Jerusalem -- a city of riches where the streets are paved with prayers. One author described this ancient wonder as feeling as if the air was so stifilingly thick with devotion that it was like breathing the smog of the industrialized west. Seemingly a fusion of the magesty and architectural richness of Prague, fused with the chaotic and tangled streets of Varanasi, serendipitously leading to cathedrals or mosques or narrow alleys stuffed with vendors hawking insence and piles of meat. The old quarters of the city surrounded by massive walls which have been build and destroyed over the ages only to be rebuild by the Inquisitors or Mamaluks or the Romans as each marched armies from one continent to the other. Within, the city is quartered into regions owned by the Jews, the Armenians, the Christians, and the Muslims respectively, and this respect is maintained with perhaps only a little tension and demarkation so you can easily walk through the narrow bazaars of shops selling crucifixes seemlessly flowing into an area of pushcart vendors with baklava rolling slowly past the silent men drinking Turkish tea and sucking apple-flavored smoke from the nargeela.

A plethora of ancient wonders all jumbled together ensure that most are only discovered by chance and circumstance, with the Cenacle, the location of the Last Supper, hiding at the end of an alley with no signs to denote this landmark site. Entering this hallowed room there were no pictures or descriptions or guides, making me wonder how many other riches were hiding amidst the jumble like so many precious shells thrown up on the beach and lost amidst the churning surf. Other sites such as the Curch of the Holy Sepulcher where Jesus was crucified, and the birthplace of Mary, the Dome of the Rock on the Temple Mount, identified with Mount Moriah where Abraham was asked to sacrifice his son Isaac. All these wonders and more await the ardent seeker, and those with strong legs and sturdy shoes. After all, Jerusalem conforms to the contours of a hilly landscape.

With shocking forcefulness, the bombings provided an indication that it was time to move on from the beachside paradise of Dahab. Additionally beckoning me northward was a spontaneous e-mail offer from Neta, a friend from back in the states, who was vacationing at her parent's home with her 7 month old child Lior. Homestly I had previously made numerous statements that Israel was the LAST place on earth that I wanted to travel to, however considering the nature of the conflict that I was witnessing first hand (and second hand through media coverage of multiple regional conflicts), it seemed appropriate to flow with the tides. After more minivans, busses, taxis and border crossings, with much of that time spent staring out the window at the raw red desert rolling by, I was welcomed by the highrises and neon lights of Tel-Aviv, the economic capital of Israel. Neta's parents were in Qadima, about 30 minutes north in what used to be endless orange groves that she remembered fondly from her youth -- now it was overwhelmed by urban sprawl and some government housing projects, the simultaneous growth and decay surrounding an otherwise timeless pace of life. We spent the brief time there walking past cheery older homes all blossoming with springtime fervor, making trips to the local bakery for honey drenched sweets and fresh breads, and oogling over the cuteness of Lior along with his very proud grandparents. I was experiencing the joys of having eaten with reckless abamdon in a 3rd world nation, so some Egyptian creatures were thriving within my intestines -- and I politely stated that all that I really wanted to do was find my own little guest house with a bed to curl up in and a toilet to squat on. Ah well..... ;-< So I cut the visit short and headed back to Tel Aviv and got a little room right on the beach and took it easy until Jerusalem called.

It is wonderful to see how tragedy brings us all together. Today group of joyful and motivated peace activists rallied with banners and smiles to run through the streets chanting cries of "We Want Peace", and "We Love Tourists"! The spectators witnessing this dramatic change in tone were clapping and cheering the march, taking photos and joining in with the merry throng. As we headed toward the main mosque, the crowd gained momentum and energy until the cries reverberated off of the walls of the shops. The children ran in front urging us all on faster. However it is ironic that the droves of cameramen and photographers lounging around the scene waiting for something else catestrophic to happen barely batted an eyelash at the show of peaceful force. Truly news has an agenda, so I feel that it is my duty to share this other face of the Dahab massacre. Here are the images -- may they bring you the same joy and optimism:

I carried dead bodies yesterday. The blood and glass still stain these hands that checked the pulse of the Egyptian merchant lying twisted in the street. As I longingly felt for life, a man reached over and closed the pale eyes.



