government. Al-Sisi's former Muslim Brotherhood supporters now view him as a traitor. 

Some liberal-minded university students do not support al-Sisi either, although they do not see him as a traitor. Liberals view al-Sisi as another Mubarak, a former military commander assuming the reigns of the state. A return to business as usual. An outright denial of the ideals of the 2011 revolution.

Given the public display of flags, posters, even al-Sisi shaped chocolates however, the former general's supporters seem to grossly outnumber his detractors. Al-Sisi is expected to win the upcoming May elections by a wide margin. With elections just two months away, the only other candidate in the presidential race is Hamdeen Sabahi, a liberal/leftist politician and poet who finished third in the 2012 presidential election. Sabahi is popular among college liberals but is seen by most as a rather obscure leftist.

Pragmatists would question why either al-Sisi or Sabahi would want to seek the presidential post. The job will certainly not be easy. The next president will administer over an Egypt where one in every four or five citizens lives on less than two dollars per day. An Egypt where the government annually pays billions of dollars toward bread and fuel subsidies. An Egypt where inflation rates are rising into the double-digits. An Egypt where weekly public protests and clashes result in multiple deaths. An Egypt where daily power outages and rolling blackouts have become commonplace. To solve these crippling problems will be no easy task. Both al-Sisi and Sabahi have good reputations going into this election. Given the daunting tasks at hand, they have much to lose.

Two steps back ... certainly

If it wasn't al-Sisi's candidacy grabbing international headlines, it was Egyptian judge, Saeed Elgazar. Judge Elgazar is the man who this week sentenced 529 arrested protestors to death. The trial took place in the Minya district, a couple of hundred kilometers south of Cairo. 

Clashes between security forces and pro-Morsi demonstrators in Minya came to a head last August with protestors attacking a local police station, killing one officer. Security forces then overwhelmed the protestors, arresting hundreds. The protestors' trial was held this week. It lasted two days. Only 150 of the defendants, wearing their required white coveralls and locked behind a crowded cage in the courtroom, were present. The rest of the defendants were held in various prisons and detainment units throughout the country. Defense attorneys were not able to meet with most of the defendants. Testimony during the two-day trial was scant. In the end, 529 of the protestors received a death sentence. Judge Elgazar acquitted only 16 people. 

Human rights organizations immediately condemned the proceedings. Human Right Watch, Amnesty International, and even the United Nations Human Rights Commission have all criticized the conduct of the trial for its lack of respect to the rights of the accused and absence of procedural due process. Government officials and legal experts in Cairo were quick to distance themselves from the ruling, pointing out that provincial courts operate independently of the federal courts. The same Cairo officials were also quick to stress that the Minya ruling was subject to a federal appeals process. Few here in Cairo expect the sentences to be carried out, believing instead that a successful appeals process will overturn the decision. Still ...

Since August and the crackdown on political protests, over 16,000 people have been arrested. Most are still awaiting trial.

Whale Watching in the Sahara

Mud-mounds and bluffs overlooking Wadi Al-Hitan

We are heading out this morning, two passengers on a whale watching expedition to the Wadi Al-Hitan, a part of the Eastern Sahara. Meghan, one of the teachers with whom we work, put this expedition together a couple of weeks ago, and she has issued a 100% guarantee that we will see whales today, albeit dead ones. Very dead. Millions of years dead.

50 million years ago, most of Egypt was submerged beneath a shallow sea, a sea that was home to an abundant amount of marine life including a primitive type type of whale known as a basilosaurus. A cross between a small whale and an alligator, a basilosaurus could grow to 20 meters in length, and it swam alongside tortoises, crocodiles, and sharks. The waters teemed with life with the basilosaurus floating happily atop the food chain. The fossilized remains of the basilosaurus' lush marine environment can be seen in the eastern portion of the Sahara Desert. Located a couple of hundred kilometers southwest of Cairo, Wadi Al-Hitan is a part of this area and is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. This is our destination.

Including Hany, our very experienced guide, and his two compatriots, there are fifteen of us traveling in the caravan this morning. Dana and I have shared previous adventures with several of our fellow travelers. Sarah, Rick, and their two children, Matthew and Emily (who speak better Arabic than all of the rest of us put together), joined us on trips to Luxor and Old Cairo. Joe and Rosanna trekked to Luxor, too. This morning, we gather at a local market just before clambering into our ships of the desert. Were we to make this journey a century ago, we would be climbing onto comfortable camel perches adorned with brightly colored Egyptian woolen blankets. Today, we climb aboard dusty Toyota Landcruisers.

The drive there proves fascinating, however. We exit the main highway just outside of Giza, off-roading across hard-packed sand for many, barren kilometers. Our driver, Hamdy, is a tall, handsome man that hails from a remote village in central Egypt. He wears a keffiyah (checkered headdress) and an alabaster galabiya (traditional men's robe). As the blackened rock and firm sand under our wheels give way to shifting ochre dunes, we discover that Hamdy has two wives and three children. I note with interest that the wives live in separate towns. We also learn that Hamdy likes American R&B. He is particularly passionate about R Kelly, and we listen to the first four episodes of Trapped in the Closet. Treading a fine line between jocularity and horror, Joe sings along. He knows a disturbing amount of the lyrics. Hamdy is (sadly) impressed by Joe's singing and films one of Joe's impromptu segments; coming to an Egyptian YouTube channel near you.

After two hours of coursing through the dunes, we drop precariously. It is as if all of the land fell at once, a broad valley stretching as far as I can see. Here and there, copper colored mesas rise above the shifting sands. The horizontal striations along the sides of the mesas tell a story of  millions of years of receding water levels, the story ending with a dead sea and an ocean of dust and sand.

When we arrive at Wadi Al-Hitan however, we grasp that there is more here than dust and sand. Hany leads our caravan of three Landcruisers into the site parking lot. UN funding has ensured the maintenance and upkeep of this place. Several one-story buildings, domed structures made of sun-dried brick, provide visitors with shade, modern toilets, and even an area to cook meals. Hany, purchases tickets for our group, gives us a brief introduction about the park, and then leaves us to enjoy the hike on our own.

The hike takes one to two hours. We see ochre, toadstool-like rock formations, mud-mounds that are millions of years old. Our path meanders through these magnificent features. Beneath some of the mud-mounds lay the preserved skeletal remains of basilosaurus. Some of the best specimens from the park have long since been taken to museums for further inspection, but 15 or so fine examples have been demarcated and preserved. The best skeleton, a relatively small basilosaurus, is encountered about halfway through the hike. The creature's crocodile-like head and snout still have some teeth intact. The animal's fins and spinal column are easily discernible; the intact fossilized remains of an ancient whale in the midst of a desert. Incredible.

