Jerash

Today Dan and I went to Jerash, which is a remarkably well-preserved set of Roman ruins at ancient Gerasa. Rather than hire a driver, we went to the bus station and hopped a ride there. Basically your taxi drops you off at a row of buses, and the drivers shout out where they are going. We went up to the guy yelling "Jerash! Jerash!" and paid him less than 1 JD apiece for a one-hour ride to the ruins. The buses leave when they are full, and wait to collect people going in the other direction before heading back.

We had the good fortune to arrive just in time for the gladiator show and chariot race, which I must confess I have been anticipating for months. There were a bunch of guys in Roman army uniforms chilling out at the ticket table and they were happy to take pictures with audience members. The show was created by a bunch of Roman history enthusiasts (including one of the consultants for Gladiator) who wanted to geek out, and I got the impression that the performers were pleased to have such a fun job.



The show began with Roman army drills, followed by a hilarious set of mock gladiator battles. It was clear that nobody was actually out for blood, but it was still pretty hilarious. The audience got to choose whether the losers lived or died, and while we were by and large merciful, we did demand that one guy receive a killing blow—and we were surprised when there was a sudden spray of fake blood! The sand was drizzled with red, and the gladiator fell down with a bright stain on his tunic. He was unceremoniously hauled away by two of his compatriots.



After the gladiators came the charioteers, the guys I was really waiting for. Chariot racing was the premier sport of ancient Rome, and everyone had a favorite team. There were four main colors, red, white, blue, and green, but the blues and greens were the wildest. They were frequently responsible for rioting in the streets and identified themselves with special hair and clothing styles. Unfortunately, the representative of the green team was pretty lame, but blue and red were a ton of fun to watch. There wasn't a real "race" because chariot racing is possibly the most dangerous sport possible—charioteers were known to strap themselves into their vehicles, which meant that they might be dragged to death in case of an accident. They were also heavily associated with magic, partially because you had to have a little something special to survive a sport that dangerous, and partially because circus enthusiasts were in the habit of burying curse tablets beneath the floor of the hippodrome to ensure victory for their chosen teams. Here is a delightful example from John Gager's Curse Tablets and Binding Spells:

…Bind the horses whose names and images I have entrusted to you on this implement . . . bind their power, their soul, their onrush, their speed. Take away their victory, entangle their feet, hinder them, hobble them, so that tomorrow morning in the hippodrome they are not able to run or walk about, or to win, or go out of the starting gates, or advance either on the racecourse, or circle around the turning point; but may they fall with their drivers . . . bind their hands, take away their victory, their exit, their sight, so that they are unable to see their rival charioteers, but rather snatch them up from their chariots and twist them to the ground so that they alone fall, dragged along all over the hippodrome, especially at the turning points, with damage to their body, with the horses whom they drive. Now, quickly!

Aaah, such sweet sentiments. Audollent's Defixionum Tabellae even contains a curse written by a charioteer as though he were casting a love spell on Lady Victory, which is pretty awesome:

Cause Victory, that bitch, not to see sleep out of love for me until she comes to me. . . may Desecus Ballincus of the Lollii, having fallen from his chariot, be unable to get ahead of me, and you, whatever demon you are, I beg you to make [Victory] come to me out of love and desire for me.

Anyway, now that I've bored you to death (I'd apologize but I wouldn't mean it), I can tell you that the show was a blast. If you are ever in Jerash, I highly recommend it! Just seeing an intact hippodrome was amazing, but the show made it extra fun. Afterwards, they even let us play around with some of the equipment for photos. Dan looks rather intimidating, don't you think?



The ruins themselves are wildly impressive. Jerash features multiple churches, two theaters, temples to Artemis and Zeus, and the ruins of a Roman bathhouse. Even though it was viciously hot today, I had a great time just being in a real Roman city. The amount of stuff just sitting out there is staggering. I have to say that I wish the Nymphaeum, a gorgeous public fountain, had still been in working order. A little running water would have been so refreshing!