Earlier, sitting in the restaurant along the boardwalk waiting for daal while joking with the girls hawking bracelets, I was startled by the first blast, looking up in bewilderment like being shaken from a dream -- perhaps it is a festival or fireworks commemorating the Arab holiday. As the second and third concussions threw sparks and harsh light over the rooftops from the next street, with crystal clarity I understood, gathered my belongings and camera, and headed to the sight of the conflagration in a run. At the center of the the town is a supermarket where I'd recently bought juice and snacks, paroozing cheery postcards of camels and beaches. Now it lay in ruins, strewn with glass and garbage, a hundred people frantically running around the bodies thrown like rag dolls at awkward angles in pools of crimson and dust.



My medical training did not prepare me for the confusion of dealing with a heap of moaning people all bekoning for mercy. Searching through the rubble for cloth, I wadded up a rag to stuff in a chest wound pouring blood and organs. While thoughts of diseases transmitted to my cut fingers danced in my head, I saw some confident men using doors as stretchers and relented, teaming up to help carry the wounded and dead to their respective destinations. Eariler that day I'd been diving and reading and tanning in the warm sun and gentle breezes. Now the ambulence sirens scream and the crowd gathers at a distance in stunned silence.



I was running around in a crazed state with the motivated few who were doing anything, taking photos to commemorate this tragic event until an angry man grabbed my hand bending my fingers back, threatening to break them until I relented on my knees with cries of "salaam, salaam!" Peace, peace is what we need when there is such a backlash of anger and frustration, dividing us on the convenient lines of race. Just as the police began barracading the area, I ran off into the darkness, witnessing a tourist lead away between two cops, his camera confiscated -- I obviously got lucky twice over.



After being near two bombings in the past 6 months I am beginning to question my choice of travel destinations -- which is exactly what these terrorists want -- so I am trying to make a conscious decision to not play into their hands. Lightning rarely strikes twice, yes?



Walking away from the scene I overheard confused chatter wondering who and why and how. Packed taxis roared past out of town as the locals stood dazed and unable to flee from the massacre and their obvious fate -- their entire existence perched on the precarious whims of tourism.



With Egypt averaging a bombing a year for the last 5, you can understand the frustration of my friends Ahmed and Hamdi who vented for hours back at the dive shop. Ahmed is a talented Telcom engineer who was having issues finding work in Cairo as he did not have the connections of his peers to overcome the rampant unemployment, so decided to take up a job as an underwater videographer here in Dahab. After investing in equipment and marketing materials, he is crushed to realize that he will have to pursue one of his other dreams -- which he says he has many as they are so often crushed.



The words of Naguib Mafouz, who won the Nobel Prize for his tales of Cairo, drift back with the warm winds, suggesting that much like the characters in his "Midaq Alley" who endured murder and betrayal, life will resume its routine and the shifting sands of time will etch away at memory until only myth and legend remain. Today the military and media have infiltrated the town, and hundreds of tourists stand around photographing the bloody footprints from behind the "Do Not Cross" police lines. I had breakfast at my favorite falafel stand, glad that the curator and his family were well.

So I will stay around for a couple more days to support this beautiful community, consle friends, and to simply witness the aftermath of this incredible devestation. And to seek the answers to the ever perplexing "Why?" A frantic policeman had searched some of the tourists at the dive shop, simply trying to so something, however these sorts of attacks are nearly impossible to prevent -- so when can we begin to address the underlying ideological issues? What will it take to prevent our numbed minds from sinking back into the dark fog of Midaq Alley?

