Party like it's 1999!

Funny how I got a social life in Singapore.  Twelve years ago, Christian and I were out every weekend, going dancing in Hollywood until the wee hours with our mutual friends from Hughes, most notably Herr Fischer.  And while I have always had the inclination to be a hermit, and traveling doesn’t often change this trait, Christian had been working too much and hadn’t been out in a while either.  So my last week in Singapore was close to a continual party.

 

First, Christian invited Switchu and me to a dinner with some SES colleagues who were in town. (SES is the Luxembourg company that runs all of Europe’s direct-to-home TV systems and was Hughes’ client, so that’s how Christian and I met.)  It was an interesting meal of random Asian things of which I don’t remember the names, except for the chili crab.  They went easy on me, so no tongues on fire, but definitely not a dish any normal person would order to make a good impression on colleagues.  Needless to say, Christian pretty much needed a new shirt once the crab was all gone.  But we were on a roll, so we further impressed these esteemed men by taking them to the prostitution district where the best durian is sold – that’s durian, not durex.  Durian is supposed to be a fruit, but is rather a pale ochre form of silly putty or that neon green slime I remember the boys would try to goo us with in 4^th grade.  Anyway, it’s a blob under a prickly hard shell that has to be hammered open.  And the smell – well, let’s just say there are signs in the subway stations and ferry terminals prohibiting durian from being brought on board:  a big picture of the prickly thing with a red slash through it.  But Christian insisted that the best durian was to be found in the prostitution district since neither was desired in the upscale neighborhoods.  Says something about Christian’s neighborhood, with Happy De Spa and a durian stand across the street.  Just to emphasize, I didn’t frequent either of them.

 

On Tuesday I found a little art shop run by a Canadian woman and went to two classes on art glass – how to make plates and bowls and such.  It was a blast and a new interest for me.  I was amazed at how simple it is and of course decided that my family would need to buy me a $700 kiln for my birthday.  Well, mania does fade and my two fused glass masterpieces are called coasters by most people and are now proudly displayed on Ma’s coffee table.

 

The one benefit of the extreme humidity of Singapore, beside fewer wrinkles (on both clothes and faces) is the ability for gorgeous plants to grow in abundance.  Very early Tuesday morning, about 10:30am, I toured the National Botanic Gardens, walking through the National Orchid Garden, alongside Swan Lake, and into the Ginger Garden, as well as finding random sculptures, lily ponds, bonsai trees, and a secluded walk through the rainforest and ferns.  On the wide paths overlooking the gardens and lakes and vast lawn, groups of seniors were doing tai-chi while Caucasian women with ponytails and spandex were gossiping and power-walking.  The morning routines of the serene and beautiful.

 

One rainy afternoon, Christian met me out at Sentosa after he finished work.  As I waited for him under the cover of the Merlion in all its glory, I was entertained by a Japanese family taking pictures of their three kids.  Christian had told me that for some reason which eludes the most educated of us, the Japanese dramatize their photos with huge fake smiles, action poses (I saw one girl jumping up in the air for her photo in front of Ayer’s Rock in Australia), and the two-fingered “Victory” sign.  I thought Christian was exaggerating, as he likes to do, but almost fell off my butt into a puddle when I saw these Japanese kids doing this for the pictures the parents were taking.  And they were very serious about it.  So when C showed up drenched from his motorcycle sprint, we took some pictures of him in front of a happy colourful fountain – but we were both laughing so hard we could barely get any pictures.  We walked across the swinging bridge to the island which is the Southern-most Point of Continental Southeast Asia.  Now, this would confuse most people, but not the Singaporians.  This means that from the tip of this island connected by a swinging bridge, one could ride his motorcycle all the way up to China.  Well, “continental” has many meanings, but it had a good lookout onto the harbor as well as other small potential Southernmost Points of Continental Southeast Asia.  Aside from the peculiarities of Singapore and its people and those who work for Christian, we talked about our five lives.  Now this isn’t something I invented (don’t know that I ever invented anything, actually), but remembered as one of the exercises in The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron.  (Just as a sidenote, I’d recommend this book to anyone pursuing some sort of creative endeavour and feels a bit stuck or burnt-out, whether it’s art, music, writing, interviewing, investing, managing, or M&As.  I tried to do it twice on my own and finally finished the 12-week “course” with a group of women in DC.  I was the only artist – there was a dancer, a jeweler, a poet, a yoga instructor, and a financial advisor who’d been on Oprah.  We met every other week for six weeks and shared the results of what we’d read and done per the book.  Years later, living in Cannes and preparing to quit engineering to do my art full-time, I found my copy of The Artist’s Way with many of my answers and notes written in the margins.  On one page, I stumbled across a desire to “paint in swirls of colour and take a year sabbatical to paint in Europe”.  I’d call that an answered prayer!)   