I would love to stay longer, but today is hot. The midday sun hammers down on us. Our water goes quickly; lips begin to feel baked and crispy. We head slowly back towards the park entrance. An hour-and-a-half later, we are sprawled out under one of the site's shelters, Hany serving us a cooked lunch of okra and tomato stew poured over a bed of rice. Also incredible.

Ged rockets down the dune

We regain our strength and pack up. The day is not over yet. Hany leads our caravan out of the park and toward a nearby shifting sand dune. We park at the base, the dune rising several hundred feet above us. Time for sandboarding. Imagine snowboarding except on sand. That's sandboarding. No helmet, no pads. Just you, your board, and the dune.

The kids take to it immediately. It takes us adults a little longer. Matthew and Emily, the youngest of our troop, bound halfway up the dune and glide down. At first they sit on the board, but then they muster the courage to stand, surfer-style. Before long, they are asking Hany to wax the bottoms of their boards so that they can go faster. Once the adults get the hang of it, they are pretty good, too. Ged, the tallest of our group, manages to make it the farthest up the dune, and he summits with a freshly waxed board. He slaloms down at quite a speed, making it look easy and oh, so much fun.

The trouble with sandboarding though is that it is such a trudge up the side of a shifting sand dune. Step ... slide down, step ... slide down. I make it about a quarter of the way up. I am panting, thighs burning from the exertion. In the time it takes me to amble  up, Matthew and Emily have been up and down and are on their way back up again. Ah, to have that much energy again.

The sun begins to set, our sandboarders casting impossibly long shadows down the slopes of the dunes. The kids take a couple of more runs, and then we need to leave. Hany tells us that foxes and jackals roam these parts after dark. What he does not say is that we are also in a relatively conservative part of the county, and that it is best to be back in Cairo before it gets too dark. So we pack our boards, climbing back into our modern ships of the desert.

We drive out of the dusty, barren valley. The land looks gaunt and thirsty. Driving away, it is difficult to believe that ages ago, this place was very different. That once upon a time, this area teemed with life; that the valley that once was a sea bed and home to millions of sea creatures.

*This week's photos by Dana Purpura.

A Synagogue in Ma'adi

Meyr Biton Temple from Road 13

A dusty, forlorn synagogue stands in Ma'adi just where Road 13 meets Orabi Street. From the pavement you can barely see the temple for all of the trees, reeds, and weeds. Look above the treetops though, and you can see the second story, the butternut colored blocks, the central dome. Walk around the building. Here and there you catch a glimpse of stained glass windows and inlaid Stars of David. See the hastily built brick walls surrounding the temple, the locked gate in front, the padlock encrusted with sand and dust. Tarry too long in front of the gates, and one of the bowabs from across the street will rise from his perch to shoo you away. Try to take a picture and you may be met with a vigorous shaking of the head, a wagging of the index finger, and a "la, la, la!" (no, no, no!). Even if you are not shooed away, you will be suspiciously watched. Given the bowabs' withering stares, you won't linger, and you will probably leave with many more questions than answers.

― That looked like it used to be a synagogue. What happened?

― Do you think it is abandoned?

― Does anyone still pray there? Does anyone take care of it?

Meyr Biton Temple, 1934
Courtesy, Bassatine News

In 1934, times were very different in Cairo and in Egypt. Howard Carter had discovered Tutankhamen's tomb just a a little over a decade before. Fuad was king. British influence was still strong. Those were the days before World War II and the pograms, before the Six Day War and the Arab-Israeli conflicts.

In 1934, landscaper and developer Meyr Yehuda Biton had a synagogue built for a burgeoning Jewish community in Ma'adi. It was not built to be grand or imposing. It was built as a place where a small but growing community could gather together to celebrate and pray. In 1934, the Meyr Biton Temple was finished and services began. Those services would come to an end just thirty short years later.

Barricades blocking all the streets around the temple

Today the streets around the synagogue are barricaded, blocked by palisades of police barriers, twisted metal bars, and recumbent spiked metal poles that look as is if they belong in a medieval weaponry museum. At half-block intervals, bowabs sit in their makeshift, metal stands warding off all but the most stalwart passerbyes. Overgrown trees and weeds choke the median between the street and the temple walls. It appears as though the same is true on the other side of the walls. At irregular intervals throughout the week, a policeman stands guard on the street in front. Motorists drive past, oblivious to the building's significance, its history, its legacy.

Jewish communities have been a part of the Egyptian social fabric since the days of Alexander the Great. Some Ottoman rulers in Egypt enjoyed the counsel of Jewish ministers and advisers. For hundreds of years, Alexandria and Cairo were renown for their vibrant Jewish communities. Just before the outbreak of the first Word War, the Jewish community in Egypt had been estimated at 80,000 strong; this according to most religious demographers.

But then the First World War was followed by another one. Pograms in Egypt's larger cities were not unheard of. And then came the creation of Israel. Some Egyptian Jews, Zionists dreaming of a Jewish state in the Middle East, left. Conflict between the people of Israel and the people of Egypt followed. More Egyptian Jews left, emigrating to Europe, South America, the United States. Then Nasser came to power, proclaiming Jews as enemies of the state. An exodus ensued.

According to a U.S. State Department report on international religious freedom published in 2007, only 200 native-born Jews remained in Egypt. Until this month, only 12 of the 200 were still here. Last week, Nadia Haroun, the sister of the President of the Jewish Community Council (JCC) of Cairo, passed away. The remaining 11 members of the Jewish community are all female and quite past child-bearing age. The future of the Egyptian Jewish community looks bleak.

But thanks to the work of the JCC, the interior of Meyr Biton Temple has recently been refurbished and is open to the public. It is advisable to contact the JCC first so that someone from the JCC office can contact the local caretaker, but entrance to the synagogue can be arranged. One blogger recounts his experience inside the temple,

In the entry, I saw a photo of the congregation from the early 1930s: women in old fashioned dresses and men wearing Turkish fezzes. Signs reminding the ladies to keep quiet still hung on the wall, in both French and English, as if the people from the photograph still gathered here. The bookshelves were filled with prayer books, many of which were close to 100 years old. I prayed that night from a siddur issued to soldiers in the British army during World War II. While this army prayer book did not contain a complete Shabbat service, it did include a prayer for going into battle, another for the wounded, and a special blessing for the royal family including Princess Elizabeth (now Queen Elizabeth II).

