The Middle East Part 6: Gemal

I have always had an infatuation with animals, which I can’t seem to trace back to any hereditary trait, so I’m not sure where it originated. (Maybe one day some scientist will discover a gene for animal obsession, but until then, people will just continue to think I’m weird). Another interesting point: my obsession is entirely dependent upon my environment.

For two weeks, while on a environmental restoration trip in the Shenandoah area, I was determined to spot a black bear. And for two weeks, as if knowing we were playing a game of hide and seek, the black bears hid from me. In hindsight, I guess it wasn’t difficult to hide from the loud bravado stampeding through the Shenandoah. It wasn’t until the final evening when, annoyed with my besetment of bear dialogue, the rest of the team piled into a car and we drove around the winding roads until we finally spotted a black bear. YES! Oh yea, did I mention this was after college?

When recounting this story on three separate occasions to my mother, father, and then sister, I received the exact same response. Rolled eyes and some dismissive comment about how some things never change. Apparently, as a child (and by that, I mean a high school student) my family vacationed to Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming. The rest of my family all happened to have the same memory of me forcing the family to continue trekking through the mountains in search of the elusive moose. I was apparently blackout for this entire episode, but, am thankful to hear that I did, in fact, find the moose! YES!

So it comes as no surprise that my excursion to the Middle East brought about a newly cemented camel obsession. I embraced the inner tourist and was determined to ride a camel. The opportunity did not present itself until the end of the trip, in Jordan.

Aside: While I am magnetically drawn to animals, I do not have much success in riding them. I have a fair amount of confidence that I am the only person in the world to have fallen off of a stationary horse. The scenario went something like this: Hop on the saddle, saddle rolls off, back on the ground just as fast as I unsuccessfully mounted the horse. So it also comes as no surprise that my camel-riding entourage bestowed upon me the superlative most likely to fall off a camel – which, I boastfully did not do, albeit, may have been closest to falling off.

I can count very few times in my life where I have been as happy as I was when I sat mounted atop my camel. However, after a few minutes of riding, I found myself in a balancing act, trying to protect the nape of my back from hitting the upper back saddle and sliding forward consequently causing my pants to constrict my freedom. The novelty of riding wore off pretty fast, or at least faster than the bruise on my back.

Based on my observations and research, the childhood song about Sally the camel is fraudulent and misrepresentative. For starters, Sally flat out lied about her lovely lady lumps. Camels can only have a maximum of two humps. Well, it turns out that Sally wasn’t even a camel – she was a horse the entire time! Also, a little unknown fact. Horses detest the smell of camels and are consequently harder to control around them. I can only imagine the inner conflict Sally had impersonating a camel while detesting her own camel odor the entire time. What a poser.

The Middle East Part 5: Fact or Fiction?

As previously alluded to, I’m fairly confident that my journey to the Middle East could be entirely documented based on nothing more than the fine fare I feasted upon. And Istanbul was no exception. Domers and kabobs lined the street shops and roasted chestnut vendors were well within a chestnut throw of one another (on further reflection I think the Christmas Song might have been written from the streets of Istanbul) creating a fragrant atmosphere and subconsciously encouraging my gluttonous behavior.

One delicatessen Val and I were determined to try was the famed Turkish delight. While we were both set on partaking of this cultural confection, neither of us actually knew what it was. I just knew that I wanted to try it, because I remembered a close friend of mine (whose name eluded me at the time) raving about Turkish delight.

So with much fracas, Val and I tore across town in an attempt to be delightfully enlightened. Things we discovered: Turkish delight is a jelly-like confection coated in a powdered sugar, and comes in a variety of nutty and fruity flavors. Turkish delight is a bit over hyped and over rated (I would gladly default to the bordering baklava). Oh…and also that my close friend that espoused the virtues of Turkish delight was not in fact a dear friend, but rather Edmond Pevensie, from The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Woof.

The Middle East Part 4: Hamam...um?

Having voyaged all the way to Istanbul, Val and I were determined to participate in full cultural immersion (which I defined as anytime I found myself in a room where the Turks outnumbered the European tourists - I know, not a very sophisticated metric.) As part of this cultural immersion, no inch of culture was left untouched...quite literally.

