Ink'd: A Story Retold

I'm going to take the opportunity to retell a tale, that, admittedly, is quite a bit older than I am. That doesn't say much though, as that at the ripe age of only twenty three, there are a very large number of things that are older than me. The reason that I am willing to impose some jurisdiction on this story however, is that I recently decided to make it very much a permanent part of my life.

Stories are a curious thing in that what means something to me may not have the slightest bearing on you. The value of a story to a beholder hinges on so many tiny variables, that to expect a uniform reaction to the gritty details of an epic saga is ludicrous. Luckily, one of the more important variables in a stories perceived value is something that I can have an impact on: presentation. Just as you don't want your father to read you a bedtime story in monotone when you're eight, I'm going to take a piece of lore that is equally undramatically presented in most forms and try and impart a bit of what it means to me onto you by readressing it in a more zestful way. Hopefully when this blog is all said and done, a baseline level of understanding into why I chose to get this tattoo will be imparted. Enjoy.

Note: this isn't part of my rather non-existant belief system, but rather an ideal and a sentiment that resonates with me. Nothing more.


A long time ago, Gray Eagle was the guardian of the Sun, Moon, Stars and of fire and fresh water. Gray Eagle was a bird; more importantly though, he was also a man. This was a time of legend, when the animals existed in both beast and human form, but were ultimately Gods. The concept doesn't need to be confusing, you just need to accept it and move on - life becomes a lot easier that way. Pro tip: read the book Anansi Boys by Neil Gaiman, that will explain all.

Moving on, Eagle was the keeper of all the celestial bodies, and a couple other nick-knacks that were fairly useful, and he kept them with him inside his longhouse, where he lived with his daughter and who knows who or what else. You see, Eagle was a bit of a hoarder. He had all these wonderful things, but refused to share them with the world. Now, unlike that show on TV where insecure Americans hide their bought-in-bulk Costco wares in their spare bedrooms due to a plethora of mental instabilities, Eagle's reason for keeping these treasures of the universe to himself was rather more pointed: he hated humans.

Yes, humans were detestable to Eagle. He despised them for any number of petty reasons, some probably more recently justified, and as a result forced them to live in a dark world void of the heavens, fire and clean water for drinking. Enter Raven. Raven was a dapper young man, and more importantly a bird of the purest white. A handsome young beast with the tiniest glint of trickery in his eye. You could only see it if you looked closely though, and even then only from certain angles.

I mentioned before that Eagle lived with his daughter. Where her mother was is not important. I'm not a marriage councilor, get over it. Now, being a young Eagle-person of the female variety, she of course had all those urges that I assume are typical to avian-hominids and of course showed interest in the snow-white raven suitor. Inviting him back to her fathers pad, Eagle-daughter then managed to set the stage for one of the biggest debacles to ever throw down in all of Native American lore.

Upon entering the longhouse of Eagle, Raven instantly noticed that there was a treasury of wonders to be had. This is where the story begins to get a little fuzzy. First of all I question how he happened to find himself in a position where he was alone with the booty. Creative explaining chalks this up to a females ability to retire to the restroom to freshen up, and we'll just assume that big bird was out picking on people. The second issue is why Raven decided to even steal them at all. It was pretty clear that he was probably going to score with daughter bird, and no doubt would have other chances to play the looter. Assumedly the humans called in some gambling debts, a trickster like Ravens seems like a craps sort of guy.

The point is that sensing a golden opportunity, Raven grabbed the sun, moon, as many stars as he could carry, all the water (impressive) and a burning brand of fire before flying off from Eagle's longhouse at full speed. The legend states that he in fact flew out of the building's smoke hole, which for the sake of my retelling exploded in a Michael Bay kind of way, just as he emerged from the smoldering rim.



Not wanting to fly blind, the first thing that Raven did as he emerged into the darkness of an empty sky was to put the sun in place. With this new light, his next instinct was to fly far out into the ocean until he reached a little island where he could lie low for a while. After careful consideration, Raven decided that the best option was to ditch the loot so that no one could prove it was him. The problem is that the sun had started to set, and so to take care of this, he threw the moon up in its place, and scatter the stars around it. Under this new light he was able to continue his journey back to the mainland, where he could toss what he had left.

When the moment struck him, Raven next let go of the fresh water, and this became the source of all the fresh-water lakes and rivers today. It really was a lot of water. Our Hero of the story obviously had a much bigger attachment to the brand of fire though, as this became the last thing that our bird-brained protagonist found himself flying with. Possibly it was because it was actually attached to him somehow, or somewhere that shouldn't be mentioned. Let's ask ourselves, if you're managing to carry the sun, moon, ALL the stars and ALL the fresh water, where do you put the burning brand of fire?

If you play with fire you get burnt. This is a fact of life that we all learn the hard way at some time in our life, and Raven was no exception. Whether he just let the brand burn down a little too far, or that he was careless with its placement, the fire eventually became too hot for him to hold, and he dropped it far to the ground below.

The consequences of this were two fold. First off, before he was able to drop it, the smoke from the burning flame billowed around his ivory feathers and coloured them black with soot. This is why Ravens are now black birds. The second is that we learn that rocks, like Eagles, are also hoarders, and upon the brand following into a group of them, they greedily soaked up the flame, and that is why rocks now spark when you strike them together.