Although the synagogue's facade suggests otherwise, a light still shines inside the Meyr Biton Temple. One hopes that the light emanating from the altar will continue to shine on.

An Oddball Week in Cairo

Years from now when I look back upon our time in Egypt, I will recall the odd events of this past week. This has been a week where the entire interim government unexpectedly resigned, where soldiers took the place of striking bus workers, and where an elderly Army doctor held a press conference to announce he had found a cure for AIDS and Hepatitis C. Even by "National Enquirer" standards this had been a curious week in terms of the stories grabbing Egyptian headlines.

Outgoing Egyptian Prime Minister, Hazem Al Beblawi.
Photo by World Economic Forum, CC license.

On February 24th, aging Prime Minister Hazem Al Beblawi gave a televised speech announcing that he and his interim government had resigned. In the July, 2013 wake of President Mohammed Morsi's ouster, Beblawi and the 30 other cabinet members, the heads of Egypt's various Ministries, hastily assumed office. Seven months later, they are leaving. In a Kennedy-esque, farewell speech, Beblawi stated, "it is time we all sacrificed for the good of the country. Rather than asking what has Egypt given us, we should instead be asking what we have done for Egypt." No real reason was given for the resignation other than a vague nod to a "need for new blood.' Given that over one thousand people have died in protests since Beblawi assumed the role of Prime Minster, this was perhaps a unfortunate turn of phrase. Never really popular with the public, Beblawi has been criticized for the harsh crackdown on protests and for mismanaging the economy. Recent nationwide strikes among public sector workers and an ongoing energy crisis have swelled the number of government detractors. However, none had demanded the government step down, so the resignation came as a surprise. Beblawi will quickly be replaced as Prime Minister by the head of the Ministry for Housing, while many of the other cabinet heads will continue on in a stewardship role. The new government will be Egypt's sixth since the Arab Spring Revolution of 2011.

Supporter of Field Marshal el-Sisi.
Photo by montager, CC license.

Meanwhile, current Defense Minister and First Deputy Prime Minister, Field Marshal Abdel Fattah el-Sisi is still waiting to announce his candidacy for president. The popular general did not comment on the government resignation, this despite his membership in the cabinet. Egyptian media outlets have speculated for month's about el-Sisi running for president. With presidential elections tentatively scheduled for April, the "Quiet General" still has yet to announce his intentions.

This week the Army was called upon to assume a rather unique task, that of driving the city's buses. Thousands and thousands of public workers, public transport workers included, took to the streets this week in what they hope will be the beginnings of a general strike. As a result, some members of the Army were called upon to maintain the nation's rickety public transport system. Striking workers included bus drivers, trash collectors, and even some doctors and dentists. They want an increase in the minimum wage. Egypt does have a minimum wage currently set at 1200 Egyptian Pounds per month. That is about $170. However, the minimum wage only applies to a fraction of Egypt's public workers. The law does not apply to any worker in Egypt's private sector. Many Egyptians earn less than $100 per month. In a country where per capita GDP is about $3000 and where an estimated one in four Egyptians lives on less than $1.65 per day, the striking workers feel a moral obligation to have their demands met.

So the government resigns, a wildly popular general has no comment, and members of the nation's military assume the roles of bus drivers. Although these headlines in and of themselves would make for a pretty interesting week, the biggest oddball headline came from Major General Ibrahim Abdel-Atti. He is an Army doctor and the head of a cancer treatment and screening center here in Cairo. This week, the aging general held a press conference, announcing that he had found a cure for both AIDS and Hepatitis C. In a presentation given to reporters, General Abdel-Atti showed a short film that explained the "miraculous" procedure. He explained that the procedure simply involved transfusing a patient's blood, removing all traces of the virus, and then pumping back in the healthy blood. Simply, really. "I will take the AIDS from the patient and I will nourish the patient on the AIDS treatment. I will give it to him like a skewer of Kofta to nourish him," he stated. Although Egypt has a low prevalence of HIV infections, the WHO estimates that Egypt has the highest rate of chronic Hepatitis C sufferers in the world; about 5.5 million out of a total population of 85 million.

It has indeed been a week of strange headlines. Meanwhile, a Cairo police officer was killed yesterday morning, the latest in a series of drive-by shootings targeting local police. There were also more fatalities in Egypt's restive Sinai. Much like school shootings in the United States, these headlines and others like it were relegated to the second and third pages of Egypt's broadsheets.

An Egyptian Doorman - the Bowab

Depending upon the building, he can be visible or invisible, homespun or cooly professional, intimidating or welcoming. He is a bowab, a doorman, and he is unique to this corner of the African continent.

He is certainly unique to me. Doormen were not a part of my upbringing in rural, southern Ohio. Growing up, the only connection I made with doormen came via the television. I remember Ralph the doorman on The Jeffersons, and I can vaguely remember the disembodied voice of  Carlton the Doorman on Rhoda. The bowab of my building in Ma'adi doesn't look at all like Ralph, and he does not sound at all like Carlton.

For starters, he has hardly a tooth in his head and he speaks almost no English. When I met him for the first time, I shook his hand and gesturing to myself, said "Kyle." He smiled a toothless grin, likewise gestured to himself and said something. Since that day I have replayed that "something" several hundred times in my head, and I still have no idea what the hell the man said. Every syllable he uttered sounded like soft cheese being squished, his breath a curious mixture of stale cigarettes and halitosis. There was even some spittle. Consequently, I do not know my bowab's name. Neither do any of my neighbors; and I have asked all of them. I can only assume that they too, received the same halitosis-fueled, squished cheese and spittle welcome that I received. Six months on, and I hesitate to reintroduce myself. It would be awkward, and I am not certain that I want the mental replay pinballing in my brain for the next six months.

Not all buildings in Ma'adi have bowabs, but most do. From what I gather the residents of a building can get together and decide to hire a bowab. They may do so to project a sense of status (probable in times past) or to project a veneer of security (very probable in Egypt today). When the residents decide to hire a bowab they must decide how much to pay him and then where to deploy him. The bowabs of whom I am aware all work for a few hundred Egyptian pounds per month, each resident contributing a part of the total amount (1 Egyptian pound = .15 $US at the time of writing). Many bowabs have some sort of separate security hut provided by the building residents or owner. Located just off the street in front of the building, these huts make a perfect perch in which to sit or sleep, depending upon the time of day. Our bowab likes his afternoon cat nap at around 3 p.m., for example. Some bowabs have a built in living unit just inside the building's main entrance. Usually no bigger than a closet, these units can be a bowab's home. Occasionally the units are larger - but not much - and can accommodate the bowab and his family.