In deciding on how to transport myself to the dive mecca of Dahab on the eastern side of the Sinai pinnensula, just a camel's spit away from Saudi, I weighed the pros and cons of flights (the sole carrier Egyptian Air was at least slightly more reliable than, say, Uzbekistan air, and I am sure that I'd not get cholera from the falafel, tho I'd still be paying more than a decent bedoiun dowry), versus the other enticing option of squeezing into one of the ubiquitous"superjet" busses, the name at least implied that it would be more timely than heading east with the salt traiders. As the nearby mosque was finishing up the second of the morning prayers, I arrived at some random bus station at the recommendation of the cab driver who's english was just sufficient to understand my charades gestures indicating I wanted to get to the place with steering wheels and tires (I was considering adding in something about begin squashed in with the goats and sacks of dried chickpeas, but was not sure that the charades rules were the same here in Egypt). I bought a ticket to Sharm-el-Sheik, simply to get out of the chaos of Cairo, eventhough there was a direct bus to Dahab 3 hours later -- figuring that I could wait for that connector wherever they dropped me off in the desert. Sitting down at the "cafe" which consisted of some faded plastic tables which were reserved for cafe customers (and for which I was reprimanded for sitting at later during the wait), I ordered a mint tea to sip while reading the book "Avoiding prison and other noble vacation goals", after which I paid my bill to find that the price of the tea was nearly that of my bus ticket! They getcha getcha getcha one way or another.

With a blaring of horns, and only a moderate stop of about 45 minutes at some gas station for the driver to eat a sandwich and chain smoke a pack of stinking cigarettes, we launched off into the red rust of the desert with her rough contours rolling into infinity, stopping only to present my passport at military checkpoints around the Suez canal, and continued southeast along the clear inviting blue waters of the Red Sea. On and on under the blazing sun with the AC only taking the edge off of the heat while the cheezy machismo egyptian films blared away.



As expected, I got stuck at the bus station near Sharm for a couple hours while waiting for the next bus from Cairo to catch up, which turned out to be fortuitous, as I met three other really interesting Americans -- Paisley, Sam, and Alex, the latter two of which had even been to burning man! So once again, a merry crew out in the vast ocean of the flat and unforgiving desert, cruising on carefree chatting about software development, zen buddhism, and comparing the madness of traffic in third world metropolises across the globe.



Pulling into the Dahab bus station late in the disorienting evening, we all just jumped in the back of the first truck willing to give us a ride into the resort area for an Egyptian Pound apiece (about $0.16), so we zoomed off into the night, giggling when we realized that noone had specified a destination for the driver, and furthermore noone really cared where we ended up. Chance and circumstance, and perhaps the backsheeh offered to the driver by the hotel curators, brought us to the "Penguin resort", a full scale dive center / restaurant / hotel / massage parlor directly on the beach, lacking only the bike rentals, souvenir stand, and high-speed internet -- all of which could easily be aquired with only a 30 second walk along the strip, passing by falafel stands and used book stores on the way.



Settling for a cheapo room (knowing that after the cardboard backpacker ghettos that I endured in rural china while delirious with dysentary and only a trough in which to shit, this would be as comfortable as a camel trek in giza), we negotiated the pricing for dives tomorrow, and crashed out after signing our next of kin away to the PADI beaurocrats, stating that we've never had decompression sickness, subcutaneous emphysemia, or a hangnail that might cause the aforementioned diving related injuries. (eventhough the latter of the two was exactly what I had incurred while cave diving in Florida ... but that is just between you and I and whoever else has the (mis)fortune of sumbling across this whimsical blog...)



Some people are accusing me of being a dive snob, which I must agree to since when asked how the dive was, I tend to say it was good, but nothing like the Indonesian treasures of Lembeh, Bunaken, and Komodo. Ah well... still getting wet and looking at amazing fish that are often so dense that they obsure visibility!



And there are some of the most large and beautiful christmas tree worms that I have ever seen -- and of course I giggle in boyish delight (as much as you can with a regulator in your mouth) each time that I swoosh water at the worm and it sicks itself into it's shell in a flash.



In the evenings, after taking a necessary "disco nap", I've been cruising out to the dance clubs to boogey down inside the big boat with the best beats in town.





Live has pleasantly slipped into the routine of waking for a breakfast of falafel sandwiches, diving, reading, diving, more falafel, napping, dancing, and sleep. Intermittently there are joys of watching the divemaster pausing at a cleaning station where the fish did not discriminate between his mouth and that of the other pelagics, and decided to go in for a feast:



With wonderful diving like this, I will definitely stick around for a while -- geez, where else do you get to see the garden eels poking their shy heads out of their sandy holes to dance in the current?



And what fun to dive in the blue hole swim-throughs!