The End


With my story over, I guess I owe you a little bit of clarification. The part of this story that really resonates with me has to do with the sun. Ever since I was a child, the high points of my years has always been summer oriented. I'm a lover of light and warmth, and enjoy the life-providing rays of our mother Sol to the umpteen degree.

Even as August progresses, I have already began to notice the continually shortening days, and with a heavy heart acknowledge that all good things must come to an end. As hippy as this sounds, it is the truth of my existence. I have never been one to be depressed, yet still always find myself experiencing a thin film of gloom upon my otherwise cheery demeanor during the lightless months of our Canadian winters.

Coupled with that is the romantic notion of the Raven itself. Ravens are clever birds, thinkers that have the ability to solve problems and use tools. There is a notion of freedom that is associated with all birds too, that thought of just being able to pick up and fly away.

Even if it was just a story, this Raven gave me the sun, and now I always have it with me, even as the light starts to fade a little earlier every night.


Thanks for reading,

Much Love,

Sean



Read The Original Story Here

*aside from the image of my tattoo, which was designed and ink'd by a local tattoo artist, the other two images are not mine and instead a result of a google image search. My tattoo is not completely true to the haida style of raven, but instead more bird like due to my wishes.

Hillside Is A State Of Mind

I keep making the same mistake. I make plenty of mistakes, but in this instance I'm referring to my oft repeated blunder of assuming that having more time to write will actually enable me to do so. As if my blogs were more time sensitive than content influenced. I'm no super machine that can pull something out of my hat on a whim, and I'm not a fantasy guru that can spin a tale out of the crevices of my mind in the heat of a inspirational brainwave. I am experience driven. The things I write have always been based on situational material; emotional fuel from the good and bad of my day to day.

I've had a couple ideas, even considered making an attempt at another illustrated blog, such as the one titled Guilty from all the way back in December of last year. Nothing struck me though, nothing that really made me say "woah", I can put this in words. The internet is bogged down extensively with copious tripe and superficial content that the last thing I need to do is drip into the pond as I try and write about the trivial highs and lows of my every day. I can be happy keeping things to myself every now and again. If I find the need to write another thing that no one is going to read, I need it to be for me.

So if I must be event driven, an event that has come to drive me greatly in such a short span of a couple years is the music festival of Hillside. I am sitting in the twisting early morning air of my softly humming fan, nursing a bruise from a puck to the face and listening to the intensely powerful and penetrating banjo picking of a talented artist named Old Man Luedecke; finally the words to a blog that has for so long eluded me finally begin to flood into my head.

(Obviously not from Hillside)

I'm trying to find a way to describe the feel of Hillside without sounding like I'm just emitting random psychobabble. The truth is that the title of the blog really does explain it all. Hillside is a mindset, it is the feeling you get when you are surrounded by tens of thousands of people that are all exuding positive emotions. It is a mob mentality of overwhelming goodwill. Hillside is a feeling, an emotion and definitely a state of mind. The success of the festival lies in the talented artists and its impeccable organization, but the spirit of the festival is driven by the kindness and enthusiasm of its attendees, volunteers and performers.

For the second year in a row my attendance was serendipitously made possible through the kind actions of friends with extra tickets. The truth of my existence is that I no longer have the where with all to accurately predict if I will be around for any given July in Canada, and thus lack the justification to buy a pricy weekend pass the many months ahead of time that is required in order for them to not be sold out. This years heroine was Clare, who was a last year hillside acquaintance. I don't know why she bought an extra one, but I love her for it. Hillside friends are special friends.

I always do a poor job when I attempt an exact recount of a series of events, so I guess I'll break it down into the things that I feel are worth mentioning and still try to give a sort of overall guideline. The hillside I went to last year was in many ways amazing, so it is truly incredible to say without hesitation that this years' was by far better. I feel like my first hillside was keynoted by several really good bands that were bridged by copious forgettable, if not undoubtedly talent people, such that the time between the performances that stuck was enabled more by the high of the festival than the content on stage. The contrast this year was striking; bands I had never heard of, or that were something on the peripheral of my consciousness all came to play, and play really well. The down time between sets that I wanted to attend was basically non-existant, and really troubling conflicts of interest arose when faced with a tough decision on who to see.

Much to my embarrassment, but post-festival elation, I could often be seen marching off to the merch tent post set to try and track down an album by the artist I had just seen. When I plaintively told the man at the cash register that hillside was draining my money he was quick to point to the reusable beer mugs in my hand. I think it was only after the third time that the same guy saw me passing through with more albums that he finally realized the depth of my problem. I couldn't be happier now though, as I find new music often feels like a depleteable resource. The battle to keep a play list on my computer or ipod that is fresh and new is always a harrowing task, and I think I may have just gained a multi month advantage.

The friday night of hillside has come to feel like a warm up, where you slowly ease yourself into the feel of the festival. The bands that play, with exception, are usually listed on the friday night for a reason, and the time can be used to get your feet wet and have some beers. I'll post pictures from the program and circle what I saw. If I circle two in a set it means I bailed on one to see another, or just sampled both.




The Saturday is when the festival really comes together in my mind, and I don't think that's just my opinion alone, as it was the only day of the three that was completely sold out. Maybe it is the fact that it is the busiest day that give it the feel of being really high energy, but the bands started playing at 11 in the morning and before I knew it I was slightly drunk and in the home stretch for sets.