Bowabs are often very handy, washing cars, repairing household appliances, making minor vehicle repairs, etc. On our morning walk to work for example, we see many bowabs out washing luxury vehicles. Unbelievably, some building residents have their vehicles washed every day. It's not the money paid that astonishes me but rather the utter waste of water resources, particularly in a country where water is acutely scarce. That's not the bowab's fault, by the way. He is only trying to make as much of a living as possible. When they wash cars or make minor home repairs, bowabs do charge for the additional work, and they usually work for a lot less than 1$ per hour.

From what I understand, bowabs have traditionally worn galabeyas (shown in photo above), sandals and some kind of headdress. On our morning walks to work, Dana and I certainly see traditional bowabs, usually elderly gentleman puttering around the front of a building, bidding us a smiling "sabaah al-khayr" ("good morning"). But this is modern Egypt, and today's bowab is more likely to be smartly dressed or perhaps even uniformed. One bowab that we see almost every morning wears designer jeans, a leather jacket and engineer boots. He greets us with a smile and a polished, "good morning sir; good morning madam." Our bowab is a little less sporty and polished; he wears a "pleather" jacket. But he does ride a well-worn, Dayun motorcycle (two bonus points for sportiness).

Our bowab does not work weekends and nights. I think he sub-lets to a night bowab and a different weekend bowab. We only pay our main bowab, so I am assuming a sub-let situation (although I sometimes worry that we should be paying our night and weekend bowabs separately and that we are seen as those "cheap bastards upstairs"). Our night bowab is named Ahmed. I know this because he speaks a little English and understood my introduction when I made it months ago. Unlike our main bowab, I understood Ahmed's response. Ahmed is young and looks like he desperately needs a sandwich. A strong gust of wind would surely knock him over, but he is extremely nice and hip. Ahmed has a phone and a very busy text correspondence that he seems to keep up throughout the night. I am uncertain as to whom Ahmed is texting at 3 a.m., but I have a mental image of hundreds of weekend bowabs texting one another throughout the night to keep each other awake.

On the whole, the bowabs that we encounter are gentle and extremely courteous. We greet them every morning and they always return the greeting. A few bowabs are obviously practicing their English, and they try to sneak in a couple of additional words each month. I smile, speaking slowly. I imagine sometimes that they must think me as the village idiot.

Just when I think I have the whole bowab thing figured out, I am forced to reconsider. In the very early hours of the morning, I am awakened by the din of raised voices from the nearby street corner. I get up out of bed, peering out of a corner window to the street below. Some ten to fifteen young men are standing in the middle of the street, facing off against one or two of the bowabs that mind the apartment building on the corner. Although I cannot understand what is being said, the voices I hear convey a sharp sense of anger and malice. Shouting turns into a shoving match, the young men closing ranks around the two bowabs. Then, from every street leading into the intersection, I hear the running footfalls and brief shouts of other men. Within a minute, the menacing young men are surrounded by twenty or more bowabs, each carrying a thick stick or staff. One particularly brawny bowab carrying something just short of a tree trunk walks calmly into the circle of young men and says a few quiet words to one of lads. He towers over the young man, hefting his club as he is speaking. The young ruffian does not look him in the eye. Without a further word, the young troublemakers slink quietly down the road. The bowabs are still chatting as I climb back into bed.

I sleep more soundly than I ever have since arriving in Egypt.

An all-girls, STEM school in Cairo

Both in the U.S. and in the UK, "STEM" is an acronym for science, technology, engineering, and mathematics and is currently a hot topic in educational circles and debates. The use of STEM as an acronym goes back at least to the early 2000s where it begins to pop up in the academic and periodic literature associated with America's competitive technological edge or lack thereof. By 2006 the acronym wormed its way into George W. Bush's State of the Union address and not long after, STEM wriggled its way into the American Competitive Initiative and the America Competes Act. These initiatives promoted the increase of funding - both public and private - into state and local education programs designed to elevate student proficiencies in math and the sciences. They have have been surprisingly successful as hundreds of STEM programs throughout the U.S., backed by federal block grants, the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, NASA, Siemans, the Battelle Memorial Institute, and almost all sizable state-funded universities, are now very well established.

I am just a bit surprised then when I get a call from my school head wanting to know whether I am interested in going with him and another colleague to visit an all-girls, STEM school located within a few kilometers of our international school in Cairo.

"Count me in," I say. Inwardly and arrogantly, I am thinking that there is no way in hell that there is really any such thing as a local, all-girls, STEM school. All-girls, yes; but STEM, no way. I log the date and time in my calendar, thinking that this visit will be good fun; arrogant ass that I sometimes am.

The day of the tour arrives, and we pile in one of our school's sedans along with Mohammad, our driver. The STEM school is close, less than 10 km, but having driven half that distance, I discover that we are a world away. After we drive out of the green, tree-lined streets of affluent Ma'adi, we motor into the dusty residential blocks that make up much of Cairo's southeastern dwelling enclaves. We pass by square after monotonous square of partially finished, cinder block hulks, rebar sprouting from tops like ungainly tufts of hair. Here and there we see a finished porch, either freshy painted or newly tiled, in the middle of an obviously unfinished building, the sign of a family having already moved in amidst the debris of a construction site. Or maybe just squatters making themselves at home. Nothing here is finished. Sand covered construction materials litter the streets and the entrances to almost every one of the buildings, the visible signs of an aborted construction boom that met its demise along with ousted president, Hosni Mubarak. 

After experiencing some difficulties navigating the streets in this immense tangle of cement and metal, we finally find our destination, the Girls' School for Science and Technology. The school is mostly finished, which is in stark contrast to the taller buildings that surround it. The school occupies an entire city block, wholly surrounded by a high, cement wall. Atop the wall at odd intervals, electric cables sheathed in plastic look like clots of oddly colored weeds. At some point there will be light fixtures atop these walls but not now; the school is not yet completely finished ... or paid for ... or both. We pull into a paved courtyard, driving right up to the front of the school. I note that there is no security detail or member of staff to stop us. We simply drive up, exit our vehicle, walk into the school, and begin looking around.

