An Ode to Sus Scofa

With this, my summer in Cairo comes to an end. Though the tone of this excursion into the land of the Old Testament has been significantly different than last year, I have had a worthwhile experience. I have remained (mostly) healthy, learned a bit, taught a bit, and now it is time to go home. While I have the utmost reverence - that I am capable of - for Cairo and everything therein, I am ready do come home. The old world has many delights to offer but none really compare to Ribs with a good sauce.

I woke up this morning dreaming of a large plate that was half covered in Ribs. The rib sauce had seeped along to the center of the plate into the corn bread and the blue cheese was making its way from the other side. Then I woke up. No corn bread, no wings with blue cheese, no corn on the cob and certainly no chipper girl wearing orange shorts and white tennis shoes serving this fleeting feast.

Since I am exceptionally pressed for time when I get back from Egypt before I go to school, I am planning my meals - a week in advance. All of this planning has illuminated a startling fact: Everything I am looking forward to is Haram i.e. not allowed by the Muslim faith. Topping the list is - as I mentioned - Ribs, Ham Steak, Prosciutto, Pear and Maple sauce Pork Chop, Bangers and Mash, Canadian Bacon, Sweet n' sour pork, Gingered Pork roast, Regular Bacon(with and without maple syrup), Glazed Chipolte Tenderloin, Cider-Brazed Pork Loin, and in the spirit come completeness, those little red pork shards you get at a Chinese restaurant that are so full of sugar and other stuff that they contain barely anything from an actual pig but are still considered pork.

Of course this will require Corn in the cob, some Cinnamon apple sauce and a dark lager to wash everything down with. Oih, the creamy Guinness will be so delightful after I finish the Pork and Green Beans that I will cook for the side dish.

I am estimating that all of these will take me approximately 13 meals which means at four meals a day I will finish at breakfast of my fourth day home. I am also estimating that I will require the use of toilet paper at least once over this four day barn-yard animal eating binge. Though not in my prophetic dream, one of the western commodities that I am looking forward to is double ply toilet paper - a completely unavailable product here.

Since the structural integrity of a single ply paper sheet is considerably less than that of a double ply, the common manufacturing technique to prevent tearing (this accompanies unhealthy dispersion) is to make the material coarse. This (lack of) development in paper products results in undesirable chaffing of the nether regions. Since I remain in near perfect health this summer I could avoid this unfortunate side affect. Not all are as lucky. The unfortunate tourists who's refined digestive tract could not properly deal with the micro-organisms all seem to walk around... slowly. This closest personal experience I can liken it to is having a bad cold and having to blow my nose on a series of overused and threadbare bathroom towels. After a day or two I decided that my nose could take no more of this punishment so I used warm water every time my nose needed clearing. Coincidentally, most Egyptian toilets are equipped with a device which resembles the flexible shower head attached to kitchen sinks.

There are many other things to look forward to. Cold tap water. Rain. Women with bare shoulders. Being able to walk barefoot without wondering if I will contract gangrene. Green grass. Music without "Habebe" and not hearing "Yanni" every third word. "Yanni" is to Egyptians what "so like, totally" is to Valley Girls: Used with complete and utter disregard for grammar, context or bystanders well being.

Second only to Pig byproducts is driving. Even if I had a car here, I would not what to risk car or life in Cairo traffic. This has lead to a feeling of being restrained - something I do not have in the states because my car is reliable and most anywhere worth going is less than an hour away.

For the majority (read all) of my formative years we did not have any air conditioning in my house. This meant during the hot summer months we would go swimming in a neighbors pond. Cool water is nice, goofing off with my brothers on the raft was great, but the best part was the seemingly never ending supply of blueberries that edged half the pond. The fifty or so bushes were close enough to the water that walking around any bush required walking through the oozing mud of the pond bank. Since there shore side of the plants were always picked clean, I wearing my swimming trunks, had access to the virgin quarter of the bush that required slowly sinking ankle deep in the semi-viscous edging. During my squeamish younger years this was quite a trade off. To enjoy the succulent fruit I had to be able to stomach the sensation of the gelling mud forcing its way between my toes. It took me at least three years to realize that I could levitate in the shallow water beneath the bushes and reach up to the overhanging branches. This practice worked but was horribly inefficient. So after another three years I overcame my disgust of my feet being consumed by the pond.

Harvesting aside, there are few corporeal things that can compete with refrigerated blueberries with ice cold milk and Raisin Bran. Each piece of fruit has a distinct pop before the sweet juice flows out to mix with the white milk. Perfection in Breakfast.

With all tactile memories flooding my five senses, it is difficult to imagine that I will be missing all of the things that make Cairo the surreal city that most people only dream of. I am assuming that after I gorge myself, swim in 50 degree water, complete biological instabilities without chaffing, and see a few scantly clad girls walking about, like, how their lives are so hard like they are like, on the OC or something, I will want to come back to this country of repression. In my first few days here many Ex-pats told me this was a city no one could truly leave - if the culture shock didn't kill. Since I am acclimated I fear this place is a mistress that I will always want to come back to, but then always leave.

Oman.... and Dubai

The prospect of the long weekend that awaited had inspired an exceptional laziness. Peter and I were were attempting to get the other to make the long walk through the kitchen to mix a second round. Since we were only a few sips in, the bulling had started much earlier than normal which I incorrectly attributed to the lack of collective motivation. Per the norm, we were engaging in multiple lines of conversation. The first and most pertinent to me was who was going to mix the second drink. Peter was making a strong case supplemented by flattery that I could mix a better gin and tonic. Since I knew I would eventually have to get up and find another lime in the fridge I was already attempting to guide the conversation productively towards the second and third conversational arcs – where we were eating that night and what we were doing that weekend.

I was prepared for the dining venue to be the strongest point of contention and since I had not eaten in many hours it was one I wanted resolved soon. Unfortunately there was no direct verbal path from location of the current debate, which was the merits of each type of gin we had in the freezer. This was not much of a debate since we had one good and one bad. I was attempting to interject that we still needed to have a plan for the weekend.

The conversation finally turned to destinations after Peter made a joke about gypsies in Hungary, we laughed and he said ”That is a true example of Globalization. Its not that we can be in Japan tomorrow morning but that you can substitute Gypsy for any minority in whatever country and localize the joke instantly.”

