This got kicked off too:

"Cairo Downtown Puppy Den"

I wrote this in Cairo a few months back, but Blogger kicked it off for some reason:

I'm back in Cairo for a week, loafing about and doing a lot of remembering. I met up with the wonderful Megan E. Detrie (Cairo champion, third degree) and on my first proper day back in Cairo we went to eat a reasonably hokey lunch in a real ghetto park downtown-ways.

A girl and a boy of maybe eight and eleven, who presumably live or work in the park, came up to us. First it was a lesson on the haram-osity of Megan's 'low-cut' top, after which the boy presented a small puppy - maybe 15 centimetres long, gold coloured and still completely puppy retarded. He sniffed around us and nuzzled our legs. The little girl kept shouting at it and trying to scare it - even though she was scared of it herself, and kept jumping back if it moved towards her. I think that's partly a muslim thing (there are rules about washing after touching a dog), and partly a cultural thing that comes from living in a place where dogs are always filthy because they're never kept as pets. I'm pretty sure these kids were dirtier than the dogs.

We ate our fuul (pretty much the Egyptian national dish - mashed up broad beans with salt, lemon and cumin) on a rickety old bench in the sun and watched the boy carry the puppy part the way up a wooded hill by the scruff of his neck and throw him a few metres through the air to the ground. We packed up our fuul and made to leave the park. The kids pursued us, convinced that they were in for some sort of dog presentation tax or something, but gave up after a while. On the way out, we spotted another puppy on the hill and went up to investigate. What we found was a puppy den dug in amongst the roots of a big tree - about 10 puppies, all obviously from the same litter as the puppy from before, who was none the worse from his throwing and happily rambling about with his siblings.

The puppies were trying to get their brave on to defend the den, with barking that sounded more like a coughing cat and charges that ended in them cowering and trying to hide under our legs. The kids spotted us, and came up the hill. The ensuing conversation (I use the term loosely - my Arabic is relatively basic, and though related, of a different dialect to what they speak in Egypt) involved the kids trying to sell us puppies, and me trying to tell them that they would get sick if they touched them. It involved a lot of hand gesturing (thanks Atif). Somehow, I feel like I didn't do a lot to reduce the kids' rabies risk, and despite the helpful suggestion that we could keep one on our roof, the puppy hard-sell didn't turn out to be very effective either.

Mum dog made her arrival and stood at the bottom of the hill looking agitated at the intruders, so we decided to leave. Puppyless, we made our way back into hectic Downtown.

A better welcome back to Cairo I could not imagine. It's good to be home.

The white stuck him on his head with a baseball

From "Australia and new Zealand's first Punjabi newspaper" that I found on a tram:

On 20.04.2008 Baisakhi was celebrated in Gurdwara Sahib Keysborough with great pomp and show. High and low, elders and young all came in colourful dresses. All were happy in their hues. Guru Granth Sahib stage and Gurdwara Hall were well decorated with flowerers and garlands.

Ragi Jatha of Bhai Nishan Singh recited shabads on 'Purity of Amrit', 'Glory of Sikhism', 'Greatness of Khalsa', etc. Children well dressed spoke on the different aspects of Khalsa amd Sikhism. They were well prepared for it. Boys and girls dressed like panj pyaras looked majestic. They described the importance of five kikars and Amrit. Also the life history of Guru Gobind Singh Ji was highlighted. Life histories of great Sikhs were described. Besides they recited shabds in a beautiful tone. Bb Harjot Kaur daughter of Bhai Nishan Singh Gurbachan was adjudged the best speaker. At the end a boy recited shabads in a melodious voice like 'First, Allah created the Light; then by His Creative Power He made all mortal beings.' Etc.

Student Amandeep Dingh Binder was honoured. On 1.04.2008 he was attacked by a white while he was working on a petrol pump. The white stuck him on his head with a baseball. The turban he was wearing saved him from heavy hit. He fought with the white bravely and rendered him to submit and apologise. The incident was shown on T.V. The media and Knox police praised the bravery of this student.

