A Mad Biker's Ongoing Tale

Thursday, March 27, 2003

THE FOLLOWING IS A WORK IN PROGRESS

I’m assuming by now you know about the war.

Do I think it’s a good thing? Do I think it’s justified? Well, let me turn this around by asking you the same questions. Maybe I’m just a notch in the Bush administration’s loaded pistol of anti-Saddam propaganda, but I don't like Saddam. But I don’t like Bush that much either. He's more than a little arrogant. Waging a war while sweeping aside the concerns of the rest of the world, seems like absurdly high stakes to raise to settle what many view as a personal conflict between two macho grandstanders. What is most disturbing about the American position is how we pick and choose where to get involved in this big blue orb and why - and by “why” I mean reasons both stated and clandestine.

Living in Central Europe as I do and having recently visited Egypt, I can tell you that from my vantage point, the world seems rather solidly united against American incursions. Central Europe has not erupted in protests and political one-upmanship the way the western countries have, but polls make it clearly known that America doesn’t have very many allies on this issue. Sure, the Polish Prez, Aleksander Kwasniewski, has pledged his unqualified support of the American-led coalition in Iraq (in the form of 200 “non-combative” troops), but this Prez speaks for a mere 30 percent of the populace. And Egypt? Well, Egypt is a different case altogether.

I can say that because I honeymooned in Egypt. The Amphoras Holiday Inn in the lovely town of Sharm el Sheikh, to be exact, with a protracted excursion into Cairo and a few whistlestops along the way. Yes, it was only a week but surely I could learn in one week if Islam is hostile or not to the rest of the world. Now, don't laugh. That's exactly what many Americans believe, and it certainly seems that's exactly the message the Bush administration is trying to put across. But there's nothing to fear, guys. Shoot, I'd like to move to Egypt.

Sure, Egyptian Muslims aren't Iraqi Muslims, but it's good to define our friends and enemies before we go much further. We all know there are Islamics such as the American marine who attacked his mates while all were camped in Kuwait, but it’s crucial to note that he no more represents the whole than Bin Laden does. Islam is not at war with Christianity and/or Bush and/or America.

When I first arrived in Sharm el Sheikh, one of my group's Egyptian guides advised me to adopt a faux northern European accent and disavow my national origins. He said it with a smile and he sincerely seemed concerned for my safety. But he also said it with a but of a sneer, as if American safety really wasn't in his job description. After all, I was with a Polish tour group. I gave what he proposed a little thought and quickly decided against such a course - to my ever-lasting satisfaction.

Egyptians are big-hearted people... which is exactly what one of many newfound acquaintances told me a few days into my trip, and it’s easy to see he was right. Many were obliged to express their feelings on Bush and a few (as in two or three) did not even want to socialize with me since I was from "Bush’s America". But most wore big smiles and proffered generous spirits. I swear to Allah, I was the only American in the whole blamed country, but I was greeted most enthusiastically by many, many Egyptian citizens. Many, in fact, were downright overjoyed to see an American tourist on their streets. It’s about time, they all seemed to say, somebody ignored the American State Department's dire warnings to tourist abroad in Muslim countries. (Which is not to say I wasn't a little scared myself to head to Egypt in these tumultuous times, but thank God I listened to the more reasonable voice echoing in my ears: my wife's.)

I took it upon myself to act as unofficial Ambassador of Good Will, and my efforts paid off handsomely. I learned a bit of Arabic - I could be seen scribbling new notes every morning and evening at the hotel buffet and heard wrapping my tongue around those crazy Arabic syllables. Though it must be said they seemed a far side easier than those crazy Polish ones.

I even managed an invite to pray in a local mosque on the weekly holy day, Friday. Not one of my new friends really knew how to deal with this strange request.... no pictures, no slavering admiration or “ohhing” and “ahhing” outside the mosque walls..... just a sincere desire to worship God. After all, I believe in one God, the creator and provider, the very essence of love. Allah, Jehovah, Christ.... what’s in a name? It was one of the proudest moments of my life to be welcomed in. And so many people from both the Christian (friends and family at home) and Muslim camps (Egyptians I met in the first few days of my sojourn) thought I wouldn’t be allowed inside. Hah! What folly!

