Egypt Archives - Maggie InkMaggie Ink

Finding my balance

April 16, 2011

I lost my balance in Dahab, Egypt.

Physically, I mean.

I was staying at the amazing El Salam Camp and Yoga Shala. During marathon late-night yoga sessions, in an idyllic setting where night and stars rolled in on the Red Sea waves, I found myself inexplicably toppling over on the mat.

: This photo was lovingly ganked from the El Salam website.

It was very strange. Even when I can’t do bendy poses, I’ve always been able to hold my own in the balance asanas. Maybe I can’t slip into lotus or touch my toes to my head in scorpion, but I can rock a motherforking tree pose.

: Not me doing tree.

Shifting my weight to one leg, rooting myself into the ground, gently balancing the sole of the other foot against my inner thigh, keeping my eyes focused straight ahead — I got that.

Except in Dahab. For the first time ever, I couldn’t keep my balance. My leg was unsteady, my posture unstable. I tipped over. I fell. I tried again. My knee shook, my leg wavered. I faltered. I fell.

I’m embarrassed to say that it took me far too long to draw a connection between my physical loss of balance and my emotional one. Because during that time in Dahab, my grandmother passed away, followed a few days later by my mother’s death.

No wonder I couldn’t hold a tree pose. I could barely hold a toothbrush.

Those days were all itchy and unsettled. I slept with my eyes open. I dreamt when I was awake. I was detached, like some kind of alien pretending to be a human. A lot of people offered me love, and I didn’t know how to accept it. Even my body felt lonely, because there was nobody inhabiting it.

Instead of being compassionate with myself, I tried even harder to achieve balance. But as you probably know, the more you try to force something the more elusive it becomes.

I’m in a different place now, both physically and mentally, and a couple pages on the calendar have been torn away. I wouldn’t say my wounds have healed, but they’re slowly getting some scar tissue.

Yesterday I took another yoga class, this time at Wild Rose Yoga in Chiang Mai, Thailand. The instructor told us to focus on the theme of impermanence. He used the Thai new year festival of Songkran as an example — when you’re in the thick of the party and the water-throwing action, you’re giddy, elated, excited. But it’s not long before the fun stops, the wind kicks in, the air gets cold — pretty soon you’re unhappy, grumpy, uncomfortable.

Everything is impermanent.

The way sunrise and sunset effortlessly tumble through each day, so it is with our feelings. Our emotions are fluid. Happiness doesn’t last. Pain and sadness don’t either. They just feel like they do.

At one point in the class, we were all holding chair pose, a squatty posture that kills your glutes in two seconds flat. As everyone groaned and sweated, the instructor reminded us that physical sensations are impermanent too. He said that 10 seconds from now, we’ll forget the burn was ever there at all.

He was right.

My balance is back. I held tree pose for several minutes tonight just to prove it to myself. But now I accept these things are constantly in flux. Maybe I’ll fall over tomorrow. Maybe I’ll get back up the day after that.

This is life — shaky and unstable — and I’m just doing my best to keep up with the flow.

: Dakini, the rockinest yoga babe out there.

** A special shout-out to all my yoga stars, every teacher and friend I’ve met on the mat along the way. As I travel around the world from class to class, you have all taught me incredibly powerful lessons. Thank you for your insight, your love and your light.

Breaking bread

February 5, 2011

There’s a popular Egyptian proverb: “Baynaatna, khobz wa milah.”

Between us, bread and salt.

It means that if I break bread with you, I trust you. We have shared our traditions, we have nourished ourselves at the same table, we have been seated side by side — and so, there will be no fighting between us.

As violence raged in Egypt, with protestors all over the country demanding the resignation of President Hosni Mubarak, I was in desperate need of a little bread and salt. Though I was far from any danger, hunkered down in the little Red Sea town of Dahab, I was incredibly worried about gas, food, water and money shortages, and I was skeptical about my chances of leaving the country if the situation got worse. The government had already cut off the internet, there was little news coming our way, and the U.S. Embassy was absolutely no help. The lack of information was downright scary, and I didn’t know if it was safer for me to stay or go.

So on Sunday, I paid a Bedouin man to drive me out of there. He took me from Dahab up to the northern port town of Nuweiba. I was disoriented, upset, frightened.

