FOREWORD: These thoughts are from a visit to Cairo, Giza, Alexandria and Saqqara. The author is well aware that defining the whole of Egypt based on only those four localities is cause for an unfair, poorly-based generalization. The reader is asked to consider the term "Egypt" to be applied only as if it were the aforementioned localities. The reader is also encouraged to point out (in the comments section) any inaccuracy that (s)he feels needs to be addressed.
At 4 am everything looks surreal. Cairo is no exception. We chose a hotel near the pyramids because it felt appropriate, but that meant that we needed to cross all Cairo and Giza to get to it from the airport; the cab took an hour, with little traffic. It was a blessing in disguise though, as that first hour set the tone for the whole trip. It started out with the sight of dirty streets and unkept temples, and finished out with a pristine hotel with a friendly staff and a perfect room.
Egypt is a land of dichotomies. Its outer shell may be rough and unwelcoming, but inside lies a gem that is eternally beautiful. Everything from the women, that are flirtatious even though they dress very conservatively, to their social culture, which is very religious but tolerant of others, all the way to the land itself, with Cairo being the very definition of an oasis with tropical fruits being grown in the middle of a dessert (by the way, the fruit juices, which are the drink of choice, are more like smoothies). I found Christian cemeteries beside Muslim ones, sandy dunes beside watery palm trees, and a palace beside a ghetto. Christmas is celebrated alongside Ramadan, and traffic in the streets is utter chaos but nobody seems to mind.
Emotions are bared on the flesh and anger is rampant; but Egyptians are a family. They pray together, joke together, and curse each other within literally seconds of a first meeting. They trust. They're a family. And if you're able to handle it, and show sensibility for their ways, they're quick to welcome you to it.
Their cities are not kept up to the standards that we as Mexicans are accustomed. Their museums and their streets are seemingly dirty. Most of Cairo and Alexandria seem like a rundown part of any Mexican city. But, considering that they are surrounded by sand, they're in fact pretty clean. Being at peace with that, you are given a treat when you actually step inside any house, which are mini temples focused on hospitality and warmth and, well, cleanliness.
Egyptians are known for their bargaining skill, instigated by suspicion of abusive prices, but when both parties settle on a deal, no receipt is given, a handshake is enough. Commerce is an art form, and even though we knew our driver directed us to shopping centers he had contact with and that he was being paid to do so, the products sold there were of high quality with good prices. In addition, in every one of them we were treated with the utmost respect and hospitality, giving us an explanation of their product beforehand. It is important to state that this was always done in our native tongue, which my mom greatly appreciated as she doesn't speak English. Maybe this was a ploy in their sale pitch, but it was very entertaining and played well in our visit.
I've read somewhere that most of the touristic part of Egypt is filled with con artists, scamming money out of tourists. We were perfect bait for this, as the trip was improvised and little research was done beforehand. So, if we were scammed, I didn't notice. At every step we wound up pretty happy with our acquisitions and their quality (my mom and me are very picky when it comes to shopping), and every price was negotiated (my mom is pretty good at that). Obviously, Mohammed and Ashref (both our drivers) and their local friends wound up happy as well. And there lies the ultimate dichotomy.
Egypt is ripe for misunderstanding. Horror stories abound of how foreigners are treated as gold pots. The fact of the matter is that, well, I am a gold pot, and the modus operandi is a back-and-forth of fixing prices. In Egypt, you are the money that you carry, and there's no disrespect intended in that; they're merchants, they want to make a deal, because that is what will make both parties happy.
Getting your head around that lets you see that in that process, you are being welcomed into the country, into the family, and that you are one of them, experiencing the real Egypt. It may sound too convenient, and that feeling may only be part of a sentiment-based process to get you to buy something, but, isn't that suspicion too paranoic? And even it it's true, why is it wrong? Considering me part of their family first, and a customer second, is a dream in other parts of the world. I know their names, I shook their hands, and I saw an honest smile while leaving their store every time. I actually felt good about shopping their products, where else does that happen? Isn't that worth the 5% off the bargain price?