After becoming well acquainted with minced meat, mosques and minarets, Val and I took our cultural immersion to a more intimate level by going to a hamam, or Turkish bath. Having done our Lonely Planet research, we elected to go to Cemerlitas Hamami, where the C and s were appendaged with hooks for which pronunciation eludes me, since my 4-night stand in Istanbul did not translate to Turkish fluency. Alas, we settled on this bathhouse because of its perceived ability to handle tourists.

As the wet relative of the sauna, a hamam is intended to be the trifecta of hygiene.

Step 1: Relax in the warm room, also known as a sauna, allowing the bather to perspire freely.

Step 2: Perform a full body wash and massage to cleanse the body.

Step 3: Retire to the cooling room for a period of relaxation.

Well, after paying, I was directed to my private locker room, where having done my research, I knew I was supposed to strip naked and wrap myself in the Turkish terry cloth. Private is a relative term in Turkey; as my locker was simply a confining space with a glass door overlooking the atrium. I was then directed by a series of grunts and finger pointing and thrust through a fortified wooden door. Finding myself alone in the large domed sauna with a huge slab in the center of the room, I sprawled out to fulfill step one. I found myself short of breath, not sure if my elevated heart rate was attributed to nervousness, liberation, or just my body adjusting to the new struggle to take in oxygen.

Just as I was getting comfortable, the calm was irrupted by a chanting man who came in and forcibly began to drown my body with water, rolled up my terry cloth, and aggressively scrubbed and massaged me cap-a-pie.

One important note: I'm certain that the use of the terry cloth is simply to trick the mind into the false perception that the body is clothed. I'm also certain my mind was not deceived, as I was well aware of my exposed flaccidity.

Step 2 ended just as brusquely as it had commenced. All of a sudden, there I was, still sprawled across the stone slab, with nobody instructing me on the next move. Check mate? Alone in the sauna, I couldn't even put up a pretense and imitate a more experienced bather. Instead of retiring to the cooling room, I found myself excessively sweating and beginning to feel rather dehydrated. After waiting another 10 minutes to make sure I got my money's worth, and now feeling less clean then when I arrived, I proceeded back to my locker and changed into my clothing.

I walked in the front door prepared for an unobjectionable experience and left through the same door, feeling like I had been Istanbullied around.

The Middle East Part 3: What Goes Around Came Around

The Hagia Sophia was pretty much the extent of my elementary education of the Byzantine Empire; it’s grand dome literally shaping the course of architecture. So it was important for me to may tribute to this church-converted-mosque-converted-museum. Valerie and I (read Valerie) took to rapid-fire upon entering the UNESCO World Heritage site. We eventually made our way over to the Weeping Column, a column in the inner narthex that has a concavity said to provide good fortune to anyone who rubs it and feels moisture.

So, of course, Val and I stood in line with the gathering of tourists waiting for their photo op and stroke of luck. Directly in front of us was a couple with two teenage boys, overextending their time at the Weeping Column – perhaps hoping that the longer they were in contact with the column, the greater the odds of feeling a dab of water.

I thought nothing of the family until five minutes later when I noticed the one of the teens hunched over in the corner, his stomach revolting and spewing it’s content across the sacred foot-grounds of the Hagia Sophia! I was immediately insulted to think that here was this boy defaming such an architectural triumph, and took it as a personal assault as Val and I proceeded to soak our hands in sanitizer.

I swiftly maneuvered to the nearest staffer, and despite the communication barriers, made audible gagging noises while simultaneously using hand gestures and posture to demonstrate what had just gone down. Despite what I thought was a universal charade for boy yakking in corner of Hagia Sophia, the puzzled staff member left and returned with an English speaking staffer.

For the remainder of the trip, I proceeded to share this occurrence, partly out of offense, partly out of humor, with everyone. I suppose karma had its way of going around and coming around, since right before Val and I boarded our 14 hour return flight to the land of the free, we both came down with a pleasant case of food poisoning, and now recognize the value of the barf bag. It was definitely a highlight, or low light, of the trip, depending from which direction one is looking at the light. Look who got the last yak.

The Middle East Part 2: Today was a Foxfields Fairytale

My masterful escapism landed my first in Dubai, the land of the nouveau riche. In hindsight, touching down in Dubai was probably my subconscious way to ease myself into Arab culture, and in reality, I can’t say I really experienced anything Arab. This constitutional monarchy, currently under the purview of Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum, is enamored of superlatives. And as such, Valerie, Christine, and I spent a few days making sure we saw everything, such as the world’s tallest building (The Burj, uniquely shaped like stacks of money) to the world’s largest mall (Mall Dubai, with more than 1,200 shops) and less spectacular triumphs, but superlatives nonetheless, like the world’s largest single piece of aquarium glass.