”Speaking of which, did you hear where we are going this weekend? ”

”No, where? ” Peter perked up and was obviously expecting a snappy dig but I truly just wanted to change the subject. After this we discussed options by verbally throwing darts at a board. ”Alexandria is three hours away. White sand… and… other stuff.” Peter smirked and we both knew that we weren't going to Alex. ”So where else? ” I was trying to picture the entirety of Egypt in my mind so that I could eliminate places I didn’t want to go. After crossing off Dahab, Luxor, Aswan and Sharm el Sheikh (too far/touristy/hot/sandy/not sandy enough) we lulled into a silence so I shook my glass until the cucumber stick slid off the bottom and slid down the glass. The garnish had lost its taste but absorbed the bubbles from the tonic water which created a tasteless crunch that bit back.

”Japan. Air Arabia has flights to Kochi.” Peter gave me a inspecting smirk.

”I am assuming that is an island.” We later learned the Kochi that AA flies to is a fishing village in south-west India.

”All of Japan is islands. If that’s too small for you we could go to Australia. ” The mention of the mythical place of kangaroos spawned a new thread which discussed the merits of an Austrian tourist we had met. After this was concluded I started joking around naming countries which were in hopping distance yet still to far away to be considered and, just to be combative, Peter gave a single short reason why we shouldn't go.

Saudi – Visa

Iran – Visa

Jordan – Too green and Visa

Syria – Visa

Cyprus – Russians

Greece – Only for a honeymoon

Sudan - Genocide

Lebanon – Been there

Israel – I want to travel to other countries after

Oman – Hmmm.

There are times in one’s life where completely unjustifiable spontaneity seizes the moments of decision and, coincidentally by the time the consequences are realized it is too late to undo the action taken. An hour later we were in a cab heading to the Airport in Alex.

Part 2

The first mistake of the trip we made was in selecting a cab to take us to the Alexandria Airport. The trip is about 220 kilometers and moving at a decent speed takes two hours. Our cab was different. It was an early model Peugeot 504 that was missing the novel accessories like headrests, seat belts and, as we discovered when we got out of the city – headlights. The driver, not understanding the concept of English time (disparity of five minutes) was driving much slower than the conditions of the road allowed. In Egypt, time is a concept which has a disparity of plus or minus two hundred percent. Since the roads were completely lit we did not notice that the cab driver was not using his lights to signal as most Egyptians do. Since we were doing about 80 kph there were always people behind us who were flashing their high beams, honking, and passing while yelling out their windows.

While we were still in the Cairo city limits I called a friend to say what I was doing clue her in on the outrageousness of this whole thing. Two minutes into the conversation my phone ran out of credit and the connection died. Not thinking much of it I put the phone back in my bag and forgot I was creditless, which came back to bite me later.

In hindsight, this trip clearly violated the only mandate I was given about travel: Don’t be stupid. This did not prevent me from nodding off once or twice over the drive because as Dave Barry said about the Rules of Life:

1. A lot of things can happen

2. ALL of these can kill you

3. Don’t panic!

About 20 km out of Cairo the most amazing and unexpected incident happened. We were pulling up to the toll booth when all of a sudden a tiny Arab ran up to the car window, threw something on the driver’s lap and vanished back into the dark. Since I was sitting in the back on the passengers side I was able to see the roundish greenish form as it came in through the window. My first, and thankfully not last, thought: Was that a grenade? It was a particularly vile knock-off of Activia yogurt. I much preferred this biological warfare to something that would go bump in the night – in the front seat of the car. As soon as that threat had been identified another Egyptian ran up and handed the driver three cans of Bebsi Zerh-ho (Pepsi Zero) to the driver. Peter and I were astonished. Never in the nearly two years we had collectively lived in Egypt had we ever gotten something for free. Hell, if you want extra packets of Ketchup at McDonald’s they charge you.

Then we pulled into a McDonald’s but not for Ketchup. The driver went up to the gas pump and looked confused for a few minutes yet couldn’t quite say what was off. After about 10 minutes we got back on the highway without getting gas. We stopped again twenty minutes later and discovered the driver was looking for grade 80 gas instead of the grade 89.

By this time we were using dead reckoning to estimate our time of arrival. The taxi was going far too slowly to get to the airport on time. The driver didn’t understand the concept of a flight leaving on time – without us- which is probably why, after increasing his speed slightly, he had to pull over to fix the headlights. The timing of the stop made sense to me a little while after. Since we had increased speed, we were no longer a traffic obstruction, which resulted in people not tailgating with their high beams on. Also the driver’s reluctance to go a proper speed was made known, because an unfortunate byproduct of the speed increase was that the car started making noises that sounded like a asthmatic swan choking on a kazoo.

We didn’t make the flight. We did get yelled at by the security before the Air Arabia ticket agent came down from the office to collect us. Thankfully the next flight left the next morning so instead of having a twelve hour layover in Sharjah, we would just spend that time in Alex and catch the same connection out the next day.

The plan was to sleep on the way from Cairo to Alex, wake briefly to shuffle on board the plane, continue sleeping till we landed in Sharjah, then spend the day walking around Dubai. Since both Peter and I were mostly awake for the drive, we went to the shopping center next to the airport to get some food. This distraction did not kill nearly enough time before the mall closed so we went back to the airport. The security guards still didn’t like us and the ticket agents had gone home so we spent the night sleeping on park benches outside the airport. Peter grabbed a bench and I was about to sit down on the one across from his when a black bird swooped in a deposited a white and gray splotch on the bench where I was going to sit. Within fifteen minutes Peter was snoring and I was trying to will the bird in the nest above me not to have to go in the middle of the night.

For some reason this place reminded me of the Baltimore bus station. It smelled of trash that was old enough to start losing its smell and I was securing my baggage to me and then securing me to solid objects. These alone should justify the feeling that this place was just like Baltimore. It could have been the shitty Ravens though.

Around six in the morning, taxis started driving up with passengers for the 8 o’clock flights. Peter was still asleep and I was still casting Constipation Curses on the birds that were still flying in a holding pattern. I finally nodded off at 7:17 and woke up at 7:21 when some local tried to sell me greenish bottled water with a broken safety seal.

Finally at nine they let us into the terminal and I got the Baltimore feeling again. The place was exactly like the bus terminal in B-town. It was dirty, I had slept on a bench, security was non-existent and the terminal was one room with a vending machine. The ticket lectern's were once white but now had various skuff marks, dings, dents, scuffs, scrapes, bruises, and to complete the picture, a stack of about 100 unprinted tickets sitting on top in plain sight. I was contemplating lifting the stack for a lifetime of free flights. The wall behind the ticket lecterns had four massive holes that dropped bags directly on the tarmac.