Those horrors stories are from people that didn't get that, and felt scammed; of people who always look for a cheaper and cheaper fixed price to prevent feeling scammed. Unfortunately, in doing so, they become the scammer.
Me and them, that's the ultimate dichotomy; the foreigners and the locals. In Egypt, however, such a dichotomy does have a chance to coincide, if only the latter extends a hand of understanding to the former, and the former keeps doing what he has been doing for the last couple of millennia.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Monday, December 07, 2009
Away
The word "away" sounds like such as a smooth, calm word. "Ah waayy", like a wave humming, mesmerized by its own beauty. Its connotation, however, is very passive aggressive. It implies absence of something, not from existence though, just from where it belongs. Surprisingly, and, ironically, it's full of hope: that 'something' is in fact somewhere, it just isn't where it is supposed to.
In fact, you could say that, all in all, the word "away" is a largely positive sentiment. If something is "away", it belongs somewhere, and in that "somewhere" its absence is being noticed, usually by the entity that is saying the word. "Being away" is beautifully bittersweet; there's hope in there of not only someday coming "back", but of having a place to come back to.
Lately, "being away" is mostly what I've been feeling, but I don't know from where anymore. I used to say it was from my hometown, but I'm not sure that it is still my home. In fact, the whole concept of "home" seems like just a vague pleasant memory. Now, it feels more like a base station, where I report to periodically of my apparently unending endeavors. It is this that seems the most sad, of being away, but without its sweet side.
I used to crave this feeling, of being a free vessel; no map, no direction, just wonders and notes. But I am a man of discord and contradiction, as, I suppose, most humans are. Everything comes with two slates, it seems, and for some reason, I haven't been able to let myself see the bitter one in many of them. And, I suppose, this is probably the reason of my recent slight agoraphobic behavior. I want my space, my land, my indestructible castle. Yes, I want to feel the sensation of home again, but I know it comes with a bitter side to it. No more free vessel, with a map and direction, always; coincidentally, that has always been my modus operandi. I wonder if, without knowing, I've been trying to pursue a weird combination of both? To be at home, wherever I may be. I've had plenty of practice, that's for sure, but this "away" feeling is new. Maybe this is me trying to settle down; what a weird way to do it... and I wouldn't have done it differently.
If that's the case, then, like when in love, I'll just have to wait and keep my eyes open. Maybe there is a place I am coming back to, it just hasn't presented itself yet.
In fact, you could say that, all in all, the word "away" is a largely positive sentiment. If something is "away", it belongs somewhere, and in that "somewhere" its absence is being noticed, usually by the entity that is saying the word. "Being away" is beautifully bittersweet; there's hope in there of not only someday coming "back", but of having a place to come back to.
Lately, "being away" is mostly what I've been feeling, but I don't know from where anymore. I used to say it was from my hometown, but I'm not sure that it is still my home. In fact, the whole concept of "home" seems like just a vague pleasant memory. Now, it feels more like a base station, where I report to periodically of my apparently unending endeavors. It is this that seems the most sad, of being away, but without its sweet side.
I used to crave this feeling, of being a free vessel; no map, no direction, just wonders and notes. But I am a man of discord and contradiction, as, I suppose, most humans are. Everything comes with two slates, it seems, and for some reason, I haven't been able to let myself see the bitter one in many of them. And, I suppose, this is probably the reason of my recent slight agoraphobic behavior. I want my space, my land, my indestructible castle. Yes, I want to feel the sensation of home again, but I know it comes with a bitter side to it. No more free vessel, with a map and direction, always; coincidentally, that has always been my modus operandi. I wonder if, without knowing, I've been trying to pursue a weird combination of both? To be at home, wherever I may be. I've had plenty of practice, that's for sure, but this "away" feeling is new. Maybe this is me trying to settle down; what a weird way to do it... and I wouldn't have done it differently.
If that's the case, then, like when in love, I'll just have to wait and keep my eyes open. Maybe there is a place I am coming back to, it just hasn't presented itself yet.
