Lewis of Arabia-Part II

It was pitch black outside when we pitched our tent. And by we, I mean Ali and Karem. And by tent, I mean a two sided roofless structure, whose “walls” are supported by the two trucks. Our two Bedouin professionals had set all this up in less than 15 minutes, so that by the time we were finished gazing flabbergasted at the star-filled sky, we had a place to sit around the crackling fire. With the sun set and our car troubles behind us, we had a magical evening. Without the lights of a city in sight, the stars took centerstage and lit up the surreal desert scenery. The White Desert is famous for its moon-like surface, giant chalk structures, each a unique shape, tower of the landscape. Like children staring at clouds, we took to giving names to these sand-eroded beasts. “Oh! That one looks like Lenin with an elf cap!” Frances chimed, while Markell contemplated the ice cream sundae, obviously topped with two cherries.

As our tour guides began to prepare dinner, us clueless tourists took to getting to know each other. The German couple remained largely quiet, more into each other than into the burgeoning discussion on culture shock. Jennifer, of Stewart and Jennifer the Canadian couple, was extremely curious about Islam and Egypt, and seeing as I spoke Arabic and had been living in the country for a while, I seemed to be an oasis of answers. I admired her curiosity and her respect for cultural differences, but I couldn’t help but be slightly put off by her racism. Its not what you think, she wasn’t racist towards Egyptians or even Muslims, but Americans. After we had been talking for a while, and it was clear that my sisters and I were open minded, accepting, educated, and overall good Americans, Jennifer excitedly told us, “Wow! This is so great to meet you guys! I gotta say that before this trip, we thought that all Americans were ignorant bigots, but you guys aren’t like that at all!” thanks? While I appreciated that we had changed her stereotypes, isn’t that a bit like a bigoted white American telling an African American, “wow! Before I met you I thought all you guys were idiots!” or maybe like Huckabee telling a Mexican American “wow! Before I met you I thought all you guys were lazy illegal immigrants! And how did you get over my fence?”

Despite these thoughts, I strove to be a good Fulbright cultural ambassador-even to Canadians-so I smiled, and said that we were glad to have been proof of the inaccuracies of stereotypes. Another highlight of our enlightening conversation was when Jennifer asked me about all the lingerie stores she had seen in Cairo. “But how can these veiled women ever where that skimpy outfit! Are they walking around with nothing underneath but that!?!?!?” I calmly explained to the amazed Canadian, that while Muslim women may choose to be modest in the street, or even choose to be fully covered, when she is with her husband, no holds bar. I believe this concept may have blown her mind, as perhaps before she thought that a veiled woman was veiled even with her husband in the bedroom? This conversation then moved somehow to pornography, where I explained that of course there is pornography in the region, maybe no one talks about it but there is absolutely Arab pornography production. Afterall, where this a demand there will be a supply. “OH MY GOD!” more mind blowing “It’s a part of the culture here!?!??!” what, sex? Actually, contrary to popular belief, they do have sex in the Muslim Arab world. Even more shocking is that teenage boys here actually have, gasp, the same hormones as Christian Americans! Of course pornography is frowned upon and its not as publicly accepted as in Canada and the US, but its still here. It always cracks me up what encourages cultural understanding.


By the time we had covered American hillbillies, Egyptian negligee and the Lebanese porn industry, dinner was ready. Fire cooked chicken, hearty potatoes in a tomato-onion sauce, and delicious rice. With plenty of food for seconds, we ate happily until our bellies were full and our calorie intake sufficient to last the cold night. If foreigners are surprised by Egyptian lingerie, they seem to be even more surprised by the fact that desert equals freezing at night. The same sand which was too hot to touch during the day becomes equally unwelcoming to a barefoot at night, unless you like stepping on ice. We layered on our clothes, wrapped ourselves in scarves, and huddled around the fire. I chatted with Ali and Karem about the Bedouin dialect of Arabic while we all sipped delicious mint tea. After the third round of tea, with the moon still not risen, we turned in for bed. My sisters and I claimed three mattresses, and constructed a giant bed for us out of the ample sleeping bags and blankets supplied by our guides. Markell suggested that we spread out all the sleeping bags on top of us, but Frances and I thought it would be better for us each to have a bag and then just put the 3 giant blankets over us. While we lay in bed, staring at the stars, I was even a bit hot underneath the 4 layers. I snuggled up next to my sisters, and fell asleep underneath more stars than I knew existed.

I woke up shivering with my foot in my mouth. Markell had been right, never underestimate the power of body heat and the wisdom of big sisters. I tossed around a bit, looking for my pillow which never existed, and quickly drifted off to sleep. I woke up numerous times that night, opening my eyes to a gorgeous moon which lit up the night, although it couldn’t help me find that pillow. I mistakenly grabbed the lump which was near my head, only to realize that it was the Afrikaner’s feet wrapped in a sleepingbag. Each time I woke, I shivered, marveled at the moon, searched for a pillow, and then fell back asleep. It wasn’t the best sleep I have ever gotten, but certainly tops the list for location. The last time I woke up, it was from Markell’s persistent “time to get up Paulina, gotta watch the sunrise” I groggily opened my eyes and huddled closer to Markell. Frances was off taking photos, luckily for her, she doesn’t have as many sexy morning shots as me and Markell. In our frigid state, we encouraged the sun to rise and warm us. “Yallah yallah ya shems!) (go go oh sun!) Markell produced a packet of raisins which I had dissed earlier “I never really enjoy raisins.” The cold helped me change my opinion, and we feasted on the calories of dried grapes. The sun rose, and Frances returned, turning her camera on us. We look like refugee tourists, featured in a back issue of National Georgraphic.