After boarding the plane the flight was relatively uneventful. I slept for about 20 minutes before the pilot came over the intercom and welcomed everyone to Air Arabia and his name was Mahmoud and he was a former pilot in the Egyptian Air Force. Not having much faith in a military that had 4 jet fights shot down by a single prop driven plane in the last war, I didn’t sleep for the rest of the flight.

The connecting flight to Muscat from Sharjah was completely uneventful except for the landing, which was the bouncy type that usually leads to cannibalism. I was glad to be done with flying after we Captain Kangaroo’d to the gate.

We breezed through passport control and we walked out to the lobby where everyone else’s family was waiting. I stopped short and said ”Dude, we’re in Oman.” Peter grinned and we headed out to catch a cab.

Part 3

Our plan, which was far too audacious, was immediately to get back on a plane and fly to Salalah. A thousand kilometers away from where we were, Salalah is Oman’s best known vacation city. Unfortunately, a few thousand Omanis had the same idea as us and the two daily flights were booked as well as the three extra flights - for the next month. Plan B was to.... uh... stay in Muscat? Peter and I had barely formulated the initial plan and since we had been sitting on our balcony in Cairo 24 hours earlier. The Omani who was waiting in the Salalah flight line ahead of my bag and Peter had struck up a conversation while I was in the WC. He offered to drive us into Muscat and deposit us at a hotel.

Airports are usually a decent indication of what a city will look like. Muscat International was modern and could have passed for any western European city save for the complete lack of white people and the distinctively dressed Arabs who were all around. I felt like an Albino at the Apollo.

The roads were completely clean without any sand or trash blown to the downwind side. There were the normal dotted white lines separating the lanes. It took me a few minutes to realize it but people were actually obeying the lines. This astonished me and when we pulled up to a red light – that was working – and stopped. And waiting for the light to change. There were a few cars behind us. No one was honking. Or jockeying to squeeze past. This was completely unlike Cairo.

Our Omani benefactor dropped us as a Shwerma stand for dinner and afterwards we walked down to the beach. There was barely any wind off the Arabian Sea but it was refreshing just the same. We decided to walk around the area to see the few sights we could at night. The daytime heat had cooled to around 80 or 85 which made the walk enjoyable.

Just after the Ministry of Something or other – which I illegally took a picture of thinking it was a home or museum – I stepped off the sidewalk onto the grass. It crunched. I looked down expecting to see a pancaked bug but there was just weirdly large grass. It was a type of cactus that grew an inch or two thick and covered the entire median between the sidewalk and the road. The other side had it too. I snapped a picture and we kept walking.

We walked in a big circle to and from the hotel. I took a shower and collapsed into bed. I had brought a book by Chuck Paulanuk that was far to intense for night time reading so I switched on the tube. MTV Arabia was playing a show about the exceptionally difficult and emotionally fraught life of some over privileged skateboarder. ”I bet he has never heard of Oman” was my last thought of the day.

Part 4

The breakfast at the hotel tasted a bit off but it was free so neither of us complained. A brief discussion over coffee and Lonely Planet concluded that we would do the 8km walking tour of Muscat. This sounded like a great idea at the time but May through October is summer in Northern Oman. Our taxi got to the Corniche (road by the water) at around 10 and even then it was pushing 37°C (98.6°F).

Our first stop was the fish market, a low building that, wonder of wonders, smelled like fish. There were several rows of ten-foot wide, foot and a half tall platforms that ran the length of the building. There was no rotten undertone unlike most other fish markets I’d been to. We saw two Japanese tourists here who were compelled to take pictures of every single kind of fish. The market had quite a lot of different fish. Big and small, all different colors, and just too make sure if these options weren’t numerous enough, some with spear holes along the spine or neat puncture holes on either side of the mouth. I accidentally kicked a snail that had walked sideways off someone’s sale area. The male half of the Japanese pair said “Aiugh,” dragging out the ‘gh’ noise and took pictures of my foot, the snail, and then the two of them together. I picked up the snail and put it back on the bench. The snail’s proprietor nodded at me then went back to watching the Japanese tourist take pictures. I would have joined him but Peter had already reached the door at the other end of the cavern.

Through the door was the fruit and vegetable market. Nothing spectacular but it was a refreshing change from the fish odor. The opposite end of the Veg market led to the meat market. Even though the chucks of red and white flesh hanging in the windows weren’t identifiable it was easy to see what was sold where by the blunt signs saying things like “Sale of Veal” or “Sale of Mutton” and in case you didn’t know what you wanted there was always the guy selling “Fleshes.”

We headed away from the market down the Corniche, which was completely devoid of locals. We headed into a Souq (Sewk) and looked at all of the shiny things, the wearable things, the cook able things, and finally, the Frankincense. History purports that one of the Wise Men was Omani, because Oman was the production center for Frankincense for the old world. We walked into one of the shops where half-kilo bags of the white pellets were stacked waist height. A rough estimate put the shop’s inventory around 1800 kilograms of raw product fit to gift to a king. The three different grades were easily identifiable. The highest grade was pure white with a nearly uniform size. Mid grade was slightly yellow with some brown flecks in each of the sap balls. The lowest grade had rocks, twigs and leaves in it, which would probably detract from the aroma of the burning perfume. Peter bought some grade A and we kept walking.

The Corniche was a scenic tour along the bay and then the span of nothing between the two settlements. The hills around the bay were dotted with stubby towers left over from the Portuguese invasion in the 1550s. A little historical irony: the pilot who helped the first Portuguese sail around the Cape in the 1540s was Omani. Ten years later the Iberians invaded the country to make sure that superior sailors could not cut off the precious route to Indian spices. The walk was hot and long, divided only into sections only by stopping to take pictures of the fortifications. Since the temperature had hit 105, we decided it was time for a drink. We stopped at a place with a sign in Arabic and misspelled English.

We left the port area of the city and walked to the Gate district, which was built around the Royal Palace. We walked up the promenade to the Palace gates. Peter took a picture of himself reflected in the emblem on the gate. “See, I’ve only been in the country a day and I’m on the Royal Shield.”