The Bedouin man gave me food. It was what he could find and afford — hot dog buns, potato chips, fruit cocktail — and it was a feast, considering the circumstances. Before he left me for the night, he gave me a package of chocolate cookies and instant Nescafe coffee, a gift of nourishment for the journey ahead.

The next morning, I woke up in a seaside hut. I was cold, hungry, lonely. I was fretting about the ferry that was supposed to take me from Red Sea into Jordan. The stress made my stomach hurt.

Then another Bedouin man took me out for a typical Egyptian breakfast — fries, falafel, pita bread and fuul, a slow-cooked paste made from fava beans, tomatoes, onion, spices and swirls of tahini.

Sitting in a nameless cafe, I shared hot falafel with strangers and received sustenance that went far beyond the food.

Between us, bread and salt.

I’m not positive, but it might have been the best meal of my life.

To make your own Egyptian breakfast, try this falafel recipe — and then share it with someone.

Ingredients:

1 cup dried chickpeas or 16 oz. can of chickpeas or garbanzo beans.
1 large onion, diced
2 cloves of garlic, chopped
3 tablespoons of fresh parsley, chopped
1 teaspoon coriander
1 teaspoon cumin
2 tablespoons flour
Salt
Pepper
Oil for frying

Directions:

(Omit these steps if using canned beans.) Place dried chickpeas in a bowl, covering with cold water. Allow to soak overnight. Drain chickpeas, and place in pan with fresh water, then bring to a boil. Allow to boil for 5 minutes and let simmer on low for about an hour. Drain and allow to cool for 15 minutes.Combine chickpeas, garlic, onion, coriander, cumin, salt and pepper to taste in medium bowl. Add flour.

Mash chickpeas enough to mix ingredients together. You can also combine ingredients in a food processor. The result should be a thick paste.

Form the mixture into small balls, about the size of a golf ball. Slightly flatten.

Fry in two inches of oil at 350 degrees until golden brown, about 5-7 minutes.

Serve hot with tahini sauce, hummus or stuffed inside a pocket of warm pita.

The problem with women

February 1, 2011

While a revolution was taking place in Egypt, I was stashed away at a Bedouin camp, prepared to flee the country — and having one of the most bizarre conversations of my life.

I was sipping tea with the owner of the camp when he said …

HIM: Can we speak freely?

ME: Of course.

HIM: What do you call that problem of women?

ME: Problem?

HIM: Yes, where the stuff comes out of them.

ME: Like a baby?

HIM: No, the stuff! Like in here. (Pointing to his wrists).

ME: Oh, veins? No, wait. Blood? Ohhh, blood.

HIM: Yes! What do you call that?

ME: We call that a “period.” Or the more technical term is “menstruation.” Or some people call it “moon time,” but those people are hippies.

HIM: Ah. Period. (He suddenly looked very serious.) It is a problem.

ME: It’s actually healthy and normal.

HIM: And it is why women get eaten by sharks.

Egypt: The good, the bad and the really, really ugly

January 10, 2011

Soon after The Husband arrived in Cairo, we decided to brave the subway system during rush hour.

A crush of people funneled into the already crammed cars, with everybody pushing, shoving and screaming in Arabic. We instinctively moved for the quiet, subdued car that only had a handful of people inside.

Once safely inside, we each breathed a sigh of relief. Then my husband looked around.

“There are only women on this car,” he said.

“So? Lucky you!”

“No, I don’t think I’m supposed to be here,” he said.

Just then an old lady approached him and spit in his face, “Ladies only!”

We panicked, screamed and scrambled into the next car — which was filled with only men. I screamed again and ran around in circles, looking like some kind of deranged chicken. I cursed and shouted random metro stops at my husband. “Oh shit oh shit oh shit. Hadayeq El-Maadi! Or was it Thakanat El-Maadi? No, I think it’s El-Malek El-Saleh! Just exit this car in three stops!”

I finally hopped onto the ladies car just as the train was leaving the station.

That incident quickly made me realize that Egypt is dramatically different from any other place I’ve visited. First off, Egypt comes with numerous religious traditions to respect, unwritten rules to follow, cultural landmines to navigate. I think I offended 15 people in my first hour, and I wasn’t even trying.

On top of that, communication is difficult. Even when I didn’t speak the language in South America, I could at least make an English-French sandwich and come up with something that vaguely resembled Spanish. However, Arabic is an entirely different game: The script is beautiful but unintelligible to my eye, the words feel clunky on my fat tongue, and the numbers look like punctuation.