When we got back to Amman, Dan and I went to a delicious schawarma place near Rainbow Street, which is in the fancy part of town. Until today I had only seen downtown Amman, which is stuffed with shops selling wrestling t-shirts, soccer jerseys, keffiyehs, bootleg DVDs, and traditional embroidered dresses. The women rarely wear pants downtown—long dresses and relatively plain headscarves are all the rage. Uptown, there are western-influenced coffee houses and flocks of giggling girls wearing designer head coverings, families out together licking ice cream cones, schools and libraries. It's a totally different scene. Nowhere in town do you see huge numbers of keffiyehs that aren't being sold as souvenirs. Apparently they do not represent the "international" image that Amman residents generally prefer to cultivate. Men wearing very tight clothes are ubiquitous, but by now that's no surprise.

My favorite food here has definitely come from Hashem, a downtown place that only sells three things: foul, falafel, hummus. But they do it so, so well.



Dan has also introduced me to an absolutely incredible dessert food called kunaifa, which consists of cheese topped with some kind of pastry and drizzled with honey. It comes to you hot, melty, and delicious. Try it if you can.



It would be fun to spend more time exploring Amman, but tomorrow Dan and I are going to catch a ride to Damascus. Syria, here we come!

Amman and Around

Yesterday morning, Dan and I were picked up at the Cleopetra door by a minibus to Amman. The ride was a bit cramped, but it was only 5 JD and was quick and clean. The bus was actually the same model as our team bus from Egypt, although I can assure you it has a much more suitable horn. We took a cab from the bus station to the Abbasi Palace, where we have been staying for the past couple days. It is run by a friendly and welcoming woman named Nejma, who also happens to be an honest businesswoman—she was furious when our cab driver accompanied us to the front desk, because he was hoping for a commission and she refuses to participate in such shady dealings. (It is common for cab drivers to be affiliated with certain hotels that give them kickbacks for bringing in customers.) This establishment isn't perfect—the overhead light in the room flickers on and off, and the bathroom is faintly redolent of sewer water. But our sheets are clean, our stuff is safe, we have free access to wireless internet, and we can hire cars for reasonable prices through Nejma and her network of trusted drivers. The other travelers here are interesting and friendly. Yesterday I met a guy who has been on the road for nine years, cycling across the world. Another Abbasi denizen had been traveling for four.

After cooling our heels for a couple of hours, Dan and I walked around downtown Amman. The Abbasi is only a short walk away from the ruins of a Roman theater, where we spent a good while climbing stairs, playing games with the theater's acoustics, and pretending to declaim before admiring Roman crowds. Sometimes I wish I had been around for the Second Sophistic, a time in the second century or so when rarefied language and well-crafted rhetorical smackdowns were the currency of brilliance.



Attached to the theater are two museums, one of which contains pieces of mosaics from Madaba and Jerash, ancient cities whose churches featured mind-blowingly cool mosaics on their floors. They weren't the most fascinating museums on the planet—one was closed, and the other was pretty small. But the mosaic fragments were a great warmup for what we did today.

This morning we left Amman for the day with a driver hired through the Abbasi. We also brought along Antony, a British traveler who had randomly been asked at the front desk if he wanted to go on "the tour." When he spontaneously accepted the offer, he ended up looking at churches with Dan and me all day. He was a great sport about it, and had all kinds of amazing travel stories to tell. It's surprising how many people live or partially live a travel lifestyle and spend months, even years, on the road.

Our first stop was Madaba, home of the famous map church. Most tour groups stop by the map mosaic and then bail in favor of other sites. This is apparently so common that our driver was shocked when we wanted to stick around in Madaba for more than about ten minutes. But in addition to the gorgeous Church of St. George (keeper of the map), there is also the Archaeological Park, which features more impressive mosaics, as well as the Church of the Apostles. We even stopped by the Catholic church for good measure, so we got to see some wild modern icons, too.



The mosaics we saw were fascinating. In addition to the map, which features multiple pilgrimage sites of relevance to ancient Christians, we saw some from another church that actually depicted other churches in a sort of keeping-up-with-the-neighbors display. The Church of the Apostles, despite its name, most prominently featured a mosaic of Ocean accompanied by fearsome sea monsters. I guess these artists knew what people actually wanted to look at!

