A Little Bit of Missouri in Turkey

Well, Beth arrived meaning that the Missourı delegatıon is now ready to kıck some ass here ın Istanbul. Sharıng the mutual frıend Jen Tıehen, the only tıme we had met prıor to thıs trıp was when she vısıted Jen at SLU and went to our fratenıty's Pigtaıls & Pedophıles party (a classy bunch we were). Naturally durıng that ıntroductıon back ın 2004 I was sportıng the old 'stache so I thought ıt was quıte proper that I gıve her a famılıar face at the aırport and sport one agaın. Here's a pıc dug up by Jenny T of the frat party cırca 2004: http://docs.google.com/Doc?id=dc4mzqcc_12dzrdpjhd&hl=en

And here's a pıc of us gettıng back to our Missouri roots ın some park ın İstanbul. Yes, some homeless man was rentıng hıs pellet gun for people to shoot ıt ın the park. Ingenıous.

Beth's arrıvals was not wıthout a lıttle mısfortune however. Wıth the cancellatıon of her fırst flıght, her baggage has stıll not arrıved 2 days later. We are told ıt ıs ın France. She has taken a page from my book and worn the same clothes for days--personally I thınk ıt ıs better to do thıs as ıt gıves your travel pıcture album a consıstent look.

Accomodatıon wıse we have one of the best vıews of the Aya Sophıa--that ıs ıf you actually lıve throught the nıght ın the frıgıd tent room we share wıth 15 people. Luxury lıvın!

Rıngıng ın NYE tonıght and headıng to the Cappadocıa regıon tomorrow. Talk later.

Kıckıng ass and takıng names,

Your boy

İstanbul

Ok, after almost 26 hours of continous traın travel, I fınally arrıved back ın Istanbul. I took a bıg gamble and booked the cheapest optıon, whıch was a 6 person sleeper car. Dreadıng beıng trapped ın a 5x8 traın car wıth 5 other people for such an extended perıod, I practıcally screamed when I found out I would have the whole damn car to myself. I dıdn't even have to grease the palm of the attendant. Spent the next 20 hours hangıng wıth some Romanıans ın the neıghborıng car and startıng and fınıshıng a book wrıtten by the author who wrote How Stella Got Her Groove Back and Waıtıng to Exhale. Yeah, the book selectıon at the last hostel was a bıt weak and although it ıs not quite my genre, it was stıll a tear-jerker all the same.
By luck, the Peace Corp crew I was hangıng wıth ın Bulgarıa was on a traın car that was eventually hooked to mıne somewhere on the journey and we arrıved ın Istanbul together. The cıty ıs packed wıth students and holıday makers enjoyıng theır break, so ıt should be a good place to rıde out the last of 08. Beth arrıves tomorrow and I wıll keep you updated on our adventures.

Pıcs have been updated ın the album!

Keeping it real,
Brosef

A Christmas Miracle

Santa is a man of many talents--giver, inspirer, jolly-maker, and now he can add one more to his repertoire: resurrector. Let me give you the backdrop. Two days before Christmas Eve, while already not happy about my solitary predicament in the town of Sibiu, I took out my IPOD to listen to tunes while I sent some emails. It failed to show any signs of life, even after I put it on a charge. Having seen my girl come back from the dead before (after a rainsoaking in the Amazon) I put her aside and tried to think happy thoughts instead of the proverbial kick in the nuts that the situation was giving me. I checked her absent pulse periodically over the next two days and slowly began to realize that she was gone forever and that my overnight train or bus to Istanbul the following day was going to be way more of a nightmare now and that crazy self sing-songing was going to be the new norm. It was all planned out--write a eulogy on the blog and tuck her into the backpack to wait for a proper burial down in the 'Zarks--what she would have wanted. Just as I was headed to the computer to write it, I thought I owed her one last try and Voila! She kicks back on. Oh sweet goodness you are back...Apparently Santa does know who has been good this year....




Alright, on to another news. Christmas Eve turned out suprisingly pleasant. In search of a decent place to treat myself to dinner I came across something so perfect and cliche that I had to do it--a Chinese restaurant. I have a deep level of respect for Chinese restauranteers for several reasons. One, is that they will be open hell or high water, holiday or hurricane. Two, is that they are the inventors (unresearched fact) of my favorite Sunday afternoon past-time: The All You Can Eat Buffet. Tell me that we are going to a Chinese buffet and later retract the promise and you will have lost a friend. Many people will attest to this fact. Lastly, my respect for Chinese restauranteers reached a pinnacle a few years ago when I was the guest of friend attending a woman's 30th birthday party in which the owner of the Chinese restaruant where event was held, allowed (and encouraged) a midget lap dance peformance DURING normal business hours, with John Q. Public and family gasping on in horror. These people just know business. Anways, while there I ended up being invited to sit with a young English couple that had stopped in the town--specifically searching out a Chinese restaurant as well. Needless to say we got along great. After dinner I returned to a hostel finally with some atmosphere--the local staff was distributing wine and beer and we had ourselves a merry little time. Woke up Christmas morning to more snow and lots of sunshine, which made hiking when some Finnish travelers around the nearby skiing mountain all the better. To top it off, we finished the day with some old-fashioned snow tubing.

Barnstorming it tomorrow outta Romanai, through Bulgaria, and hopefully eventually back into Turkey by the following day. I'm sure there will be some mishap along the way.

Creciun Ferecit!

Brian

Christmas in Transylvania

Took a painfully slow train from Veliko Tarnovo across the border into Romania. Luckily the only other passengers in the whole train carriage were Americans--mid-westerners at that. So the ride was spent in good company and I was fortunate to have fellow Couchsurfer picking me up that the station in the capital city Bucharest when I arrived. Spent the next two days crashing a couch and touring Bucharest. A definite highlight of the city was a late night out in downtown Bucharest in a situation that has become so familiar in my Balkan tour--a genre confused young generation dancing as enthusiastly to death metal as they do to music from the Little Mermaid. Ever see a long-haired metal head go from thrashing to forming a conga line around the bar? It happened, I saw it and loved it--it was about the 300th time I wished I had a videocamera on me at all times on this trip. Their lack of pretentions when it comes to musical enjoyment was appealing although I suspect their openness to all music comes not from eclectic tastes but rather a taste for anyone who will do a concert tour through Romania.

I soon found myself departing Bucharest on the 23rd for the Transylvanian town of Sibiu. No, this is not a Dracula-mania inspired tour, rather I heard the area is supposed to be beautiful, more so in wintertime. The bus ride there was pretty scenic, especially with the recent dusting of snow. I arrived to find the hostels vacant but the center city packed with ice-skating youths and strolling familys. It would have been a bit of a depressing place to ride out Christmas so I decided to skip town the next day and head to the city of Brasov. Just arrived via train and found a hostel with some other travelers and a bit of Christmas cheer.
Being away from home from during the holidays has not been ideal, especially when I know the fun I am missing with friends and family, which is only compounded when I get drunken emails from buddies like Robby Arthur telling me of the all great gatherings going on. Oh well, how can your ever know the sweetness of something unless you go without it?

And so, a very Merry Christmas to all and a safe holiday season--especially my boy Dave Tiehen in Iraq!

Woooaahhhh!
Count Quarnstrom

At Home in Veliko Tarnovo

Alright, trying to squeeze a few posts out here in the next couple days to get us all caught up. Recently spent 4 days in the beautiful Bulgarian town of Veliko Tarnovo. Spent my stay living in a guesthouse with a trio of genuine and interesting people--the ever-hospitable owners, Nick and Cathy, and the one other guest, Alejandro, a young Spanish traveler making his way around the country. Evenings were spent eating the sumptuous food Cathy prepared and drinking their stock of homemade Rakia, essentially moonshine. Alejandro would bust out the flamenco guitar and Nick and I would spin tales from the road. One big hippie family we were. Having taken on Alejandro as a protege (he would probably say the opposite), we would hit the town late night to see what we could fall into. Our first venture out proved fruitful when we extended invitiation for lunch and dinner the next day by seperate local parties. Although the former would later be unspokenly retracted, most likely when our half-truthing antics got out of hand. We did however spend the next evening's dinner in the company of a fun and diverse group of people, all except one being foreign to Veliko Tarnovo. 9 people, 6 different countries (none but me were native English speakers although all spoke it well, thankfully) and amazingly it seemed normal. The party could've lasted until Christmas but others were dispersing home for the holidays, Alejandro had to see about a girl, and I had to see about Romania.