 

So my five lives are to be a truck driver (the 18-wheeler kind), a hip-hop dancer, professional surfer, creative director of a Fortune 500 company, and a university professor of literature.  Christian wanted to do extreme sports and be a CEO, and though I actually forgot what else – he kept changing his mind – we both agreed that we didn’t want to do any charity work.  Contribute money, yes, but trying to help people, which inevitably requires them to change, is exhausting.  He’d done this in Thailand after he’d been caught in the Christmas tsunami several years ago.  He had stayed over a year to help Thai fishermen rebuild their boats and villages and also teach some entrepreneurial concepts, but they didn’t take.  I’d spent many years volunteering at a battered women’s shelter in Santa Monica.  Abusive relationships follow the same cycle as addictions and abusing substances, and in watching many women return with their children to an abusive home thinking it would be different this time, my heart was just broken.  I guess helping people is a lot like being an artist or other creative type:  you do it whether you want to or not on any given day;  you paint or write or sing 9 bad paintings, writings, or ballads to get one good one;  you help 9 people who decide not to change to help one who does turn his or her life around.

 

But Christian and I laugh too much to get serious for long – he’s a good antidote to me.  That evening we met up with Wei Ching, a friend from the ex-pat dancing evenings, and her Tunisian roommate Chadha and other Tunisian friends.  So we <surprise!> ended up at a Moroccan restaurant where we had to pull the outside tables under the eaves when the rain tried to gobble up our tagine dinners.  Around the corner was an Egyptian coffee place, the big attraction being shisha.  Shisha is basically a communal smoking thing, but the smoke is filtered in water, and the tobacco is usually flavored something fruity.  So our Tunisian experts ordered an apple shisha and began passing around the inhaler.  It wasn’t my thing particularly, and Christian and I got into a smoke-ring contest.  But with it being a Wednesday night, it was silly to go home too soon just to get up for work in a few hours (me excluded – although I did have my second glass class the next day), so we stuffed into two taxis and headed for Bollywood!  Seriously!  See the pictures!  It was this night club with the feel of a “gentlemen’s club”.  Indian girls – some ordinary, a few really beautiful – were dressed like belly dancers and dancing to the latest Bollywood hits.  I actually loved the music – definitely something to dance to – but didn’t much like the competition.  The guys got up and danced, of course, and watching this whole scene, I found it to be a tiny place of silliness and complete insulation from all the worries of the world.

 

Now I think I mentioned before that the major pastime and tourist attraction of Singapore is shopping.  Orchard Road is the place to be and to be spending.  I’d spied a Borders bookstore on one of my taxi rides and was quite excited to go since I was facing several 10+ hour plane trips and was dead out of books.  So I got to buy books I actually wanted to read instead of feeling obligated to go through all the compulsive buys already filling my bookshelves at home.  In 1898 Tolstoy wrote “What is Art?”, and though I found it, my heart wasn’t there.  Amy Tan’s books caught my eye.  I’d read the Joy Luck Club something like 8 or 10 years ago and gave it to my Ma with passages underlined of things I wanted to tell her but couldn’t.  Nearby was Paul Theroux’s series of travel-writing books like Riding the Iron Rooster and Dark Star Safari, many of which I’ve been wanting for years to read, but I wasn’t in the mood for dark Africa or the Orient Express, so I hooked around the shelves to the adjacent section.  I looked for authors with a series of books and found Fitzgerald but couldn’t remember which ones I’d already read other than Gatsby.  Further down was a series of novels by a guy named Graham Greene – never heard of him, but his books were set in interesting parts of the world, so I settled on The Heart of the Matter.  Next I came across The Kite Runner.  I loved both the book and the movie, and while the movie left out the whole immigration issue, the colours of the kites and culture, and later lack thereof, were beautiful.  I’ve been wanting to read Khaled Hosseini’s subsequent book 1000 Splendid Suns but thought Ma already had a copy and I was too cheap to buy my own.  Nearby was Kazuo Ishiguro’s When We Were Orphans.  The title sounded vaguely familiar (amazingly enough, no books in Singapore have Oprah’s seal of approval – I wonder how they know what to read?), and I read on the back that he’d also authored Remains of the Day, which became one of those famous Anthony Hopkins/Emma Thompson romantic-era movies.  With the somewhat mystery novel set in both London and Shanghai, I added it to Heart of the Matter.  While my left brain was telling me two books would suffice, both to read and to carry, my right brain was in Candyland.  Further down the shelves was Barbara Kingsolver.  I’ve read most of her novels and loved them, as have my friends Paula and James in France, so I frequently export my read volumes to them.  However, as I was in the mood for literature from the far corners of the world, I finally grabbed Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s 100 Years of Solitude to console me during my upcoming 100 hours of Solitude.

 

One day Switchu and I were out and popped into an air-conditioned 7-11 for some water to drink.  On the way out, I spied the last copy of The Economist with Obama on the cover.  I was almost willing to pay the S$12 but then saw it was already 10 days old.  So with rare boldness (“balls” I guess you’d call it if I were a guy), I pointed this out to the clerk and asked if I could have it.  For free.  The Wizard of Oz she consulted in the back room vetoed it but allowed her to give me a free copy of Time magazine, which I thought was kind, but on second glance saw that it was the “Life & Style” edition.  Since when do I want to make reservations on the secluded island where Nicole Kidman found nirvana during respites of filming Australia?  But I read the dumb thing anyway.   Several movers & shakers of the creative type were interviewed about how they travel.  The cast included the marketing exec for Louis Vuitton, a 5-star hotel architect, some blond tennis star, and Diane von Furstenberg.  The questions included what they pack, what they eat, how they adjust to jet lag, and favorite airports to shop at.  The reason I mention all this, however, is that one thing made a huge impression on me.  Almost each one said one of their “never-leave-home-without” items is a sketchbook, accompanied by pens or pencils or whatnot.  If these gadzillionaires who live on a plane in first class most of their lives and buy haute couture in international airports can’t be without their sketchbooks, well, maybe I should have one, too.