Our next official stop was Mt. Nebo, the mountain from which Moses viewed the Promised Land that he could never enter. But in a classic moneymaking move, our driver insisted we stop off at a mosaic workshop. We walked in to see women in wheelchairs laboring away at mosaics in the tradition of those at Madaba, snapping stones into tiny pieces and gluing them in place with expert precision. Some mosaics are done in a new way with patterns and chemically-enhanced glue, but it is also possible to acquire mosaics assembled in the old style. Apparently a church in Miami commissioned a mosaic of the Last Supper, which will be shipped to them shortly. After a brief tour, we were of course led into a showroom and heavily encouraged to buy things. Even the small mosaics were monstrously expensive, so while it felt somewhat awkward to make no purchases after accepting a tour and praising the work of the handicapped women this business supports, we left empty-handed. Our driver was probably pretty ticked off, since no money spent meant no kickbacks for him.

Mt. Nebo was kind of disappointing, mainly because the primary attraction, a memorial for Moses crammed with more mosaics, was under renovation and inaccessible to the public. We fought with a tour group for access to the slim pickings that remained, then rushed out to look over the Holy Land before being overtaken by the crowd. There is a handy map to point the way to places in Israel like Bethlehem and Qumran, although it was foggy and I actually couldn't see much of anything. We did, however, make it up to the Church of Lot and Propertius, where Dan got to see a mosaic he cited for a paper this year.



Our last stop, Bethany, was the highlight of my day. There wasn't much ancient stuff there, at least not that we were allowed to see—the tour was instead a finely mechanized process designed to march us to the baptism site and then away again as efficiently as possible. No straying from the group was allowed, although Dan and I proved to be chronic stragglers. The whole area is packed with churches under construction, since many different denominations want to make their presence known in this area. Bethany has commonly been thought of as Jesus' baptism site since Late Antiquity, so the place has been spiritually significant for quite some time.

At the "official" baptism pool, we were allowed to go down to the nasty, stagnant water and splash it all over ourselves—and we promptly did. Dan and I let the more aggressive pilgrims go first, then took our own sweet time. People were splashing the water all over their faces and heads, and some were dipping necklaces and clothing in as though the water could confer extra blessings on the immersed objects. There was a moment of total hilarity when one of the men in our group tried to step into the pool and then lost his sandal to the muck at the bottom. He got it back, but by then his leg looked like something straight out of Swamp Thing.



When we got back to Amman, Dan and I had a relaxed evening filled with hummus, falafel, foul, and pirated DVDs. Tomorrow we're going to Jerash.

Petra, Part 2

Dan's and my second day at Petra was scary for me, but also exhilarating. The day before, we had seen a sign leading to a side trail that said: "Venturing beyond this point without a guide is dangerous." Needless to say, we went anyway. The path wasn't actually that difficult to follow—the centuries-old Nabatean steps were worn but present, and there was plenty of horse and camel dung to reveal which areas were heavily traveled. I was terrified we would get lost and never make it back home, but Dan was confident in our abilities. Rightfully so, as it turns out.



We didn't encounter other tourists all morning—we were all by ourselves, traveling the same paths that ancient Petra residents (and modern Bedouin) have continuously traveled. In fact, many of the old tombs have obviously become camel storage areas. They floors were liberally coated with camel poop, discarded soda cans, and cigarette butts. Even better, the walls were covered with graffiti and drawings of camels.



The scenery was absolutely stunning. As we climbed up the mountain, we reached the end of it to discover a vast green plain, crisscrossed with well-worn paths leading off into the hills. We decided to follow, since we were hoping we had found a semi-secret route to the high place of sacrifice, where you can see an intact altar. Along the way there were gorgeous views and interesting animals, including a couple of blue salamanders. It is very difficult to get close to lizards, since they are easily spooked. Even a slight noise can send them racing off into the distance, their little legs fully extended and flopping up and down so awkwardly that I find their speed surprising.



The path, as far as we could tell, ended with a grouping of small huts that were obviously regularly used. We called out to see if anyone was there, and when there was no answer we paused to figure out what to do next. Then, out of nowhere, a Bedouin woman riding a donkey approached us and asked where we were going. Suddenly she was tethering her donkey and leaping down barely-discernible paths in the rocks, down past ancient ruins overgrown with pink-flowered plants. When I paused to consider how to get down myself, she took my hand to steady my descent. When we took a brief break, she played flute for us and picked those pink flowers to present to us as gifts. Dan and I immediately placed them in our keffiyehs. And then it was down again, down until we were suddenly on the cliffs above the treasury, enjoying an uncommonly good view.