Bulgaria proved to be a good decision to venture into. I'm gonna miss the plastic 2 Liters of beer that sell as cheap as water, the "Balken Red" hairdo's the old ladys wear and the dark clothed, crimped hair, knee-high boot look sported by the younger class that so reminds me of the Russian Barbie that I had er..my sisters had growing up. But, the road calls as it so often does and I was off.

More soon,
BQ

Crunch Time

The looming clouds of destitution have started to creep up on the sunshine that usually glows over my life. An almost year long outward flow of funds has created a situation forcing me to "get serious," at least temporarily and settle somewhere soon to help staunch the hemorrhaging finances. This revelation came to me when I realized that the only thing that seperates me from a homeless man is a passport. And I hear that even homeless men in Europe have passports so effectively there is no difference.

Now, I know there will be scant crocodile tears for my terrible misfortune, as a lot of people are feeling the squeeze, especially during this time of crisis in the U.S. A crisis I feel personally responsible for because I spent my "economic stimulus package" in foriegn markets. You can do as I like to do and contemplate the fact that as one of the most credit reliant countries in the world you would think that the mechanics of credit and lending would be a mandatory course in U.S. school curriculum. In place of courses on say, Trigonometry that we use so much? Personally, between preposterous abstinence-only sex education and the absence of a core class on lending finance, the conspiracy theorist in me smells something fishy between the baby formula selling and credit card companies and our dear Uncle Sam.....

Ok, back to the situation on hand. As much as I would like to shut-down this little experiment on the psychological effects of endless wandering on the sensitive soul, it must go on. At least for your sake. And so, I have decided to plant some roots, albeit very shallow ones, in Mother Ireland. Right after the tour with Beth through Turkey I am making the cross European jump to the greener and more inebriated pastures of Ireland. I will be meeting up with the Irish friends June, Niamh, & Niamh that Petro and I met in S.A. and I have been assured possible employment in Belfast or Dublin (nothing is set in stone so all ludicrous suggestions/opportunities are welcomed**keep in mind my working legal status may be a bit gray. Well, actually black). In my travels I have gathered that the two most universally in-demand jobs are grave digger and satellite dish installer, neither of which I currently aspire to. If all goes well I will be slinging pints and heavily accented profanity there for about 2 months before dusting off the pack and hitting the road again. South East Asia is on the spring radar, so put it on yours.

Well, the last week or so has been pretty stimulating. I more or less have been making the Peace Corp loop around Bulgaria and been hanging with some very fun and interesting characters. Overall, these volunteers are the face of a conscientious and intelligent America abroad and I hope the new govenment makes good a promise to increase funding for the organization. A big role call of thanks for letting me crash into their lives and couches:

Gergana, Tsveti, & Zach in Sofia

Martha in Silistra

Pete in General Toshevo

Theresa in Devnia

& James in Goliamo Gradishte (who let me make a guest appearance in his classroom so that I could lecture on the joys of sign languaging your way through life).

"now, the universal signal for 'eat shit' is...."

I am currently staying in the picturesque town of Veliko Tarnovo in a guest house run by a charming British couple who remind me alot of my Ecuadorian parents Tom and Mariela. Would love to stay and ring in Xmas with them but I want to dip into Romania for at least a week before high-tailing it back to Istanbul to meet up with Beth.

There has been a bit of noise on the Comments sections for a replay of the 2008 Numbers, so lets see if that can be addressed in a forthcoming post.

Your Tramp,

Brian

PS The long awaited resurgence of the Blog O' Petro has occurred. Check out the trials and tribulations of setting up shop in sunny San Diego, CA: www.whereispetro.blogspot.com

Sofia

Just checking in, although I have to admit I have been a bit lazy lately and procrastinating talking with you. I am off the hook a little though as some of it was illness induced, as there was about 24 hours of a mass exodus, inspired by a cause yet to be determined. A bit weird as I spent the last 2 months eating shady street food only to get sick on possibly something homemade.

The week in Sofia was spent with some touring, some internet catching up, and some hanging out with other Couchsurfers in Sofia. Just trying to get used to some of the idiosyncrasies of the Bulgarian people---their impossible to read Cyrillic writing, our mutual love of ketchup (they have Ketchup flavored Ruffles), their more serious facades, their fascination for Niagara Falls, and their nodding for "no" and shaking their head for "yes"--a communication crippling difference for a boy that relies oh so heavily on sign language and head signals for direction in his everyday life. Have resorted to holding a cardboard sign that says "yes" and "no" and having them point to it.....

Shaking things up a bit and jumping on a bus tomorrow for the town of Silistra, where I am to meet up with friend of my buddy Pat Crotty. She is a Peace Corp volunteer, so lets see if I can get myself involved in something altruistic for a change.

Yours,
BQ

The Train to Bulgaria

Alas, a border jump made fairly painless and uneventful with the benefit of a sleeper train. After spending the day in Istanbul, I boarded the train around 10pm and was ready to crash. This was not to happen without fielding a string of well-meaning but annoying questions from the Malaysian traveler I was sharing the cabin with. I tried to deter this seemingly endless game of "where have you been/what have you seen" by muttering something about my in a my recent stay in a Turkish psych ward.
After managing to fall asleep in a train teteering side to side so much I was sure it was going to derail, I got about 4 solid before spending 2 early morning hours getting processed out of Turkey and into Bulgaria. No exit tax and no visa fee--hooray!
When I arrived at the station in Sofia, Bulgaria I was shocked to see a pair of uncovered breasts staring out at me from the magazine rack in the station. Quicky, I took cover behind a column and waited for the morality police to come out, burn the kiosk and hang the vendor. After a few scared moments of anticipation, it dawned on me that I had made the geographic and cultural cross from the Middle East into Eastern Europe, where cheap vodka, casinos, and smut filled magazine racks would probably be more the norm. Along with these supposed luxuries, I was also gaining to need to start worrying about petty theft and scams, what neighborhoods I wandered into, and the frigid weather. No worries just yet however, as I was being taken under the wing of my old roommate Gergana, who lives and works in Sofia. I am currently crashing at the pad of her and her two roommates, and enjoying the domestic comforts of stable accomodations, being able to grocery shop and eat decent meals, and receive an immersion into Bulgarian life. As always hanging with Gergana is great and my residency with the trio of Bulgarians has produced almost more of a nightlife in my few nights here than in my whole Middle East trek. My personal highlight so far is when we attended a birthday celebration of a girl, whose party was made up entirely of Bulgarians and Romanians, save your favorite odd man out. At the height of the party a long pondered question was answered--can System of a Down's heavy metal anthem "Chop Suey" be socially danced to. Witnessing the answer made me appreciate my newly acquired presence in Eastern Europe and eager to get home to try out the hilarious dancing chops I saw at the party.

Well, weather wise, it is freckin' cold here. Somehow my eternal summer wanderings took a major wrong turn. Heavy apparrel and a liquid jacket are pretty much required before setting out here and I finally managed to get my hands on some suitable clothing today. Hashing out future plans at the moment. As always, you'll be informed.

Nazdrave,

BQ

Syria and Beyond

Spent the last few days in the northern Syrian cıty of Aleppo. The cıty ıtself was fairly interestıng but the couchsurfıng experience ıs what made the tıme worthwhıle (I apolıgıze ın advance for thıs post's grammar and typıng ırregularıtıes, especıally the lack of the dots ın the ''i''s as the Turkısh keyboards are kıllıng me!!) OK, where was I? Anyways, I ended up crashıng at the apartment of two young Syrıan doctors, who found tıme ın theır resıdencıes to show me some ıns and outs of Aleppo as well as provıde me wıth some ınsıght ınto daıly lıfe of Syrıans. I wıll defer on acknowledgıng theır names as durıng my stay they both spoke candıdly about the theır thoughts on the present Syrıan government, whıch accordıng to them does not hesısıtate to jaıl and torture those who do speak agaınst ıt (both of theır fathers had been tortured ın the past--one almost to death). Despıte the lack of many cıvıl lıbertıes, they ındıcated that lıfe there ıs stıll pretty comfortable for them, although both are plannıng on movıng abroad as soon as vısas are acquıred.