 

So Thursday, on the way to glass class, I detoured to the Japanese mall at Clarke’s Quay and found a bookstore.  Interesting titles, but the best was a huge selection of sketchbooks and coloured pens for cheap.  So that made me happy, as I was on my way to being a gadzillionaire living on a plane in first class and buying haute couture in international airports.  Alongside dreaming of my future, a vente iced Americano supplemented my happiness.  (I’ll plead the 5^th regarding whether there was a green, round logo of a mermaid on the cup.)  Additionally, I was amazed to have found Old El Paso in the Japanese market, so I was on my way home to prepare fajitas for Christian.  We invited Wei Ching and Chadha and decided to have a fajita picnic in the Botanic Gardens under fragrant plumeria trees, though they all disagreed with me and said they were some sort of tree used to cast spells, but I’m sure they were plumeria.  Under the spell of the plumeria and Old El Paso, we righteously decided we needed to go out again – after all, it was Thursday night!  We found a bar at Clarke’s that had advertised some sort of free vodka drink to the ladies, but we ended up each paying S$14 – Christian for a beer and us girls for some frou-frou drink with an umbrella.  Not sure how “free” translated to S$14 in Singlish, but understandable considering the decibels vomiting from the horrible band belting out one-hit-wonders wearing too little silver lamé and fishnet (stockings, shirts, whatever…)  It was one of those bars with big sofas and semi-private nooks and velvet that might be considered trendy – except that there were only about 12 people in the place.  We grabbed a little table surrounded by a funky sofa and plush chairs and ended up laughing so hard that we were  lucky to be seated on sofas since we were all falling-down hysterical.  I’m trying to remember what was so funny, other than the gyrations of the band members, but I think Chadha started it.  She would give us an emotion or situation, and we would have to express it, wordlessly, but with the ever-present Japanese photo “victory” sign…  It’s hysterical just remembering it…

 

Friday, Christian and Wei Ching took me out for dinner at a happy ritzy place on the water of the harbor.  It was even more happy after two glasses of champagne.  We then hopped to a bar that overlooked the Shopping on Orchard Road.  There were cabaña-type lounge beds along one side of the bar, so us girls ditched the guys, claimed one of the cabañas, and ordered margaritas.  Christian joined us, then a Panamanian friend Carlos.  I’ve never laughed so hard or this much since the last time I saw Christian, about 7 years ago.  (Well, OK, maybe since last night, but you understand.)  I laughed so hard I had to lie down on the sofa, yet again.  After all my eye makeup was gone and my lipstick left on a few margarita glasses, a huge group of us ex-pats went back for more to Insomnia for another dance party until 4am.  After all, I had to get to bed early to prepare for my 10-hour flight to Auckland the next day.

 

Another Hard Day...

 

Recovering from Insomnia and after our 1pm breakfast on Sunday, Christian suggested a mellow day on a local island, Pulau Ubin.  After lunch (I actually didn’t have breakfast, now that I think about it), we rented bikes and took them down to the beach facing Malaysia.  A giant wooden fence had been erected in the water 30 meters off shore to keep Malaysians from illegally entering Singapore.  But we spread out towels and read our books for a couple hours under a cloudy and humid sky.  Since Pulau Ubin isn’t developed I could see the original jungle and forest and beaches (well, plus a touch of Malaysian litter that’s washed up).  Singapore has also “developed” other local islands, Christian told me.  They import rocks & sand from Malaysia, extend the coastline, and plant mangrove trees for their extensive root system to keep the new land from washing away.  Meanwhile, Malaysia’s coastline is receding…

 

Saturday evening was mellow, but hey, it’s still Saturday night in Singapore.  So Christian, his roommate Switchu, and I went to Sentosa Island for dinner.  Sentosa is Disneyland².  A light show was in progress – Christian told us to avoid it – something about a happy spirit that gets happier when people sing.  There’s a giant, uh, sculpture thing called the Merlion – a lion with a mermaid’s body.  I’d call it the Sing-Sphinx.  It’s just about as big as Egypt’s and gets lit up at night as a beacon – a beacon to happiness.  After Japanese sushi, we sat at the edge of the water in semi-darkness looking out at the lights of all the freighter ships and talked about our experiences with ghosts and spirits, angels and demons. 