Friday, October 09, 2009
Title
My examiner told me to come in the room, the verdict of my PhD oral examination was up. I remember clearly how I entered that room as a puny student who felt the exam as the worst colonoscopy ever, with a clear indication of a non-pass. "We've decided to grant you the award, with some minor corrections of course," he said with a smile on his face.
I froze. The examiner, befuddled, grabbed my hand to shake it, "You're a Doctor, son. You seem disappointed." And I was. I stepped out of that room, and one of my professors, who I saw as a superior in every single way (and still do), asked how it went. When I told him, he stretched his hands in what he saw to be a level-playing field. But it isn't.
Now, everybody is calling me "Doctor", as if my knowledge in the field has suddenly sky-rocketed. It hasn't. I'm still that puny student with a bleeding anus. Only now, I can legally put a title before my name.
The concept of titles has always eluded me. It seems as the precursor of a black and white world where I am this and you are that, and there's nothing in between.
I know it's useful in certain situations: you are a man that needs a liver transplant, and your blood is type A+. Period.
But it's limiting in all other cases. My identity is an array of shades of grey, which is in fact the reason of the infinity of possibilities that makes up my personality. This is me, and there's no one like me.
It always seems to be a personality that has been forced-upon when using a title. And, unfortunately, that personality usually implies prejudice upon other titled people. But, if you took the title away from something and really look at it, is it really the same thing as the title it was given?
As always, Georgy puts it best:
If we took the time to go beyond the title, into the actual nitty gritty of our selves, we would be surprised that we are closer to each other than we thought. That the rounding errors of the black and white in this world are actually quite big, and that, even though we are all different, we are also pretty similar.
I froze. The examiner, befuddled, grabbed my hand to shake it, "You're a Doctor, son. You seem disappointed." And I was. I stepped out of that room, and one of my professors, who I saw as a superior in every single way (and still do), asked how it went. When I told him, he stretched his hands in what he saw to be a level-playing field. But it isn't.
Now, everybody is calling me "Doctor", as if my knowledge in the field has suddenly sky-rocketed. It hasn't. I'm still that puny student with a bleeding anus. Only now, I can legally put a title before my name.
The concept of titles has always eluded me. It seems as the precursor of a black and white world where I am this and you are that, and there's nothing in between.
I am a heterosexual, and you are a homosexual.
I am a capitalist, you are a communist.
I am a Professor, you are a student.
I am a christian, you are a muslim.
I am right, you are wrong.
I know it's useful in certain situations: you are a man that needs a liver transplant, and your blood is type A+. Period.
But it's limiting in all other cases. My identity is an array of shades of grey, which is in fact the reason of the infinity of possibilities that makes up my personality. This is me, and there's no one like me.
- I'm very against the involvement of government in my day-to-day life (taxes, laws, the democratic process), but I believe that it must also ensure some sort of well-being to its citizens (national security, health care options).
- I prefer women, but if the right guy came along, I would consider him as a life partner.
- I enjoy watching pornography (which many consider misogynistic), and, what from female friends have told me, I'm way too in touch with my feminine side.
- I'm very anti-religion, but I've seen the good it can do in people.
- Some consider me an expert in some fields, but I don't enjoy reading about them.
It always seems to be a personality that has been forced-upon when using a title. And, unfortunately, that personality usually implies prejudice upon other titled people. But, if you took the title away from something and really look at it, is it really the same thing as the title it was given?
- I've heard many christians say that the Bible says that homosexuals are going to Hell, but they have nothing against their homosexual friends.
- I've known of many capitalists denouncing communism (equating it to fascism and nazism), but want their government to provide all the solutions to their problems like Healthcare and Education.
- Everybody hates that person called "boss", but wishes to be one.
- The main argument of the proponents of making gay marriage illegal was that the word "marriage" applied only between a man and a woman. Most if not all of them didn't have any problems of providing the same rights to gay couples as if they were married, just didn't want to call them "married". The more surprising thing was that gays wanted to be called "married"; it was their right, apparently.