One of the more memorable days, myself and one of the two ventured up to hıs old unıversıty so he could pıck up some transcrıpts. The excursıon provıded us wıth the excuse to engage ın the unıversal past-tıme of scopıng babes on campus and dıscussıng the datıng rıtuals of our respectıve cultures. As Aleppo ıs a faırly conservatıve cıty, about half of the campus women were scarved and some were fully covered. I told hım I thought that the success rate of pursuıng of these type of gırls would be comparable to fıshıng wıthout a hook but he ındıcated to the contrary. He stated that ın the past, he has ''made ıt'' wıth far more ''covered gırls'' than the more pretentıous, western dressıng women. He ındıcated however, that the relatıonshıps were always ın utmost secrecy as most of the gırls would rather skıp straıght to the fun stuff, than be publıcly vıewed doıng relatıonshıp type actıvıtıes lıke dınıng or walkıng together, whıch would tarnısh theır reputatıon and jeopardıze theır marrıage hopes. I know what you are thınkıng, all fun and no work--the perfect scenarıo rıght? Well, don't book your tıcket to Syrıa just yet as the pıcture they paınted of the Syrıan matıng/datıng rıtual seems perpetually stuck ın the 5th grade. I dıd thınk ıt was funny however the the two guys, one Chrıstıan and one Muslım, both ın seperate ınstances, told me that the other's relıgıous group had the more morally casual gırls...

After two nıghts of Syrıan meals prepared by them, I decıded a lıttle ınjectıon of the fruıts of Amerıca was ın order and whıpped up some stovetop-made hamburgers (the fırst for one of them), taught them the drınkıng game ''Quarters'' and screened the pırated Wıll Ferrell movıe ''Stepbrothers.'' Both are now movıng to the States.

Reluctantly I departed theır company, I went ınto town to buy a bus tıcket for the journey ınto Turkey. At the offıce of one of the bus companıes, they offered me a spot ın a taxı across the border for the same prıce as the bus, whıch I eagerly agreed to. Wıth just me and the taxı drıver ın the car, we set off ımmedıately after he brıbed hıs way out of a parkıng tıcket. Wonderıng ıf we were goıng to pıck up other passengers as a ''prıvate taxı'' costs abot 7 tımes more than what I had paıd, I told hım I was not goıng to pay more than I already had. He acted ındıfferent about the money I began to wonder what the deal was. As ınsurance, I secretly copıed hıs passport ınfo and was plannıng to counter-threaten hım wıth a bluff about callıng the Syrıan polıce about the wıtnessed brıbe ıf he trıed to scam me when we arrıved. At the Syrıan sıde of the border, he bought three cartons of cıgarettes (he dıdnt smoke) at the Duty-Free and asked me to put them ın my bag. I refused but allowed hım to at least set them near me fıgurıng Syrıans weren't allowed to export cıgs ınto Turkey and that he was probably buyıng them for a relatıve (hence why he was takıng me wıth hım for so cheap). Although I began thınkıng of less benıgn reasons for why I was the ''token'' passenger as I saw money exchange hands wıth Syrıan offıcıals more than once ın unoffıcıals ways. Havıng the benefıt of prevıously readıng Mıdnıght Express and knowıng the accounts of the joys of Turkısh prısons, I made decısıon that ıf pressed by customs about them I was goıng to rısk pıssıng off the drıver and the almost free rıde by dısownıng the cartons of cıgs (or whatever was ınsıde). At the Turkısh border, the offıcers were extremely thorough ın the searches and seemed ınterested ın the cıgs, but luckıly I was too busy assıstıng another offıcer ın dumpıng out my backpack, and was able to avoıd the verbally statıng they were mıne. Once thru the border, the drıver dropped me at my desıred town and dıdnt charge me anthıng more. After thıs, I swore that from here on out I was goıng to take more conventıonal means of transport across borders ın the future. And wıth that promıse, I arrıved after a 15 hour bus rıde to Istanbul and booked passage on a sleeper traın for the overnıght journey to Sofıa, Bulgarıa set for tonıght. Only been ın Istanbul a couple hours but already know I am gonna love ıt when I return ın a few weeks.

Too old for thıs shıt,

Brıan

Lone Travelin'

Awoke early in Beirut with the goal of get north back into Syria and to the city of Aleppo before darkness fell. Although it happens often, there is a certain heightened level of stress associated with arriving to a new city in the nighttime, therefore I try to avoid it when possible. I set out early but the X Factor of the day was how long I was going to have to sit at the Syrian border for a new visa. Logically, you would think they could bypass the whole process of verifying with Damascus that I wasn't a spook, because they just did it less than 10 days ago when I crossed from Jordan. But alas, logical thinking has no place in many things I have encountered while traveling and this day was no exception. Expecting this, I had to arrive at the border using shared taxis, which would leave me there to my fate, as opposed to an ongoing bus that would not want to wait on me during the visa debacle. After experiencing the hassle of getting the exit stamp in Lebanon, I walked about a mile in the no-man's land between the borders and arrived to a mob scene in the arrival station of the Syrian side. It was chaos--a clash of anxious people and bureaucratic baloney. I was still feeling a bit sick and didn't want to cope with this predicament. Although aware that my status as the only Westerner at the border could probably bring me preferential treatment, I still attempted to join the so-called line in front of the immigration desk and act like a lunatic like all the other Tom, Dick, and Harrys there. With no end to the madness in sight, I thought about sitting on the ground and giving up, but I was keenly aware that all these guys would forever associate Americans with being puss*es, so I decided to tough it. Coping, I started repeating the line from Forrest Gump: Please God, make me a bird, to fly far far away from here..... I would have taken some pıcs of thıs pandemonıum but photos at mılıtary ınstallments are a bıg no no around here.
Luckily the guards, after repeatedly shouting menacing reprimands at the surging mass, pulled me aside and told me that they would fax my visa application to Damsacus and that, again, in 1,2, or 7 hours, they would probably approve my entry. After 3 hours they did, and I jumped on a bus to Aleppo, now to arrive well after dark. Luckily, a cool Syrian couchsurfer found time between his doctoral residency and exam studying to accomodate my last minute request and I now find myself comfortably situated in the city.

Recently I have fielded questions from family and a few friends about any possible incidents of lonliness while traveling on my own. I thought about this question while in Lebanon, sitting in the fetal position under the lone naked lightbulb in a sparsely furnished hotel room and after a good 10 minutes of conversely loudly with myself came out with the answer of, not in the least. But let me explain a few things. Yes, obviously I do miss family/friends back home and usually wish that they were here to experience some of these events with me. As a shared experience is far better than an experience on your own, however one on your own is better than none at all. I am also aware that from the outside it may seem a bit weird to travel alone but since my preceptions of what exactly is considered weird have been thrown off a bit since I started thinking sleeping and living in stranger's apartments is normal, I usually don't worry much about the issue. There is nothing wrong with that fact that your most trusted travel companion just happens to be the auto-timer on your camera...
Fortunately, most of this trip has been filled with shared experiences had with Petro, The Q's, The Schloegels, Amy Smith, Joe Clifford, and a host of other memorable people met along the way. And just after Xmas, Jen Tiehen's friend Beth Winkelmann, who has decided that she too wants a bit of adventure of her own, will be joining up with me for some travel in Turkey. Are you also hearing the call? You know how to reach me.



Pending I don't get side-tracked on a far flung idea, I am planning on transiting briefly through Turkey in the next few days and heading into Bulgaria to visit my old STL roommate, Gergana, who lives in Sofia, Bulgaria.

