Letting Go

I’m told that the Welshman who started working in my office after I began my leave of absence has hung a huge Welsh flag in his office. Curious. I wonder if he did the same here before emigrating. I have a Canadian flag on the wall of the lounge where I’m living in Wales but have never had one on my living room wall in Vancouver. Hmmm.

We tend to become more of what we are when we’re no longer where we were. There seems to be a need to preserve what we left by over emphasizing it in the place we go. I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s the feeling that if we don’t overdo it, the move alone would cause it to evaporate and a piece of our history would be lost. Perhaps a fuzzy future is clarified by a connection to the past. Perhaps the discomfort of being in unfamiliar surroundings is made easier by surrounding yourself with things familiar. I think it’s the last one for me. But taken too far, it creates more problems than it resolves.

I see more burkas in Wales than in any of the Muslim countries I’ve visited. The volume at which the Muslims scream their heritage is causing their new fellow countrymen to cover their ears and leave the room. Those that can afford it have deserted the city core leaving only poor white and immigrants in their wake; inner city schools are 80% black. And the Welsh aren’t just leaving the neighborhood, they’re leaving the country. Many of the whites I speak to are working on an exit strategy, hoping to emigrate to Canada, the US or Australia.

Those that can’t or won’t leave are becoming more Welsh by emphasizing their Welshness with their language and customs. The valleys north and west of Cardiff are largely white communities where the Welsh language is more common and while there are few jobs there since the mines closed (up to 50% of some communities are on the dole), it’s preferable to integrating, to having who they are, changed.

My wife calls it the psyche of the defeated. Nations that have been subjugated to another nations laws turn inward and emphasize who they are as defiance to their subjugator, forever harbouring the fantasy of overthrowing their overlords. In Canada it’s Quebec, in the UK it’s Wales.

I see it as excessive homogeneity combined with a fear of the unknown. The unknown future isn’t as comforting as the known past and that leads to a repetition of doing things the same way because “that’s the way we’ve always done it”. It’s where our traditions come from and there's comfort there. But it's the desire for sameness that's dangerous. You can't be Quebecois if you can't trace your roots to France and you can't be Welsh if you're not white and have an oddly spelt name. It's playground exclusion, wallowing in the past and taking pride in something into which the individual had no input. And taken to extremes people die. Hitler wasn’t the first to attempt ethnic cleansing and sadly won’t be the last.

The past is a powerful thing and we’re reluctant to let go because it feels as disrespectful as speaking ill of the dead. But there are new horizons out there...if you’re brave enough to lose sight of the shore.

In the Moment

“Make some tea!” Odd thing to yell, I don’t drink tea or at least I don’t think I did at the time. The time was 9:05 am October 31st, 1981. I was standing by the phone, not sure who to call, my hands gripping my hair. She was collapsed on the living room floor. I needed to get control of the situation.

I had been lying on the couch running my tongue on the inside of my cheek, contemplating the workday ahead. It was a Saturday and I had a crew waiting for me at the office and I was procrastinating as best I could. She and I had spent the night on the couch, too stoned, tired and comfortable to make it to our bedroom where Nathan lay in his crib. She had gone to check on him but returned a moment later unable to speak, no longer able to stand.

It could only be one thing. I ran to the room to see and I saw too much, too fast. His purplegrey pallour screamed the truth but I couldn’t listen. I lifted his cold, limp body and the truth came up my arms and froze my heart. I stood, holding him at arm’s length, momentarily paralyzed with dawning comprehension. My son was dead.

And so began my first unconscious reaction to grief. I didn’t know what to do but instinctively felt that it was important to keep moving, that if we didn’t a monster would overtake us and we wouldn’t survive. That first reaction has been repeated and repeated over the years as I digested the loss of a child and prepared to lose another. The grief of the past and future would occasionally erupt with such sudden violence that I had to paddle hard to keep from drowning in the sad effluent.

It’s a short term strategy that helps in the moment. More effective and less damaging than medication, it marshalls my internal resources and puts me in control. And that’s the thing about grief, it controls you. It takes away your life and leaves you wallowing in a vat of tears. Do it too long and you lose your perspective on what life can and should be and you become a permanently sad person that life just left behind. But choosing not to allow it to overtake you puts you back on the road to recovery.