- The Health Care reform currently in everybody's mind in the USA was delayed because the Democratic Party wanted to spend time in rebranding it to something else that wasn't called a "Public Option". It sounded like it came from Canada, and who wants that?
- Israeli officials wanted to change the lay-man title of the "Swine Flu", because it wasn't kosher, to "Mexican Flu".
As always, Georgy puts it best:
I think the whole reason we're encouraged in this country to think of ourselves as "black and white" (instead of "pink and brown," which is what we are) is that black and white are complete opposites that cannot be reconciled. Black and white can never come together. Pink and brown, on the other hand, might just stand a chance of being blended, might just come together.
If we took the time to go beyond the title, into the actual nitty gritty of our selves, we would be surprised that we are closer to each other than we thought. That the rounding errors of the black and white in this world are actually quite big, and that, even though we are all different, we are also pretty similar.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Angel
Light shined on his guitar while being accompanied by the raging horde that jumped in sync with the throb of his screeching solo. Anybody in that audience felt it was too long since the last time they saw him, and after the concert, everybody felt as if he had always been there. The stadium was full, and even the persons in the bleachers could feel the strength of the melodies conveyed by his fingers.
On stage, he hid well the feeling of a diluted performance. His bandmates were waiting for his usual abrupt ending: the unfinished solo, the storming off the stage, and the clapping they've grown to expect out of it. Behind the stage, they would endure two full hours of schoolyard tactics of ice treatment and evil glares of apathy. The night would have undoubtedly end with them trying to figure out what made him angry again, and apologising for it regardless if it was their fault or not. He'd look back at them with his usual condescending stare (which is the closest thing to redemption he can communicate), and they'd patch things up until the next gig.
This ritual had been going on for ten years, and the diluted feeling had been incorporated into his stage performance. The people were unaware of this: the standard of which they'd judged a performance had degraded so much, that anybody with a mediocre feel for the guitar could impress them. The bandmates wouldn't stop indulging him, as he was their only revenue stream. And he'd continue on, because, well, who wouldn't?
Every interviewer who dared ask him why did he always ended his performances so abruptly was rewarded with a smack in the face, and a ban of future face-time. His interviews brought ratings, and, thus, such question was then forgotten from all media. That resulted in that his abrupt endings were now his staple and audiences began brushing it off as only part of the show.
In this night, however, something was different. His bandmates noticed instantly. His stare was wide-eyed, as the one of an 8-year-old right before the first big drop of a roller coaster ride. He stepped back, seemingly frightened of the audience. He interrupted his solo, and he flaunted his guitar to the floor. He gasped for air, while his eyes begin tearing up. He was crying. His bandmates did what anyone would do in such a situation: they stopped playing.
He dropped to his knees, sobbing, and without no microphone, nobody could hear what later reports guessed as being a heartfelt apology. His bandmates turned to each other for symptoms of sanity, but none could concur. He stood up, and grabbed his guitar. Shaking, he struck a soft chord. And with tearful closed eyes, he begin playing what would later be dubbed as his "Gentle Cry".
He didn't ended it abruptly that night. He finished the setlist that had never been finished before, did two encores, and waved goodbye.
"Mellow, weird, but, hell, it's him, so it was good", an audience member said in an interview.
"Wow, he actually finished a set. I'm honoured!", a long-time listener said to his wife.
"I came here for kick ass solos, not winy-ass shit like that. Whatever, I hope he doesn't cry when he comes back, ruined it for me. The bassist was little off too, he should be replaced", a fan was heard saying after the show.
"Are you crazy? Best solo ever!", another fan screamed.
"I was kinda freaked out by the whole thing. I've listened to all of his records, and I haven't heard that solo before. Maybe it was one of his B Sides. The crying was too much I think", a radio host described it afterwards.
In an interview 30 years later, some old bandmates of his were asked, "What happened backstage after that show?" They responded, "We went back, and I asked him. He said something about a smell not being there anymore, and that he used to hate them before because they always looked the same, that they were indistinguishable."