 

Sunday we were off to the island of Batam in Indonesia.  A very hot day, and the sun fried my head on the boat ride, but I’ve never seen so many huge ships at once!  Singapore is the largest port in the world.  We arrived at Batam and thought it would be simple to find a beach resort to hang out at, but the tourist offices in the terminal were harder to find than chewing gum.  After paying the cab, we were told that we couldn’t use the resort unless we were guests of the hotel.  Couldn’t even pay $10 for the towels.  So Christian used the “How can you help me?” line, and we were in.  The place was deserted.  Looked gorgeous, though, with cabanas and a pristine pool and palm trees and jet skis to rent on the turquoise water.  Christian bought us coconuts with straws and lunch, then Switchu bought us cappuccinos and snacks.  I was just there for the conversation while we all read our books.  Another hard day. 

 

Disneyland

 

Hey Laurie, you just survived a 12 hour flight, now what are you going to do? 

 

I’m going to Disneyland!

 

I arrived 3 ½ hours into Tel Aviv airport before my flight, went through endless and stressful security checks (basically a repeat of 10 days ago), then onto my 4 ½ hour flight to Paris which was late.  Air France kindly held the plane to Singapore for the few of us on that flight, but we had to run through the terminal to the very last gate.  As soon as I got to my seat I felt claustrophobic, and after dinner my legs felt funny, like I needed to constantly move them, then I got nauseated. I felt something like vertigo.  One of the stewardesses had medical training and thought it might be poor circulation.  I think I was just exhausted from the Israel trip and the stress of getting out of Tel Aviv and onto the Singapore flight. Anyway, they took good care of me and finally brought me up to first class to lay in the seat that flattens to a nice bed.  I think I slept a good 7 or 8 hours, though the 1^st class attendant subtly told me to go back to my seat as soon as I was able.  No warm breakfast rolls for me.  Disembarking, I got the wheelchair treatment, and was embarrassed that they’d sent for it, but was still dizzy.  The wheelchair guy was quite entertaining, asking me if I wanted to shop at the giant duty-free store (Singapore’s only tourist attraction seems to be shopping), showing me a picture of his bonsai tree (clipping it takes lots of time but helps him not listen to his girlfriend), and telling me that I need to see the new airport terminal that has a cinema with no entrance fee, so you can watch full-screen movies while waiting for a flight!  

 

My friend Christian greeted me with his big smile and got his workout by carrying my suitcases.  Since I’d had a good night’s sleep on the plane, we went out for drinks (why not?) at an outdoor mall, Clarke Quay, on the Singapore River where the old town center used to be.  He said it had been “spruced up” a bit from former warehouses, and it definitely had been.  It looked like Disneyland, each building a different pastel colour with white trim – the icing on the cake being a Hooters.   But Singapore really is one big Disneyland.  The place is so clean.  Chewing gum is illegal, unless it is by prescription (so we figured either a nicotine gum or jaw fitness gum would be available).  There are fines for everything – even riding your bike in a street underpass would cost $1000.  Being naked, apparently even in your own home (maybe someone else can see you!) is illegal.  So is oral sex, but prostitution is OK.  The Chinese women who immigrate here often write on their papers that they will be prostitutes.  Christian said the oral sex law had been recently reviewed, and while they finally allowed it as foreplay, it is still illegal, even for married couples.  The thinking (if you can call it that) behind this is that Singapore is trying to increase the birth rate, so they encourage sex of the procreating kind.  But ads of women in bikinis are censored.  The men here seem to have either all or nothing.

 

Another peculiarity which explains all the prettiness of the place is that Singapore wants to be a utopia – they really want everyone to be happy.  (I got some photos of advertisements around town – they even use the word “happy” nauseatingly.)  There’s a Ministry of Community which is basically in charge of keeping people happy and thinking up new ways to make them even happier.  So residents, tourists, and business people are kept pretty well entertained.  From what I’ve read in the tour guide, I’ll be experiencing lots of kitsch in hopes of making me happy.  Stay tuned…

 

After vegging out at Christian’s for a couple days, I grabbed a taxi (they’re so cheap here – and air-conditioned) to go back to Clarke Quay.  Arriving just before noon, I was the only person there except for the guys installing the Christmas lights.  A next-door mall had a Starbucks (I resisted) and a few open stores.  I bought a t-shirt for my niece – a “happy” t-shirt, of course.  It had been raining all morning, but I conveniently forgot my umbrella, so I sat down for lunch in a coffee house on the water, listening to and watching the pouring rain. Had a chicken sandwich with a coffee sauce on it – very interesting – good, too.  Unfortunately Singapore hasn’t yet covered every sidewalk to make me happy when I forget my umbrella.  So keeping close to cover, I found a group of art galleries on the ground floor of an office building.  Only one really held much interest for me.  I asked about their artists, but they’re all Asian and only those who have lived in Singapore. 

 

I thought I’d waste a bit more time under the cover of Clarke Quay (where the scent of jasmine is everywhere from the jasmine trees – that made me happy).  As I mentioned, shopping is really the only tourist attraction, and Singapore just doesn’t get that people can also go shopping in Paris and London and the Camarillo Outlet Stores, so that’s not the best strategy.  But that’s someone else’s problem.  I’m about shopped-out because even with sending home a box of winter clothes already, my new suitcase from the Cairo bazaar plus the old one are already both at 20kg again!  So aside from a prostitute, the only other thing to really waste your money on in Singapore is at a spa.  Now, of course, this is a bit tricky here.  Across the street from Christian’s place is Happy De Spa (is that French?).  But a friend of his went and was charged an extra $5 for being female, and Christian was asked never to patronize the place again since he didn’t want any extra services.  So I hadn’t planned to go somewhere that Christian or his friends didn’t tell me was safe, but a very nice spa above one of the ritzy restaurants in Clarke Quay caught my eye.  I cautiously climbed the quiet stairs, lined with huge bouquets saying “Congratulations on Grand Opening”, and although they looked like funeral flowers, figured the place was OK.