“I won’t think about that right now”, said Scarlet O’Hara in Gone With the Wind when confronted with the death of a soldier and it’s a decision I’ve had to make many times. Scarlet had a plantation to save just as I have to save my own life but the emphasis in her statement is on the “right now”. Unresolved grief can destroy you. It’s a powerful emotion that gnaws at your mind and takes the sun out of the sky. You have to deal with it but it can be on your terms.

Imagine a ten pound steak. I love steak but if I tried to eat it all in one go it would make me ill, maybe kill me. But if I take it out at times of my choosing and chew on it I can slowly absorb it, maybe even enjoy the new-found insights into my way of being. It’s a long term strategy (in a piece about short term strategy) but the point is that refusing to dwell on my grief at the moment it arises isn’t denial, it’s a decision to deal with it on my terms.

It’s not easy. It is necessary and starts with a shake, literally. When the emotion wells up and grabs my guts I squeeze back and then shake like a dog out of the water. It reconnects the mind and body and puts me back in control. A few deep breaths clears my head and allows me to make a decision. I can’t think about more than one thing at a time so the decision is usually to think about something else, to do something else.

The something else distraction list is needed primarily for when I’m not at work. Fortunately, I love my job and fully engaging in it both distracts and warms me. It’s when I’m idle that I’m at risk of being overtaken. For those times I pick from a list that includes watching a comedy instead of a drama or listening to an inspirational song instead of one about loss. I know my triggers.

Another good distraction is to do something for someone else. It always improves my mood and invites future dividends because people respond kindly to kind action. Volunteering makes me feel good about myself and I’ve even found that my losses have made me more understanding of other peoples losses. It’s made me a better listener.

Playing my drums, reading a book or going for a run are some of my other favourites. Drumming is particularly good not because of the opportunity to bash something in anger (as good as that feels) but because it requires intense concentration on the task itself and again, I can only think of one thing at a time. Exercise is both a long and short term strategy for mind and body. Endorphins are released to calm the mind and there’s a well being that comes with feeling fit. It’s also a powerful time as it’s a solitary activity that allows me think about how I’m feeling.

Biofeedback is a term I heard in a psych class way back. Essentially it is tracking one or more of your body functions (pulse, respirations) and attempting to alter it with focussed breathing and progressive relaxation. By noting my pulse rate then calming my mind with deep, slow breaths combined with releasing tension from muscles (progressing from the toes to the head) and then rechecking my pulse rate I get feedback on my progress. The lower pulse rate affirms my efforts and aids in lowering it further. Grief has a very physical impact and by reducing pulse, respirations and muscle tension, calm is restored.


Long term strategies like writing and talking about your grief are essential but life is a series of moments and it’s the short term strategies will get you through the moment. Like making some tea.

Talking the Talk

They said year two is worse. Sad that anyone would know that. Sadder that it’s true. I heard it from someone at a group I attended, a group attended by the saddest people in the world; parents whose children have died. The concentration of grief there was palpable, you could reach out and stroke it like the room’s pet. And for some it was a pet, a replacement for the child they’d lost and they nurtured it, fed it their tears and held it close. One parent stated that the only thing worse than feeling the grief of losing a child was to stop feeling that way, to stop missing them. I lost some of my fear when I heard that.

Talking about it. Tuesday evenings from 7-9. Homemade cookies and coffee in a real mug in a warm room with comfy couches. Even with the couch and good coffee it was a lot more difficult than I would have thought especially as I rarely shy away from sharing my opinion on anything and everything. Those that know me know I talk a lot and I talk fast but always about the light and easy. Talking about your pain takes courage, particularly for a guy.

Guys seek an ego of capability and strength - probably why we won’t ask for directions. Boys ridicule those who cry and victimize those that seem weak and that social conditioning carries through to adulthood. Which leaves us invisibly disabled, wary of showing weakness and incapable of sharing pain. “Suck it up!” the coach yells. We did and we do. And for the most part it’s good advice. Life’s tough and whining about everything that doesn’t go your way is the best way to get left behind. But then something really bad happens and there’s no ability to share, no ability to ask for help. So you carry it around because it won't let go, you try and ignore it so eats you from the inside out.