Of all our creations, which will live on after us? Time ravages all, and of the products of my hands and mind, will any endure? Which are even worth surviving me? These thoughts played in my mind as I visited the museums and pyramids... Sites tend to be touristy for a reason, and the Egyptian Museum is definitely worth enduring the crowds to witness the treasure troves within. Located just a couple blocks from my hotel, I got up a little early and decided to wander somewhat aimlessly to burn up the time before the museum opened by getting slightly lost, which tends to be easy in amidst the tall and non-grid-like streets. Perhaps a little more lost than I needed to be, I arrived at the museum entrance as the warm sun was surmouting the clear sky far above the minarets that had callen out hours ago. Past barracades and men in riot gear toating ancient but effective looking automatic weapons. At first I was rather apprehensive when passing by these warriors as solemn as the ancient statues but soon realized that they were all here to protect the valuable resource of tourism. (which still makes me uneasy in a different way wondering about the faceless fears against which they defend...).



After running the gauntlet past metal detectors and overly anxious tourists, I discovered that no cameras were allowed inside the museum -- AAK! No pix of the glorious Tutenkhamen mask! Seeing that their method for safe keeping of our valuables was a smiling lady in front of a shelf piled high with cameras, I decided instead to walk the distance back to my hotel, directly this time. And then back, tho the route seems to change as quickly as the scenery at Burning Man. Eventually arriving back at the museum without getting squashed by a honking bus or screeching taxi or fearless motorbike, I slowed down to gaze in wonder at the towering statues of Ramses II, the first specialist in mass media distribution. Truly, the kaleidescope of images alone would be enough to elevate him to god-like status in the eyes of most.

The back half of the museum is solely devoted to Tutenkhamen's burial site, displaying in mind-numbing extravagance the riches with which he was inturred. Three golden sarocophigi were nested within each other like a set of Russian dolls, each more ornate than the previous. And the final containing his mummy was so bedecked with amulets and jewelry and bracelets and neclaces and such revealing the degree of reverence for his deceased soul. The whole kit n' kaboodle was stuffed within another three massive containers like walk-in closets each about the size of my studio, and then somehow they'd transported the whole ensemble into the tomb in the Valley of the Kings. Preeety impressive.

Wish that I had pix -- but I'm sure that there is a whole special edition on the National Geographic website, or search Google images or the like...

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Rising early with thoughts of massive geometry, I searched the streets for a local hangout to get a meal of falafel and anything else that I could stomach in this relatively vegg-head unfriendly landscape. Seems like there are definitely more options in the cheaper street restaurants where the patrons are less likely to be able to afford meat. Finding a place that had trays of spreads with eggplant (auburgine) and hummus and such, chowed a plate of falafels, and hopped on the train to the pyramids. (supposedly this is the only metro in all of Africa, so I decided to make the most of it!)



A train and a sardine-style-squashed-in-the-bus leg of the journey later and I made it to the outside of the park where a friendly teacher at the english school nearby had walked with me to show where I could rent a camel. This ornery beast's name was Mickey Mouse, with none of the resemblances whatsoever, tho the camel driver thought him cute and cuddly enough to give him a kiss. When I tried the same he bleated and spat and opened his mouth wide enough for me to fit in my head, so I thought better to refrain. Then off into the desert, perhaps not like Lawrence of Arabia, but seeking my own conquests.







Into the belly of the Pyramid of Khafre, descending through a narrow shaft squashed in amongst scores of other sweating straining people swimming in the thick boiling air. Down and up and up, finally reaching the inner chamber where the great one was laid to rest so many eons ago.



And then a brief rendezvous with the timeless Sphinx, who in his stoic silence provided no riddles nor answers, but I remembered to give his well-loved nose a pat for a friend back home...



Wrapping up this first part of the journey tomorrow as I am anxious to get into the Red Sea, so I'll be taking a bus across the Canal and down the length of the Sinai, to Sharm and Dahab.