After several awkward minutes, a woman in modern dress, her head covered by a tight fitting, brightly colored a scarf, emerges from an office and greets us. She introduces herself as Nagla and tells us that Jan is ready to meet with us.

Jan? Who the hell is Jan? I have never heard of an Egyptian named Jan.

Nagla leads us through a couple of secretarial offices and into what appears to me to be a board room. Oblong oak table with matching matching chairs with padded leather seats and backs - check. Digital overhead projector - check. Large pull-down screen at the far end of the table - check. A couple of oak, three-tiered bookshelves - check. Inspiring and heavily romanticized art prominently displayed on three walls - check. Yep, board room. Except that some woman's large purse has vomited its contents all over the middle of the table. A leather satchel has commited the same atrocity on the floor just in front of the pull-down screen. Jan is sitting at a chair toward the center of the table, sifting through the stuff that the purse spewed up.

Sandy haired, feisty and bespectacled, Jan is the founder and CEO of the Teaching Institute for Excellence in STEM or TIES for short. TIES is a STEM centered consulting firm based in Cleveland, Ohio. Back when the STEM debate began in U.S., Jan saw an opportunity to move away from her thirty-year career in private education. She left her principal position and founded TIES. Since then TIES has worked with all kinds of schools to create STEM programs. Because of the success TIES enjoyed with those early partnerships, Jan has served as a STEM consultant to both Presidents Bush and Obama, a rare feat in and of itself. Jan is here now at the behest of the Egyptian Ministry of Education, opening STEM centered schools in Cairo. We are standing in the board room of the girls' school. The boys' school is across town. I cannot be more shocked.

We sit down, and Jan tells us a little of her story. Initially invited to Egypt by a forward-thinking minister in the Mubarak regime, Jan came to offer her expert advise on the feasibility of opening STEM centered schools in a developing nation. She is now working with her fifth or sixth Education Minister, she cannot quickly recall which. Two STEM schools offering a three-year program to promising, Egyptian teens are in operation with another ten schools in various stages of planning. The boys' school is in its third year of operation and will graduate its first class at the end of this academic year (2014). The top boy in the school has aleady garnered scholarship offers from many of the Ivies in the U.S. The girls' school is in its second year of operation, and Jan tells us that the school's top female students will probably enjoy similar offers.

"We don't hire math teachers and science teachers," she says proudly, "we hire successful Egyptian engineers and then train them in the best educational practices in the States. The Ministry made it clear to us from the outset that aside from the American tertiary education training that some of its teachers receive, that this is a program for Egypt and Egyptian students. We are not recreating a little America here, but rather planting the seeds of a educational reformation with a curriculum designed by Egyptians to specifically help to solve the problems Egypt faces."

She tells us a little more about what makes these schools special. All of the students are on 100%, merit-based scholarships provided by the Egyptian government and the corporate sponsors partnering in this endeavor. Both schools have basic dormitory units to house the 300-or-so strong student body. Classes run for ten months out of the year with students receiving instruction in STEM, English, Arabic, and religion ... in that order. The schools are mandated by a special decree that allows them to operate independently of the Egyptian public school curriculum, and this decree has been staunchly supported by the Mubarak administration, the transitional government that followed Mubarak, the Morsi administration, and the current transitional government administration. The schools and the decree that bestows upon them the special license to operate are not going anywhere; they are here to stay.

Dumbfounded, we thank Jan and leave her to her planning. She has only a couple more days to spend here in Cairo before jetting back to Cleveland. Leaving the board room behind, we tour the school. We are led by one very proud school principal. He shows us around the cement and cinder block facility. For the most part, the school is basic. We walk through hallways of unpainted, gray cement. Many of the language classrooms are small and packed with desks. It is not uncommon, says the principal, to have class sizes of up to 50. There is a large courtyard that doubles as playing field and open-air cafeteria. What makes this school a little different is its fabrication labs. These are large classrooms jammed with every piece of equipment that I would expect to see in a state-of-the-art design technology school. The principal tells us that this is where most of the students like to spend their time. I do not blame them. The fab-labs are very, very cool.

We look into a couple of more classrooms, and we encounter four of the school's teachers, two men and two women. The principal tells us that they are collaborating in grading part of the final semester examinations that the second-year girls are just finishing. It is here that I become amazed at what I am seeing; and just a tad bit envious. Here are four teachers collaborating and obviously enjoying themselves while examining and assessing student work. This is something that most of my teachers can't/won't/don't do; and there are all kinds of reasons as to why not. Mostly to do with institutional constraints, for sure, but I am not here to fight that battle. I am astounded by what am observing in this all-girls, STEM school in Cairo, an element of teaching and assessment that I find so lacking in the U.S. and international schools that I have seen.

I ask about the final exam the teachers are assessing. One of the teachers tells me that the examination is divided into several parts. What we are seeing is the written portion of the exam, the part reserved for assessing a student's basic learning. The other part of the exam is designed to assess how well the student can relate her learning to real world situations. I ask the teacher for an example. She tells me that the other parts of the final examination are project-based. In one project, for example, a team of students has designed and built a model for a better sanitation system for this building and others like it. Another team of students has built a mock-up of an air purifier. Still another team is trying to design a better engine for Cairo's notoriously dirty tuk-tuks. She directs my attention to some of the "art" on the classroom walls; student created blueprints for the various designs she has just described. The students are graded by a team of teachers and experts from the corporate world, some skyping in for the students' final presentations.

I am floored. And I am suddenly feeling very small and very ashamed of myself. 

We thank the teachers for their time, bidding them goodbye. They tell us that they are quite pleased to have met administrators from "the famous international school in Ma'adi." 

Okay, now I really feel small.

The three of us walk silently back to Mohammad and our school's waiting sedan. I cannot speak for my two colleagues, but I am feeling very humbled and more than a little ashamed of myself. I came today thinking that I would have a laugh, or maybe that I would have some kind of grand wisdom to pass on to this developing school out here in the boondocks of Cairo's dusty residential suburbs. Instead, I am walking out of a school that is in some ways, years ahead of any school I have known. 

And I am hoping that someday soon, a couple of teachers from the all-girls, STEM school in Cairo can visit us and maybe teach us a thing or two.

How to dismantle a terrorist bomb

It's a sunny, Friday morning. Blue skies. Billowy, dreamy clouds meandering about. Birds singing. The whole bit. I am in the front room of our flat reading the morning news, the morning sun streaming in. It has been a quiet morning in Cairo.