Cairo is really something! I've heard about such things and seen images on TV and the movies and such and such, but nothing could have really prepared me for scenes of this magnitude. What sort of scenes, I hear you ask? Cairo is home to 20 million people, mostly because Egypt is one big desert landscape and most people who live there want to enjoy some sort of, dare I say, normal life. You know, shelter, water, toilets (PLEASE! Don't ask!), trips to local stores and outdoor markets.

Unfinished high-rise apartment flats with paneless windows and all sorts of debris strewn haphazardly on rooftops for insulation, looking so much like war-torn neighborhoods, standing side-by side a few modern apartments and miles upon miles of
expansive green fields where every crop imaginable is grown and managed by plow jockeys with scythes and horse-drawn carts. Interspersed with dusty avenues comprised entirely of urbanized desert and polluted Nile tributaries, all surrounding one another. A city of 20 million, the epicenter of which is more densely packed than it seemed anyplace on earth. Trains older than dirt, buses more crowded than a gourmand’s stomach, with passengers actually hanging out of the doors. Voluminous traffic to drive you bonkers and often no crosswalks. Horse and buggies on major traffic-strewn expressways. Men in suits side-by-side with men and women in traditional garb. Very few woman anywhere out of doors, and none dancing with men in the clubs or being affectionate with the same on the streets. And costs? I hear you ask again. In Egypt, the free market system reigns supreme. Practically everything is negotiable.

Except for the joy of the average Egyptian heart. A poor people, a desert people, a nation linked to the others around it by their wariness toward the non-Muslim and non-Arab world, a nation living in the shadow of richer and more powerful nations like the USA, who seek to have more influence in the region that perhaps geography or history warrant. But those smiles I saw, the people who proffered their hands or threw up their arms for a warm embrace...! If that's something for me to fear and avoid, then I must be living wrong.

There is enough room in all hearts, of every denomination and nationality, for God and neighbor. For brotherhood and fidelity. It is the insistent belief that these do not exist except with those “of our own” that we continue to have all these damnable problems in the world. And it is the dogged determination that life was meant to be far, far better than that, that hope for all still exists.

You see, that's exactly what I found in Egypt: nothing les than the world. Brothers and sisters. The meaning of life, all wrapped up into one big, sprawling, often messy urban and dessert sprawl.

Gosia and I visited one nightclub, in Sharm el Sheikh. We were the only tourists there. And they loved us. A crowd of men separated us and challenged us to individual dancing contests. Man, I always lost but they were big-hearted and super-friendly and we all had a blast. I danced a couple of times with a group of street-corner musicians, too, in the "Old Market" area of Sharm. One of the shopkeepers there, Muhammad Ali (I kid you not) had me repeat something in Arabic and heartily welcomed me into the Muslim family. And the night I received warm farewells - and two huge bear hugs. One from a waiter and one form the night clerk, who came all the out from behind his desk and through the staff room to wish me well.

That's me impression off Egypt and that's my impression of Islam. I’d go back again in a heartbeat, despite this war. Love and camaraderie always need an outlet.

posted by mark 11:54 PM

Thursday, March 20, 2003

Okay, before I talk about the Wonderful World of Islam (I'm being sincere) let me address a topic that has been burning on my soul for the past week... nay, for months now.

Many people throughout the annals of history have fought for the right to bear the mantle of world's stupidest person. Not personally bear, mind you, but to force others to bear, to bestow, as it were, not with grace but with malice. Surely you've heard the fatal words, if not pronounced them yourselves: "You are without a doubt the dumbest person to ever walk upon God's green earth," or something to that effect. Well, I have good news. The competition is over, finished, kaput. No one has to waste another thought on this most lofty of distinctions. The winner has been found. The most agonizingly, vainglorious, foolish clod in the Universe has been revealed, and there can be no debate of how worthy he is of the title. And no, it's not Dubba or Sadamarama. Ces't moi.