 

Inside, Spring Spa was gorgeous, with a lobby and lounge and upscale healthy little café, all in red and purple colours (to match the flowers and make everyone happy, I guess).  I was warmly greeted and signed in, the second person of the day.  So I got ear candling (the second time in my life – really cool!  -- worth a try for anyone!) and a massage and foot reflexology.  The ear candling lady also did facials and manicure/pedicure.  I needed my nails done, but figured I’d be in the place long enough that today wasn’t the time.  I still wanted to do a bit of sightseeing – whatever that was.  The massage was great!  Not only Swedish massage but lots of work on my upper back – my worst spot – with some chiropractic stuff, too.  She complimented me on my boobs. 

 

After a hot shower, a tall blonde Chinese guy worked on my feet.  I couldn’t feel them for hours afterwards!  It was great!  They were still needling me to get a facial (I hate facials) and my nails done, but I was ready to leave (well, not really – jet lag still seems to hit me about mid-afternoon, so I could have just slept there a while).  Signing out, there were quite a few more names on the sheet – all of them men.

 

The rain wasn’t bad now, so I went hunting for the Asian Cultures Museum.  Although Christian told me where it was, I trusted the 5-year-old guide book his friend gave me.  So the AC Museum is now some other museum, and by the time I got around to asking and headed back to the new location at Clarke Quay (duh!), I was getting tired. I ordered a new pair of eyeglasses (because Dad told me to) in the “tech” mall.  A bit more walking around, noticing all the happy people, and then I headed for a happy cup of coffee from a third-floor mall lookout over the river. 

 

I spent another day at Christian’s working on my blog as well as trying to figure out what to see in Singapore (not 2-week’s worth, certainly).  I figured I could take a short flight over to Bali, but my friend Dan hit me over the head and told me I was being stupid again (St. P being the first time – well, maybe not the first) and needed to spend at least a month in Bali.  Christian said Vietnam (Hanoi, specifically) and Cambodia were quite different and would be great to go, but I need a visa for Vietnam and there were no convenient trips to Cambodia.  We thought we’d go to Sumatra (well, at least get a good cuppa joe), but Chrisitan had a meeting on Monday that wouldn’t work with the flights available.   I was tired of struggling with flights and an intermittent internet connection, with a server error in pure Sing-lish: 

The server may be a little bit broken temporarily.  Please try again in a few moments while it sorts itself out.  Error 12152

 

It was Friday night and time to go out.  In the guidebook, albeit 5 years old, under the heading for nightlife, it read “Singapore.  The whole city.  Really.”  We went to an expat get-together at an open-air bar on a high floor of an office building.  Very chic.  Giant pictures of Mao, Kim, and Bush filled the wall behind the bar.  Then dancing among the prostitutes at Insomnia until 4am.  Of course being the clueless person I am, I didn’t know most of the women were prostitutes (hey, most women from London to LA wear short shorts and lace bustiers to go dancing – not dressed but going out).  I guess the guys know quite quickly that the motivation is not love but money.  That’s a bad segway to another philosophical discussion, but one which I don’t have the energy nor knowledge to write about, especially at 4am.

 

Walk Like an Egyptian

 

OK, not the most creative title, but accurate.  First thing after our morning flight from Tel Aviv to Cairo was the Egyptian Museum – home of King Tut and other old things.  We had a great museum guide and learned some fascinating things like how to identify if a statue is of a pharaoh or not (in case you find one in your backyard).  The beard and forward left leg means he’s dead (hopefully they all have beards), and a clenched left hand or one holding a sepulchre is a sign of a ruler.  The left leg first is interesting.  When a pharaoh or other rich or important person (not necessarily the same thing) died, they were mummified.  This basically preserved their bodies so their spirits could come back to them, and their coffins were carved to render their faces and hands – again for identification, though I’m not sure why their spirits would need them.  But back to mummification.  The brains were basically ripped into mush via the nasal cavities and then all drained out through those passageways (gives new meaning to a nose bleed).  Then the left side of the body was opened at the bottom of the ribcage to remove the organs.  Four jars or pots were used to preserve these organs: one for the liver, one for kidneys, then stomach and intestines and finally the heart, if I remember all this correctly.  I’m sure the genitals went in one of those jars, too, though the guide didn’t mention it.  So along with the statue and mummy you’ll find in your backyard, don’t overlook those four jugs of organs.  Then the body is encased with salt for about 2 months.  Oh, but back to my original thread:  the left side is sacred because that is the side of understanding.  This is the spiritual side; the heart.  The right side is for knowledge, and knowledge, along with the organ responsible for learning and retaining knowledge, the brain, is not needed in the afterlife.  Knowledge is a hindrance.  Knowledge is only needed for the physical realm, to which the Egyptians didn’t give much emphasis.  This physical world was only useful in preparing for the next world.  I’m fascinated by the juxtaposition of our world with theirs and that they already had some idea of left- vs. right-brained functions.