Just before 10 a.m., I feel a soft thud, as if someone two floors down has slammed a door. There were people mucking about downstairs earlier, so I imagine the noise could be them. Still, there hasn't been any commotion down there for at least an hour. 

Could it be? No way. Not again.

It IS Friday, though; the day when protests happen throughout Cairo. Protests usually occur in the early afternoon, just after the noon prayers. Two weeks ago, on another Friday morning, a few explosive devises detonated throughout the city, killing several police officers and wounding scores more. One of the city's popular museums, one particularly well known for housing treasured artifacts from Cairo's medieval history, was almost totally destroyed. 

Surely, not again. 

And then just a couple of minutes after the first, I feel another thud. Strange, but I don't panic. Two weeks ago, I did. Not this time. Instead, I calmly open my Twitter app. Sad really. I suspect that two bombs have just detonated near enough to me to feel them, and yet I am calm. Can this be right? Is this how it is supposed to work?

My application opens to the bloop-bloop-bloop of a continuous Twitter feed on #Cairo. Two small bombs have exploded near a military checkpoint on one of the bridges that connects Giza with our suburb, Ma'adi. A reporter for one of the local news agencies happened to be crossing the bridge when the first bomb exploded. He is tweeting from the scene, reporting a number of injured police officers and a lot of broken glass. He says that the devices were small, nothing like the car bomb that exploded two weeks ago. It is difficult to say from a tone deaf tweet, but I am inclined to think that there is more than a hint of relief in the reporter's updates. 

So on this bright, Friday morning, I ask myself a brutal question. When is it okay to stop being scared of the bombs?

Sadly, there is nothing novel in this particular question being asked. Loads of travel blogs tell me that Laos is the most bombed country on earth, so I am certain that millions of Laotians have at some point in the past, asked this very question. I know folks in the UK asked this question in the 70s, 80s and 90s. I can imagine that some of current residents of Baghdad ask this question every day. 

The question is a first for me.

I get a sense that quite a few of my colleagues at school have already answered this question. Some stop being scared a long time ago. They taxi downtown to clandestine clubs. They take photos of gathering protestors at Tahrir Square. They cycle through military checkpoints on their way to neighboring suburbs, suburbs that have suffered through recent protests and clashes. They plan their weekend travels based on the same Twitter reports that compel me to stay indoors. If there is trouble in Giza, then they go to Festival City and Ikea instead. They think me crazy for allowing my routines and patterns to be altered. They say that the odds of being involved in an incident are still astronomically high. 

Some of my acquaintances however, have answered the question and have behaved in exactly the opposite fashion. A teaching couple that began the year with us have already evacuated, breaking contract, never to return. Others are counting the minutes until they depart in June, moving on to other international schools in other locales far safer than strife-riven Egypt. Some of my colleagues have cultivated a deep mistrust of Egyptians, and they seldom leave their houses.

I am of the opinion that anywhere measured in double-digit kilometers near an explosive device set by terrorists is too close. If I can feel the crump of a detonation, then I have chosen poorly. If I can hear the crackle of gunfire, then it sucks to be me. My blue-collar, lower-middle-class, small town American upbringing simply did not prepare me for frenzied teens toting RPGs and extremists in galliabayas burying IEDs by highway checkpoints. 

But by the same token, I do not see these teens and extremists behind every neighborhood tree and corner. I do not think twice about walking to and from school every day, nor do I worry when I stroll down to the shops for groceries. I think your average Egyptian simply wants all of this horseshit to stop so that he or she can get back to work and provide for the family. Dana and I dine in local restaurants. Egyptians tend to smile and say hello to us every single day. We return the smile and the greeting. Average folks in Egypt are pretty much average folks anywhere. 

So much for taking the middle ground. 

But taking the middle ground may not be so helpful on a day-to-day basis. If, for example, on a Friday, Dana and I are invited to a downtown, Cairo restaurant, do we go?

Do we?

Terrorist bomb attacks on the 3rd anniversary of the uprising

We were warned.

Friends and family warned us, of course. But they are people not necessarily in the know. We take that into consideration. 

We get email updates from the US Embassy. Long, tedious messages. They are virtually identical, week after week. Americans living in Cairo should avoid public places, blah, blah, blah. Some government hack cutting and pasting the same message, week in and week out. American citizens should remain vigilant. Of course we should. I could say the same thing about Memphians, right? Be vigilant, Midtowners!

We were warned. 

This week's cut and paste job from the Embassy includes an additional blurb about remaining vigilant over the coming weekend, the 3rd anniversary of the uprising that toppled the Mubarak regime. I scan over it, blah, blah, blah. I toss the message into the virtual incinerator. I don't think anything more of it.

We were warned.

It's early morning the next morning. The sun isn't up yet. I have been up for an hour or so, well into my second cup of coffee. It is so quiet. I am writing.

A jolt. The air thuds and the windows rattle. The walls shake. Sonic boom? I have only heard one in my life. Maybe. The rumble is longer, though. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. The northern end of the apartment sounds like it is falling. I start running for the back of the flat. The hallway is so long all of a sudden. Roused awake, Dana is calling out. Not a sonic boom. I don't know how I know, but I know. Not a sonic boom. An explosion. And it sounds close.

"That was a bomb!" Dana says as I reach her. I sit next to her on the edge of the bed. She is still too sleepy to completely register what she has just said.

"Yeah ..." My voice shakes. One stupid word of affirmation, and my voice shakes. 

We hold each other for what seems like a long time. Long enough to make sure the back of the house is not crumbling. Long enough to make sure there is nothing burning.

"That was an explosion," I say quietly. "I am going to get on Twitter to see."

I go. I start my search with "#Maadi". There is already a lot of activity. A dozen or so people are commenting. All heard the explosion. So did people in all the surrounding suburbs. Huge explosion, they all say. 

A freelance journalist lives a couple of streets over. I follow him on Twitter. You do that kind of thing when you live in a foreign, not-so-safe country. You get to know the people in your neighborhood who know things. My friend the journalist knows things. This morning he is already on it, #CairoBomb. The explosion came from downtown, he says, identifying the district. Smoke is rising from the area, and gunfire has been reported. He is on his way. I am sitting in my living room, terrified and embracing a cup of coffee. I am also wondering what the hell kind of bomb can be felt from miles away.