At the end all those who participated in the celebration were rewarded and given shields.

-BishanSinghK

Questionable Economics

I submitted this as part of my first assignment in 'Introductory Microeconomics' at the end of a paper filled with many graphs and other complicated looking things. Apologies for the jargon, that's just how it works.

"The sex industry provides an example of a service traded in a market. For many people, the opportunity costs associated with the purchase and use of the service would emphasise its non-resource-related costs over the benefits of the next best alternative, as the value of the resources used (time, money and physical effort) in their next best application (outside of the sex industry) have the added benefit of not being associated with the sex industry. Though obviously subject to personal preference, these opportunity costs could include loss of personal respect, violation of personal values and the risk of ridicule and life-wreck that would result from being found out by friends, family or life partner.

Demand may be heavily influenced by societal values, which to some extent determine a rational decision-maker's need for sex (the benefit) as well as its moral costs when in the form of prostitution. Ready availability of substitutes such as consensual sex and video games may increase demand. Pornography could act either as a substitute or a complement, depending on peoples' preference. More research may be required.

I think that the demand for the services provided by the sex industry would be own-price inelastic. I would guess that for the majority of people, price would not be the primary factor in their decision to, ahem, partake, and once that decision was made, high prices would not likely push them from the market. Conversely, it seems that low-cost prostitution is unlikely to entice many into the market, nor encourage those already there."

Let's hope the tutor doesn't dislike me as much as I think she does.

Cigars Saved My Life!

I was in Cuba when Fidel Castro resigned. I nearly didn't get out of the country - not because of any exciting political reason, but because I couldn't plan my way out of an open hessian sack.

I calculated my finances to get out of Cuba down to the last 2 bucks, which I saved for a sandwich and a cigar cutter. Somehow, I got it exactly right and spent my last buck on the latter at the airport, only to trip on the final hurdle - departure tax. Unfortunately for me, I found out about it just after I'd checked in for my flight and with 45 minutes to go before the gates closed. I also found out that my bank card doesn't work in Cuba because it's Cirrus. I ran around increasingly frantically, throwing myself on the mercy of the customs officers, booking clerks, information desk lady, and my airline. No dice. Bear in mind that it's the last flight that will get me to Mexico City in time for my main ticket (I had to book a separate one to get to Cuba because only a couple of airlines go there), and if I miss it I lose my ticket, no question, and I'm suddenly a couple of grand further away from sweet Australian shores.

And miss it is exactly what I did. So I'm in this weird "If I was a woman I'd be crying right now and I'm a bit scared and I can't speak Spanish and OH GOD SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME OR I'M FUCKED" sort of mood, and I'm holding nothing but my satchel, my jackets, my caseless guitar and a box of 20 Cohibas Esplendidos.

Cohibas are the world's finest cigars. They were the personal choice of Fidel Castro, both for smoking and gifts to other stylish dictators. The cigars that the CIA tried to poison in one of their many assassination attempts (source sketchy). And you do feel a little bit like 'el hombre' when you've got one of these babies hanging out of your face - all seven inches. Apparently they go for upwards of $500 on the black market in the States. On the Cuban black market, where they're commonly stolen by workers obviously lacking in revolutionary zeal, they go for $2.

Suddenly the previously really unhelpful airline clerk tells me that the real Office is next door. Turns out there's one more flight to Mexico City today, and we can put you on it, but it flies in 40 minutes and you really do need to pay the departure tax and no we can't help you. Good luck. So I dump my guitar on the desk and practically run out of the office. I've hatched a plan.

I get into my best 'kinda desperate but not gonna stab you' character and approach the long line of shock-tanned, shorts-clad tourists.