Flying solo,
BQ

Lebanon

Upon arriving to the coastal city of Tripoli, I scurried around to find whatever there was to be had for cheap accommodation. All the cheap places in my guidebook surprisingly had no vacancies, which at the one that had Saddam Hussein's portrait prominantly displayed--I was a bit glad anyways. Finally found a room at my last option and was relieved at the prospect that I was not left to the fate my new and unwelcome climatic situation: freezing cold nights. Having bought a second-hand sweater in Damascus, that and a hoodie are my only winter clothing. A situation that needs rectifying pronto.

Before starting off in the morning for the mountain town of Bcharre, I stopped at a shawarma shop for a bite of breakfast/lunch and was bestowed another gesture of middle eastern hospitality, when a muslim cleric insisted on paying for my food. Will it ever end? I hope not.

Bcharre, a moutain town reminiscent of something you might find in Europe, had an old world charm that made it a pleasant place to spend two days. Home of the famous poet/writer/painter Khalil Gibran, I was the lone visitor at his musuem & resting place. Previously unaware of his famous works, the visit definitely sparked an interest. After spending my Thanksgiving eating a home-cooked Lebanese meal of fish with spinach and rice, I awoke the next morning to make the 1.5hour hike up to place called The Cedars (for the reason that it is a small tract of land forested with, you guessed it: cedars--famous for reasons I never came to understand). After hiking up and briefly touring around the less than 3 acre area containing cedar trees, I began cursing myself for spending so much time in pursuit of something displayed in far more magnifigance in the U.S. My self loathing would only deepen as on the walk back, freezing rain began to fall. My hoodie was not adequate protection against the winter storm that was rolling in and I was wondering how a local villager was going to receive a foreigner knocking on their door asking to ride out the storm inside. Luckily, a few minutes into what would turn into a frozen downpour, a car came down the road and answered the frantic wave of the wandering idiot.

After the morning's ill-fated cedar trek, I took a bus to the capital city Beirut. After years of civil war and most recently, the 2006 war with Israel, downtown has been rebuilt with many of the posh attributes of any western country. Despite these modernisms, a huge urban military presence squelches any disillusions about where exactly your are. A tank parked next to the supermarket is a life I have never known, but unfortunately it it appears to be life as usual for the Lebanese.

Feeling a bit under the weather, I spent most of my first night holed up in the dorm room. The only other person present in the room during the veg session was an older Arabic man, an uncharacteristic customer for a backpacker place, but not necessarily rare. After quite awhile of silence, we made an attempt at conversation, which was immediately stone-walled by both of our mono-lingual abilities. Finally I was able to extract that he was from Iraq, Mosul to be exact. The conversation, or lack thereof, was a shame as I had many questions for this man about Mosul as this is where my cousin Dave Tiehen is to be deployed to in the coming month. A good opportunity lost to language again.

The next morning I set out to do what I perceive is the best way to get to know an urban area--walk it. And do it primarily using side streets. This is where I usually find the friendly shopkeepers, cheap local grub, and best encounters. And in the Middle East, unlike South America, you can venture just about anywhere without the fear of stumbling into a neighborhood that wıll welcome you with a screw-driver in the gut. An almost total absence of crime and/or worry of, is was I have come to love most about these countries.

Kipling famously wrote that "the first condition for understanding a foreign country is to smell it." For me the most authentic and impacting "smells" come from experiences had off the main drag. This particular walk in Beirut was going to net me two particularly interesting encounters. The first was stumbled upon when I seeking out breakfast. Although maybe hard to see in the picture below, there are two falafel shops next to each other, both bearing the same name and logo. The decor also matched up more or less. Having entered one of the shops thinking that they must be two shops of the same owner to accommodate for booming business, I was suprised when I ordered a sandwhich that the shopkeeper told me to wait a few minutes so he could finish the food prep work and did not send me to the adjoining shop to get the sandwhich, where I knew for a fact the prep work was already done. Because of this peculiarity, I inquired about the shop next door and the keeper responded that the name on the signs was his fathers and that he and his brother had the shop together "and then we made divorce." And so, two brothers, presumably not speaking together anymore, were operating identical falafel shops right next to each other. I can only imagine that their rift contributed to more issues within the community as they too had to decide what shop they would show patronage to. Talk about living with the past everyday....

During my walking tour, I was more or less trying to walk to the south of Beirut, where the hostel owner had stated I could find the Palestinian refugee camps, not really elaborating on what I would see other than the obvious. Sounded like a good idea so I set off. Eventually, I got to the part of town, that he said I would find them. While taking a picture of some graffiti on the wall written in English, a man passing on a motorbike made the gesture of taking a picture and shook his figure in a discouraging way. I was a bit confused but didn't make anything of the matter and kept on walking. Not far off I came across an barbwire enclosed junkyard that contained a sea of broken motorbikes. So big was the pile, that I decided that it would make for a nice picture and walked in to ask the junker if I could take one. Thinking they could probably care less with the request I was surprised when the man and his young son (who was translating) gave me a quick no and explained that if I wanted to take pictures of this or anything in the neighboring area, I would need permission of the police. I pondered the reasoning for this in combination with the situation I was seeing at the junkard. In addition to some junkyard workers and the boy, the boy's father and another man were in military fatigues but neither bore the formal insignas of the Lebanese army. They all invited me to drink tea and eat some bread in their small building on the premises and I accepted, still trying to make sense of where exactly I was and why there a restriction on photography. Again with the boy translating and doing almost all of the talking for the group, we discussed all things USA--sports, Angelina Jolie, but mostly U.S. foreign policy. This 12 year-old kid talked of Condileeza Rice and U.S. policy with knowledge that would put most American adults to shame. Made me think they should up the embarrassment anty on U.S. reality shows by making one called Do you know more than a third-world fifth-grader.

The conversation was generally light-hearted although the boy did ask me what I thought about Bush providing Isreal with the military capabilities that were killing children like him in Lebanon. Pretty sad to hear such heavy questions from someone so young. And when the boy showed me his necklace with a picture of Hassan Nasrallah, the leader of Hezbollah, were my questions of why I couldn't take photos and with whom I was probably in the company of, answered. When leaving, the father told me in not so many words that there was nothing more to see in the direction I was previously heading and that I should walk back towards downtown Beirut. I wondered if his advice was more in the interest of safety or just touristy advice, but I didn't care to find out.

Strolled to into a internet cafe to bring myself up to speed on Hezzbollah and finally read the U.S. State Department's warning about not traveling to Lebanon. Probably not the time to do such research but I am sticking with the philosphy that if Starbucks is somewhere, I can be there too.

Heading to back to Syria tomorrow to visit the northern city of Aleppo.

Warmly,

bq

To be closer to God, be closer to people---Khalil Gibran

Monastery Soup for the Wandering Soul

Well, I found it. Tucked into a wind-swept Syrian mountainside lies the Deir Mar Musa monastery. I was largely unaware of what was waiting for me at the monastery as I only had heard of it through word of mouth by another traveler. Not having voluntarily gone on a spiritual retreat since the sleep deprived mental tampering I received at KAIROS in high school, I was anxious to get off the grid for a few days and do some inner reflecting, however scary that may be. After a half-day of bus traveling, I was placed at the bottom of a hill by a taxi, with the monastery looming quite a bit higher. The hike up with a full pack was a bit much and I was wondering how they would react to unannounced visitors, especially those hoping to stay a few days. I was fully planning on using the line that I overhead an Evangelical traveler tell another in Jerusalem: "I was SENT." By the Man, I presume.

Once arrived, they first person I saw was a dreadlocked Frenchman playing a guitar on the rock path by the monastery. He welcomed me and told me to make myself at home. And so started my monastic existence that would last for the next 4 days.
Run by an Italian Jesuit, the monastery has become quite a famous place as it has evolved into a globally known center for inter-faith dialogue between Christains and Muslims. It allows all visitors to stay as long as they wish, with only the expectation that they occasionally help out in the kitchen or in projects around the grounds. During my stay, there was a good mix of Europeans, mostly French, who were all there for various reasons. The only other native English speaker was an Aussie, whose intentions there was on par with mine--a bit of reflective relaxing and most importantly, living cheaply. Meals were a social affair and broke up the monotony of the endless hours of reading, writing, or however you chose to spend your time. The food was basic but varied and nourishing and provided a nice change to my subsistence only diet of recent. The hiking around the monastery was nice and there were a series of caves in the mountainside for praying, meditating, animal sacrificing--whatever you needed to tap that inner spirit. As for me, I got my read on, about three books in as many days. The monastary had an incredible cave-like library, where amazingly enough I found an autobiography written by one of Mick Jagger's conquests, Marianne Faithful. Man, that women got around. It was funny because whoever left the book in the library inscribed it with a warning to all female sinners...