I start to Tweet-follow another guy, a freelance journalist here in Cairo. He, too, is heading downtown, #CairoExplosion. From him, I learn that a huge bomb went off in front of one of Egypt's downtown government buildings, one of the places where police and security personnel meet. There are reports of fatalities already. There is a crater where the bomb went off. There is damage to the building across the street from the security building, a museum of Islamic art. Hundreds of people are already milling about, chanting about God and the destruction of the Muslim Brotherhood.

More comments from people all around Cairo come streaming in. What the hell, they ask? The shit is hitting the fan, they say. The Muslim Brotherhood is behind this, some say. Others say it is a rebel, terrorist organization. This organization tweeted last night on their Twitter channel, promising to kill police.

We were warned.

By this time, my two Twitter friends have arrived on the scene downtown. Both are beginning to comment upon what they are seeing. The entire front of the security building is damaged. There are people everywhere. A handful of men are heading into the building to find survivors. They can hear them, screaming and moaning. Some of the men are carrying out bodies, crudely wrapped mummies. Then my Twitter friends go silent. I follow others on the scene. A couple of tweets warn western journalists to stay away, that the early journalists on the scene were mobbed. I walk back to the bedroom, making sure all of the locks on the front door are bolted.

About an hour after the explosion, BBC picks up the story. Details emerge involving a pick-up truck packed with explosives and charging the gate of the building. There are confirmed fatalities. There is a crater in the middle of the street where the bomb detonated. Western journalists have been detained and forced to show identification and credentials. Once identified however, they are free to continue their investigative reports. A terrorist organization with no links to the Muslim Brotherhood claims responsibility. Hundreds of Egyptians have gathered outside of the damaged building and are chanting pro-democracy and anti-Brotherhood slogans. Police and security forces are pouring into the area. The Minister of the Interior is on his way. There will be an investigation launched, and the planners and perpetrators of this heinous act will be brought to justice.

Then in another quarter of Cairo, a second bomb goes off. And then a third. And then a fourth. We do not feel the thud of the subsequent detonations. They are smaller apparently, but no less lethal. By now my two Twitter friends, #CairoBomb and #CairoExplosion, are up and broadcasting again. They write that in each of this morning's bomb attacks, it is police and security force detachments that have been targeted. However, two of the security detachments targeted were operating near metro stations. There are more casualties. The bombings seem to be a part of a coordinated effort. Local hospitals put out tweets, asking for blood donors. This is bad.

We were warned.

A new constitution was to have put an end to security concerns, we were told. We didn't really believe the rhetoric, but we certainly thought there would be some security in the days immediately after the referendum. Maybe the disgruntled and disenfranchised would just give up in the wake of the results of the popular vote. Not so, it seems. 

Having nothing to which to compare our present experience, Dana and I are a little numb this morning. We will stay indoors, of course; a self-imposed curfew. We will continue to follow the Twitter accounts and news reports. We will continue to wonder as to whether or not we will have school next week. Or if the Embassy will be pulling out. Or if the current situation escalates, and we are evacuated. We will wonder whether we made a mistake. We will wonder, like another one of my Twitter-friends, whether #Cairo will end up like #Damascus or #Baghdad.

The "Red Pinkie" Referendum

It's Thursday, break, and I am starving. I head up to the cafe on the third floor of the school. Kemal, a Coptic Christian in his mid-40s, runs our cafe there. I see Kemal a couple of times per week. I always ask about his family, especially his 9-month-old daughter. In exchange, he always serves me a nuclear-strong cup of coffee so that I can re-start my heart when needed.

Today is different. Today Kemal greets me, proudly lifting aloft his left-hand pinkie finger. His finger radiates the color of dried blood or raw meat. For a second, I think he has caught his hand in the meat slicer. He is wearing the wrong face, I tell myself. He is smiling, head held high. He is not grimacing like he has been disfigured. And his pinkie isn't hanging by a flap of skin, gushing blood. Nope, Kemal is proud, proud of his blood red pinkie. Dipped in a vat of permanent ink to guard against double-voting, Kemal's pinkie is a badge of pride and patriotism.

"I voted yesterday, sir!" He looks as if he has discovered buried treasure. And maybe he has. Just maybe. It is too soon yet to tell.

My friend Kemal is one of many millions of Egyptians who are taking advantage of the opportunity to vote on Egypt's newly forged, draft constitution. Held over two days, the vote is simple, "yes" or "no". The implications behind the vote however, are not so simple.

First off, there is the constitution itself. It is a big, bulky document written by legal scholars. I have been following the constitutional proceedings closely, and even I have not seen it nor read it. Now, I do not read Arabic, so maybe the draft has been published in the local press without my knowing it. Possible. But I don't think so. Even if the constitution has been published, most Egyptians do not have Internet access. A lot of Egyptians have only a rudimentary ability to read and write. The vast majority of Egyptians lack a university education. So, I can't help it. I find it remarkably difficult to believe that folks like Kemal have read the document they are being asked to accept or reject.

Then there are the Chinooks. The massive helicopters thudding and lumbering above the heads of all of the referendum voters, droning slowly like big, fat bumble bees gorging on the pollen encrusted flowers below. The pollen laced flowers below don't have much choice as to whether or not they want the bees to harvest their golden grains. I am not sure referendum voters have any more choice. The current military-backed regime organized the framework for the draft of the constitution. They have a vested interest in a "yes" vote. A "yes" vote is a vote for the military action that removed President Morsi from power. A "yes" vote gives the current regime a sense of credibility and legitimacy. A "yes" vote means that the action was not seen as a coup, and that means investment money from countries like the U.S. can resume.

I imagine that the Chinooks are packed with shock troops ready to quell any disturbance. Or are they there to intimidate? To encourage a resounding "yes"? The answer to these questions is not so clear cut. It's complicated, not as simple as just a "yes" or a "no."

Then there is the issue of the "no" vote. Followers of the now-illegal, Muslim Brotherhood have been instructed to boycott the vote rather than to vote "no." They believe that participating in the referendum would be tantamount to endorsing the military coup; something they will never do. All of the bloody protests since President Morsi's removal from power have centered around the idea that the coup was and is an illegitimate action taken against a democratically elected individual. Participating in a referendum engineered by the military government installed after the coup would be treason. So how many Egyptian "no-sayers" are there in the electorate if the Muslim Brotherhood sits the election out? The answer is, not many.

So the referendum is a foregone conclusion. The question is how many voters will show up to vote on a document that they haven't read and whose legalities they do not really clearly understand.

If people like Kemal are any indication, lots of voters will show up to proudly cast their "yes" vote.