Overall, it’s been difficult. In the three weeks I’ve spent here, I’ve found a lot to love about Egypt — but only after a lot of frustration. To break it down:

THE GOOD

Pyramids. They’re every bit as awesome as you’d expect.

Temples, hieroglyphs and things older than Jesus.

Wonderful hikes, camel rides, diving and exploring, all with stunning scenery.

Dahab, a tiny slice of heaven at the Red Sea and my personal version of paradise. This is where I am resting, healing and getting strong again.

THE BAD

Smog, pollution and garbage everywhere. (This one is mostly directed at you, Cairo.) Also questionable sanitary conditions.

Constant harassment from vendors who won’t take no for an answer. My husband and I were tricked, followed, even physically assaulted by vendors. It’s exhausting, and it’s what tainted some experiences that should have been magical.

Aggressive men. The sexist and inappropriate behavior goes way beyond catcalls. I have been groped, slapped, smacked and fondled. Men deliberately walk into me and paw at my chest, grab my ass, reach between my legs. (Keep in mind that I have also been dressing modestly in pants, long-sleeve shirts and a scarf around my hair.)

Blatant ripoffs. For instance, the menus at restaurants often list a price in Arabic numbers, which is half as much as the inflated tourist price.

Bribes, payoffs and corruption. For instance, it is strictly forbidden to touch the Great Pyramid of Giza. So when I got close to it and a policeman ran up to me, I put my hands in the air and backed away to make it clear that I wasn’t doing anything wrong. The policeman said, “You want to touch it?” I said no. He urged me to put my hands on it. Again, I shook my head no. Finally he said, “You can touch it. It’s OK — just give me baksheesh.” (i.e. a tip.)

THE UGLY

A terrible incident took place when my husband and I toured a temple on Elephantine Island.

A security guard ushered my husband and I into the temple ruins. Then he separated the two of us. He forced my husband to go with a guide into another part of the temple, then he pushed me into a secluded corner. Before I could comprehend what was happening, the guard nudged his gun against my hip and tried to smash his rotten teeth against my mouth. I firmly said, “No!” but he tried again. I slid away and managed to avoid him until I was reunited with my husband.

Afterward, both the guard and the guide wanted a tip, which we ultimately shelled out just to get rid of them.

So yeah. That right there had me longing for the ladies car on the subway — and sad that I felt that way.

Getting a name

January 8, 2011

When I met the Bedouin man in Egypt, he said he could help me find authentic souvenirs at a good price. Like my name written in flowy Arabic letters, crafted out of pure silver.

I loved that idea. It would be like Carrie’s nameplate necklace from “Sex and the City,” but with an international twist.

Because the Bedouin man had become a friend, we purchased the necklace through him, sight unseen. My husband shelled out both money and trust.

And then we received the necklace.

The crudely fashioned pendant was slightly tarnished and scratched. The chain was twisted. There was no clasp. And on the top right corner, where the “M” attached to the chain, there appeared to be a chicken foot.

It was nothing at all like the liquidy, flowing script I had imagined.

Someone later said, “Where’d you get that cheap hunk of metal?”

I said, “Well, I was told it was silver.” He laughed as he fingered the necklace, then pointed out that real silver has a stamp on the back. Silver also doesn’t bend.

“Also, what is that thing on the ‘M’?”

I said it’s supposed to be a lotus flower. The man giggled.

“Looks like a chicken foot,” he said.

I saw the Bedouin man again and told him that the necklace was a fake. He called his guy, there were some angry words exchanged in Arabic, then he calmed. When he got off the phone, he explained, “It doesn’t have a stamp on the back because this man uses such pure silver that there is no such stamp for it. It’s the fake silver that has a stamp, because they want you to think it’s real.”

He continued, “And it bends because real silver is soft. Fake silver has other metals mixed with it to make it strong.”

I didn’t want to get into an argument because it wasn’t worth it. The Bedouin obviously wanted to trust his guy, and there was no way I was going to win. I would just have to suck this up as a mistake.

I’ve been wearing the necklace for the past week, as I’ve been burrowing in another part of Egypt. The metal is already starting to rust, of course, but I love it anyway.

I feel like it actually does represent me and who I am right now. A little weak but pliable. Beautiful despite the imperfections. Authentic and precious in my own way.

Best of all, this necklace proudly declares my name for all the world to see: Maggie Chickenfoot.

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