"Yeah, indistinguishable. I never heard him talk like that before", another bandmate complemented. "He continued talking about how it used to be disgusting for him, that he couldn't bare looking at them for more than an hour. But that night, he said, he realised that he had it all wrong. That 'the smell went away' and that 'he saw them for what they really were'. I didn't know what the hell he was talking about."
After the tour was over, he financed what he called "The Never-Ending Sky Tour"; the title was not misleading. He didn't stop touring. Ever.
On his tombstone, the following was carved:
Each of you commands a single voice, bears a single face. When you're together, however, your faces blend with each other, and your chants become a prominent, beautiful whisper. A whisper from heaven that I can only hear through you. In this regard, each and every one of You is an angel, an indistinguishable messenger from God that accompanied me throughout my time in this planet. A better definition of angel does not exist.
To Michelu Terencius.
Saturday, September 05, 2009
Using a Motorola L6 to Connect a MacBook Pro with 10.6 to the Internet by UK T-Mobile
I wrote something similar to this some time ago, but it was with my old PowerBook and it was running Mac OS 10.4 (Tiger).
I never actually took the time to make my Motorola L6 work as a Bluetooth Modem in 10.5 (Leopard), but, now that I've finished upgrading to 10.6 (Snow Leopard), I decided to have a stab at it again. It took a while, but the result was very satisfactory.
The problem with my previous post is that T-Mobile has probably disabled the telephone number that the mobile should dial-up to. However, this came as a blessing in disguise. It never occurred to me that both the Motorola L6 and the T-Mobile's network in the UK are GPRS-capable, which is faster and cheaper than straight-up dial-up.
In any case, to use your Motorola L6 as a GPRS Bluetooth Modem in Snow Leopard, start the process of setting a Bluetooth Device, which is pretty straightforward.
In the step in which Snow Leopard automatically detects the mobile as a possible Bluetooth Modem (Mac OS 10.6 rocks!), input the following:
Vendor: Motorola
Model: GPRS (GSM/3G)
APN: general.t-mobile.uk
Account Name: user
Password: wap
We're not done. At the end of this process, open System Preferences and go to the Network preference pane. You should see another option in the list of internet devices called "Bluetooth DUN". When selected, to its right, input:
Telephone Number: *99#
Apparently the mobile takes this as an init-string to connect to the GPRS network. That's it, click on "Connect" and you should be on your way.
The speed is better than dial-up in my opinion, although it's been long since I used the Motorola L6 for that. In any case, it's good to know that I again can be connected to Internet anywhere I need.
I never actually took the time to make my Motorola L6 work as a Bluetooth Modem in 10.5 (Leopard), but, now that I've finished upgrading to 10.6 (Snow Leopard), I decided to have a stab at it again. It took a while, but the result was very satisfactory.
The problem with my previous post is that T-Mobile has probably disabled the telephone number that the mobile should dial-up to. However, this came as a blessing in disguise. It never occurred to me that both the Motorola L6 and the T-Mobile's network in the UK are GPRS-capable, which is faster and cheaper than straight-up dial-up.
In any case, to use your Motorola L6 as a GPRS Bluetooth Modem in Snow Leopard, start the process of setting a Bluetooth Device, which is pretty straightforward.
In the step in which Snow Leopard automatically detects the mobile as a possible Bluetooth Modem (Mac OS 10.6 rocks!), input the following:
Vendor: Motorola
Model: GPRS (GSM/3G)
APN: general.t-mobile.uk
Account Name: user
Password: wap
We're not done. At the end of this process, open System Preferences and go to the Network preference pane. You should see another option in the list of internet devices called "Bluetooth DUN". When selected, to its right, input:
Telephone Number: *99#
Apparently the mobile takes this as an init-string to connect to the GPRS network. That's it, click on "Connect" and you should be on your way.
The speed is better than dial-up in my opinion, although it's been long since I used the Motorola L6 for that. In any case, it's good to know that I again can be connected to Internet anywhere I need.
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