The palace had been built in the 60s and looked like a Lloyd Wright knock off in Blue tile. A particularly helpful gardener told us we could walk around the Palace on a path and get to the other side. The path turned out to be a paved road complete with traffic. The paved road led to a narrow inlet. Palace sat at one end and the Arabian Sea was at the other end, which was guarded against by two more Portuguese towers. The only difference between these towers and the others we had seen was the presence of Oman’s Royal Guard looking severe and armed with CAR-15s. We were told, once yet ever so politely, that the towers were not a tourist attraction. We saw a few more sights before heading back to the hotel and to dinner.

Peter told the Head Waiter of the Indian Restaurant that he had heard that this was a good restaurant. The waiter told him it was better than they said, a claim that I was skeptical of. The name of the place was a corny pun – Mumtaz Mahal, is pronounced mumTaj Mahal in Oman Arabic – which just added to my disillusion. The food was eatable but not up to the expectation that the waiter had set.

As it turns out, our budget hotel was across the street from the Muscat Intercontinental. The first thing you see when walking into the lobby is a framed picture behind the Bell Captain’s desk that shows an aerial shot of a brown box sitting in a sand pile with nothing else in the picture. The placard beneath says “Muscat Intercontinental – 1977.” After getting a drink while watching Omais play pool badly, Peter said, “Isn’t this the sort of place that gets blown up?” We looked at each other, then the bar with the Philippino hookers, and the door with absolutely no security, then left.

Part 5

I woke up the next morning with a bit worse of the stomachache but still managed to eat some of the free breakfast. Our plan was to rent a car and head inland. The hotel was supposed to arrange our car rental but they had only called the airport to confirm that confirmation was needed before they could confirm they had cars to rent. So after the taxi ride and registration paper work, we had our very own Corolla GT. Peter can’t drive so I was the only choice for wheelman. After handing over my driver’s licence and passport for photocopying, Peter asked if I had ever rented a car before. “Nah, not allowed to.” “Ah right you have to be 25 in the US.” The rental man handed me my passport, licence and the keys as I started walking and said over my shoulder to Peter “Yeah, that and I have too many speeding tickets.”

Having never discussed my impeccable driving record, Peter thought I was serious, and as a result was seriously nervous. As it turns out, all cars in Oman are equipped with a beeper that starts beeping at 120kph. This doesn’t stop most of the residents from going the fastest safe speed on the roads. Since the roads are perfectly flat, mostly unused, and three lanes wide the fastest safe speed is around 120mph, which is the speed that most people drive – beeper be damned.

Our destination was the city of Nizwa, about 200km away from Muscat. The drive was uneventful, except for Peter falling asleep for most of it while I listened to Arabic music till the radio station was out of range and then switched to my iPod. We arrived in Nizwa at around two in the afternoon to find that the city had been abandoned. There were no signs of life. We drove around till we found the city centre and the famous fort, which was closed because of the holy day.

Changing course, we headed to Jabil Shams, and the famous Wadi next to it. I hadn’t heard of either of these till that morning. Jabil Shams is a big mountain, and the Wadi is an oasis in rocks instead of sand. Neither one closes for anything except acts of God. Unfortunately, God only promised never to flood the world again, not keep the rivers flowing. When we got to the Wadi it was completely dry from the summer heat. I was so looking forward to swimming in what was billed as the “sweetest water in the world.” The canyon was still impressive, as was the town built into the side of the cliff to avoid the floodwaters that come in the spring.

Continuing on, we got to what Lonely Planet described as “A winding paved road with amazing views that turns to a dirt road with better views as you ascend.” This turned out to be a dead-on analysis of the terrain. After the first few turns I was wishing we had rented the Porsche Boxter. It was still an entertaining climb with Peter reminding me that there was a cliff on one side and oncoming traffic on the other. We proceeded a few kilometres up the mountain until we thought that the walk out would be too far if we got a flat. Heading down, we met a convoy of slow moving locals who were far more perplexed to see us than we them.

We stopped to see a few more things along the way back to Muscat. Deciding that instead of going to the city, we should go see the port of Seeb, 50km away from Muscat. The drive too was as uneventful as the stay, though Peter bought a funny hat that he refuses to wear for longer than a few seconds.

We had both noted the near complete dominance of imported Indian labour for lower level positions. Pretty much everyone he had seen working in a restaurant or any of the other menial tasks were Indian. The few true Omanis we talked to couldn’t understand our Arabic because it was too different from theirs.

The morning required that we drive to the airport for the short hop to Sharjah for a twelve-hour layover before the flight to Alexandria. We turned in the car without problems and had an easy flight into Sharjah. Since we had a whole twelve hours to kill, we decided to head into Dubai for the day. This will forever be known as the worst travel experience of my life.

Part 6 Dubai

Dubai was incorporated into the United Arab Emirates in 1970. The Rulers of the Emirates had decided that since they were running out of oil, and they had nothing else going for them, they should band together and make something of themselves and their respective backwater plots of land. The UAE is located on a tiny strip of coastline on the east coast of Saudi Arabia. It is hot and dry like the rest of the Arabian Peninsula, but hotter and dryer.

My brother always spoke about Dubai with reverence, which now I find unjustifiable. Never the less, this second hand anticipation made to want to see the city. The Sharjah Airport is about 30km away from Dubai, which was well within a taxi ride to go see. Who knows when I will have the chance again?

We needed Transit Visas so that we could leave the airport. For EU and American passport holders this is a simple process of walking to Passport control, getting a free stamp and leaving the Airport. Since both Peter and I have the required passports we walked to Passport control. Hungary was not on the list of Preferred Countries even though it is a member of the EU. So after talking with the Head of Security for a while, Peter was told he had to go apply for a Transit Visa at the official Passport office.

The Passport officer I was talking to thought that I didn’t look anything like my picture, so I showed her my American Driver’s licence, which confirmed her suspicions: I was attempting to enter the United Arab Emirates with a fake passport. She called her boss who arrived with two sleepy but armed guards. The boss – the same person who had told Peter Hungary wasn’t part of the EU – looked at me, then my passport, then my Driver’s licence, and then my school ID then back at me. The boss and the Passport control officer engage in a heated exchange while pointing at my nose then passport, jaw then passport, hair then passport, and finally have me turn in profile and gesticulating wildly between my facial features and the picture that is a pretty good representation of my personage. Finally the boss hands all my papers back except my passport apologizing, in a horrifically thick accent, “I am surry. She thinks that all Americans look alike.” The guards walk away with their AK-47s looking rather disappointed as the woman who thinks all white people look alike abused my passport a few vicious stamps.