 

King Tut’s room held his two coffins, both of gold and copper (which oxidized into blue), with all kinds of jewelry and details in red and yellow gold and every other precious thing.  His eyes (on the coffin) are made of ivory with crystals drilled in for the retina, then copper “eyeliner” applied around the eyes.  When a flashlight is shined on them, an incredibly real pair of eyes stares back at you – lifelike enough to have scared many pyramid explorers and thieves!  King Tut’s fingers were enclosed in gold, like long thimbles, and arms and legs adorned with more jewelry.  His mummified body was placed in one coffin, which was placed in another, then another,  which was nestled into a wooden ark-like box, which was then placed into 3 subsequently larger boxes, the final one about 6x8x10 feet in dimension.  What is really amazing about King Tut’s tomb is the incredible amount of gold and precious stones and metals, plus the craftsmanship, for a king who ascended the throne at 9 years old, died at 19 of unknown causes – murder has been ruled out, and did absolutely nothing for Egypt.  So if all this was done for insignificant King Tut, imagine what the tombs of some of the great kings and pharaohs and those who lived long lives and amassed much wealth would have looked like! 

 

As we landed in Cairo, the city of 20 million people stretched out for miles, like approaching LA, but the difference in Cairo is that the urban expanse was almost completely made up of drab-looking high rise apartments.  They don’t often finish most houses and apartment buildings because the taxes are lower if a building is still in the construction phase.  Other interesting dwellings could be found in the “City of the Living” – really the City of the Dead: the Muslim cemetery.  The bodies are buried in the ground with one or two rooms above in the mausoleum, I suppose we would call it.  Actually, there are two rooms under the ground, one for men’s bodies and the other for women – so they are even segregated at death.  But squatters have come in and lived in the “upstairs” rooms, with water and electricity and TV piped in.  The owners of the mausoleums don’t really take any action to kick out the squatters because they feel it’s a form of charity. 

 

Anyway, we got a bit of a taste of Egypt driving in Cairo.  We were definitely back in an Arab country, and many of our group on the bus were getting ulcers over the driving.  Pedestrians wandered into and across the road, there are no lines painted on the streets, and a generally laws of physics are not in effect, much like Casablanca.  I thought it was mild compared to Casa, with hardly any scooters or motorcycles and honking only used if you and your mother ****.   Aside from the Egyptian Museum (a bit rundown I thought, but they’re building a new one), we had good views of the Nile and sailboats out on it, as well as the Opera House.  In 1869, the Suez Canal opened and was celebrated by the first performance of Aida, Egypt’s most-loved operas, and one of my favorites, too.  I mean, it’s VERDI!  How can you not love Verdi?  But anyway, Aida was performed at the newly opened Opera House to celebrate the Suez Canal.

 

In the evening, they had a Nile River Cruise booked for us.  The food wasn’t great and it was on one of those huge boats that didn’t even feel like it was moving except that buildings outside were floating by.  Sufi & belly dancers entertained us.  I was fascinated by this Sufi dancer spinning around and around for about 15 minutes, apparently in a trace to keep him from losing his lunch.  He wore 2 skirts over his baggy pants, plus several scarves wrapped around his head.  He also had 6 discs, something like tambourines, that fit inside one another, though at the same time all looking the same size – anyway, hard to describe this whole thing that I’d never seen before, but it was amazing.  There are a few pictures, though difficult to get good ones, even with Julie’s camera.  Sufi dancers begin training when they’re barely 4 or 5 years old, and it is a form of meditation for them:  a trance.  It fascinated me with the bright colours and the flow of all the fabric – it looked like one of my paintings was spinning around in front of me.  People often ask me what inspires my art, and I think the only firm thing I can point to is fluid movement, whether of water or, even better, bright coloured fabrics laid out together or moving.  So I was both inspired and mesmerized by this guy.   Then the belly dancer performed, and I have to admit I was a bit embarrassed by it.  It wasn’t anything obscene and I know I’m sounding like a prude, but I just felt uncomfortable.  Most of the other guests on the cruise appeared to be Arab or Asian businessmen.  Aside from the general gawking, several began filming her via their mobiles.   Anyway, I was back in an Arab culture, and that never agrees with me.  After Morocco, I have almost no tolerance for their leering and aggressiveness. 