Saturday opened up with me listening to Dala playing with Doug Paisley, and then flipping to the main stage to watch some Graveyard Train followed up by Dala again with their own set. Graveyard Train is a band all the way from Melbourne, Australia, and they came prepared to play. With a list of songs that all seemed to be about some sort of ghoul or ghostie and a group of band members that includes a harmonica/hammer and chain player, these guys put on a performance that was pretty much unforgettable. Since Hillside is so big on workshops and mashing different artists together to jam, I believe I must have seen these guys three times by weekends' end and was never disappointed. My sister Jessica, who was fortunate enough to make it out for Saturday, even went and saw them again on the Monday night in Toronto. I couldn't work up the energy after my exhausting weekend, I must be getting old.




Dala, which played right after Graveyard Train, didn't quite bring the high energy music of their predecessors, but still managed to pull off a performance no less amazing. This is a group that consist of two admittedly good looking ladies, that I actually know best through my parents having played them in their house. They have a way of harmonizing their voices that is no trick of studio magic. I would wager that after seeing them preform, they sound better live then they ever do mixed on a cd. The natural back and forth banter, and the ease with which they sing and have fun is infectious. I'm not always in the mood to listen to their kind of music, but I will admit that they have a good thing going.



Aside from the surprising Sweet Thing in the midday, the true highlight of the Saturday came at sundown. Starting with Hooded fang at 8 and finishing with Hollerado, the final acts on the island stage made the day. With the beer in hand, and the good times rolling, Saturday evening started with the catchy pop beats of the lesser known Hooded Fang, flipped to the groove infused melodies of the up and coming Sheepdogs and finally was capped off with the fun and energetic set of the ever enjoyable Hollerado. Huge numbers of people were crowded under the tent at the island stage, sweating in the sweltering summer heat and grooving in place while standing on the picnic tables, enthralled by the energy and quality of the performances.








Sunday starts fairly tame, with the highlight being the Gosspel session for two hours starting at eleven. I suppose this is supposed to be hillsides version of church, to make all the Godly feel better about missing a sermon to listen to sick beats. Understandably then it may make you raise an eyebrow and wonder why the professionally unreligious such as myself would find this to be the best thing in the morning. The truth is that even though the workshop is often orchestrated and run by one of the artists that is sufficiently Jesus-enthused, the rest of the jam is comprised of really good, often folky artists, that aren't necessarily heaven bound, but fit the sound that the session was going for. The long and short of it is that if you're willing to put up with one or two drawn out songs about Heaven and the like, you get to listen to artists like Dala and Old Man Luedecke play entirely session-unrelated tunes.



With the morning Gosspel being my first chance to have a look at the banjo playing dynamo Old Man, it was fortunate that his whole set was later on that day, and he didn't fail to disappoint. There were two Albums that I got signed at hillside, and one of them was his. The other was by a band named Paper Lions, who's CD I had actually bought on a whim hoping that they'd be amazing and actually making a really accurate prediction. While I was walking into the merch tent to track down Paper Lions to sign my CD, is when one of the more memorable moments of the festival happened for me.

If you have browsed over the schedule of Sunday that I posted, you'll notice that playing on the lake stage in the early evening was one anomaly of a performer: Fred Penner. Yes, the legend of a man from my childhood played at hillside this year, and although he didn't bring any new age guitar-shredding Freddy P to the stage, he did manage to pull of a set that was by far one of my favourites.


(This is not my video, just took it off the youtubes)


Partially by the virtue of his charisma alone, and then coupled with his energetic, funny and generational gapping music, Fred brought such an energy to the stage that the whole fenced area was alight with smiles, laughter and singing along. Furthermore, Mr. Penner wasn't afraid to collaborate either, and invited both Serena Ryder and Dan Mangan up during his set to sing along with him. When I was a kid, Ghost Riders in the Sky was by far and away my favourite song of his, and I can remember clearly lying in bed with my rewind-button-less sony walkman, flipping the tape over and fast forwarding so that I could listen to it over and over after my parents had gone to sleep. The point is that I'm not entirely sold on Serena based on her own music alone, but she definitely won some points with me after pulling out all the stops to help Fred belt out one of my favourite childhood hits. Good beer and a childhood icon was a little overwhelming.

Back to the memorable moment, as I was walking into the merch tent after Paper Lions' set to get my CD signed, completely by surprise I bumped into none other than Fred Penner himself. This, unfortunately, set off a very awesome and embarrassing series of events. I didn't want to do the cliche thing and tell the man how I grew up with his music, but as a result had no idea what to say to him and started babbling like an idiot while shaking his hand for an awkwardly long time. Eventually, sensing that I had seized in the head, he took the initiative and asked me my name and said he was happy to meet me, jump starting my facilities back to working order.

The festival concluded with a very off sounding Sloan and me losing my car. I feel bad that my only words for the prolific 90's Canadian pop sensation is that they were 'off', but that is all I can muster. I was never really a huge Sloan fan, they just happen to be one of those bands that had so many hits that I can't help but know all their music. Unfortunately their voices haven't aged well, or they were just having a bad night, but either way they failed to put on a performance that had me enthused. Don't worry about my car either, it was just the next lot over.