A few years before Rachel died the pain I carried in my belly began to erupt at inconvenient times. The anticipatory grief and her declining health were piling up and the internal pressure forced its way out through tears. The tear locks were opened by triggers that were initially unconscious but eventually I began to recognize. I was walking through the PNE and some young teens were doing a dance routine on a stage. Lost in the anonymity of the crowd and hidden behind my sunglasses the tears ran. Rachel had briefly, following her double lung transplant, been able to join a dance class. She loved it. I guess I saw her on the stage, knew she’d love to dance, knew she never would again. There was no conscious thought process, I just cried. I was surprised, glad I was alone in the crowd and scared. Was this the new me? I went to see a therapist.

The first guy I saw wasn’t very good, he looked at his phone a lot. I got a referral from my weekend employer, the Salvation Army, who had a family assistance program that included a few counselling sessions. It’s a well-intended program but its primary focus is on helping individuals address drug abuse issues so I shouldn’t have been surprised when the counsellor spent most of the time asking about my drug and alcohol use. When he finally decided I wasn’t abusing substances we (I) talked about Rachel’s poor health and my pending loss. I don’t know what I expected him to say, I just wanted him to fix me.

He didn’t. He did prescribe a book, “Tuesdays With Morrie”, which could have come with doctor-like instructions “Read one chapter before sleep”. It essentially encouraged the reader to make the most of your time with the dying person which, in retrospect, was excellent advice. But the talking seemed useless and he seemed unused to working with someone who was grieving over something that had yet to happen. I stopped going.

I did, however, start spending a lot more one-on-one time with Rae and together we created some of my most valued memories. We went on several road trips together, went on a trip to Paris (she wanted to see EuroDisney) and began doing speaking engagements to help fundraising for Cystic Fibrosis. We even starred in a documentary about dying children that was aired on national TV.

But as she got sicker I got sadder. The grief was getting harder to contain so that any time I was alone I was crying. I needed to talk but to who? We all know someone who’s constantly complaining of their ill health or how rough life is treating them. At first we accommodate but after a while we avoid. My biggest fear was becoming one of them, a social pariah whose sole identity was the guy whose daughter is dying. I needed someone outside my social/work circle. I needed another therapist.

This guy was a little better. He too had lots of experience in working with people who had suffered a significant loss but very little with people who were waiting for it to happen. But he did offer the most helpful bit of advice I received; talk to Rachel about it. Seems a slam dunk. The one thing we had in common beyond the shared gene pool was the knowledge of her pending death. But how do you talk to your child about their death? We spend all our time as parents kissing a booboo and telling them everything’s going to be alright. We nurture them, we toughen them and we send them out into the world with all the skills they need to survive and embrace the future. We want them to be happy. How could talking about her death make her happy?

And that was the other good thing he said. “She knows she’s dying” he said, “and doesn’t want to upset you so she doesn’t talk about it either but probably wants to..." So I did. It was hard. We talked about how I felt (scared and sad) and how she felt ( sad for the people she was leaving behind). She was amazingly brave though she denied it and I drew some strength from her courage. She was miles ahead of me down the acceptance road. We talked about her funeral, she even chose some music. It was the most helpful talking I’d ever done.

And that was the key. Talking. Not asking questions and getting answers but to tell someone how I felt. The challenges were overcoming my conditioned reluctance to share my feelings and finding the right someone to talk to. Someone who could appreciate what I was feeling. I thought it would be a therapist but it was my dying daughter that saved me. Thanks, Rae.

The other people who were able to appreciate the experience were other people who'd had the experience. Other parents. They had the context so that when I spoke, they nodded. We knew. They spoke and I heard echoes of my own thoughts in other words and I knew I wasn't alone. They shared some of their strategies and that helped as well, and while there wasn't a support group for people waiting for that awful phone call, I am so glad they were there after. Thank you, one and all. In talking with you, I learned to accept the unhappy truth that dreams can and do come true... but so do nightmares.