"Uh, G'day. I'm in kind of a spot. See, I didn't realise you had to pay a departure tax, and I ran out of money cos my card doesn't work. I've got this box of Cigars and apparently they're the best in the world. (brandish cigars) they're twelve bucks in the store over there - you can check. All I need is twenty five to get me out of the country and I'll give you five of em."

I'm feeling like one of the thousands of people who have approached me and tried to sell me something in the last few years, and I'm getting the same range of 'no's that I've given out. From the '"leave me alone, I'm already bothered and quite pissed off that you approached me" no to the no of the "I really don't speak your language, but I'm sure it's a fine product you're selling" variety. It sucks, and makes you feel low as hell. Finally, young Russian males. I figure this has got to be my best shot and I give them the pitch.

"Ve kan do betir on bllek myarkit" is the reply. Shit. I'm running out of options with 15 minutes until the gate closes and I'm stuck in Cuba.

"All right - I'll give you the whole top row. That's eight for 25 bucks"

He gives me a big Russian smile. It's a done deal - and at a profit of 9 bucks (ignoring the value of the cigars the second they leave Cuba). What followed were the most satisfying instances in my entire life of slapping down on a counter an adequate amount of money for a purchase, and sliding into the seat of an airliner.

Remaining cigars to be smoked on the back patio of a Bendigo residence with one Bill Burns, one Nathan Demoel and one Lyndon Wheeler.

How I Nearly Got Thrown Into an Egyptian Prison

It would be an understatement to say that the Egyptian government doesn't take kindly to protests. Even the most peaceful demonstrations can be met with extreme brutality and arbitrary arrests, usually at the hands of police acting without the pesky restraint that comes with wearing a uniform.

The security forces treat foreigners with kid gloves so as to maintain Egypt's foreigner friendly facade, so we're generally pretty safe from all the fun and games.

I've seen a few protests in Cairo, and even been in one. They're a good insight into the boot-on-neck strategy that the Egyptian government (same one since 1978 and going strong) uses to keep itself in power. I never once felt like I was in danger, and I suppose I felt untouchable. The other day I got a reality check.

There was a demonstration set to happen outside a movie theatre on a busy street in downtown Cairo as part of a campaign for womens rights in Egypt. A couple of weeks before - during the holiday of Eid - this had been the gathering point for a mob of men before they roamed up and down the crowded street, sexually assaulting any women they could find. They did this 2 nights in a row, with pretty much no hindrance from police.

Through the efforts of the blogging community as well as a courageous reporter, the events were eventually brought to the attention of the international media.

For me, the whole thing brought into focus the fact that the State Security Forces exist purely to protect the government. When it came time to fulfil the role of protecting Egyptian citizens, the motivation just wasn't there - not just on the first extended rampage, but two nights in a row.

As I arrived at the cinema, this fact was beautifully illustrated. Both sides of the street were lined with the ubiquitous "thuggies". These are low-ranking plain-clothes police officers who function solely as accountability-free enforcers. When the beatings happen, it's usually a pretty safe bet that it's these guys - and boy do they seem to enjoy it. Naturally, the security forces can wipe their hands clean of any responsibility.

In a sad reflection of the carelessness and blatancy of this Egyptian institution, the thuggies make no effort to pass a s civilians beyond dressing in their poorly fitting plain clothes. They can sometimes be seen chatting with uniformed officers, but most of the time they just stand around in lines looking bored, waiting for the action to start.

Swanning around on the street in front of the cinema in their grand militaristic uniforms were a number of high-ranking officers. The funny thing about these guys is that in pretty much every aspect they dress well and project an illusion of professionalism, but just about all of them manage to undo it all with their sunglasses. Almost every top-brass officer I've seen (and that's a few - there's at least one at every protest) sports a pair of big black sunnies that just scream corruptibility.

All of this and not a single protestor. I couldn't help but wonder how differently things would have gone for the women assaulted during Eid if the security forces had mustered the same enthusiasm.