When we'd had our fill, she led us back to a place where the path was clear and pointed us in the direction of the sacrificial altar. After plenty more climbing, we reached it, exhilarated. And the day didn't end there—we still had to descend. We took a long way down, past some incredible tombs. One looked like a garden temple from the Legend of Zelda, and another, the Tomb of the Roman Soldier, was located across from a beautifully colored triclinium (funerary dining hall), where we briefly reclined.



Finally the main road at Petra was visible again, and although I was pretty wiped out, I knew we'd just had an awesome day. It was totally worth the hike. I doubt I'll ever see anything as wild as Petra again.

Petra, Part 1

I already knew Petra was going to wow me, but I can honestly say there is nothing else like it. It's also much, much bigger than you would think from watching Indiana Jones—Dan and I got 2-day passes and we still didn't see everything. What we did see, however, kicked some major ass.

Although I confess I was a bit reticent at first, we quickly discovered that it is totally acceptable to stray from the official path and clamber all over the ancient ruins. Other than the occasional Bedouin vendor or animal driver who wants to sell you a ride or a tour, nobody is paying any attention to what you do. We took advantage.



The main pathway to the ruins is lined with interesting tombs and buildings, which you can admire until you come to a gorgeous canyon. It is possible to rush through this part to get to the Treasury, which is what everyone wants to see, but Dan moonlights as a geologist and deeply appreciated the stone. The natural wonders of Petra are every bit as impressive as the ancient ones—the rocks form intricate patterns rich in red, yellow, black, and bluish-gray. Sometimes upper layers melt down over the lower ones like wax on a candle. Our interest in the natural aspects of Petra also allowed the man-made ones to take us by surprise. Somehow a niche or water channel is much more dramatic when it pops out at you from something that was already beautiful. When we saw the Treasury in the distance, its awesomeness struck us full force. It might be worn down and riddled with bullet holes from Bedouin target practice, but it is truly stunning.



In front of the Treasury, we ran into another traveler from the Cleopetra, who turned out to be a Canadian political science grad student named Emilie. She ended up joining us for the day as we visited the church with its cute animal mosaics, a temple proudly excavated by Brown University (a sign stands as testament to this fact), the Roman theater, and—after somewhere between 800 and 900 steps—the "monastery" up at the top of the site. After climbing Mt. Sinai the day before, I wasn't sure I was going to make it. But I did, and it was totally worth it. Emilie and I even managed to scramble up into the building to explore. (Dan hopped in there with no problem at all, but he has long legs!)



After that, we made our way up to the "Best View in Petra," of which there are actually many. Clashing signs with arrows pointing in different directions insist that their views are superior. We chose the highest point, where we naturally discovered a little shop, and from which the other two "best view" huts were actually visible. The shopkeeper was a very friendly Bedouin who chatted with us and showed us a different way to tie our keffiyehs (which I unfortunately forgot). He offered us tea, but when we asked for water he shook his head, pulled out a bottle of liquor, and said "This is what I drink up here." Apparently it can be very lonely and boring at the best view in Petra. He mentioned that his brother also works on site, and I asked if he was related to the other claimants to the best view. He replied, "Eh, the shop over there belongs to my cousin, so he's not really close. He's a nice guy—I don't take his business, and he doesn't take my business, because there is no business." The real money apparently comes from running tours. He invited us to stick around to watch the sun set, but we were too exhausted for it.



Emilie and I had some mixed interactions with Bedouin men when Dan wasn't around. His Arabic skills and the fact that he is a man earn him a certain level of respect which is not always afforded to women. Emilie had originally joined up with us because she didn't want to be alone if she ran into a guide who had followed her around the day before. During a sunscreen reapplication break, a couple of younger men on donkeys pushed us to accept a ride up the stairs to the monastery, and kept badgering us when we refused. I finally snapped, "Chalas, go away," which provoked them to respond that we were on their land and would go where they wanted to go. (The cultural implications of this encounter were awkward, to say the least.) I told them that sure, they could sit there, but they weren't going to make any money. They sat on their donkeys in stony silence for a moment to make their point, then rode off in search of business. At another time during the day, a couple of particularly smarmy guys were trying to get us to buy Petra books, but immediately scattered when Dan showed up. I was amused by the fact that their long curled hair and thin mustaches made them look a bit like pirates in the tradition of Captain Jack Sparrow.