 

Bright and early the next morning, before waves of heat and tourists arrived, we drove out to the Giza Pyramids.  The entire Nile delta would flood for 4 months out of the year, and while the farmers adjusted the type of crops and growing cycles to take advantage of this, it wasn’t agreeable to dead pharaohs.  The pyramids are built on land which is up a huge cliff overlooking Cairo.  Now, the pharaohs didn’t just one day decide to build these things.  Their ambition was built on centuries of tradition, beginning with marking the graves of royalty and nobility with a stone in order to acknowledge the place they were buried.  But then the rulers and the rich wanted to take more of their wealth with them into the afterlife (He who dies with the most toys gets to keep them.), so the graves expanded with underground rooms to accommodate their favorite possessions.  (I wonder when we’ll see 10x40m plots to accommodate yachts and Ferraris and Ferragamos?)  However, contrary to popular belief, the rulers and rich are human, so they got greedy and wanted to take more and more stuff with them when they died, which were accommodated by placing them under a pile of stones.  But a pile of stones isn’t necessarily pretty or ordered, so they began to pile the stones as steps so the royal (but not the rich, since only royals were the reps of the gods) could step up to be with the gods.  Not only were they greedy, and self-exalting, but also competitive, so the pile of stones got bigger and bigger, until one of them reached 280 feet high.  And this is how the Giza Pyramids were born.

 

Now, it’s interesting that the Egyptians actually paid their labour to build these things.  During the 4 months of Nile flooding, even farmers gravitated to the construction industry.  The pyramids had to be built quickly, since the average ruling period for a pharaoh was 20 years.  So as soon as he was inaugurated, not only was the pyramid constructed, but also his tombs – remember, at least 7 for those that were found with King Tut.  The largest pyramid has 2.3 million blocks, again, no mortar was used.  Some blocks were from local quarries, but others traveled down the Nile from 600 miles away.  That’s like LA to Eureka!  And if someone cares to do the math, 2.3 million divided by 20 years is 4.5 minutes per block!  They had some amazing operations, for sure.  Maybe they had CMI (Continuous Measurable Improvement).

 

It is something of an insult, too, that no one in our common era has been able to construct a pyramid more than 10 feet high.  Now, that sounds silly, but considering that no mortar was used (it was just a pile of rocks, remember?) and that there is no pressure of the weight of the rocks on the hollow burial tombs, it gets more challenging.  The interior rooms have stones slanted that take all the pressure.  Plus, there is a spirit tunnel, usually hidden, for the spirit to come and go freely.  Of course, its home could always be located by the numerous tombs with the exact likeness of the pharaoh’s face and hands engraved on them.

 

Ra is the sun god.  He travels across the sky everyday (unless you live in London), and the Egyptians had numerous explanations for this phenomenon.  One was that a woman’s body was arched over the land.  Her head was east, where the light began.  In the west was her uterus, and the sun would drop out of her down into darkness.  The other explanation was the solar boat.  The sky is blue because it’s actually a river, and Ra sails across the sky in his solar boat.  Well, if Ra needs a boat, the pharaoh does even more so.  Next to the pyramids, a boat was buried.  Well actually, over 1000 pieces for a boat requiring assembly were buried, and the Egyptians figured the spirit would take care of the assembly.  Remember that next time you’re in IKEA.

 

Since we hadn’t taken enough pictures yet, including camels (dromedaries actually, since “camel” is really the name for a 2-humped camel, well, dromedary, which can only be found in the zoo – camels, I mean, not dromedaries), we headed over to the Sphinx.  The Sphinx isn’t a camel or a dromedary, thank goodness, but a lion with a human head. (I know you knew that already.)  Since a lion has never been seen to have a human face, this combination was intended to strike fear in all who looked at it, and thereby guard the pyramids.  With the west considered the place of death (the sun died each day in the west), the Giza pyramids were built on the west bank of the Nile, and the Sphinx faces east to guard against the living.

 

By the end of the day I felt in need of my own sphinx.  Our guide had started the morning off with 5, but was now bidding 16 camels for me (not sure what Dad would do with 16 camels, though I’m sure the HOA would have some concerns), and the security guard personally escorting me and chatting me up.  We had armed guards on both busses as well as a police escort – 4 guys in one car – the entire time we were in Egypt, including the 6 hour trek across the Sinai desert.  But none really met my definition of a personal sphinx.  I finally decided that the black “tents” and veil worn by women to only show their eyes – that outfit is going in my suitcase for my next visit to the Arab world.  Actually, I’m not blonde or pretty enough to warrant all this attention, but I’ve come to the conclusion it’s just the colour of my skin.  In Cairo along the expressway, there were a series of “B-white” advertisements which looked like some sort of skin lightener.  Wonder if they asked Michael Jackson to be their celebrity promoter?

 

 

Most of the Nile borders cater to recreation – from parks and boardwalks to sailing, which is the most popular pastime. However, in a few undeveloped areas we could see the typical reeds along the Nile – remembering how Moses was found.  His name probably derived from Mu-Meses which means “water infant”.

 

We visited the only synagogue in Cairo.  It had never been used because there weren’t 10 Jewish men in all of Old Cairo to keep the lights going. However, one of our group was formerly Jewish, and while most of us marveled at being in a synagogue for the first time, Mark told us it was not at all like a real synagogue.  Most blatantly, the Torah was left opened on a book stand, and opening the Torah is only done with much respect.  It would have never been left open by a Jew.