As I stopped in front of the cinema's entryway, I caught the eye of the officer who was clearly in charge of the scene. He stood in full dress regalia on the other side of the street directly opposite me, surrounded by an enclave of "undercover" officers. He looked like he was out for a military parade. He flashed me a glare and waved me on. Not to be deterred, I walked a short way up the street past parked vans filled with police, and turned around. As I came back towards the theatre, a movie caught my eye and I fronted up to the ticket booth. The ticket lady told me there was a showing in 40 minutes.

While I was standing at the ticket booth, the three friends who I'd arranged to meet showed up. We stood around in front of the cinema for a few moments before being waved on, and crossed the street to a nearby bakery for some ice cream (for some reason, the best ice cream in Cairo seems to come from bakeries and i never figure dout why). With everyboody happily licking their respective cones we stood in front of the bakery and watched - an awful lot of bored, conspicuous police, but still no protestors.

I spoke to a couple of Germans who had no idea what was going on, and were understandably confused as to why they were being continually hustled along by groups of burly men in suede jackets. I told them about the demonstration and noticed number one shooting more greasy looks at me. At this point I realised just how much I was making myself look like an instigator and I nervously broke off the conversation.

A group of plainclothes officers materialised around us and through a combination of getting into our personal space, gesturing and repeating the phrase "excuse me", made it clear to me and my three friends that we weren't welcome.

They followed us a few metres down the street as we moved away. When I stopped to say goodbye to my friends so I could go to the movie they pushed us onwards. After I pantomimed a movie camera and pointed at the cinema, and they let me pass.

I bought my ticket and headed into the theatre's foyer where I stood and watched the street through glass doors. After a while, number one's group crossed the street and went around the corner out of my sight. Ticket stub in hand, I came out of the theatre onto the footpath. Straight away I knew something was happening around the corner. All of the thuggies lined up outside the corner cafe were straining for a view through it, and when I tried to peer through a window they hustled me on.

I came around the corner and saw 2 people being dragged by a team of thuggies towards an armoured police van. One of them was a man in his early twenties, the other was a young woman wearing a blue headscarf. They struggled frantically in an ineffectual attempt to break free and were eventually thrown bodily inside the dark van. I heard them scream with all the desperate terror of innocent people who stand on the brink of an indeterminate stay in a dank cell, and see the very real threat of creative torture in their near future.

I decided that this was a good time to leave, and I started to head back towards the theatre, struggling to process what I'd just seen. Ruling out the possibility that the young woman in the blue headscarf had posed any physical threat to the legions of male police officers, I came to the conclusion that I had just witnessed my first arbitrary arrest, and it scared the hell out of me.

Before I'd gone more than a few metres, I heard an authoritative voice shout in my direction. I felt someone grab me from behind and spin me around. Right there in my face was number one with a couple of his officers, all of them shouting and spraying spittle in my face. They grabbed my arms and started pulling me towards the van. I felt like my stomach was turning itself inside out as the terror that I'd been so nicely removed from moments before became real for me.
"I'm just here to see a movie, aayiz ashuf movie" I said, brandishing my ticket stub. I'm proud to say that my voice was clear, despite the fact that I was closer to shitting myself than I'd been in 17 years or so.

Picture, if you will, me with one man attached to each of my arms. One of them is a burly plain-clothes officer, and the other is a sixty plus grey-haired higher-up policeman in what looks like an overdone, black Colonel Klink uniform. Now picture us in a tug-of-war. This was the scene until number one snatched my ticket stub from me and shouted "khalass" (That's the end of it) as he screwed it up.

At the time I thought it would be a good idea to demonstrate my determination to see the movie - partially to convince them that I wasn't a protest instigating enemy of the state, and partially because I wasn't about to let ten pounds (USD 1.75) worth of movie ticket slip through my fingers. So I snatched my movie ticket right back off the bossman police general who was about
to arrest me.

He took this surprisingly well, and at this point they all stopped pulling me. One of them grabbed my bag to search for a camera. I didn't have one, and if I had, I think something bad would have happened to it.