With 71% of the emirate’s total population being expatriates, this mixing bowl surprisingly had some unifying qualities; including a propensity for shopping and appreciation for the nothing in moderation.

Nothing summarizes this excess quite like the Dubai World Cup. With more than 50,000 racegoers in attendance, this elite horserace is the social event of the year. Wearing nothing but designer suits, custom made dresses and feather headdresses, it is essentially the red carpet event of the year, disguised behind the front of a horserace. Since Valerie and I were spontaneous spectators, we donned our nicest clothing; for me, a rough pair of khakis five sizes too large from my college years, which I am officially retiring, and a Lacoste polo shirt , the green crocodile being the only indication of my brand conscientiousness and the only visual keeping me branded above the strata of peasantry and serfdom.

I’ve concluded that there’s no translation for moderation in Arabic. Our cheap Apron tickets ($100USD) permitted access to the Bubble Lounge where we were able to purchase bottles of Dom Perignon ($100USD) and watched the masses crowd the bar much like a college freshman chases the Natural Light at a fraternity house but with a greater degree of finesse. The entertainment after the horse races concluded, and unfortunately after much of the crowd cleared out for the evening, was a Santana and Elton John concert. And the crowd sings along: I don’t have much money (liars) but boy if I did, I’d buy a big house where we both could live. And some Ferragamo shoes, and a new BMW.

The Middle East Part 1: Setting the Stage

Fore nearly two years I have tried hard to assimilate into real life, a true struggle at best. In this exploration, I have reached the early conclusion that my favorite part of the real world is the vacation. It provides you with the light at the end of the nine-to-five tunnel, and affords a month-long lead up of anticipation. And while I am a mere amateur, I like to believe that I have mastered the art of escapism.

So it is not surprising that for the past month, I have been working towards a two-week tour of the Middle East. Since college, I have had a deep personal conflict with the Middle East. I’m not sure why it selected me, but for whatever reason, it has a history of stealing some of my closest friends. Being more of a diplomat than a warmonger, I elected to forgo the armed conflict and err on the side of arbitration by paying the pan-continental region a visit.

Along with my Mer-friend Valerie, we established an aggressive itinerary with stops in Dubai, to visit Christine Devlin, a pseudo-resident working for a strategic consulting firm; Istanbul; and Jordan, to visit Bowman Dickson, who works at a Jordanian prep school. The trip seemed like one big scavenger hunt, having our Lonely Planet checklist of places to see and things to do. We had a whirlwind of a time, thankfully snapping enough picture to provide a smattering of JPEGs combating for honor of new Facebook picture.

Caveat: Most of the photo documentation is attributed to Valerie since I am photographically challenged. For my college graduation, I treated myself to a nice digital camera, a ten mega-pixel camera with great optical zoom and fun features. The first time I took a picture with it went like this. Zoom, snap, drop, whoops. It only took me one picture to break this investment. Talk about an expensive smile! In round two, I changed philosophies and opted for the cheapest digital camera I could find. As a consequence (that I’m attributing to my frugality and not my mishandling of the equipment) the lens doesn’t function properly; rather, it mimics the sound of a wind-up toy with each command to power the camera on or off. Suffice it to say, Valerie’s artistry and perspective will become my own memory of the Middle East as the passing of time will likely require these snapshots to (literally) paint the picture.

The escape was a phenomenal experience, and I now feel imbued with Middle Eastern culture (and cuisine!). Although, I will say, I feel remorseful for my pre-trip categorization and declaration of my excursion to the Middle East. I suppose my conceptualization of the Middle East was attributed to the Disney sensation, Aladdin, which, in hindsight, is rather offensive. I found myself wondering…is this where Aladdin took place? After two weeks, the verdict is still out. Each of the locations along our scavenger hunt were dramatically different (more detail to come), and to categorize them as one in the same is a travesty. The only thing that remained consistent throughout was my ability to find myself turned around in unfamiliar magic carpet lands (although I could only locate non-magical carpets, which were expensive!), and my ability to dream about work. Subconsciously dreaming about my reality while consciously attempting to escape it – how’s that for meta.