If there is one last thing I can say, it is that after a festival like that, I am truly proud of the state of the Canadian music industry. As a person that spends too much time on the internet, I'm not a stranger to the complaining that occurs in regards to the state of the world's music scene. I walked away with seven new albums from Hillside, and every one of them was a Canadian band or artist. The truth is that if you ever feel that there is no good music being produced anymore, you're just not listening hard enough.

A big thanks again to Claire for having that extra ticket, and to Her, Gabe, and Sarah for putting up with me all weekend. Hillside friends really are special friends.

Thanks for reading,

Much Love,

Sean

I'll Make Reading My Blogs Into A Sport; You Will Win

If I am ever caught thinking back on a subtitled movie, depending on how compelling a film, I am often hit with a tinge of confusion. It isn't that I'm too simple to follow an ordinary plot line, or so slow at reading to follow the lazily scrolling text, but instead that I am continually faced with the question of whether I had even watched it in subtitles at all. If a foreign film strikes me, and I mean really strikes me, then sometimes my brain starts plugging in the written text into spoken English dialogue among my memories, so that I can never discern what I heard and what I read.

Now as common or uncommon as this might be, I couldn't help but subconsciously extrapolate it as the summary of my whole existence; possibly everyone's existence. How much of what you were told in your life did you hear? How much of it did you just read into? Does our brain just continually make vaguely translated subtitles to everything we encounter day-to-day? Do we know as much as we think we do... Our lives are foreign films that we translate and follow the best we can.

I know this isn't deep, I didn't even have much reason to share it other than to get it off my chest. That, and to make it clear that I like to make obscure metaphors to my existence.

A month and three days is all I have been back in the country, but I can honestly say that I only have felt like I've truly been home for less than half of that. It wasn't because of anything stereotypical. I wasn't depressed, I wasn't even all that sad to be done traveling. I had made it clear in the last of my African blogs that I was ready to leave that continent, at least for a time, and that wasn't reckless words in the heat of the moment or a joke. No, I simply just never felt like I came back. I was transitory, and always seemed to be expecting to push off soon, never really settling back. Funny enough then, the day when I finally came back, and really felt like my trip was over, was the day that Barcelona FC won the Champions League.

I wouldn't call myself a sports fan, that would be insulting to sports fans. I like some sports, I'm too particular. I am hockey nuts, this isn't news. I don't mind baseball, but I won't go crazy. A true "sports fan" loves the spirit of athletics, and will pretty much tune into any of the local teams to follow some action. That said, I do always need at least a sport to pay attention to, any team to follow along with, and nod my head, and talk shop around the water cooler about.

No surprise then, that in Africa, the sport that you only really could follow was football. That is soccer to you. Football was everywhere, the one and only of all sports talk in east Africa. Any awkward encounter with a local could be broken with a mention of Man United or Barcelona, and the donning of a jersey made you the object of praise and ridicule interchangeably for the day. In this way football quickly became a major thread in the story of our travels. So much so, that in the slower weeks and the waning days, our trip could be summarized as the trials and tribulations between games, as if everything was a build up to the next Champions league showdown, or inter league grudge match.

I told you that I like to make obscure metaphors to my existence, and here is what I was trying to get at. Let me make it less obscure: To me, my trip through Africa parallels strikingly to the rise and eventual winning of Barcelona in the UEFA Champions league, and the other countless pitch showdowns of our arbitrarily selected-to-win teams that littered the evenings throughout the trip.

The selection of Barcelona as our go to team was pretty easy. When I was in Argentina, knowing nothing of football, I picked up a national squad Messi jersey. At the time it didn't mean to much, but post world cup when I had had the chance to watch the little dynamo put on an especially convincing performance amidst a mismanaged and poor showing Argentine squad, I was sufficiently convinced of his excellence. How could you make Lionel Messi better? Simple, take him and add him to a squad that is almost half composed of the reigning world cup champion Spanish team and then let the magic happen.



Barcelona is the epitome of European football. Control, skill, speed and showmanship. We would watch games where Barcelona would have over 500 completed passes to the other sides 100, with a ball control percentage topping seventy. Don't you dare call me a bandwagon jumper either, I joined the ship when they were still playing Arsenal, and after game one that series was far from in the bag for the Catalonians. The guns took it 2-1 with a late game rally in the last ten.

The point is that we would ride the ups and downs of Barcelona's season in our own lives. It was partly pure coincidence and partly that energy you feed off from a team you grow to love. The success or failure of Barcelona in any game would shadow our attitudes or situation and vice versa. The good thing on my part is that Barcelona really was the juggernaut, that powerhouse team that seemed to glide through most of their season. Things were always more positive than not, and rarely did a gloomy spell last longer then it needed to.

It was with mixed feelings then that the winning of Barcelona over Man U snapped me back to reality, back to Canada. Don't get me wrong, I was ecstatic. The fact that it was Manchester United was the icing on the cake. The fact that it was none other than Messi, who got the game winner, and sealed the cup, was sublime.



Man United as a team is one that you will grow to hate if you ever cheer for any one else. Rival or not, they have a cast that is in my opinion regrettable and front manned by a fat-faced goon named Wayne Rooney. The worst part is that they are good. Maybe not to the man, but as a unit they are an extremely solid club. Nothing is worse than a hateable club that is actually good, because then you can't justify all your rage by calling the club crud.