After the random camera search they decided to let me go. One of the officers decided that I needed some help getting home, so he pushed me down the street for 10 or 15 metres before returning to the scene of the arrests. I walked home in a daze, not sure why they let me go. Maybe it was because of the movie ticket, maybe they weren't going to arrest me in the first place, I guess I'll never know.

If I was Egyptian, I would be in a police cell right now. I won't be feeling untouchable any time soon.

Children Disappointed, Camel Police Bribed: Pyramids Sleepover

"It's a present for you" he says, holding out a small oval-shaped piece of baked clay meant to be a Scarab Beatle.
"No thanks, I'm just here to see the pyramids."
"Come on, it's a souvenir." This line breathed in my face as he moves to block my path.
"No really, I don't want it but thanks anyway."
"Here take it." He grabs my wrist and presses the beatle into my hand.
"Okay, thanks." I start to walk away, but a toothy yellow grin materialises in front of me.
"Now you give me a present. You have coins?"
An Australian dollar coin from my wallet sends him on his way. Alright, I'm just gonna go back to appreciating the ancient majesty of the pyramids now. A ragged looking kid of about 10 appears at my shoulder and holds out a bottle of Coke.
"Hey mister, 10 pounds."
It's right about then that I decide that I need to sleep out at the pyramids.

So, 3 months later I find myself standing swag in hand at the gate.
"Pyramids closed" mumbles a tourist police officer in a saggy white uniform. My watch says 4 in the afternoon. The pyramids must have been tired today. I look at the fence - 3 metres of flat smooth concrete topped with wire mesh. It seems pretty much unclimbable, but based on my complete faith in the Egyptian authorities' lack of ability to maintain something so large, I figure there must be a hole somewhere. With the fence on my right, I set out to try and find one.

The taxi driver who dropped me off tags along for a few minutes, all shouting indignation at only being able to overcharge me a little bit. I lose him, and myself as i enter a great crowding mob of rickety brick huts. Staying in sight of the fence gets more and more difficult as the buildings push closer together.

I get that 'you're a foreigner' reminder that you get when every single person you pass looks at you like you're on a TV screen.

Eventually, I make my way back to the fence and a rutted dusty track. Fragrant rubbish piles wage a war for territory with the track and seem to be winning. I can feel the wet heat in my throat when I breath it in but I push on. The crowded slums ramble away for as far as i can see on my left, and the Desert sky glares at me through the mesh of the fence.

I run into a gaggle of kids and we exchange the usual
"Where you from?" in broken English,
"Australia, what's your name?" in my broken Arabic,
"Ahmed, I'm from Egypt."
"From Egypt? No way!" in English.

I walk on with my new travelling companions, who chat to me in Arabic. My contributions to this lively conversation consist mainly of "Sorry, i don't understand", "I don't speak much Arabic" and awkward grins. One little boy seems happy with my one-sided conversation, and sticks with me.

We walk on, through the stable district where i'm offered a horse ride every 5 metres or so and a camel ride every 10. Most of the creatures in this quarter look like they could do with some love and a good feed, especially the people.

I realise that the stick I brought with me to pitch my swag is missing. My young friend notices and unleashes a torrent of excited Arabic on me, accompanied by helpful gestures to suggest that the thief had a beard. I fear this information won't be of much help.

Further down the track we come upon a broom handle laying in the dirt. My companion picks it up and offers it to me. I accept it with thanks and put it to work as a walking stick.

The road turns to soft desert sand, and we pass an old cemetary full of brightly coloured tombs with kids playing in between them. The last of the buildings give way to the rolling dunes of the desert and we make our way out, still skirting the fence.

It's at this point that the happy relationship between me and my talkative stick finding friend begins to turn sour. His conversation becomes more insistent and he starts asking for ba'sheesh (tip). I'm devastated when I realise that he only ever liked me for my money. I open what I fear will be a permanent rift between us with my refusal to give him anything.