Egyptian Reflections

Thoughts come and go through my head faster than wind whistling in the trees. If I were organized (I'm not) I'd carry a pad and pen to write down my gems as they occur (I don't). I've been thinking about what memories of Egypt endure and have had all kinds of things come to mind. Lets take a stab and see what emerges.

LUXOR

Security. The Brits are used to this, there's flak jackets and machine guns at Heathrow and Westminster Abby and sadly enough they've been accepted as necessary. They're likely a permanent feature. To this sheltered Canuck the sight of military and their accoutrements is unsettling and sad. They said the military presence was for our protection but it only made me feel unsafe. It's unlikely a youngster with a Kalishnakov is going to prevent another bomb going off but he can be part of an environment that causes people to feel fearful and suspicious.
When people live in fear the terrorists have won.King Tut and his wife

Other than living in fear and reducing the quality of life the ever present security efforts become inane as the people habituate to them. Every hotel from the seediest to the ritziest had metal detectors at their entrance. With so many people passing through them they were constantly beeping but no-one's paying attention anymore. Many were unplugged making them simultaneously useless and annoying in their presence. I'm going to have to write more about this later; I feel a rant coming on.Luxor again

The Sights. What do you say about the oldest buildings and artifacts on the planet? The pyramids and the technology/science it took to create them made me proud to be human. There was no electricity, no computers, no engines, nothing we rely on today for construction. And yet there they are. Five thousand years down the road and we're still marvelling at them.

The British Museum in Cairo where we saw King Tut's treasures

The Economy. A shambles. They've got the Nile, oil and gas, agriculture and 70 million pairs of hands and yet most live in poverty. The US alone provides 2 billion a year in aid but most of it falls into only a few hands. Unfortunately, people are used to being poor and aspire to little else. Perhaps it's the hot weather, perhaps it's culture but the work ethic and standards are low. It doesn't take a lot of money in your pocket to not throw your garbage on the ground and if you can get by with next to nothing, why work? Unemployment is around 25% but more than one person assured me it's because they don't really want to work.The Hossein Mosque, Cairo

The Environment. The water's undrinkable, the air's toxic and there's garbage, smell and flies everywhere. They've simply stopped caring.

The Weather. The landscape's dramatic for its lack of vegetation. It is the driest place I've ever been. Global warming hasn't been kind to a country that already had minimal rainfall. On the plus side, you're guaranteed good weather for your visit which, in addition to the sights, is why tourism is one fifth of the gross domestic product.

Losing Face

Religion and Culture. Religion is the culture here where between 80-90% of the population is Muslim. It affects and infects everything they do. The people are CONSTANTLY being immersed in its tenets, its sounds, its way of being. Men and women still aren't allowed to date and all marriages are arranged. The muezzin remind the people of who they are from thousands of minarets four times a day and no-one steps out of line but a few get zealous. It was extreme Muslims wanting even stronger control over the lives of the population that set off the last bombs. It's part of the education, the politics, everything here.

The People. Are lovely. They may be poor and poorly educated but they are the friendliest people I've come across in my travels. They were genuine in their offers of assistance and greetings and gave the impression they'd share their last bowl of rice with you. Smiles were plentiful and while they may not have all that we have in the West, they seem a lot happier.Karnak at sunset

Done! Please don't make me go...

Our favourite hangout, great for dipping, drinking and doing nothing

Not everyone obeyed

Whizzin' by bible land...

Food was fabulous

Our Hotel. Very clean, very comfortable, very unegyptian

Getting ready to go under

And so's he

It’s a windsurfing day. Whitecaps wave to the south all the way across the Gulf of Aquabba, the body of water separating us from Arabia. The windsurfers are moving aimlessly, frenetically across the choppy surface magically missing one another much as the flies that swarm about us on shore. But I’m not a windsurfer, with its grace, speed and athleticism it’s a younger man’s sport. It’s a good day to sit and watch.