The sadness was because it was an end. I had been there as they went through Arsenal, Shaktar, Real Madrid and finally Manchester United. I was unwavering in my fandom through everything, to a level that I can honestly say that I have never felt in the Stanley Cup finals with any of my teams. There was no fear of failure, just a confidence in the end result. That is an addicting feeling. As a result, after the victory over Manchester I felt like I had both somehow "won" at my trip to Africa vicariously through Barcelona, while simultaneously losing my biggest connection to the whole experience. The chord was severed, and instead of living in an unsettled limbo I was firmly back in Canada and reality. Mixed with the aimlessness of unemployment I was experiencing at that time, that was when I got into the real funk.

I like Canada, I like a lot of things about Canada, and yet already as I get back into the groove of life here I find myself unsettled. I get irritated by the small community mentalities, the lifestyle and the tripe that passes for news worthy material, while all the while falling right back into it. I had managed to push out of my mind for a time the work until death lifestyle that runs the Western world, the very same mindset that was the very reason I started this blog in the first place! No wonder I'm irritated by it! All the same the itch returns, the urge to go back out and see something different.

Fear not though, loyal blog readers, for I am on the rise now. I think I needed the decompression time that being an unemployed sack allowed me, and taking it wasn't the biggest mistake of my life. I also needed to take a break from this blog. Finishing the writing on Egypt felt like work. It was that hard. The frustration and emotions that I channeled into that post were a little too much, and it really killed my want to write for quite a while. Things are on the up and up starting now. For the summer I have moved back to Guelph and the streets of my University days, accompanied by all the nostalgia that that brings.

Guelph is a bit of an oddball in terms of weather. For the majority of the year, namely fall through spring, Guelph can be one of the cloudiest most depressing places to exist. Summer though, summer in Guelph is a whole other tune altogether. That overcast gloom is promptly swapped for an omnipresent green scape and sunshine. I'm a child of the sun. Guelph in the summer is like the ultimate bromance of me and nature.

My job for the summer is nothing to stimulating. I won't win a Nobel for any great achievements putting in my time, much like I won't get a Pulitzer for what I write here. It is, however, exactly what I needed this summer. It is active, I am on my feet. I've worked behind a desk for long enough in my life to know that it won't be where I end up. They are flexible, and I have the summer to interview and search for something more up my alley, while making money and staying busy. Fair deal.

Perhaps the best thing about Guelph is the spiderweb of sidewalks that starts outside my door. I have a history of trying to be a consistent runner in Guelph. Unfortunately it usually went to the tune of either I would start in the fall and run into snow, or start in the spring and find myself returning home for the summer, where motivation to run the small selection of routes was minimal at best. In the past weeks I have been consistent, and consequently feel better than I have in years.

My best ideas for writing come to me while I'm active. Just like the first part of this post came to me on one run, the rest of it came to me today while I was out running in my Messi jersey. A bunch of goons heckled out the window to the note of Barcelona sucks.

You can't bring me down. Forget Vancouver, forget hockey altogether for a minute. My team for this year, my real favourite team of this year won the whole thing. Straight up. Thanks Barca!

Enjoy your summer everybody! I should be writing a lot more frequently now!

New Post Soon

I've been sleeping, I've been napping, I've been generally lazy. Although my trip to Africa is for all intensive purposes dead, this blog did not die with it, just as it wasn't born with it.

I'll write more, and I'll do it soon. My lack of material is mostly due to the readjustment process. I had a hard time finishing the one for Egypt, and it kind of killed my writing mojo for a time.

I have, though, had some thoughts for a good blog in my head (good to me at least) for a couple days and will write it shortly.

Sorry for the wait.

Sean

Egypt: The Good, Bad and I Got Ugly

I have never had a need to add a disclaimer, but I think this blog warrants a bit of a note. It isn't because of foul language or graphic content, but rather due to a poor attitude. I actually wrote the majority of this post while sitting in a hostel in Cairo, and the frustrated attitude that I had carried out of Tanzania was only compounded upon in Egypt. I was planning to sit on this and perhaps let my temper cool off - but I don't really enjoy writing retroactively or censoring my opinions, and to change the content now would require both. So the vast majority of this post stands as it was originally written, and the rest is filled in today. Enjoy.


(Identify this bird for me?)


I don't feel like writing a linear account of what my time in Egypt has consisted of so far. Instead, and in a rather cynical tone, I will voice some thoughts and insights into the people and sights of Egypt as I've come to understand them. I say cynical because that is my current mood, however, don't let it detract from your opinion of Egypt on my account - I'm just going to present my opinions! This is my blog, I can do that.

The thought that a whole country could be founded on one river seems slightly absurd. Yet, here in the north easterly part of Africa exists Egypt as a strip of green on blue in the middle of a vast expanse of yellow. Egypt without the Nile is a wasteland; its history and architecture an ancient king's wildest fancy, and nothing more. The vast flowing Nile is the lifeblood of the Egyptian economy and identity. Just as it was the spine and support of the BC era empire, it still stands as the foundation for all the major cities not located on the sea.