Camp was slowly stirring, and as we ventured off to our own personal toilets behind the chalk structures, Ali and Karem began to set up breakfast. Jennifer, our Canadian friend, was loudly explaining to everyone how freezing last night was and how horrible her sleeping experience had been. Amazingly, it was even colder than camping in Canada pause, in the summer. We smiled and reminded her that it was December, but the point may have been lost.

We feasted on coffee or tea, bread, jam, halwa (sweet sesamee spread) and cheese. Markell and Frances got into a conversation with the Afrikaner couple, regarding race relations and education in South Africa and California. Similar issues, different standpoints. Norman, a self-admitted conservative, also admitted to being grateful for America’s military prowess in the world, explaining that it keeps “them” from power. As much as I wanted to push and ask who is this “them” that we speak of, I kept the conversation light and ended the conversation by saying that as much as I can appreciate the need for a strong military, I think that we need to rethink the strategies and policies which use or abuse that military power. Proving the importance of keeping things friendly, Nelson later approached me and praised our attitude as being “socially aware” and recognized that his perspective on the world was largely due to being a bit long in the tooth. I accepted the olive branch and agreed that both perspectives are important, and need each other to achieve a healthy equilibrium. But seriously, will somebody please tell me who this “them” is? Maybe Guliani knows…


After brushing our teeth and packing up, we explored around camp while we waited for our car to start. The old drill, push, dig, and pull, and eventually the ol jeep started up. We piled in, counting heads to make sure no one was left behind (yikes) and head back towards base. We stop along the way to get out and play, handstands and cartwheels and flying leaps were, of course, in order. On our second stop, we are told to hunt for desert roses. Huh? Looking for any sign of flora we all silently sing along to Sting and remain puzzled until our guides show us a desert rose in his palm. They are small black rocks, resembling the everlasting gobstopper (think Willy Wonka here) We immediately scattered, stooped on our knees, and searched for these beautiful creations. I didn’t do so well, but luckily Karem generously gave me one of his treasures, as I am sure that the thrill of the search has decreased slightly for him. We take our booty back to the jeep, pile in, and head back to camp.


It had been quite the 24 hours and my sisters and I were so pleased with the camping experience, we didn’t think we wanted to taint it by staying another night in the less than merry hostel. We had heard from Stuart and Jennifer that the camping part was definitely the best, so we decided to leave on a high and head back to Cairo a night early. When we arrived back at the hostel, I spoke with each member of our camping party about giving a tip to our fantastic guides.

This was expected, and most everyone in our party was completely aware and willing to give a modest 20 Egyptian pounds per head, which is about 4 US dollars. But when I went looking for Stuart and Jennifer, they were no where to be found. I had been worried that our Canadian couple might be troublesome when it came to the tip. They weren’t happy with the travel company who had arranged their package, but I assumed that they would reasonable not take their discontent out on our excellent guides. If the food is bad, you don’t blame the waiter. I found Stuart who told me to go and find the sugarmama, but when I went to Jennifer, she passed me off to Stuart. Eventually, Stuart sheepishly approached me and told me that they were very frustrated with everything, that they had to run to catch the bus back to Cairo, and that while they knew it wasn’t our guides' fault, they weren’t going to tip. (I’m sorry, you lost me there between the fact that you know its not their fault, but that you still aren’t going to tip them….) I pooled the money we had and talked privately to Karem about how we wished we could have given more, but thank you so much. He was incredibly gracious, making me even angrier that he didn’t the money he should have. You don’t go out to dinner if you don’t have the cash to tip, you don’t travel the world if you are going to rip off those who help you survive in the middle of the desert. Just another universal rule.

Since the bus from Bahriyya had already left, we were sent back to Cairo in a giant taxi/soccer-mom station wagon. In the front were the driver (a big guy) his friend (another big guy) and Tom, our sweet little Minnesota boy. In the middle were the Lewis girls, and in the back were our favorites, Stuart and Jennifer. The 5 hour trip was pretty uneventful, except for the fact that we never really breathed easily as our driver preferred to drive on the wrong side of the road and at night seemed to think that lights were optional. The driver tried his best to get some money out of us, even though we had paid in advance, and in addition to fending off these attempts from the front of the car, I was getting other requests from the back of the car. “Could you ask him to turn down the music?” “Could you have him pull over for a bathroom break?” “Could you ask him where he is dropping us off?” “Could you ask him if he could talk to the travel company.” Could you….” Being able to speak Arabic was becoming less and less attractive as the car ride continued. Cairo didn’t come soon enough, we said our goodbyes, and walked home. After washing the sand off, sharing a few beers and laughs over our adventure, my sisters and I went to bed. But before I went to sleep, I said a prayer. A prayer for the past year, for the new year, for the desert and for Egypt, for my sisters and for my mother, and even a little prayer for Jennifer and Stuart and their anti-tip budget tour around the world.