We’ve been below the surface every day since arriving, enjoying the spectacular reef and the creatures that dwell there. It’s a beautiful frontier where the drama of its silent movie plays before the visiting wetsuits with the only soundtrack the blowing bubbles and air sucked through the regulator. Kinda like Darth Vader meets Lawrence Welk. Yesterday an octopus battled a few pesky fish for our viewing pleasure. As they pecked at his exposed bulbous head he turned his suckers outward giving them pause, a moment that he used to squirt along the sandy bottom to a nearby rock. Once there he folded himself into it becoming protected and invisible. Now that’s entertainment.

Diving has been our main entertainment here with reading, eating and relaxing rounding out our days. Tough, huh? I hadn’t been diving in ten years so our ‘check’ dive was a welcome start. There’s a ton of equipment to refamiliarize with and it really does feel like a ton when it’s all strapped on and I’m waddling across a rocky beach. But beneath the whitecaps it’s a weightless world, a place where the weight of the world doesn’t exist, all my cares left on shore. Interesting. It’s only in writing this that I crystallize its appeal.

Every day wasn’t perfect. Almost as soon as we arrived She and he got the Arabic equivalent of tourista which we initially treated the “ol’s”; pepto bismol, tylenol and gravol. It didn’t help so the hotel owner offered some ciprofloxacin, a broad spectrum antibiotic that in western countries is only available by prescription but all drugs here are OTC (over the counter). Worked fast.

Our last night here (last night) we went to a bedouin home for dinner. It’s oxymoronic as bedouins by definition don’t normally maintain a residence but rainfall has dropped to 3 or 4 days a year forcing the nomadic peoples to the established centers where desalinated water is available. Another example of sociological change related to climate change.

Anyways, in spite of having moved indoors their lifestyle is much the same. The only furniture is the stand holding the TV so we gather in a circle on the ‘living room’ floor and sit on cushions. The lady of the house spreads a plastic tablecloth in the center then a platter of rice and a bunch of spoons - no plates. Ah well, at least I don’t have to eat with my fingers. Our guide, the owner of the dive shop, instructs us in proper bedouin etiquette. You eat your rice from the section directly in front of you as do the others so that it starts to look like a large pizza with slices missing. A few bowls of chicken and veggie stew and a small platter of fried chicken backs follows. Not the most amazing meal but memorable in its intimacy and introduction to an alternate lifestyle. But it’s too late for these old bones to be shaped to their lifestyle; it’s a one-off.

It's now early AM and I'm at the airport at Sharm El Sheik. It's north of Dahab and we've already driven through the desert for over an hour; it was a very early start. But our plane is about to board so I’ll sign off and try and post this. We’ll spend today in Cairo and fly out at midnight for the four hour flight to Madrid then onto Heathrow (I hear it's snowing there) after a three hour layover then a two hour drive to Cardiff. Yeesh.

OK, so I wasn't able to post there and then, connections are kind of iffy. We're now back in Cardiff after a l e n g t h y trip home. I'll be writing about that and my enduring memories of Egypt next time.
John

Dahab...oops! And Recovery Cont'd

My first few paragraphs of our time in Dahab have disappeared. I suspect they've gone to internet purgatory from which they can only be recalled through prayer and self-flagellation. Perhaps with my limited expertise I can find them. I doubt it. I moved the computer from the room where I'd begun to squeeze out memories of being here. Dahab's grip has me tight; motivation has evaporated in the heat and even typing is like working on a too-deep zit. Perhaps when it happens it'll explode all over the computer screen in all it's disgusting glory.

Anyways, somehow the move to the internet access room caused my brilliant prose to go poof! and I have to start over. But that'll take the better part of today so for now I'm going to post a piece I wrote a while back in the series on recovery from loss. I'd say enjoy but it's not really enjoyable. I hope it has some value for the reader, it was therapeutic for me to write it.

The planets orbit one another because of the perfect balance between the force of gravity and the force of the centrifugal effect that would fling them off into space. Our bodies require a perfect balance of heat (not too hot, not too cold), pressure, calories and a few million other things to function. Too much or too little and it’s dysfunction. And our minds are the same. Too happy or too sad and we’re dysfunctional but I firmly believe we need both not just to survive, but to live.