Egypt is a country facing many problems, and as a result many changes. In the wake of the January 25th revolution, and the consequential lull in tourism, the attitude of the people has changed; a nationality of pushy people trying to sell their wares to tourists has since become a very desperate pushy people trying to hawk their goods to a dwindling clientele. Add on top of this the fact that Egypt is the second most populated country in Africa, growing at over a million people a year, and without the means to expand their agricultural area which is tethered to a river beside the omnipresent desert - the need for foreign aid and the input of tourist dollars into this economy has never been higher at any other time. It is in this climate that I entered Egypt.

Egypt to me is a love-hate story, and I feel that I really need to present it that way in order for my thoughts to make sense. So like I said before, I don't want to lay out this particular post as a linear recollection of events, but instead categorize it into what I what I will simply refer to as the Good and Bad of Egypt. Since complaining always give rise to a much more interesting story, I will start with the Evil:


The Bad:

It is with sadness that I simply say that desperation doesn't sell. As much as telling me "it's low season, so you buy" didn't sell me bracelets in Tanzania, the endless mobbing of my time and space has failed to make me be any more accommodating. If you give them an inch, they will take a mile. Every small act of kindness in Egypt inherently requires you to tip. Travelers are a pit of wealth to be drained. The result is that everyone feels the need to interrupt and pry into every aspect of your existence.

If you try to take a photo, Mohammad Somebody recommends that two steps to your left would be a much more suitable location. This would be advice costs two pounds. If you ask where the exit is in a museum, the helpful informant will walk you the ten steps around the corner and then bluntly ask "tip for me". If you use an adviser to book a day trip to the pyramids, he will ask you how many days you have in Egypt and take the liberties of trying to book the remainder of your days too, and at a very disingenuous price. Prices for simple amenities are always stated with about a 300% markup until they realize that you're not about to be fleeced and this isn't your first rodeo.



Sadly, this achieves the opposite to their ambitions. I don't enjoy being swindled and conned. If you start at a price that is outrageous I'm more likely to walk away and avoid all future negotiations then to come back when you tell me "OK, we talk, cheap price". No one likes to be insulted, and it is exactly that: insulting. These people gate crash the admissions to the real wonders of Egypt, and so while you're trying to wrap your head around the true splendor of something as mind blowing as the pyramids, six people are a foot behind trying to get you on a camel, and the other four have cheap souvenir pyramids and sphinxes and try to put them in your hand.



If you go to the Great Pyramids, wear a hat. Wear anything at all on your head. The main ploy at Giza goes like this: So and so will walk up to you with dime a dozen postcards in his hands and a cheap version of a traditional Arab head wrap too boot. His first attempt at conversation will be straight forward, he will simply try and sell you both items at a ridiculously overpriced fair to which you will instantly say no. This will go on fruitlessly for about a half minute until they will attempt a change in stratagem.

The man with junk will approach you a second time. This time they will be prepared with the head scarf out of the package and will approach you saying things like "No Money", "Free", and "Gift". Nothing is free in Egypt. They will then try and accost you with the head scarf and unless you are quite slippery, manage in shoving it over your head. While you're busy with that, his other arm will be slipping postcards into the crook of your arms, lodging them securely. The hawkers hands then become permanently glued to his side, and due to some acute onset medical abnormality he will seem to be unable to lift them to receive the postcards that you adamantly want to return. The condition lifts only briefly to occasionally befuddle your attempts to remove the damn scarf that has been crammed on your head. He will continually say it is a gift and free through the whole process, but as soon as you try and walk off with his supposed gift, the mantra instead changes to "tip for the gifts?"

Now he has you in a pickle. You can't physically return it to him because he appears to have lost the basic motor control needed to grasp objects. Yet, you can't simply walk off with them without the man hunting you relentlessly around the lot, either with claims that you didn't pay or that you should tip for his hospitality. The solution, fortunately, was not too hard in the end. I told the man I was going to set his things on the ground, in the sand and camel shit littering the area. By some miracle he made a full recovery and was able to hold things again, but for some unknown reason his face contorted into a not to flattering, unexplainable snarl.

It's not that I don't want to help you. It's that you're selling crap, and the same crap that I can buy in a million stores in Cairo, and you're doing it for a ludicrous markup. One man even had the audacity to request a trade of his three novelty pyramids and a headscarf for my deceased grandfather's ring. I told him no as swiftly as the the other and then I had to laugh as he clarified and repeated: "No, no, no, trade, we trade!" as if that made the deal a little less sour.



Despite all this bitching, I think I should make it clear that I only lost my cool once (other than the time I had to tell the annoying man trying to domineer our picture taking to sod off). It was our first full day in Luxor, and we had spent our morning out at the Valley of the Kings on the west bank, and proceeded to take time in the afternoon to explore the city and watch a football match between Man U and Chelsea.

Every night in Luxor, at the temple of Karnak, there is a light show that takes place in several languages throught the evening. Conincidently as we were leaving the bar after the game, we had just enough time to make the English showing, but not if we walked. We had been harrased by carriages all day while walking around, and finally decided to indulge the cheapest one that was willing to take us out to the temple.

Reaching the temple was the exact moment we made our first mistake of the night. The carriage drivers declined our offerings of money, and told us to hold on to it and pay them after, as they said we could go back into town for the same price after the show. They had only charged us a total of ten pounds for all five of us to go the twenty minutes to Karnak, so we were willing to give them repeat buisness. The downside is that we were now morally obligated to pay them, and our night was inevitably tied to their services.