Most of the people I have met here, however, are truly amazing people. Even though they obviously want you to stop and buy something, there is often sincerity in vendors' voices when they ask where you are from and then say, "Welcome!" They are glad to point you in the right direction if you need help, or even to randomly chat with you for a few minutes regardless of whether they turn a profit.

Ferry to Jordan

Before taking this ferry, I had heard many horror stories about it. According to both the Rough Guide and Lonely Planet, you absolutely must show up in Nuweiba to buy ferry tickets at least two hours before your departure time. Then you are supposed to fill up that time with miserable waiting in line, while you are forced to relieve yourself in squalid squat toilets and subjected to unreasonable and unexplained delays. It probably is more pleasant to go from Egypt to Jordan by bus, but Dan and I didn't have a choice—plane tickets are pricey (the ferry already clocks in at $70) and the bus passes through Israel—a real no-no for people who are planning to visit Syria. Eilat, Israel is actually visible across the water from our port in Aqaba.

Dan and I were not able to make it to the ticket office two hours beforehand. We had been planning to take a bus to Dahab, then a connection to Nuweiba the next morning, but it is low tourist season and the buses weren't running. This unfortunately forced us to negotiate with a rapacious cab driver, but he got us from St. Catherine's to the port by 2:00 for a 3:30 departure. They sold us our tickets, and we were off. I had no idea what was awaiting us after all those horror stories, but in this case it turned out to be... nothing. We had to go to three or four different windows to buy tickets, get our luggage scanned, and have our passports checked, but there was literally no one else there. We had to walk through a parking lot filled with random eighteen wheelers to get to the boat, but since it said "AQABA" on it this was not terribly difficult. The ferry wasn't crowded when we got on. It even left at 3:35, the engine revving up and settling to a satisfying whirr.

But it was all downhill from there. We had allegedly taken the "fast ferry," which allegedly takes an hour to reach Jordan. Try five hours! And the food options on that boat are pretty limited. To see if we were moving, I had to pick a fixed point and watch it like a hawk to see if it moved from the clear part of the window to the section with brown stains and peeled plastic. But other than being long, the ride wasn't all that bad. We got there, we were shuttled to the customs office where we got our passports back (you turn them in at the start of the trip), and we were released into a parking lot filled with starving hyenas (i.e. cab drivers).

Dan and I originally thought we would be able to get a good deal for a cab to Petra, since we met three other people on the shuttle bus who had the same destination in mind. But no such luck—it would have been easier to bargain with four people, but there were five of us and the drivers insisted we take two cars. Even worse, one of the girls we met was more desperate than the rest of us to keep going, and they kept working exclusively on her, knowing that we weren't going to abandon anybody. We ended up paying a somewhat steep 12 JD, but we got there. (FYI, unlike Egypt, Jordan is an expensive country—1 Jordanian Dinar is worth about $1.50.) It was also clear that all of the drivers had colluded with each other to offer the same prices. We could have taken a bus to the city center to work out a better deal, but it was late and Dan and I had already climbed a mountain that morning.

We didn't have any hotel reservations, but we asked the driver to drop us off at Cleopetra, which is probably the best-known budget hotel in Petra. It deserves its good rep—we were immediately shown to a room and then given a welcome drink. The US and England were playing their World Cup game at the time, so we cheered for the USA and then crashed out. When my head hit the pillow, fresh laundry smell immediately hit me and I figured I was in a decent place. Cleopetra offers free breakfast and rides to Petra (although no rides back). The minibus to Amman this morning picked us up at the hotel door, which was also extremely convenient. I'd definitely recommend a stay there if you are looking for comfortable but not fancy.

Sinai

Dan and I hauled ourselves out of bed around 2:30 am, which was apparently later than everyone else because the streets were totally empty on the way to the monastery, and the tourist police looked bored and listless when we got there. On the way up, some random guys passed us saying, "Don't hire a guide! Don't!" We didn't know what they meant at first, but then we encountered an irritating scam. The police claimed that, thanks to some idiot tourist who got lost on Mt. Sinai for eight days, we would not be allowed to climb the mountain without an "official Bedouin guide," obtainable for a not inconsiderable fee of 85 LE. I am not sure it is possible to get lost on Mt. Sinai. I was pretty panicked and wouldn't have known what to do, but Dan refused to give in, using his mad language skills to give us enough street cred to get past the checkpoint sans guide.