Only the human species asks “why are we here?”. It’s a question that’s been asked as long as there’s been someone around to ask it. Prophets, poets and pundits have bandied it about forever with varying degrees of clarity and some have developed huge followings, some have been carted off to the psych ward. I think it’s to live. And I can only live, to experience what life has to offer, to offer what I can produce when I have my life in balance.

But shit happens and your planet goes spinning off into space. I’ve previously written that putting on a suit of armour was the first action I’d taken after choosing to be happy. The happy persona protected me from further harm, allowed normal interactions with others and provided the cocoon within which I recovered. But I needed some tools to aid my recovery, just thinking about it wasn’t and isn’t enough.

You may have guessed at my favourite: writing. As my fingers hover above the keyboard emotions are converted to thought then to words. I’m often surprised at what appears on the screen before me and often delete it thinking I’ve misinterpreted myself only to see it pop up again. There’s unhappiness in uncertainty and writing helps to clarify what it is I’m uncertain about.

Writing forces me to think. To become dispassionate and detached from the pain in order to examine it. It gives me perspective and just as I am looking at these words on the screen in front of me, I look at my emotion from a distance in order to see its parts. I dissect it, translate it into words and crystallize it by tapping these keys. And it helps.

Most of it you wouldn’t want to read and I wouldn’t want to share but the important part of the writing is the time the fingers are hovering over the keys. The forced thinking. I’ve been doing it a long time and didn’t know I was performing therapy on myself. I’d often written fleeting thoughts on scraps of paper and generally threw them away but occasionally leaving an unsigned piece lying about so that someone out there would know me, know my pain. It didn’t matter that they didn’t know who I was. It was bits of my sadness being released from my roiling core and released some of the pressure that would build up. Like popping a zit.

When I worked on a crisis line I’d often get calls from people who were in conflict with others and wanted to tell them how they felt but didn’t know how without making it worse. I’d suggest writing it down. The time and effort it took would help them distill their anger to the root causes and often the problem was solved there. I’d get them to promise me not to mail it immediately but to leave it a few days to see if their feelings changed. Committing things to writing gave them extra weight and nobody wants a heavy weight dropped on them; the damage could be irreparable.

It wasn’t until my sister Pave gave me a leather-bound diary for graduation that I started keeping my words in one place. I still carry it with me most everywhere I go and I’ve been filling it with my thoughts on everything. Years of chronological thoughts show me I have changed with time and events and when I review it I gain a broader perspective of my life.

Occasionally I write things on scraps of paper and then set it on fire, symbolically purging the thought and feeling. I once wrote to Rachel and attached it to a helium balloon with a similar effect.

Every little bit helps and there’s lots of other tools and strategies for regaining balance but that’s enough for now. There's power in writing. Whether you're making a goal and plan for the future or need to sort through your emotions, you'll have more success if you write it down.

The Bus

We should have known from the drive there. But we didn’t. Like lambs on their way to the abbatoir it felt just like another outing with the family. She, he and myself along with our guide and driver floated down the highway in airconditioned air separated from Egypt by the walls and glass of the van. And then we arrived at the bus depot.

The depot was exiled to the desert for its ugliness, never to return. High walls splattered with mud encompassed a herd of small vans and the ‘facilities’. The buses themselves were banished to outside of the compound, too ugly even for these challenged surroundings.

The bus was billed as super deluxe, modern and airconditioned with washroom and movies. We’d travelled in such buses in Turkey where a steward served tea and brought warm, damp towels and cologne (a lime/menthol variety that was wonderful for coolness in the close surroundings). The side door on the Turkish behemoth opened with a hiss, like the door of the mothership, then slid sideways revealing its cool, dark interior.

The Egyptian version had a padlock on the outside. I imagined the bodies piled up behind the door after a fire, burned beyond recognition, their skeleton hands clawing at the interior begging for escape. First impressions are lasting impressions.

Bags stored below, we climbed onto the bus and noticed the carbon monoxide exhaust that swirled around the bus was even stronger inside. It drifted up throught the holes in the floor and was revealed by the sunlight that pierced the cardboard covering the former escape hatches in the ceiling. The doors on the overhead compartments hung loosely, their latches long since worn out and they would clatter their applause as we bumped down the highway. The wires for lighting had been pulled below the ceiling nad were reconnected with a twist, some with the benefit of tape, others not. It didn’t matter; none of the lights worked. The twiston/twistoff air vents were either missing or frozen closed leaving the passenger with either unrestrained wind or none.