Things started to take a turn for the frustrating. The light and sound show turned out to be a little pricey for our blood, and as a result we didn't end up seeing it. To compound on that, we now had almost an hour to kill as our would be ride had returned into the city to try and find some fare while we were indisposed. We made a vain effort to try and hear the sound of the show from outside the temple, and failed to get more than some cheesey voice acting, so reluctantly we went back to the entrance to wait impatiently for our ride.

As with all the other attractions in Egypt, it was not long out the gate that the vultures began to descend on us, and this time in the form of two new carriage drivers that pulled up in anticipation of the post show crowd. At first we reacted the same as we had been with all other taxi or carriage drivers we had encountered, and told them simply no thank you. The problem, though, was that we couldn't really leave, and after a short reprieve we were once again set upon as we sat on a curb. Reluctantly we informed them that we were waiting for a carriage that would most likely be coming at nine. We were still adamant that we would not in fact be riding with them, and that they should leave us alone.

This man took it in a different direction, and decided that every minute we waited was another minute that his relentless nagging would wear us into getting onto his carriage. With striking audacity he would grab my hand and look at my watch every minute and say the words "ok, at nine, they not here, we go" over and over again. His offer to take us into town was at double price in two carriages. Finally at nine, noting that our transport had yet to arrive, he said with finality that it was time to go, and that we were to now get into his ride.

I don't get mad a lot. Even when I am mad, it is very rarely that I will give you the full depth of what I am thinking. This man however, he got the whole extent of my anger. I went on a thirty second diatribe about his buisness ethics and techniques. I stripped him down about how annoying he was, and how never in a life time would we get into his ride, regardless of how low the price is. For twenty minutes of annoyance he recieved a half minute of fury, and the finality of me saying very loudly "No." Even then, however, he tried to laugh it off and turn to the others in our group for support. They weren't making eye contact, and I met his attempted joke of "what is no?" with an even more forceful no. It finally sinking in, he slunk back across the parking lot and glowered at us for the remaining two minutes until our carriage showed.



Enough of the bad, let me get to the good about Egypt.

The Good:

People are generally friendly. Those that really have nothing to sell you will often be the first to say something as simple as "Welcome to Egypt", or be genuinely curious about where you are from. These are the good faces of Egypt, and if you manage to discern them from the rest, are actually worth talking to.

There were times walking in Cairo that I would have people fall in stride with me and they would, like everyone, ask me where I am from. Instead of saying something stupid like "Canada dry, never die" in respone, they would often follow up with something about themselves; I'm going to school, I'm fron Cairo, how do you like Egypt? Although I'd be wary, these were often the same people that were simply hospitable and on the way to somewhere much like me and would soon depart. Good conversations are possible in Egypt, they are just a lot more rare.

A good example of this was a man named Jimmy from Luxor. Jimmy was the proprietor of the Princess hotel, and also in charge of setting up our tour through the Valley of the Kings on our first day in the city. He told us upfront that he would be making money, but then outlined costs of admittance, fuel, and driver and presented in a way that made us aware of what was a fair price. This was a refreshing change, considering the agent at the New Palace hotel in Cairo intially tried to hook us up with a ten day tour for over $300 that didn't include admission prices, and was solely for transportation and sleeping arrangments. When we found out you could have a nice bed for roughly $4 a night and that the trains were only $20 to cross the country, we were hard pressed to figure out his price logistics. Lucky we dodged that bullet.

Another solid point about Egypt is the ease in which we were able to place our hands on the quite valuable ISIC cards. For those of you out of the loop, or before their time, ISIC stands for International Student Identity Cards. These little plastic dynamos come with a bunch of perks, including and not limited to discounts off attractions all over the world if you're student traveler. I know that the distance they go varies by country, but in Egypt the cards basically get you half off at every attraction, with the only exception we found being the Karnak light show in Luxor. Now the catch of these cards is that you need to be a fulltime student and have proof of enrollment. Anywhere else this may have been a snag, but in Egypt we pleaded unpreparedness and after a little convincing the lady at ISIC Cairo was more then happy to equip us with our cards. The cards cost us about 120 Egyptian Pounds (roughly $20), but I would wager they saved us more than triple that, none of us students.




Something really good about Egypt is the train system. Egypt was the fifth country in Africa that I had visited, and the fourth one I had seen with train tracks laid down. However, aside from Tanzania, it was only the second I saw with actually servicable machines moving on the rails. The trains in Egypt stretch the whole country, and are the main mode of travel, since the roads have not always been the safest. For the price of approximately $25 you can take a 13 hour train from Cairo all the way to Aswan. I dare you to try and get a similar fair on via rail. There are obviously some minor annoyances associated with the Egyptian rail, such as an irritating conductor that does ticket checks every three minutes, and saucy ticket booth operators who will tell you clearly vacant trains are sold out - but considering some of the more constent hassles of Egypt, this is minor news.

I suppose the thing I should be spending the most time on is what will get the least: the attractions themselves. The treasures of Egypt are simply amazing, but the sheer amount of them can be a little overwhelming. We spent almost two full weeks in Egypt moving non-stop around the country and saw only a part of the cultural wealth Egypt has to offer.