You may ask, wherever did this journey begin? Was it upon taking the leap of faith and buying a ticket leaving the day after my contract ended with no expectation of a job upon return? Or was it embarked upon by locking the door to my condo with just a pack on my back and grandiose visions of pyramids and camels. No it was far before this, perhaps rooted within the daily routine of sand and surf and diving ingrained deep within my psyche from nearly a year of my life living on the road. More relevant was the guidance of the Borders sales rep who suggested "Midaq Alley" by Nobel Prize winning Naguib Mahfouz, who spun an enchanting tale of the excellence and depravaity of a spectrum of personalities inhabiting an old section of Cairo for which I am now searching. Waiting in amidst a chaotic churn of travellers for the flight out of Milan, I asked the man behind me in the line if he knew if Midaq alley actually existed -- to which he replied yes, and that it inhabits a section of Kahlili that is both honored and preserved by the city in recognition of Mahfouz's foundation of the genera of Egyptian prose. We continued to chat and he revealed that he'd been living in the UK for 30 years, and was returning as he did often to meet with friends and family and relax in the warm weather. "Johnny", the name which he kindly supplied to alleviate the challenge of remembering his Egyptian name, was a boisterous and playful little man, the kind who'm you'd neither be surprised if he pulled a magic lamp from beneath his coat, nor if he was the genie himself from within the lamp. Near the end of the flight, he requested that I assist him and use my passport at the duty free to purchase another 4 bottles of whiskey to add to his vast burden under which he was already struggling. He was fun to be around so I readily agreed having no reason to do otherwise, and after zipping thru customs and immigration, we bought the whiskey and met up with two of his smiling joyful friends who had brought along a car that was barely big enough for his massive trunk full of presents and the barrels of booze.



Zooming down into the teeming city, Johnny freely exclaimed that there was simply no adherance to the standard rules of traffic and that the divider lines were simply there for decoration, making even more evident our tendency to drift drunkenly across the road only to suddenly swerve in response to another vehicle's careening. They asked if I would be willing to accompany them to meet up with a friend, and realizing that opportunities for a personal tour by locals around otherwise forbidden parts of Cairo were fleeting and far between, I readily agreed, making my answer ambiguous enough that I could determine whether he was merely offering to be polite, or whether he really wanted me to come along. The latter was the case, and this becan a forey deep into the industrial center of the city, down streets cluttered with metal scrap, and mules straining under the heavy loads of cogs and wheels and other whatnots.



Popping out of the tiny car like a load of clowns, we were met by a noble man in command of his demeanor, a gracious ond observant host who beconed us into the back room of his warehouse past massive chains and conveyor belt treads and gears easily 3 meters high. We sat around a large desk that dominated the majority of the low ceilinged room stuffed with a bookcase, a refrigerator, and a couple cabinets that were overflowing with large stacks of bills bound with rubber bands. Nazmy, the host comfotrable in his suit, was chainsmoking long thin cigarettes behind his oak desk and quietly commanded attention and respect, seemingly having earned his title of "Godfather" as they called him only partly in jest, through his financial acumen, his looks, and his resourceful ability to machine complicated parts out of paperclips and thumbtacks. So we all sat around drinking tea and smoking and laughing with Johnny occasionally stopping to translate the gestures at which I could not guess. Thus renewed a conversation between close friends who have been reuniting for the last 40 years, having been together as children, raised their children together, and still return to ponder and laugh and reminisce and simply understand each other.



Things started getting a little crazy when Johnny, something of a pleasantly lecherous old man, pulled a stack of viagra tablets from his magic pouch and offered them to his friends like candy -- though they all agreed that a young pup like myself should not even think about it (haven't yet...), and proceeded to make recommendations on different postures, and jokingly tried to stick a waterbottle up one of his friend's booty -- somewhat surprising me in what I thought was a very sexually restrained culture.

Nazmy had ordered a lot of food, kindly accomodating to my vegetarian requirements, and continuously fixed me sandwitches and tea -- I was so honored I almost had no idea how to react -- the head of a large business receiving me like an honored guest. With a full belly, and turning down as many offers of whiskey that I could politely refuse, the not really having slept in 48 hours kicked in and I was just barely able to stay awake until we all decided to leave in amidst a flurry of picture taking, stuffing us back into the sardine can on wheels, and zooming down to Midan Tahrir, the gleaming neon pulse of the city. I hopped out with fond farewells and tears in my eyes with how kindly these Muslim brothers had received me, found a little backpacker's hostel on the 9th floor of the main thoroughfare, got some grub, and am chilling out now to type this letter. Whew!