A stand-out character at the monastery was my Russian roomate, whose monosyllable answers/replies kept me cracking up. "Eat." "Pray." "Smoke." In a rare moment of articulation he stated one of the more profound things I heard spoken at the monastery: "In Russia, we say that someone who doesn't smoke or drink is dead person with good body." I am pretty sure he said this after meditating for 12 hours solid, so you know it was divinely inspired.
After 4 days, I felt enough was enough and heard my inner voice calling me back to the road. So I packed up, hiked an hour to the road and hitched a ride to the main highway. A fellow Syrian hitcher helped me navigate the next series of buses, adamantly paying for all. So kind, that it tripped my radar and made me contemplate any possibility for dubious intentions. Turned out to be just another gesture of good-will to a foreign guest, which seems to be an emerging theme of my middle eastern trek.
Made a pit stop at the famous Crac Des Chevalier, a crusader castle, that has inspired writers like Paul Theroux to write about its magnificence and boyhood fantasy charm. Ran around its cave-like tunnels for an hour, took pictures for you and darted. I had a date with the border.
Hopped in a mini-bus packed with people and made the cross into Lebanon. It made geographic sense (i will return to Syria to visit more and then head to Turkey). Plus Lebanese food is just what the doctor ordered for me. I am also trying to find any truth to the reply made by my good friend, Chris Clarkson (who is also half-Lebanese), who said when I told him about my visit to his motherland: "I think they now call it 'Don't go there land'." Well, only one way to find out.

Oh yeah, and have a great Thanksgiving.

Missing the tryptophan coma,

Brian

Damascus & Palmyra

Enjoying a peaceful existence here in Syria. Damascus is an incredible city and as part our dim leader's "Axis of Evil," it lacks many tourists, allowing one to be free to stroll leisurely with little hassle from touts and shopkeepers. As such, I have actually been doing a bit of window and store gazing, not because I intend to buy anything, although I probably should as Damascene markets contain some amazing handicrafts. I took some pics for parties interested (uploaded to album--Blogger in Syria is partially blocked therefore I am not sure if pics are uploading to the blog). Things are cheap. Could potentially be ground zero for the formation of the What Fell Off the Back of the Truck import company.
There has been a good cast of interesting characters at the guest house I was staying at. Like most Islamic cities, there is a serious absence of Western-styled night activities, forcing one to routinely engage in an oxymoron called "sober fun." Or meaningful conversations, whatever you prefer to call it. There was two German guys, sporting beards that put Joe and I's post-Amazon ones to shame, who had bicycled for 7 months from Germany all the way to Syria. When I spoke to them it was actually their last few hours before they flew home. They spoke of some incredible experiences along the way--most notably their stay in Georgia, when the Russians started shelling the town they were staying in. We also were contemplating the fact that they had been traveling to this point for 7 months only to return back home on a 7 hour flight. Also spent some time discussing importing logistics with a french girl named Sev (yes, I told her she shared the same name with a football god back in KC) who had been spending the previous two weeks scouring the markets for textiles and fabrics to send back to France. More interestingly, we discussed the finer points of the colloquial differences of descriptions of coitus in French and English. Their romanticism of even brief liaisons confused me.

Just took a bus to the Syrian desert oasis of Palmyra. Was able to be alone amongst Roman ruins for the first time in my life. Boy they are old. I think I may have hit my "old things" quota for the month.

It may be time for a brief societal and financial sabbatical, so if you don't hear from me for 4 or 5 days, I apparently have found the supposed Syrian monastary Mar Musa, which is tucked into the mountians. Yes I know, me and the monastic life go together like whisky and milk, but hey, I hear they take free boarders.

Contemplating the phenomenon that is belly button lint,
BQ

Riding an Emotional Wave to Syria

After missing the last shuttle to the Israel/Jordan border, my exit out of Jerusalem was delayed. Not wanting to hike with my pack all the way back to the hostel I was staying at, I chose instead to bunk up at politically charged hostel near the shuttles. Run by Palestinians and occupied mostly by journalists and sympathizers to the cause, I soon found myself accepting an invitation from an English girl to go "hang out at a tent" with her and some of her friends. Fully aware that such a cryptic invite would most likely result in something out of the ordinary, and without a good excuse not to, I found myself walking to the outskirts of Jerusalem to a squatters camp, where several Palestinians families, whose homes were recently demolished by the Israeli Police to make way for Jewish settlers, were living. I asked another guy exactly what was going on and why we were going there and he replied that there was already some people (international volunteers) hanging out there with the families in case the Police were to show up and execute the eviction notices. Which was set for tonight, he added. Great. Knowing my luck, all these kids have international organizations to bail them out of jail, while I would rot in jail as an unwitting spectator. At the camp, they were cooking food, watching footage of violent clashes between these volunteers and the police, and waiting out whatever was to transpire. We stuck around for awhile chatting up some of the volunteers. There was just a couple of them. Young and European, they had been doing this in the West Bank for several months now and I had to give it to them--they had some balls. They had been beat and shot at while sticking up for the Palestinians. There seems to be a pretty small but passionate and courageous group of them doing it although to my knowledge they haven't really made the U.S. news since American Rachel Corrie was run over by a Israeli bulldozer in 2003. We left the scene before midnight and as I left Jerasulem early today, I didn't hear what ended up happening.
It was a full day of transit. Took the shuttle to the Isreali border and managed to avoid both stamping by them and the Jordinians. Then while sharing a taxi back to Amman with a girl from New Zealand, she was telling me how she witnessed a bad accident while visiting the Dead Sea, and added that she feels that this sort of stuff seems to happen to her alot. Just as my inner monolouge was going something like I need to get away from her, I saw a delivery truck veer off the road and flip over. We stopped to help the occupants trapped inside, whom luckily seemed frazzled but not seriously harmed. Also, fought the urge to run away from the girl, before her aura would taint my lucky rabbits foot, that has kept things oh so well.
My day of excitement wasn't even half over. Technically, Syria requires a visa submitted from the Syrian embassy in Wash D.C. But I have heard that some Americans have been able to get it after waiting at the border for hours on end. I was gonna give it a try, due to lack of other options.
Negotiated a driver to take me from Amman, Jordan through the border procedure and then onto Damascus, Syria. I had to pay him a fairly large sum, due to the fact that he would need to wait many hours to see if I received the visa. He requested the payment up front, which normally I would almost always refuse, but this withholding recently resulted in a shouting match with a deeply offended man in Egypt and not wanting to repeat this episode, I took a chance and paid it forward. Halfway to the border I was getting bad vibes about his trustworthiness, so I decided to concoct a story that I had 3 friends wanting to make the same trip next week, and would he be the driver for them also? Hoping that the promise of future money would dissuade any funny business. As I suspected, after the border officials castigated me for showing up without a visa and told me to wait for 1,2, or 7 hours for a possible visa, the driver started to complain that he didnt have time to wait. I replied that he could leave but that he needed to refund half the money. He adamantly refused this idea, thus starting what would become a very heated exchange. Things advanced to the point where we were trading F-Us and he waved his cigarette in face saying "you do not F with me." Then feeling that I was in a losing battle, I tried my risky trump card, an appeal to his piety. I told him that he could leave but that his dishonesty was known by me and Allah (pointing upwards). This had a momentary effect until his moral relativism put him back on his spiel of leaving me to my own fate. Things got heated again and we managed to draw a crowd of Arabic men, always eager watch a show. Alas, I tried to diffuse the situation and stall his presence there by breaking out my deck of cards and showing him my one and only card trick. Amazingly, we started laughing and patting each other on the back. Such a dramatic range of emotions that I suspected schizophrenia in both of us. Finally after a quick 2 hour wait, my visa was approved and the driver, who would not drive me to Damascus but would pay someone else to do it, gave me an extended handshake while we exchanged unspoken apologies.
My new driver (Syrian) and the two other occupants (Jordinians) provided me a heartwarming welcome and through rudimentary conversation, explained their desire to see peace in the world. They, like all others I have spoken with in the Middle East, see a disconnect between government and people and harbor only ill will towards Booosh. Additionally for about the 100th time, they expressed their optimism for the future.
Finally arrived in Damascus and was pleasantly suprised to find a clean city with a nice mixture of modernity and antiquity. Spent the night strolling through the endless markets and treated myself to a much needed shave.
In the course of 24 hours, I have been inspired by the passion and courage of the foreign volunteers in Palestine, witnessed a terrible accident, narrowly avoided a fistfight with a taxi driver, participated in heartfelt political dialogue, and succesfully produced myself through 2 borders. Feeling more alive than ever.