We exchanged looks. Raised eyebrows and shrugging shoulders let each other know we weren’t expecting this. We were the only Whites on board, She the only woman, he the only child.

But the people, as through all of Egypt were outgoing and friendly. They were as curious about us as we were wary of them and their vehicle.

With a plume of smoke and a rumble from the rear, we set off, the desert beckoned. Ah well, we can endure anything for three hours.

Tourist vehicles are generally required to travel by convoy for their safety but as we were the only tourists aboard I guess we didn’t qualify. Those seeking to destabilize the economy and country strike at the pocket book first so with a fifth of the GDP coming from tourism, all tourists are potential targets. We were likely safer with our brown skinned companions than with the whiteys. Safe from terrorists anyhow.

The poor condition of the bus dipped below the surface, the mechanics were in no better state of maintenance than the lighting. We only made it as far as the first town, Kuft, about an hour down the road when the bus refused to go any farther. An English speaker confirmed “bus...kaput”. Info was pieced together from several unreliable sources and we learned that they could fix it with parts arriving soon “five, ten minutes”.

Twenty minutes later another bus pulled in and pulled close. With some chunks of cable sans clips they attempted to jumpstart it. The bus was having none of it. The shaking heads and averted glances told me we’d go no further in this bus.

The one English-speaking, suit-wearing Egyptian on the bus started to get in a small cab with several others when I tapped his shoulder and asked my family could also cab to Hurghada. “No, no, Police, no foreigners”. I think what he was trying to tell me was that a vehicle that size with foreigners needed to be in a convoy. Shit.

Deep breath. Calm. Lemons and lemonade time. I got some great pix, some ‘Mesch’ with Egyptian bread from insistent natives and a little info. “Next bus five, maybe ten minutes, maybe half hour”. Deb found a telephone number for our agent and a store willing to place a call but zero surprise that we weren’t able to contact him. We did get a hold of Gerges but as he’d already passed us off to another guy we were no longer his responsibility though he did promise to attempt to get hold of the main agent to let him know of our plight. We never heard back.

An hour later an equally decrepit bus limped into the station but no-one moved. My inquiries fell on deaf ears so I retreated once again to the shade in the dirt floor rest stop. I ambled by the bus again ten minutes later and noticed people moving a little quicker. “What’s going on”, I asked aloud to no-one in particular. One guy motions to me as if saying “come, come”. It seemed this was, in fact, the bus and people were hurriedly transferring their bags over. I jumped into the fray while yelling for She to join me. She grabs his hand and runs toward the bus, a kid from the rest stop chasing her for the two pounds (forty cents) for the tea.

She and he climbed aboard to secure seats as I ensured our bags were stowed and as soon as I stepped on the bus rumbled away. I found a seat down near Hers and found the only working speaker on the bus was directly over my head. Not bad at first as the unending vowel movements of Egyptian music whined above me. Then came the mullah. A cross between Hitler ranting and Latin benediction, it went on and on. And on. The next four hours. She thought it was a religious radio station but commercial free, I think it was one of the driver’s favourite cd’s “Ayatollah’s Top Ten”. Fortunately She had earplugs. Thank Allah.

Day ended and night began. The vista of a desert too dry for tumbleweeds vanished and with it the only light. Pools of dim blue light from a half dozen cell phones moved cautiously on the ceiling of the bus. Nothing one could read by and as the fumes hadn’t yet put me to sleep I pulled out the big gun; this computer.

Those nearby leaned over my shoulder as I began to edit pix of Egypt drawing excited “Ahs!”. I switched to music and passed the headphones around as Elvis snarled “Jailhouse Rock” . It was a hit.

We eventually made it to Hurghada and godblesshim our guy was there in spite of of three hour journey becoming eight. Gerges had apparently been able to get through to the main guy who’d called this guy who took us to Magawish resort to feast and crash.