After walking through the turnstile, I look around for Peter who is back on the other side of the Passport Control. I walked to where the boss was and he said I can come and go as I please. Yeah. So I walk back through and Peter is in huddled mass with a bunch of Egyptians who are all trying to get passports from the one woman working the Visa counter. Slowly but surely, all of the people who had pre-approved Visas got their stamps and disappeared, leaving Peter and me. The Syrian finally took Peter’s passport, looked at it and said, “You’re in the EU. You don’t need to get a Visa from me.” After explaining what happened at the PC counter she went over talked them for her. So as it turns out, even though all EU countries are on the Preferred List, Hungary is not. This meant that Peter had to wait for the Ministry in Dubai to approve his Visa. This is supposed to take an hour so Peter and I got lunch in the airport while we were waiting. After eating we decided it would be best if I head in to the city alone while Peter waited.

So I split and took a taxi into Dubai. The driver was an Indian guy who spoke enough English to put me at ease and generally tell me what was worth seeing. I decided to see the Gold Souq, since it was supposed to be the biggest and richest in the world. I got dropped about a kilometre away from the Gold Souq, at a string of three gold shops. Not realizing the difference, I got out and handed the driver my smallest bill – 100 Dirhams – for the 71 Dirham ride. The driver leans across the front seat to take the bill, pulls the door shut then smoothly locks it in one fluid motion. He dropped the bill in his lap and put the car back in gear pulling into traffic. Now I live in Cairo, where the cabbies are notorious for getting people to willingly give them extra cash beyond what the fare cost. Such a blatant method of thievery - I am ashamed to say - I was completely unprepared for.

After finally locating the Gold Souq, I walked through. It consisted of twenty or so shops and was about the size the hair care products section in Wal-Mart. It still took me Thirty minutes to get through because of the exceptionally pushy and grabby salesmen. Someone trying to sell something to pedestrians is completely normal in every city in the world, but grabbing people so they can’t keep walking – that is a first.

I was walking along looking at all the shiny stuff and an Indian guy in his mid-twenties selling watches grabbed my wrist. My other hand goes to my passport and wallet instantly. Speaking in pretty good English he tells me that I will get an amazing deal on any brand I want! Rolex! Brietling! Chanel! Something for the girlfriend/mother/sister/father! Everyone needs a watch! I haven’t worn a watch since I was ten. I have no desire to purchase a ‘Rolez’ as a gift either. While talking over the salesman I move my wrist to break his grip and “Let go of me.” Instead of letting go and shutting up, he squeezes harder and talks faster. So I keep “let go of me” in two languages and trying to break his grip. He doesn’t relent so I take my hand away from my wallet and start pulling back the guy’s thumb. I get it pretty far away from my wrist but his fingers were long and wrapped a pretty decent way around. He says “Ow” and I keep prying his thumb away until finally he realizes that if he doesn’t let go I’m going to take his thumb as a souvenir and not a watch. A guy who could have been the owner steps up and right as the salesman yells and lets go of my wrist. The yelp gets the attention of most of the Souq who start looking at me and the hustler - who was holding his thumb with a pained expression on his face. The Owner starts yelling at me for hurting his salesman and having no respect.

I am still flabbergasted by this turn of events so stupidly I stand there and verbally defend myself instead of walking away. A few bullet points into Apu’s lecture about my lack of respect I interject that his salesman grabbed me and I was the one who was being disrespected. Apu doesn’t like this idea so he tells me that I should have at least looked at the watches since the kind salesman was offering so politely. Feeling that this didn’t justify a response and I was thoroughly done with this whole situation and these people I turned away from them and start to walk away. Apu grabs my left wrist and starts to say something about him not being finished with hi… I continued the spin to face Apu with my right fist up at his eye level and cocked back. During my 4-H years I learned that punching from this position doesn’t hurt at all but it makes people stop talking when their face is the target. I twirled my left arm and broke his grip. The Apu and his hustler look dumbfounded as I walked away.

During the Watch Incident I had gotten a text from Peter saying he had gotten through Passport Control and he was at some mall, watching people ski. When I was leaving Egypt I had made a call that left my phone credit depleted. Not having used my phone in four days and not remembering I was out of credit, I tried to call Peter. The friendly-recorded voice told me that I needed to recharge my phone if I wanted to make a call. So I walked into a Hotel to buy a phone card. After taking a picture of the “All couples must produce a marriage certificate to before sharing room” sign, the guy behind the desk told me I could buy one at any supermarket. After searching for a supermarket for the better part of an hour, I found one and went in to buy water and a phone card.

I assumed that Vodophone would be available from any place that I went in. This was an incorrect assumption as I found out later since Vodophone does not operate in the UAEI tried to explain to the guy that I needed a Vodophone card. He looked at the face of my phone and said that a DU recharge card would work. He spoke pretty good English and I took off the back off my phone to show him the Red SIM card to make sure he understood that I didn’t have a DU SIM. This didn’t seem to faze him so I asked if he would buy the recharge card back if it didn’t work. He agreed so I bought the 20 Dirham card. I scratched the card’s lottery style protective backing off and dialled the code into my phone. It didn’t work. I tried a different configuration and it still didn’t work. I told the cashier and he yelled at one of the guys from the back to come and do it for me. After the three store attendants had all tried to do it and had all concluded that it wouldn’t work, I asked for my money back. Within five minutes the storekeeper was alternating between yelling at his attendants for not being able to put the credit onto my phone and yelling at me telling me that my phone was broken. At the ten-minute mark I was quite sure that negotiations had completely failed so I looked through the front of the store contemplating walking out. I saw two guys wearing blue military looking uniform so I turning to the boss and told him I was going to call the cops. He told me “Fine, call the *expletive expletive* cops!” So I took the two steps to the front of the shop, opened the glass door and shouted to the authority figures. They came into the store and immediately the boss calmed down and started talking in polite tones. I explained the situation, show the DU recharge card, my SIM card, and the full reception on my phone. The man in blue turned and the boss – I am assuming – started telling his version of the story.

When the man in blue turned back to me he said, “Well, he can’t take the card back because you took the silver off. I use DU phone. I will buy the card from you for 15.” Wanting to be done, I took the money and walked out. I turned to give the store, boss, and peanuts by the cash register one final look, hoping it would catch on fire while I was still there to see it burn. Through the glass I saw the boss handing the man in blue a 20 Dirham bill from the register.