Allow me to document my credentials forthwith: last Saturday, March 15th, the fabled Ides of March, I had been stricken with the first signs of flu. The signs had appeared the previous day, but thanks to the home-and church- spun ministrations of my mother-in-law, I was on my way to recovery. My younger sister-in-law - my wife's twin, Ania - secured a prescription for me from her older physiatrist sister for flu medicine. She asked Ania who then asked me: "are you allergic to any antibiotics?" Immediately I thought of sulpha, which can kill me. I had taken it before some years ago and I know of what I speak. But I thought sulpha wasn't an antibiotic so I said "nothing." The truth is, even though sulpha made me puff up like the fat kid in Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory with pain to match, I never bother to find out what kind of drug it is. Arrogance, my friends, slothful pride. And for those of you who don't know what it is or haven't guessed by now, let me fill you in: it's an antibiotic, used to fight infectious diseases. Ya know? Like the flu? (In Polish, grippa... Doh! Or in Polish, Doh!)

Right on the front of the box in big, bold letters, it announced itself: Sulpha-something-or-other. But because "sulpha" was merely a prefix and I had taught myself to beware medications with Latin names of five letters' length, I ignored it. And damn near killed myself. Gradually, but ever more insistently, my thighs and shoulders came to feel as if somebody had sliced them open and was scooping out the insides. It was only the doctor who came to wife's call sharp-sightedness that exposed my mistake. He was about to give me an injection and I begged him to keep me far away from sulpha.... and so he did. He read my medicine box and I presume told me wife how unbelievably foolish I was in their native language. Today, five days later, I still experience mild pain.

Let me spell this out for you in big, bold letters if you still doubt the validity of my claim. And I hope you don't ignore bold print like yours truly here. I had a box marked "poison" in front of me. I ate the contents of the box regardless. And then lo! I was poisoned. I know, huh?

But no, don't let in end there. It gets better. While I was bathing in the rich aromatic rank of my folly, I began to wonder what else I had done to possibly cement my permanent entry in the volumes of fools and numbskulls. You see, I was so close to fame now I could taste it. I craved my title of Crown Dunce... let the world kneel and tremble! My mind swayed once again, as it had often in the previous weeks, why I still had no response from any of the publishers to whom I sent proposals about my latest book, The Spokes of My Soul? Suddenly I recalled that I had not sent any self-addressed-stamped-enveloped (SASEs) with ANY of my submissions. And all publishers clearly make it known that I need to send these if I expect any reply. Shoot, rumor has it that some publishers won't even read a proposal without it.

Why didn't I include them? Well, the long answer if they weren't listed in any of the individual publishers' submission guidelines (taken from Writer's Market, the would-be published author's bible). But that's because it's says in the front of the Market that they are essential and every hopeful King and Rice and out there should know it. Which brings me to the short answer: 'Cause I'm STOO-PID!!!!!!!!! I don't want to tell you how much time and effort and money I put into the submissions. I was so excruciatingly thorough with everything, crossing every "t", dotting every "i", driving everybody around me crazy. But I omitted this simple, simple thing.

.... So what do you think, folks? My crown is richly deserved, no? Just remember that anytime you feel the need to bestow the epithet to someone else. Even Georgie and Sadamarama, however besieged by their own policies, can point to me now and feel some small sense of vindication.

Feel free to call and congratulate me if you want. But wait 'till my wife gets home, okay? 'Cause I left my apartment keys at my mother-in-law's, a four-hour train ride away. It may be a long afternoon.

posted by mark 2:27 PM

Thursday, March 13, 2003

May I proffer a truncated version of my trip to lands brown and arid?

It was brown, arid (maybe you already got that), fast, slow, fattening, slimming, wet, salty, vegetarian, fishy, meaty, hairy, large, larger, small, frictional, factional, modern, ancient, and everything in-between; and we experienced friendship, suspicion, brotherhood, sisterhood, fraternity, fraternizing sexuality, happy, boisterous Poles, strutting, drunk Russians, and tanned, perfumed Italians, honesty, Mafiosos, swindlers, embraces, pyramids, a Sphinx or two, camels, Bedouins, falafels, yeast and no yeast, Arafat, high-speed buses and nocturnal oil slicks in the - you'll pardon the expression - dead of night, visions of God and face-to-face encounters with the same, spice, no sleep, insomnia, more insomnia, skin, clothes, coral reefs, fish, fowl, war, the threat of war, retaliation, reconciliation, olive branches, strawberries baklava, and Egyptian tea.

More to come..............

posted by mark 12:44 PM