I’ll tell you next time why I hate all-inclusives, our flight to Sharm El Sheikh and drive to Dahab where I’m now sitting on the beach contemplating the age-old question “Is it beer o’clock yet?”

"...and here they make offering..."

Type, ya lazy trout! I’m sitting on a deck in Dahab with my strawberry daquiri, enjoying the sun and light breeze. Temp’s around 30 degrees, cooled considerably now that we’re beside the ocean, and this laid back ambiance has sucked the motivation to type write out of my fingers. But I’m way behind in telling y’all ‘bout what we’ve been up to and I’m starting to forget the sequence of events so let’s back up a little.

We got off the train in Aswan in 41 degree weather and it got a lot hotter. Our guide took us to drop off our bags and get checked into the boat before heading out to our first temple of the day. Philae temple was actually moved and reconstructed at higher ground before the Aswan dam submerged it. It’s only accessible by boat but the ride’s only 10 minutes or so and worth the float. Gerges began his recital “...and here they are offering to the Gods...” a litany that was repeated at successive sights which I began to tune out as I snapped pic after pic (3200 so far and those are just the ones I kept).

A quick tour of the dam followed Philae before returning to the boat and this enduring memory: there’s machine guns and soldiers holding them everywhere. Part of it’s due to the new world age where important sights have to be protected from terrorism and part is due to the current political climate in Egypt. Mubarak’s been in power in this ‘democracy’ for over 25 years supported by two billion a year in US aid. The US also supported the Shah of Iran and look how well that turned out.

Mubarak keeps the ‘radical’ Islams at bay but at a price. And the price tag is the everyday heightened security that’s most visible in heavily armed ‘tourist police’ and frequent roadblocks. Ok, I’m no political expert but wouldn’t sharing power reduce the need for violent incursion? Human nature; once you get something you use all the power of the position to hold onto it.
Partying on the boat

The boat sailed at 9 following a meal at a table we had been assigned for the duration. Our table mates, like the rest of the passengers, were not native English speakers but like most Europeans I’ve met, spoke much more English than I did of their tongue. Makes me feel less worldly.

Even though most of our co-passengers spoke some English, they weren’t anxious to meet non-germanpolishswiss peoples so most of our conversations over the next three days were with staff. And they were great, ensuring they remembered everyone’s (especially Luka’s)
Hetshupset's Temple at Luxor

name. Unfortunately there were no other children even close to Luka’s age so we swapped off, occasionally fobbing him off on a staff to play pingpong while we sipped beer on the deck.

The boat stopped at Komombo (or was it Edfu?) giving us an opportunity for us to see the local antiquities and Gerges a chance to say “...and here they are offering to the God..” Someone along the way must have told him how to control his charges and I was told - not asked - to not take pictures until he’d done his sermonette. At the completion of subsequent tours I was cut loose to snap pix of the site.

Back on the boat, next stop Luxor and I must say it was as impressive as the pyramids. Karnak is there as well as Hetshepsut’s temple (the one with the big ramps down the middle) and Luxor temple. The Valley of the Kings, where they found Tutenkamen’s tomb along with several Ramses and a dozen other pharoahs, is here as well. We did the light show at Karnak after dark (duh!), very impressive and majestic.

There wasn’t a whole lot of time spent cruising. We spent a full day and night moored amidst three other ships in Luxor so with nothing to see out the window we were obligated to get out and about. It was easy being on the boat with meal times proscribed and meals prepared so little to do but tan and dip. There was a small pool but Very cold and a cold tub with jets for when the sun got too hot for lying still.

My movies and pix show the life along the Nile and while I wasn’t there 3,000 years ago, it doesn’t appear anything has changed. Donkeys are more common than tractors in the fields. The mud huts are without electricity and fishing is done the traditional way from boats of traditional design. Where they were once millenia ahead of the world, they’ve fallen several millenia behind.

We disembarked in Luxor and were dropped at a bus depot where the insulation I’d spoken of earlier was stripped away like a bandaid from hairy skin. It hurt like hell and I’ll tell you about the pain and wonder of seeing Egypt uninterpreted next time.