I decided that I was going to avoid people. I found a board with a map of the streets around and headed for the nearest water. From the waterfront I was close enough to see a bunch of the famous skyscrapers. I walked along the shore for about an hour in the midday heat until I decided that enough was enough and I was going back to the airport. I was still on a pretty big road and there were a bunch of cabs going by. I waited at a traffic light so I could see into the cabs and look at the drivers. Yes, I was being completely racist but I jumped in the first cab that had a driver with the devout Muslim’s brown callous on his forehead from praying five times a day. The cab drivers name was Mohammed, he was from Cairo and hating working in Dubai but had to because it paid so well. I told him about my day and how much better living in Cairo was. He told me about how much better living in Cairo was and recounted a few stories about why he wanted to go back. When we got to the airport, he offered to comp the 50 Dirham ride but I insisted on paying him.

I went up to the checking desk where Peter was talking with the three Egyptians who were working there about how awful his trip to Dubai was and how much they disliked working there. We went through security and recounted our day to each other which eating the surprisingly good Chinese food from the duty free. Peter had gone to the mall with skiing, the Abu Gherig, and a few other places. Not nearly as traumatic as my day but still not worth it in his estimation.

“So what was the most redeeming thing about the city?” I asked, trying to be optimistic.

“The Chinese food in the duty free.” We laughed, high-fived.

We kissed the ground when we got back to Cairo.

The Cause and Solution

Being a foreigner allows me a huge amount of latitude when it comes to my movements within the city. I can - and frequently do - eat at places that are not on any tourist maps because of the lack of western health standards. This is a complete reversal from my position which was reinforced my mother's warnings about not eating at "bad places."
Last summer I had a particularly comical - in hindsight - trip to the hospital which ended in me waking up from a dehydrated stupor looking at the water stained ceiling tiles of an Egyptian Hospital. I had a myriad of health problems that "ain't fit for print" that I attributed to bad food. While this assumption was probably correct, I foolishly thought that the location and look of the restaurant determined the quality of the food. So I ate at places that had nice chairs and cloth napkins but still did not solve the healing problems and I lost more than fifteen pounds. For those of you not familiar with my physique, that weight loss was pure muscle and probably a semi-vital organ.
So this year, knowing that I am down a kidney, I decided at the first sign of any bowel problems I would medicate with traditional medical procedures. This consisted of eating nothing but high-fiber crackers, drinking enough water to drown a dolphin, and also choking down straight Campari on the rocks on the hour, every hour. Campari is an Italian aperitif I am fond of when it is cut to one third strength by Orange juice. However the taste is still forceful, even in its diminished state, that my friends have described it as "foul," "nasty," and many far more profane things. Over night I was completely cured after going through the initial stages whatever malady I had for most of last summer. While I am quite sure this method was encompassed under the "DON'T BE STUPID" ultimatum I get before going anywhere, it worked fantastically well. So, like the Gypsy with his lucky scarf, I have gotten much more adventurous with where and what I eat.

Guess Whos back

So I am back in Cairo. Armed with a much better knowledge of Arabic, the culture and the city, I though that everything would be so simple this time around. However less than then a minute after stepping through security I got a nice reminder about the Egyptian hustler.
The first thing to do was to make it from the airport to my hotel. Since I was dragging two rather large bags behind me, this requires a taxi. There are only about ten cabs in Cairo that have a working fare meter. This means that either the average tourist is going to get scalped every time they ride in a black and white car or the fare must be negotiated ahead of time. I find that this means considerably fewer problems than taking the ride with the driver expecting several multiples higher than he is going to get paid.
The first guys I talk to volunteers my price: 50 Egyptian pounds. Quite pleased with the expediency of this, I grab my bags and walk to the taxi where I hear the guy tell the driver 50 American Dollars, which is about 225 EP. Far too much but commonly known as the "Tourist Rate" (No joke, the locals really call it that). So I politely tell him in English that that was too much and I would pay 50 pounds. To which he responded that $50 was the normal rate (it isn't), that 50 pounds is what the gas costs (closer to 10 cents if the car gets bad mileage), and that he had three daughters to feed (a twenty year old guy who hustles tourists is unlikely to be married let alone have three kids). I decide that finding a new person to deal with is best, so I thank him and start to walk away. So he spits 70 pounds to my back with disappointment. Then the negotiation begins. We don't agree. Me, not being ignorant, and he, being greedy, could not come to terms with the flaws we saw in the other. So after about ten minutes of looking I find a driver who will make the trip for 60 pounds. Decent enough.
So the next day I put on my nice new suit and head to the main Citibank office where I am supposed to be working. Long story short, I end up waiting in the lobby for the better part of the day and the next day and the next. I finally get an email from my sponsor on Friday, five days after I thought I was starting work, that the head of the Finance department would call me on Sunday to work things out.
Having a week off gave me considerable free time. After doing a few searches for apartments to get a feel for price/location/size on my first three evenings in Cairo I decide that I am going to spend entirety of the next day looking for a flat.
Starting at 9:30 in the morning, I meet with broker Number 1. He tells me that a lot of rich Arabs come to visit Egypt in the summer and rent flats like hotels so finding something my size and price would be hard. He shows me a few bad flats and I end up not taking them. This gets me to lunch at One after which I meet with broker Number 2. He tells me the exact same thing and shows me two of the same apartments, but with the price increased by about 200 pounds a month. I decide at five o'clock more... ethno-centric approach is needed.
Each apartment building in Cairo has a Bowab, or doorman. He is responsible for making sure nothing bad happens to the building and runs small errands for the tenants. The Bowabs run the city. I decide that talking to a Bowab and seeing if they have any flats open would be a good idea. One of the big problems with this idea is that Bowabs do not speak English. Most of the communications between us are short, barely understood by either party and where horrificly time consuming. But I was seeing flats new so I roll with it. This leads me on a wild goose chase across greater Zamalek which results in seeing apartments what haven't been cleaned since he last Pharaonic Dynasty. After seeing the third overpriced flat with 4000 years of dust I decide that I'm giving up. However I get convinced to look at one last apartment.
It was fantastic. Exactly what I was looking for and a little below my price cap. Not a great view but had everything else. In attempting to get down to business the ring leader of the Bowabs enlists the help of the neighbor who spoke English decently well. So after a few brief sales pitches I finally ask what price he wants. The neighbor translates this to the Bowab who replies and the neighbor says "5000 pounds a month." He then turns to the Bowab in a rather annoyed tone and starts saying in Arabic "5000 a month?!? That's what I am paying for the flat across the hall and I only have one bedroom." So after they finish arguing the neighbor turns to me and says "He wants 8000 pounds." I refuse which seemed to create an argument between the Bowab and the neighbor. Then the neighbor told me that the flat wasn't available anymore because he was moving in, heres the fun part, for 5,500 pounds a month. I left.
I walk from northern Zamalek to mid-island to get a later dinner at a more reputable stand. As I was leaving the shwarma joint a guy randomly sitting on a stoop asks me if I found a place. I reply and get dragged to a building that looks pretty sketchy. Though it turns out to house the nicest flat I had seen so far. Exceptionally clean, spacious and a great balcony with a view of the Nile. The best place I had seen and in the best area as well.
As it turns out the Bowabs from earlier were freelancing as brokers who wanted 500 pounds from the owner for services rendered and 800 pounds from me. I was prepared to pay a marginal fee but not the 800 pounds that the guy wanted in addition to what the owner paid. After more negotiation, I agreed to pay 200 and the owner paid 300.
So here is Cairo and that little speck is me, just one in the 18 million. With a population density more than double that of Tokyo and a metro area half the size of Hong Kong, its easy to be overwhelmed. Lucky for me, I have my own little sanctuary on the 5th floor of a building on Hassan Asem Street.