Only scared of what we don't now,

Brian

Guns & God; The Holy Land

A seemingly contradiction of terms, but both are ever so present in this highly revered land. Also, they are the two main ingredients for a dish called Apocalypse Stew. Whose preparing this dish? Everyone. The religious sects provide the ingredients and governmental mettling is eventually gonna let this pot boil over. Fatalistic thinking? Probably, but until people start thinking more logically and less theologically, I don't see a happy ending to the conflict that I think will probably be the title of the chapter on 21st century history.

Alright, enough of playing Nostrodamus. As you can gather, I crossed the border from Jordan into Israel and managed to do so without being stamped by either border station. It wasn't without a bit of drama however. First, while passing through Israeli security control, which makes the TSA look like a Boy Scout Troop, my 3 inch knife that I use for buttering bread and carving up roadkill was discovered in my bag. After a quick questioning of my nationality, the official told me to put it back "deep in my bag," prompting me to replace it exactly where they pulled it out. This intial encounter gave me the false impression that my nationality was going to streamline my entry into Israel. I was wrong. Crossing with two American girls that I met at my hostel the night before, we were all initially questioned regarding our past travel, why we were trying to avoid the stamp, and were we planning on visiting the West Bank or any othe Palestinian territories. After this round, we were told to wait while one of the girls, who had recently passed through Syria, was put through 2 other rounds of demanding but amatuerish questioning about her intentions. Possibly thinking we may be Palestinian sympathizers and therefore agitators, they tried to trick her into saying she would be visiting the West Bank, an admission that would probably result in her entry denial or at least a punitive stamp her passport. What makes these formalities so aggravating is that they are largely done by the Israeli military, which, since it is obligatory for all youth, is made of mostly of 17-18 year olds. Justifiably, there is a security paranoia that warrants such a force, but the result is a mass of newly powerful kids, spending their formative years bossing around foreigners and Palestinians. Gucci glasses, designer jeans, and a shoulder slung assault rifle exemplifies the mixing of maturity. Our final encounter of the day planted the seed for my tone, when our taxi van to Jerusalem was pulled over at a check point and a military youth questioned our nationality, to which we replied American. When he checked our passports, he then accused us of saying we were Bulgarians (WTF???) and demanded to know why are passports were missing a visa. Only after our older and wiser taxi driver gave a dressing down to the youth about visa protocol for those avoiding the stamp did he let us go. Hopefully for good measure the driver threw in there what country provides the military technology and money to keep his country on the map.
Spent the next day touring the Old City part of Jerusalem including the Jewish, Christian, Muslim, and Armenian quarters of the city. So much history has happened in this city that I I probably ingested more knowledge on the tour than in all my years of schooling.

Spent today at the newly opened Holocaust Museum. Aside from seeing the Dachua concentration camp years ago, I don't think I have seen such horrendous evidence of recent evil. A wrenching must see, especially if you are having trouble comprehending the possibility of inhumanity committed by the masses.

Trying to do a double border jump tomorrow. Leaving early tomorrow to cross back into Jordan, clear my pockets of Israeli evidence, and try and make the cross into Syria.

Yours,

BAQ

The Desert, The Palace, & a Border Sneak

Boy do we have some catching up to do. I guess when I left you I was getting ready to make a move out of Petra. A decision made easy by a fun young couple from the Netherlands, Chris and Micah, who offered me a spot in their car, Uncle Benz, to the nearby desert oasis of Wadi Rum. They had been driving Uncle Benz all the way from Holland and our little journey to the desert got me jonesin' for a road trip of my own real soon. Just need to learn how to hotwire a car.

Once we arrived to the town of Wadi Rum, we arranged to spend the night in the desert, traveling to a Beduoin camp via camel. Although the budget left room for only an overnight visit, it was a pretty amazing place and quite a mystical experience. Got enough of a taste to respect the harsh but tranquil nature of desert living.

Determined to get off the beaten path a bit, I decided the following day that would try and hitch rides from Wadi Rum (south part of Jordan) to the northern capital city of Amman. Luckily, I snagged my first ride with Omar, a yorgurt deliveryman, who after a few deliveries along the way, would take me about 300 kilometers to the outskirts of Amman. Although our language barrier was extreme, Omar plied me with coffee and snacks the whole way and in true Jordinian custom said "welcome" about 10 times. Omar was not alone in this show of hospitality as I have found about 85% of encountered Jordanians saying the same thing. Trying to recall if I have ever said this to a visitor in the U.S...........

After being dropped off on the side of the highway by an onward travelling Omar, a series of friendly Jordianian bus drivers (one refusing payment) coordinated my desposit in the city center of Amman. Having concentrated the whole day on just making it there, I was unsure of what to do or where to stay when I arrived. I went to a cafe and checked my email to find that a Couchsurfer in Amman had responded that I would in fact have a place to crash. I met up with the CSer, Murielle, not long later and enroute back to her pad she informed me that I would need to surrender my passport to the guards at the entrance of her apartment--as she lived on the grounds of the Jordanian Royal Palace. She is allowed this residence as the personal stylist of the Queen of Jordan. So, such is the dichotomy of things in my life lately--hitchinghiking by day and palatial sleeping by night.

And so I spent the next two days with Murielle, who is actually Lebanese, touring the nearby town of Jerash, eating tables full of Lebanese food, and doing what presumably all Jordinians do on a good Saturday--shooting guns at a gun range. After turning in my work-issued gun over a year ago, I was wondering if I still had what it takes to win a Duck Hunt tournament and was pleasantly surprised to see that if I fired 10 rounds at something/one I would hit them at least once. I left the shot-out target for Murielle to hang in her apartment to warn off any creepy CSers.

Tonight, I am back to my old routine--just checked into a "hotel" downtown that actually charges to use the showers. Always exploiting the loopholes, I plan on sponge bathing in the sink later.
Tomorrow is a big day for me. I am going to make the overland border crossing into Israel, which normally would be fairly routine, although the trick is that since I want to travel through Syria and Lebanon (and other countries un-friendly to Israel), I cannot receive the dreaded Israel stamp in my passport nor can I receive an Exit or Entry stamp from Jordanian officials at the border-- as this is tell-all evidence to many countries' immigrations officials who would refuse my entry or would kick me out if discovered later. Essentially I have to go through a total of 2 check points tomorrow and 2 on the way out, making sure both the Jordinian and Israeli officials defer on the stamping. If I get stamped, my fate will be sealed as I will have to ditch much of my middle east plans and fly straight to Turkey. Leaving this one to the travel gods.

Risking banishment,

Q

deParting the Red Sea; Petra

The infamous ferry between Nuweiba, Egypt and Aqaba, Jordan lived up to much of its dread. At a ridiculous cost, officials manage to turn a 1 hour puddle skip into an all day ordeal. Even the always for show X-ray machine at the port was quite comicial--you put your bag in an enclosed black box and I am pretty sure a little man in the box opened your bag looked inside and then pushed it out the other end. Once sailing things weren't bad. Luckily, the 2nd Class compartment was in need of an entertainment director and I was able to pass a little time by showing an audience of 20 Jordinians/Egyptians how to play Solitaire. Something is not quite right playing a loner's game like Solitiare with that many people looking over your shoulder.