We find a small hole in the fence with help from an old man in a dirty galabiyya (a loose cotton robe that looks like a dressing gown crossed with a shirt). I follow my swag through to the strains of an increasingly unfriendly pre-pubescent Arabic voice. I decide that it's time for the two of us to go our separate ways, so I turn around and brandish my broomstick with the most threatening bearing I can muster. A renewed stream of vitriol bursts through the fence at me, and I tap the mesh with my stick.
"Yalla, Imshi" (Piss off).
I'm sorry it had to end this way, but you know, I think it's for the best.

Blissfully alone, I make my way into the desert. It's not long before I come across some tombs, their lonely black portals staring across the sand. I stumble on what I'm sure are human bones, and I stuff part of a sun-bleached femur into my backpack.

As I reach the crest of a dune, the Great Pyramids emerge in front of me, looming huge above the desert even from about a kilometre away. I find a spot near the top, sheltered from the wind and prying eyes by a small rocky ridge. I roll out the swag and set up a makeshift clothesline to dry my sweat-soaked shirt. The desert breeze is cool as I lay on my back and stare at the tall blue sky. After a solid month in the traffic infested confines of Cairo with its warm blanket of yellow smog, I sit and smile in the quiet, clear solitude of the desert.

The sun sinks toward the sandy horizon, and i perch on my rocky ridge to watch as the pyramids are engulfed in all the colours of fire. As the sky fades to black, the call to prayer from the loudspeakers of a hundred Giza mosques sounds like an angry, pious beehive somewhere in the distance.

I can't see the Sphinx from where I'm sitting, but I can hear the sound and light show. This involves a lot of dramatic music and British-accented voiceovers. The 3 pyramids are lit up in turn by green and red lights, like actors on a stage.

Climbing the pyramids is forbidden, and apparently pretty tough. I'd learned this on my first visit through pantomime conversations with bemused tourist police. I also learned that it's hard to pantomime climbing without looking like you're marching and scratching someone's face at the same time. I decide to call off my bandit night climb due to poor light.

As I think about getting some sleep, I spot 4 camel riders faintly silhouetted on a nearby ridge. I flatten against the ridge in a poor attempt to make myself scarce, but they've already spotted me and they plod their way down to my spot. As I recognise the tourist police berets, an unpleasant image of the inside of an Egyptian cell flashes in my head. The lead camel grunts with that special camel exasperation as its rider dismounts and sits down next to me on my ridge. I try to be as friendly as i can, using all the flowery Arabic greetings I can think of. It seems to work, and he warms up to me. Two of the other riders jump off their camels and crowd up to me and the leader, one stays mounted. The second rider delivers what I'm sure is an excellent joke at my expense, which sparks laughter all round. They don't seem to want to bring it up, but eventually they tell me I have to leave. Not ready to put up much of a fight with these 4 pretty bad looking cops, I look as sad as I can, and agree. I pack my bag and start to roll up my swag, but they stop me halfway through.
"Okay, forget about it" says the leader with a smile. A little taken aback by this change of heart, I roll the swag out again.
"Ba'sheesh?" I should have seen this coming. I dig a 20 pound note out of my pocket and hand it over, and say "khamsa" (five) four times as I point at all of them. They seem to think that this is pretty generous and they thank me warmly as they mount up. I watch them disappear into the dunes and upon reflection, I decide I'm pretty okay with paying 4 Aussie bucks to stay there.

I crawl into the swag for a windy night's sleep and wake up half an hour before sunrise. After a breakfast of hard bread and cheese, I sling the rolled up swag over my shoulder and strike out towards the middle pyramid. The first touches of dawn settle on the horizon and 3 massive black triangles tower in front of me, almost blocking out the sky. The ancient stone blocks light up as the sun peaks over the horizon. There's not a sound to be heard except for my feet in the sand, and not a soul in sight.

I can't help but grin.