The Urchin

My senses were suppressed by unintended sleep but I still felt the movement subliminally of something near my feet. The effort of moving my sedentary eyelids wasn't as considerable as comprehending what forms my sticky sweet and lethargy drugged brain was fed. The desert and the sea were there; as they had been when I succumbed to the inadvertent siesta. They looked... strange, like someone had painted half a sheet the paper blue and then folded along the divide but the paper splayed back out to a semi open state that elevated the blue higher than the white. From my vantage it looked as if the sea was rising above me and the next swell would sweep away me and my book and the... It was the dog. I instantly felt gratitude it wasn't the girl again, then... what? Shame? Pity? No not pity. That was earlier. The mutt was the sort of skinny that comes from eating to little and moving to much. I had tossed him scraps of my chicken the day before and he was the cautious melody of grateful that comes from being abused by shopkeepers and pitied by tourists. He had first approached me a step or two at a time. Just to be sure I wouldn't produce a broom and strike the instant he was in range.
Not quite like the girl. She was about six or seven and trying to peddle bracelets made of thread twisted like the coil of a whip. She had approached me with more gusto than the dog. Maybe that's why I had the first pangs of apprehension when I felt the dog near me; not because I found her company distasteful, but because of what vile things Jiminy Cricket whispered in my ear after.
"You buy one?" she in the staccato English of someone not quite sure of their words but sure their time is limited.
"Bee kem?"
"Ohhh you spoke arabee. What color you want?"
"Laa laa. Bee kem?"
"Pay what you think is fair."
"Black and red if you have them."
The perfectly pronounced and complete sentence stunned me into submission for a few tempos. In that time the girl had started pulling string off the spools in her bag.
Her bag. The first time I noticed anything about her was her bag. It had the flare and cut of something expensively European but was several years old as evidenced by splotches of black and gray on the handle which snaked round to cover the bottom.
"Whats that?" pointing to my upper lip which was iced in droplets of sweat.
"Sweat. Water" I said though my hand as I wiped the accumulation off.
"I don't get that." She quipped. "I'm brown." Too true.
The rest of her wasn't in much better shape than the bag. Her pink shirt had morphed into a Nantucket red. Her hair and feet were the sort of dusty gray that too much salt and sand produce over time. She had finish unwinding thread off her spools.
"Hold this" she said as she forced my index finder into loop of thread that needed a bit of coaxing to fit low enough so I could hold it.
After carefully selecting several threads of different colors from the tangle she started winding them around the lace stretched between her hand and mine. It was mesmerizing. She moved with the precision of a craftsman who is so practiced she just moves. No thinking. No planning. Just swift exact movements. Wind, wind, wind, wind, twist a loop and pull tight. She must have been left handed because she was holding the cord with her right hand and doing all of the precision work with her left.
"Where you from?"
"America. And you?"
"I'm Bedouin." I had noted that the instant came into my sight but I didn't feel like pursuing the topic so I let a silence settle.
"What State are you from?"
"New Hampshire"
She made a clucking noise between her tongue and palate which is the Bedouin thinking noise.
"The capitol of New Hampshire is Concord." I must have shown surprise somehow because she laughed the high pitched laugh of a child who is positively thrilled and excited.
"I have a map. The man down the street trys teach me English. He reads map to point."
She made a flourish with the end of the loose threads that had been wound about a third of the way down the remaining threads. Her thin fingers selected a few more white than black this time and started winding again.
"New Hamsheer have snow?"
"Lots and lots."
"Twenty meters?" I chuckled and she stopped winding to look into my eyes. Then she went back to winding.
"No, where I live we get one or two meters per year." The shoulder slump was so subtle I almost didn't see it in the sun. Disappointment maybe?
"But north of me they get three to five meters." Her sagged frame rebounded instantly.
"Who are they?"
"The people that live north my home."
"Whats north?"
"Above my home."
"In the sky?" I chuckled again but this time she didn't droop. Then I registered that she had been smiling since she spoke. A joke?
"Silly silly" she managed to get through a giggle. "I know people can't live in the sky."
The thread had almost run out so she stopped talking for a second to tie off the threads.
"Do you have...?" and she made a motion I didn't catch.
"I'm sorry?"
"You know..." then she made the gesture again. It was sort of a twist of the left hand so the palm was facing down which she then crossed her right over so she could rub her fourth finger on her left hand between her right thumb and index finger.
"Am I married?" Bingo.
"Yes! Are you married? With a... with a... waf, wif..."
"Wife?" I volunteered.
"Yes! Are you married with wife?" She paused her work to look up for the second time since she started.
"No. I'm not married." The dejection in her transparent childish face was devastating.
"No wife?" She had asked hoping to cling onto the one last chance allowed by her vocabulary.
"Nope." She sighed then went back to the winding. I started to fidget because the string was cutting off the blood to my finger.
"Stop! Stop!" She grabbed my finger and the cord in her minute hand. Then she slid down to a kneeling position like a mechanic trying to get a better view of an auto's suspension as she adjusted the loop.
"There. All better" she said like she had saved me from a horrible fate. She gave the half finished bracelet two subtle tugs to make sure her mechanic's eye was correct.
"A Russian woman told yesterday that her finger would" she cleared her throat as if to make sure she didn't mix up words then she said something in Russian.
"Do you know what that means in English?"
"I think it means 'my finger will fall off' but that can't happen," she looked into my eyes again, "Can it?" There was something urgent in the look she gave me, like I was the only person who could assuage her fear of losing a finger.
"Not if you keep moving the thread a little bit." Her apprehension instantly dissolved into her normal bright demeanor.
Another pause to tie off the threads.
"All done! Where do you have it?" I extended my right wrist to her. She gave a slight smile; the sort you give yourself after you think something is going to happen, then it happens just the way you knew it would.
"How tight? Good?" I placed two fingers under the band to space the bracelet away from my skin. She tied off the loose end then snipped the spare threads with a pair of scissors that looked to be of the same origin as her bag and just as worn.
"Thank you."
"You are welcome, sir."
I pulled out three pounds from my pocket and gave the crumpled brown bills to her.
"No five?"
"Too much."
"Okay. Thank you."
She bounced up and waltzed between my book and the low table.
"Have a nice day."
"You too." She disappeared.
The guilt came swiftly. Then the shame; who combined with the first assailant to make a biting synergy that was enough to distract me from my paperback and look across the sea towards Saudi Arabia. Three pounds? I could see she was dirty, likely hungry, and probably without a real home to go back to. Three pounds? It wasn't the bracelet that made me ashamed. It wasn't completely the fact I gave her 53 American Cents. What was it then? I stared across the rough blue to the distant shore. That was it. It wasn't that I regretted my position in life or resented hers. The epiphany had come when I sipped my coke. That was it wasn't it either. Not the coke; the external form of which is know world round as is the product inside. The physic of the coke was immaterial. The essence not the external form was what made me conscious-stricken.
Was I regretting my position in life when compared to hers? Not exactly but it could be that I regret her seemingly limited potential. What could she do? Hawking bracelets on the beach will only get you so far and then... So what do I do? I could accept my moral turpitude and do nothing. I could raise money and help the street children.
On my way out of the restaurant I gave the attendant ten pounds and asked him to buy the girl lunch when she came by again. He was shocked. After asking me several times if I was sure before he finally conceded and took the bill while giving me an incredulous look. So that is what I do. Pray solipsism won't kill me and write bad literature in the vain hope that it will emancipate my soul.