Arrived at the port in Jordan to a mob of money-hungry taxi drivers, who tried to convince our recently put together group of 5 travelers into one compact car for the 2 hour trip to Wadi Musa/Petra. Arrived late in the night and crashed hard.

Woke early in the morning and toured Petra, the Nabatean ruins cut into the desert hills, made famous by Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade and its new placement as one of the new 7 Wonders of the World. Including the honorary Wonder the Giza Pyrmaids, I am halfway on track to seeing all of these. If you count Party Cove at the Lake, I am over half.

Was undecided about what to do next until I met a Dutch couple who are traveling through with their own car. They have made up my mind by offering me a lift to Wadi Rum--famous for its picturesque desert surroundings. Planning on riding some camels, camping with the Beduoins, and digging for water.

Following the sun,

B. Quarnstrom of Arabia

Budgets and Beachtime

As the topic of how financially you can swing a trip like this is often brought up by inquiring souls, usually with the expression "you must be rich." Well, for those in the know, that obviously is not the case, and depending on whether or not I have the care-all, I usually explain that independent backpack touring can be done in many parts of the world for somewhere around $25 a day--everything included. For explanatory purposes I will give you an example of my average spending while in Egypt.

$4 a night--Usually a basic room with fan and a shared bathroom

$1--breakfast of coffee and rolls

$2--lunch of sharwma or falafel

$1.75--Snorkel gear rental

$3--taxi fares

$1--Sheesha (popular flavored tabacco waterpipe)

$2--baksheesh (tips)

$5--seafood pizza for dinner

$3--a couple beers

$2--internet time so I can check in with you

And whatever is left over in the budget is used to try and pay people to talk to me. So, as you can see it is quite easy to stretch the old greenback quite a few ways. If by chance I felt like I have gone over a daily budget by a large amount, I usually try skip expenses I have deemed not vital the following day. Like shelter. Always having an eye for a good nook and cranny, I was able to sleep at a hotel the other night. Although it actually was on the roof of it and the staff wasnt aware I was there. In the morning, while waking, I was thinking of how it would be interesting if I could get away with this hotel camping for a month or so, when I noticed one of the staff curiously examining my sleeping bag & throw pillow setup. I scurried off without having to give my planned excuse of "the girlfriend kicked me out of the room."

My arrival at the small town of Nuweiba has been pleasant on the old budget--which is sure not to last as Egypt is the cheapest country of the middle-eastern tour. Through the advice of a resident Couchsurfer I acquired a reed hut on the beach for a whopping $2.75 a night. My "living room' is about 5 ft. from the water. Although, I do have to share this grand paradise with the 10 other people that are staying along the 2 mile beach front.

Finally, after 4 days I got myself to leave with the promise that someday I will return to this place. Inshallah.

Bought a ticket for the ferry this afternoon to Jordan. In Petra by tomorrow.

Peace out,

Crusoe

Shouting from the Moutain Top

Known locally as Gebel Musa, but more widely known to Muslims, Jews, and Christians, for whom it holds an equally important significance, as Mt. Sinai. The location that the Bible states is where Moses produced the 10 commandments to his band of exiling Jews. At the base of the mountian also holds the 1,500 year-old St. Katherines Monastary.

The sunrise on the mountain top draws religious pilgrims from all around the world and their daily mass convergance to the summit in the early morning hours is reputed to be one amazing and bizzare sight to see. As you were too busy again, I took one for the team and showed up to bear witness to just what in the world people are doing on this mountaintop.

From below, the flashlit trail of ascending people zig-zaging to the top of the mountain looked like something out of a movie. It is a technically easy ascent with the greatest hazard being getting trampled by one of the many camels that are conveying the physically unable or lazy up. There was also a staggering amount of elderly climbers, I suppose feeling spiritually invigorated enough to make the hike, although I believe I saw a few Bedouin guides slipping amphetamines into their coffee to keep them on the move.

With me were an middle-aged couple from San Fransisco, a German girl, who was my busmate and snorkelling buddy in Dahab, and a young Bedouin guide who was more of a nuisance than a help. We were amazed at the amount of people traversing up the mountain (1,000+) as well as the flurry of different langauges being spoken around us (30+). Expectations of the experience were varied. As for me, I was anticipating two scenarios: either I would be struck down by lightening before reaching the summit by The Man or I would return from the top white-bearded and bearing the 11th Commandment of Keep Holy the Monday After a Crazy Weekend.

After about 2 hours of hiking up, we reached the summit about 15 minutes before sunrise. I found a rock ledge to sit and wait out whatever was to transpire. Not long later the sun began to poke over the desolate mountain range. A group began singing my favorite church hymn "How Great Thou Art" in a language I did not know, a group of ever-enthused Japanese pilgrims began clapping, and another Asian man stood howling at the sun from a rock ledge. Both absurd and spectacular, it truely was one of the more unique social gatherings I have ever seen.

Before leaving the rock ledge to descend the mountain, I planted the copy paper flag bearing the initials of Schloegel Design and Remodel into the ground, thus ensuring continued prosperous growth for the company, whose sponsorship of the Mt Sinai experience is greatly appreciated. Although I suspect the "flag" was probably swiped by a Beduoin not long later and made for toilet paper, its placement is sure to inspire a few hits on their website from pilgrims who were wondering just what in the hell I was doing.



This is probably one of a few Biblically inspired treks that I'll do while in this region of the world--all good chances for The Man to give me a piece of his mind.

Taking off today up the Red Sea coast to the town of Nuweiba for a couple day hang before departing via ferry to Jordan. If all goes well I will be in Petra before the weeks end.

Shalom,

Brother Brian

FYI-pic album updated

Red Sea Snorkelling

After days of temple & tomb exploring and tout avoiding, I decided an exodus to the Red Sea coast was probably a good idea. With friends made on the arduous 18 hour bus ride here, I have been relaxing and partaking in some water sports for the last 2 days. Although the Red Sea is world renowned for its scuba diving, I have primarily been spending my time conditioning myself to be a championship caliber snorkeller. For a $1.75 daily rental fee, I put on my snorkel equipment and set out in a quest to bring the sport of snorkelling from the shallows of the kid's area of the city pool to the forefront of extreme aquatic activities. Part of this quest involves diving down deep near the reef and trying to shame the scuba divers paying 50 Euros by seeing the exact same things as them. Fools. They may be able to go deeper but just wait and see when I employ the rope & cement bucket technique...

Snorkelling the "Blue Hole" today and then getting right with Yaweh tonight by ascending Mt. Sinai. After a quick mental replay, I may have to spend a few nights up there to achieve this goal, but that's between me and Him.

Yours,

Cousteau

Luxor and a Tout Rant

After a 10 hour train ride into the Nile Valley I found myself in the historically rich city of Luxor. Often referred to as one of the world's greatest open air musuems, Luxor possesses the tombs, temples, and knowledgeable guides to back up this claim. The ruins draw the archeologically addicted as well as adventurous families, making it a hub for international tourism for the last 200 years. Where there are tourists, inevitably, there are "touts." You know, the overly friendly locals employing age-old gimmicks to try and get you to see and buy their wares. They're everywhere and they're unavoidable--hell, they were even in the Amazon! Anyways, here in Luxor they have their schtick down to a science. It typically starts (about every 2 minutes) with the soon-to-be antagonizer politely welcoming you to Egypt and following up with a "where are you from." And it continues on to "come to my shop for a welcoming drink," "my family's store is having a sale today," "special price for you my friend." My friend this, my friend that. I have not been this popular since I started giving my friends tours of the girl's bathroom in 3rd grade. The tout's whole routine played out over 100 times a day is mentally grating and exhausting. One must find ways to deal with this before things boil over and you end up slugging one of these guys, who are just trying to make a living--albeit a very annoying one.