 

Later, the Coptic Museum (Coptic means Egyptian) showed us all kinds of ancient Egyptian art in stone, wood, paints, papyrus, leather, embroidery, and fabric.  On display is the oldest known book of the Psalms – dated to 1288! – plus a red-leather-bound book of the four gospels written on linen paper – definitely a work of art.  Afterwards, some of us went to the Cairo bazaar.  I really didn’t want to go, but was in need of a new, not to mention cheap, suitcase to replace the bag that didn’t make it through Israeli inspection very well.  So I stuck with our little group who ventured into the maze – a gauntlet of vendors trying to get our attention:  “I’m honest!  How much will you pay me?!”  But I claimed victory emerging with a large red $25 suitcase.

 

Before leaving Egypt, we drove about 6 hours through the Sinai desert to the Red Sea and the Israeli border.  We “crossed” the Suez Canal via a tunnel of 2km under the canal and the militarized zone around it.  After emerging, we looked back to see a very long ship in the canal, but could only see the top part – a ship in floating in the desert.

 

With such a long bus ride, our guide was very entertaining, explaining compulsory military service (which he avoided due to bananas – you mean “Go Bananas”? – “yes, that’s it!”) as well as the decreasing numbers of arranged marriages (most young people just date non-exclusively – like himself).  But someone asked him about Islam, and though he replied that questions about religion are very rude, gave us quite a detailed response.  A Muslim must do 5 things. First, believe that Allah is the only God and Mohammed is the last prophet after Abraham, Joseph, Moses, Isaiah, and Jesus.  Second, pray 5 times a day at sunrise, about noon, 4pm, sunset, and 8pm.  They have to wash first, but it isn’t necessary to pray at work or on duty, nor do pregnant and menstruating women have to pray.  Third, fast in Ramadan, lasting a month, from sunrise to sunset – meaning no food or even water, as well as cigarettes – although kids and those with medical exemptions don’t have to fast.  When the fast is broken each evening after sundown, huge feasts are held, open to neighbors and the poor.  This is expected in order to be compassionate for the poor – in order to understand how they feel.  Fourth, Muslims must make one pilgrimage in their lifetime to Mecca – but only if they can afford it, which is about $10-15k.  Our guide told us that the money Saudi Arabia makes from the pilgrims to Mecca is greater income than from oil!  Finally, 5% of savings must be given to charity (note that’s savings, not income).

 

He explained that Suni and Shiite are two different sects, of Islam.  While the Suni are very simple and tolerant, the Shiite believe in self-flogging, cutting, and injuring, and the Suni consider this paganism.  Shiites, per their history, are very stubborn and believe that the Angel Gabriel was supposed to give his message to Ali but mistakenly gave it to Mohammed.

 

When we asked about the Islamic after-life beliefs, our guide became agitated.  If you ask any Egyptian about getting the 70 virgins for sacrificing in battle, they will look as if you had two heads.  Most of the suicide bombers come from very impoverished circumstances, and this is exploited by their governments -- not in Syria, Lebanon, Egypt, or in any of the more developed nations, but in Palestine and Afghanistan.  The politicians and those wanting control brainwash children from a young age, including the invented story of 70 virgins in heaven, and incentivize the family with promises of $30,000 (probably equivalent to something like $2M to Americans) for their son or daughter to be patriotic.

 

Luckily, since Julie had to switch buses everyday since she was a coordinator, I got to switch busses as well, and even with his lectures at each stop as to why I should be on his bus, I was able to escape the guide with 16 camels.  Of course, before crossing the Egyptian border to Israel, he told me to pay the exit tax – two kisses on the cheek.  These 3 days in Egypt wore me out just as Morocco did – aside from the aggression in the bazaar, the feeling that I was just another pretty but useless piece of junk for sale.  I was exhausted.

 

 

I’ve never walked across a border before, and it took two hours to go through the 2 exit checkpoints from Egypt and the 3 checks (passport, security, and customs) in Israel.  Luckily they didn’t interrogate me this time, probably because I was with the group.  But I came to appreciate crossing borders by plane – at least it’s air conditioned!

 

So the last night of our tour was in a resort hotel in Eliat, at the northern most point of the Red Sea.  The hotel was wonderful, but I’d hit a wall after the border crossing and didn’t even leave the room for the two hours before dinner.  Afterwards, Julie and I caught the high-school play that was Obama’s first official press conference, and then fell asleep.  Although it would be nice to say I swam in the Red Sea, I was starting to get a sore throat and opted to get breakfast at 10 followed by a massage.  We drove 4 hours back to Tel Aviv, via the Desert of Zin (or Sin) where Moses and the Israelites wandered for 40 years.  When I hear or read the story, I picture a flat, solid-footed desert – like the Mojave, I suppose.  But Zin is a labyrinth of gullies straddled by 20-foot cliffs – not compatible with accurate navigation or easy traveling. 

 

That evening I left the group after our farewell dinner in Tel Aviv, as they had a midnight flight back to LA.  To commemorate my last day in Israel, I spent the next morning of 9-Nov swimming in the Med, reading the newspaper, and walking along the boardwalk.  That evening, once my plane had taken off, I felt a huge relief to be leaving Israel.  As much as I enjoyed it and obviously learned from it, the constant proximity of war, seen in the battle-scarred land, barbed fences, and high airport security (I’d had all my luggage, both checked and carry-on, searched down to opening each jar of cream) had taken its toll on me.  Frankly, I was emotionally depleted.