Perfidiousness

Not to sound pedantic but my preferred example of hypocrisy and its best friend, irony, is the life of Justus von Liebig and the results of his work. Like most good intentioned scientists, Liebig started out wanting to help his fellow man. True to form of other altruistic scientists his first invention was Sulfur Mustards which became prolific in World War 1 trench warfare before being defamed then used again in Egypt and Sudan fifty years later. The diminutive is that this chemical development was the genesis of chemotherapy which saves a respectable number of cancer patients per year. The voluminous irony though is that Liebig was the first person to make a process for Nitrogen fixing fertilizer economically viable. This single invention allowed farmers to stop the time consuming process of rotating crops and just revitalize their fields instantly. The irony is that without Liebig's nitrogen work the world's population (especially in China) would be far outstripping the ability of farmers to produce enough food to feed everyone. The hypocrisy is that Liebig didn't consider any of his works to be significant enough to change peoples lives in any momentous way.
Which brings me to Fashion in Egypt (Ok so maybe that was a bit pedantic). My humble estimate is that roughly three quarters of native women wear head scarves while an additional ten percent wear a full burka (click the links for pictures). Where I see the hypocrisy is that most younger women choose to wear highly colourful head pieces which naturally attract the eye and draw attention to the girl. Isn't it just a touch hypocritical that the article of clothing that's main purpose is to dehumanize the wearer is emphasising the only visible aspect of the Arab woman's femininity?

Dating

Yes, dating. Why dating? Scrutinizing the way courtship, marriage and how people interact in a society can offer some excellent insights. Due to a prevalence of religion in Egypt, dating is slightly different that in the States. Now please understand that my meager knowledge of this topic is holistically secondhand and/or hearsay. So to remove ambiguities here are a few of the most pertinent questions answered.

What is dating?
The popular definition is: Where a young man and woman (or boy/girl) are in a one-on-one intimate relationship, spending time together alone, "getting to know each other" in a very deep way before deciding whether that's the person they will marry. Quaint, eh?

Is dating forbidden is Islamic culture?
Yes

What, what?
Dating in Islamic countries is highly frowned upon by religious doctrine but I will get to that later.

Is "dating" in Islam comparable to dating in America?
Yes, but no. It's purpose as a selection process is slightly different and the standard procedures are very different.

How is it different?
The biggest disparity is the amount of family involvement. The Quraan states quite explicitly that couples should always be accompanied by a family member because "Whenever a man and a women are along together they are accompanied by Satan." This is slightly reminiscent, to me at least, of the British World War 2 poster advocating carpooling that proclaimed "When you ride alone you ride with Hitler" and had a nice little picture of a Wanker riding with a ghostly fuhrer. Furthermore couples should "lower their gaze to guard their modestly." Good thing the Brits didn't advocate that practice while driving.

Ok so step 1: Pray that Allah will send a suitable mate your way. This applies to both men and women.

Step 2: Family meeting! The pertinent members of the family gather to investigate and discuss potential nominees. After consensus is reached the mother or father will approach the head of the selectee's household.

Step 3: Meeting the date: This stage is the closest thing to "dating" and is always conducted in a group setting meaning the couple will always be accompanied by a family member, usually the mother of the girl. This reminds me of the courtship strategy suggested by Joshua Harris in "I Kissed Dating Goodbye", a book which many parents of my high school contemporaries forced their progeny to read. Mr Harris's thesis is that the concept of dating should be exchanged for a "Group Courtship" which I do condone however Mr Harris did not foresee the probability that if a couple, Christian or otherwise, get married they will be spending time alone and will have no bearing on how their now spouse is during the non social hours. This rather skewed view of Ah well, target your market as they say. Mr Harris has sold a million copies of his book and 300,000 of the accompaniying study guide (these are mostly denim jumper home schoolers after all).

Step 4: Background check time. The families ask about the other family by talking with friends, family, co-workers, religious leaders, and of course, Google.

Step 5: Pray again. Just to make sure all the metaphysical bases are covered.

Step 6: Decision time. A while ago the powers that be decided that the people who are to be married should have final say in who they marry. This was done to avoid making women a commodity and discourage marriage becoming a parental business venture.