We'll see.

Saqqara, Memphis and Dahshur

This is us on our recent trip back to Memphis over our winter holiday:

"So, are the pyramids as cool as you thought they would be?"

"Um, we haven't really been yet," we lamely respond.

"You are joking, right?" Our friends ask us this question, making valiant efforts to mask their "are you fucking kidding me" looks. They cannot dial it back quickly enough, however. We see it. We feel it.

Lame.

Lame, lame, lame, lame, lame.

So five months and twelve days after arriving in Egypt, Dana and I visit our first pyramids. Like New Yorkers and their curious relationship with the Statue of Liberty, we have not been in a hurry to make this journey. We figured the pyramids would still be there whenever we worked up the motivation to plan a trip. And with 182 pyramids in the country to visit, it is tough to decide where to start.

This is me offering a modicum of bullshit rationalization, by the way. We haven't made the trip up to this point because we have been too lazy to organize anything, too cheap to pay for anything, too busy herding cats at work, and frankly, too intimidated to travel. 

This is me cutting the crap and being honest.

Along with some of our friends from school, we set out on this foggy, smoggy, Sunday morning to see Egypt's oldest pyramids and to pay a visit to the ancient and original city of Memphis. These areas have been a vital part of Egyptian heritage and "Western civilization" for almost 5000 years. Aside from Stonehenge and some of the other stone circles in the Orkney Islands, I have never seen structures as old as the ones we plan to see today. Armchair archaeologists that Dana and I are, we are excited. It's about time we get off of our lazy asses.

Saqqara is first. A step pyramid built for the pharoah, Djoser, Saqqara pre-dates the Great Pyramids of Giza by a couple of hundred years. It is a simpler, more diminutive structure compared to its famous Giza cousins but no less impressive. Located just outside metropolitan Cairo, Djoser's final resting place rises majestically above croplands to the immediate east and the shifting dunes of the Sahara to the immediate west. The pyramid's unique and very intentional location belies the haphazard, trial-and-error circumstances of its birth. 

Saqqara was the first of its kind, an engineering testing ground of sorts. A place where ancient builders worked out techniques that would one day create the only one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World to survive into our time. 

So the first step-slab is not big enough, you say? We will simply expand it and make it wider. The burial shaft is not deep enough and floods too easily, you say? We will dig deeper to twenty-eight meters. This works? Great, we will now make it a regulation to dig burial chambers at twenty-eight meters. So now the burial slab is not grand enough to befit the likes of Djoser, you say? We will add another slab-step. And then another. And then another. And so on. After a time, Saqqara rises majestically above the croplands and the shifting sand dunes. Builders learn cool techniques. Pharaohs get really cool apartments in which to spend all eternity. All is good with the world, and the world beyond.

Saqqara is but one of several pyramids in what is known as the Memphis necropolis. The word 'necropolis' means, quite literally, 'city of the dead.' There are many necropoli in Egypt, but the Memphis necropolis was the first to be built on such a grand scale. 

We take advantage of the opportunity to climb down into one of the lesser pyramids in the Memphis necropolis. How could we not? We first descend a good ten to fifteen meters down an inclined plank, down into the bowels of the pyramid. The incline has been reinforced with smaller, perpendicular beams of wood to prevent us neophytes from experiencing what would be a precarious slide. We have to kneel to make the downward climb. It is not easy, and it is not for the claustrophobic. Once we level out, we continue on into the very center of the pyramid, kneel-crawling for another twenty to thirty meters. The air down here smells like a dusty cave. I am very thankful for the lighting that has been added in recent years. Without it we would be trapped in total darkness. We finally reach a room where we can stand up. It is the burial chamber. Though the sarcophagus and corresponding treasure has long since been robbed, the room is finely carved with lovely hieroglyphics and images of men, women, beasts, and gods. We can still see some of the paint used to make the figures more lifelike. 5000 year old paint. Cool. We can still touch the sides of finely dressed and polished stone. Polished stone so smooth, you can almost see your reflection in it. Also very cool. 

We are standing at the center of a 5000 year old pyramid. I grew up in rural southern Ohio. Dana grew up in nearby rural Kentucky. We may not be worthy, but we are here. We didn't have shit like this where we grew up. Nobody did. We never thought we would see something like this. But we are here now, and we are quietly thanking our mothers and our fathers.

We move on to Memphis. We learn the real name of the city (I have forgotten it now). The word, 'Memphis' is what the ancient Greeks called this place when they wrote about it. This locale, now covered by an open air museum and a very rural (and smelly) town, was once the capital of a sprawling and vibrant, ancient civilization. We visit the open air museum. We see a statue of Ramses II, the copy of which today invites Memphians into a glass Pyramid on the banks of the mighty Mississippi; soon to be a Bass Pro shop. The original colossus, derelict and largely forgotten, presides over a quiet, remote courtyard of pillars and column caps.

Dahshur is our final stop. Dahshur houses the first structures that we would call pyramids. With smooth sides, no steps and concealed entrances and exits, the Dahshur pyramids (there are several here) are a testament to what the ancient builders learned from having erected structures like Saqqara. The learning experience was far from over, however. The famous Bent Pyramid of Dahshur was started based on a design that called for steep sides of fifty some odd degrees. After having completed a quarter of the pyramid, the builders feared that the structure would collapse upon itself, and they changed the degree measurements to the forty some odd degrees that we recognize in all the pyramids that we can see today.  And today, we can clearly see where the ancient builders changed their grand designs. Very, very cool.

We walk around the base of this grand burial chamber, marveling at the size of the massive stones. How many years did it take to build this? How many slaves toiled? How many times has the sun risen and then set upon the polished stones of the lower portion of the pyramid? Did the builders have a sense that they were creating something that would last forever, or did they just show up to work, day in and day out? Did the architects have the same sense of awe and wonder that we feel when we look out upon these amazing monoliths? The historical record tells us that the ancients knew how to build these things, but the record is sadly mute on the point of telling us how they felt about the monumental architecture they were creating.

This is me waxing philosophical.

The sun begins to set, plummeting toward the dunes in the west. We leave. We waited over five months to witness these breathtaking pieces of architecture. Buildings just under 5000 years old. Supremely cool. Sure, they will always be here; at least in my lifetime. But as we drive back to the suburbs of Cairo, I wonder how many more generations will have the opportunity that I have been afforded today.

I also wonder what the hell took us so long to get here.

All photos taken by the incomparable Dana Purpura.