This is a double edged sword though, as with every consecutive thing we saw, my taste for being a camera toting tourist was a little more sated, until finally I stopped getting worked up for temples. The attractions themselves remained incredible, but my enthusiasm to tour them dwindled.

I will say that the big name things are worth seeing: the pyramids, abu simbal, the valley of the kings and so on are all worth it. If you go to Egypt you do need to see them. The sheer size of the pyramids blew my mind. It is hard to stand at the base of something so large and wonder how it was made by human hands only. No machines, nothing of the modern technology. It doesn't matter how many heiroglyphics, statues and obelisks you see, they never get less incredible.

I won't give you the run down on everything we saw, as this blog is already long enough. I'm just going to give you some of my top pictures and tell you where they are from. If you want to look up the details on everything I went to, I have included this picture of all my tickets, which have the name of the site printed on them. Feel free to wikipedia the history! I love how ticket scamming is big enough in Egypt that they need to include the very official looking hologram onto all their official things. Even the visa to enter the country has this hologram!



- The Egyptian Museum (very underwhelming, basically an unmarked storage room)


- Giza Pyramids & Sphinx
> The Great Pyramid (This is the big one that you can go inside. Not terribly worth it thought, as it is really a long climb to an empty, cramped, and hot room. They could at least paint a mural.)





- Abu Simbil Tow Temples
> Kings Tomb


> Queens Tomb


- Valley of the Kings (You can see three tombs with regular admission, the following two cost extra)
> Tomb of Tut Ankh Amun
> Ramesses VI

- Al-Deir Al-Bahari Temple (A large embalming temple that had original paint intact!)


- Karnak (The valley of the Queens Ticket was for Karnak, we never saw the VoQ.)


- R'Mose Temple


- Luxor Temple
Thanks for reading,

Much Love,

Sean

Farewell East Africa

I saw a seal on the bus the other day. He was a peculiar seal, dark of skin and sitting upright, a fine fuzz of white fur covering his rotund head; dual cellphones were clutched constantly in his flippers. Beep. Beep. Beep. For hours. I didn't know that seals rode the bus, or that they had African wives that fed them cashews. They do, I saw it. I wonder what that seal would have said if he had made a slight turn left, and saw me staring at him. I was transfixed, his whole face seemed to jostle and shake as he chewed. The temple pulsed, moving up and down rhytmically; his ears moved in time with his jaw, quivering as if under the duress of a gentle breeze.

OK, I'll admit that he may not of actually been a seal. However he certainly did have a likeness to the seafaring mammal. And, perhaps the man in front of me didn't look like the closest thing to an Afro-asian since Tiger Woods, but he did have a striking likeness to a certain Chinese friend of mine. The lady next to me was touched though, I'm sure of it. Every time the the bus driver touched the brakes, she was up and around; peering nervously through the mid-seat crack and encrouching on my space like a fleet footed doom was approaching.

The point is that I enjoy people watching, and unfortunately for others I excel at being callously detrimental in my assessments of people I've never met. I used to hate long road trips. I've come to the conclusion that it was probably because I had nothing worth thinking about when I was younger. Now I enjoy a more enlightened way to move. Don't try to sign me up for Mensa or anything, but I've come to a stage in life where I have the ability to sit back on a bus ride, look out at the passing landscape, and spend copious amounts of time just thinking. It is always pretty unimportant thoughts: future plans, the rare insight, and often a handful of ideas that I think might fit into my blog; as I was looking at the seal, I was imagining how I could write about him.

On this particular bus trip, that returned me from Moshi back to Dar Es Salaam, the one particular thought that was in my head went like this: I am ready to leave East Africa. It's not that I don't like the region, I do. It's not that I havn't had the time of my life, I have. I suppose it boils down to the Mzungu status that haunts one through this continent. I'm tired of the totes and artists and safari drivers. I'm tired of haggling for everything because the white man has the money. No one ever wants to talk to you just for talking, and if they do they're the one out of ten and you still treat them like a jerk because you just can't take the risk that they're not trying to sell you things.

I'm slowly becoming reclusive; a recluse. Perhaps if my tan was darker you'd be checking under the piles of clothes in your kid's room looking for me, my bite poisonous. I'm folding in on my self like a precisely crafted oragami crane. I havn't the patienece for the grifters and sellers, the 'hello rafiki's and the 'karibu brother's. I just long for the places where you meld in to the background, taking for granted the diversity of home that collages you indecernible from the next. Perhaps, I'm not a friendly person, not inherently. My attitude to new people is a multi-factor variable, and situation plays a big part.

The only place I didn't feel this way was Uganda. When I was in Uganda, the "buy my art Rafiki" was a more sincere "Hello Mzungu, how are you?". Yet, I have no plans to circle back there now, and the guns seem to be blaring in the Kampala streets even if I wanted to. The pearl of Africa still has its problems to sort.

It is thus with a mix of sadness, yes, sadness, and the feeling that now is the right time that I fly out of Tanzania. Tonight in the early hours of the morning, I head to Egypt. Although I know the pestering in Egypt will be as bad as anywhere (probably worse), the change of scenery, the shorter duration and the rendevouz with my younger-older-sister makes me excited to go.

My time in East Africa has been nothing short of amazing. I will write something of more proper tribute when I reach home, but for now I will simply say good bye. It hurts to leave, but I think I need a change.

Thanks for Reading,

Much Love,

Sean