For me, its the lying game. For many years I operated under the false knowledge that honesty is the best policy. Not until later in life did I realize that whoever made up the phrase was a moron. Either that or she forgot to leave the ending in most cases. Yes, you noticed I used she, I was just speculating. Anyways, these frequent and routinized encounters provide opportunity for otherwise Honest Brian to try out his lying chops. New name, new birthplace, new story, whatever. After one particularly brutal stroll down a tourist market, I was running low on an alreadly underequipped patience ability, when I tried to abrubtly halt the barrage by telling the obvious lie that I was Brian from Japan. While I was smiling at my clever cynicism, the young tout started speaking to me in Japanese. Touche. A wise friend once told me that when encountering the solicitous type on the street that the best defense is a good offense--"Can I have a dollar?; do You want to buy this backpack?" Not purposely, I have also found that I am hassled less when I put my shades on. Nothing screams "this boy doesn't spend money on himself" like my BluBlocker shades.

Today I toured the Valley of the Kings, which is the location of the burial chambers of many of Egypts famous Pharaohs--the Ramses, King Tut, etc. Surrounded by an enclosing barren and arid mountainside, it is not hard to picture life as it was thousands of years ago. Protected by the absence of humidity, the heiroglyphic lined chambers provide all the evidence you need for realizing your small place in the history of the world.

Also visited the Tomb of Hapshetsut, which is considered one of Egypt's "must-see" monuments. I did not think it was all that great although I was more intrigued by its recent notoriety-- almost 11 years ago, 6 fundalmentalist hoping to cripple Egypt's tourism market (they briefly did), methodically shot and butcherknifed 60 unsuspecting tourists. Google the news--its scary. And don't worry, there are alot more sleeping police on site.

More ruins tomorrow and then a move,

Tom from Sudan

Brianandria

When Alexander the Great founded the Mediterranean port city of Alexandria, he had a vision of creating a culturally diverse and powerful center of trade between Europe and the Near East. Alexandria is also the former location of one of the 7 Wonders of the Ancient World--The Lighthouse of Alexandria. I did not see evidence of either of these assertations. However, my daytrip from Cairo served as a nice health retreat from the atmospheric ills of Cairo. A pleasant walk along the port's coast inspired thoughts on what the future of Brianandria might be described as. Forget the whens and wheres, lets focus on the important stuff:

One ruler. Everyone is sick of all this election drama 24/7 right? Never again. Brianandria would have a self-appointed dictator who serves a lifetime appointment. I will volunteer for that job.

The National Anthem is written and sung by Journey.

All official business transactions and deals must be sealed with a hi-five.

Drinking lunches are no longer stigmatized--in fact they are national policy.

OK, well I already ran out of stuff.....this should be more of a collaborative project. Constitutions take time you know. I am encouraging comments for what _____Andria will contain for you?

In other news, Planetary Vagabond has come across an opportunity to go semi-legit. My couchsurfing host Adham Bakry introduced me a to local editor for a new English language magazine that is being produced here in Cairo. She has seen the blog and would like me to write a monthly column on some of my adventure travel episodes (little does she know I have been writing these fabrications in my parents basement in Kansas City) The magazine is called Pleasure (no, it is not a porno mag. Although don't think that I am above doing work for one) with its first edition in December. Maybe an excuse for you to come and visit Egypt--to read the magazine.

Working for the weekend,
BrianQ

So much has been written on the Pyramids of Giza that I don't even want to put my hat into the ring. However, I will say that I enjoyed the overall experience, despite having feelings prior that it would be a major let down. This will just have to be a photo blog today.

Write your own story,

Q

You Better Walk Like an Egyptian

Because failure to do so will surely lead to your likely demise on the anarchic streets of Cairo. Having previously read up on the hazards of crossing streets in Cairo, I was still shocked to see the choatic and reckless nature of drivers here. Fully aware of the daily fatality count of pedestrians in his home city, Backry did me the service of teaching me the art of street crossing. A street typically consists of space that normally would allow for 2 lanes of traffic in a law abiding country, although Cairenes somehow are able to squeeze 4 "lanes" and countless swerving techniques into this space. The apparent disregard for human life by the drivers compounds the danger in venturing out. A total street cross without stopping is usually unlikely, therefore one must mentally visualize the traffic pattern and alternate walking an stopping at the appropriate parts in the road, with cars wizzing by at hairslength. There is something almost scientific about the undertaking as one must continously calculate the ebb and flow of the the river of cars rushing past. After several occasions of me shadowing Bakry's movements in order to cross the street, I finally received a baptize by fire when I was heading solo to the Egyptian Musuem. Facing a street with about 5 lanes of moving traffic I stood curbside for several minutes and stared, wondering just how in the hell crossing the street is physically possible.  A real life game of Frogger, where the stakes are more than a quarter.  I noticed one of the ever present Cairo policemen who was not far from where I was standing. I gave him a look that said "can you help with this" and he gave me the finger point and shoo motion that said "go on and give it a try sonny, you might make it." Much to his disappointment I made it and was able to enjoy the ancient exhibits in the Egyptian Musuem.
With more practice, the art of street crossing has turned into a fun bit to get the juices flowing. With the hope that it doesnt result in juices flowing outside your body.

Spent most of the day strolling around the backalleys of Cairo to get the local vibe and to inhale all the toxic wonder that Cairo's airspace holds. Smog and pollution abounds but not enough to kill interest in this historic city.

Heading to see history's most famous evidence tomorrow.

If not now, when?

Brian

A Day in the Life of a Couchsurfer

So I thought I would revisit a topic previously discussed several months back when Petro and I couchsurfed with a Chilean family back in February. A social networking website for travelers exists called Couchsurfing.com, where travelers can connect with "hosts" in cities around the world for just a chat and even possibly crash on their couch for a few nights. Crazy, right? Well, people are doing this with increasing frequency around the world and I feel that somebody has to shed some more light on this phenomenon for you. Here's my recent experience so far:

Wake up at the Berner's place in Dubai and get ready to head to the airport. Check email and see that a Couchsurfing host has replied back saying she has a friend who is new to CS and able to host. Send email to him inquiring about possibility.

Head to Airport.

On layover in Qatar, I check my email and see that the Couchsurfing host, Adham Bakry, replies that he does have a couch to crash and gives me directions to tell the taxi once I arrive in Cairo.

Arrive in Cairo negotiate a taxi to his place and hope like hell that this whole thing works out as if not, I will find myself SOL and away from the city center and all the hostels would be used as Plan B.

I get dropped off by the taxi and wander around the neighborhood a bit before finding the apartment building. Find the apartment, where there is no answer at the door and resolve to wait for awhile in the assumption that he is still at work.

Bakry's mother walks out of the adjoining apartment and intoduces herself and says that Backry will be home shortly and to make myself at home in his apartment.

He arrives not long later and after a bit of Q & A we head next door to eat a meal at his mother's place. Much like my mother would be if I had strangers showing up to crash at my place, she thinks we are both crazy but is also fascinated by the concept.

Backry is Egyptian, but through various experiences of living abroad including the States, his English is flawless--almost to the point that I forget that he is Egyptian. A photographer and graphic designer by trade, his spacious and eclectic apartment reflects his life in the arts. What is most exciting about the place is the U-Shaped couch, which is to be my sleeping quarters for the next few days. Upon seeing this grand facilitator of good conversations and sleep, I vow a U-shaped couch will grace my first permanant abode.

Bakry turns out to be super cool, relaxed, and a hospitable host. He is new to CS but already embodies the attitude that'll make him popular within the small Cairo network.

We head out to downtown Cairo on a walking tour of some of the city's drinking haunts. We later meet up with several of his friends, which allows me to be a participant/observer in a hip Egyptian hang. They primarily speak in English for my benefit although I find their Arabic exchanges to be more intriguing as it makes me cognizant of my presence in an authentic experience in North Africa.

In conversation, one of the Egpytian women spoke candidly about her mother's recent de-veiling (she no longer wears the Islamic veil). This strikes me as probably comparative in American culture to when someone's mother creates a Facebook profile.

Finally, my long day ends and I crash on the couch wondering what Cairo is going to throw at me tomorrow.

These sort of experiences are happening all over the world.

Maybe you should host?

BQ