We were mostly alone on the camel trail leading up to the summit, with the exception of camel drivers descending the mountain in search of new clients/victims. "Camel ride? Camel ride to top? Good camel! Good price!" We used our cell phone flashlights to light the path in front of us, which wasn't too steep but was still tiring and long. I had to take a lot of breaks, but Dan was patient with me and we used the break time to look up at the stars. I can't remember the last time I saw the milky way, or managed to hear nothing but crickets and the crunch of my feet (and the occasional camel driver...). There are occasional rest stops populated by Egyptian vendors who always ask, "Coffee? Chai? Chocolate?"



We didn't reach the summit by dawn, but we did get to watch the sun rise over the mountain and highlight some incredible views. We also got to admire the resting camels, who look hilarious when they sleep!



It soon became clear that I didn't want to be at the summit anyway--most pilgrims head up around midnight, then huddle together in the cold for hours until dawn. The top of Mt. Sinai is windy and freezing at night, meaning that local vendors make a fortune in blanket rentals. Hundreds of people cram themselves into a pretty tight space, and I got a taste of the traffic jam when they started coming down before Dan and I had finished going up. The trail to the summit ends with a set of uneven stairs which are an absolute nightmare to climb. It gets even worse when a river of tourists comes cascading down the thin path, threatening to knock you off.

The climbers themselves, however, were a fascinating sight. One girl descended in a pair of once-fashionable gladiator sandals, now ragged and covered with dust. Some European tourists had brought ski poles with them to assist with the climb. Unless they packed them, where the hell did those come from? One guy, dressed in a black striped shirt, shorts with a garish blue box pattern, and an undersized camo-print hat, was very taken aback when asked if he was from the US. "No," he said with palpable disgust. "No, I am from Germany!" He might be embarrassed to be mistaken for a US citizen, but I am embarrassed that anyone thinks an American would dress like that!

Dan and I found a remote spot on the summit for breakfast, and after a leisurely meal, we discovered that we were basically alone on top of the mountain. Everyone had left. There is nothing interesting on the summit, by the way--just uncomfortable spaces and a pretty unattractive stone building. I didn't even get any commandments! Since we had taken the camel trail up, we used the "Stairs of Repentance" to get down. Let me tell you, after taking those stairs, I am SO SORRY. They are uneven, steep, and unbelievably hard on the legs. I do not recommend that anyone ever take those steps to the summit in the dark of night.



The scenery, however, was breathtaking. The rock formations were illuminated in all their colorful glory, and the occasional plant had barged its way out of the ground to add a little green to the landscape. My favorites were these spiny little flowers that looked like very unfriendly dandelions. There were also some amazing stacks of rocks set in random clusters beside the path, serving as reminders of those who had descended before us. My favorite human addition to the trail was a gorgeous drawing of Mary just inside the window of an empty building.



The monastery itself was not really my favorite. There were some heart-stoppingly stunning icons in the museum, but the museum and church were packed and there wasn't much that tourists are allowed to see.The ticket taker at the museum was an unfriendly, bent-over old man whose assistant was rubbing his thighs and butt with some kind of electric massage device. Still not sure what to make of that one. The lights in the museum went out every fifteen minutes or so, apparently in an attempt to flush out lingering tourists. (Dan and I lingered on.) Anyone talking inside of the church, even softly, was insistently shushed by the despotic church guard, and all of the icons in it were unlabeled and hung high up on the wall.

We did, however, see a clipping from the original burning bush (yep, the Moses one) that has allegedly been thriving at the monastery for centuries. My favorite part about this was the fire extinguisher placed a few feet away.



I'm currently in Jordan, about to rest up for a second day of exploring at Petra. I am exhausted, but very happy. Expect posts in the future about the ferry to Jordan and our Petra adventures!

Bus to Sinai

Last summer I got to enjoy Egypt's convenient trains that run up and down the Nile. Today I got to try out a bus from Cairo to St. Catherine's. Dan and I left the Diocesan Guesthouse at 9:45 AM and headed to Turgoman bus station to get tickets for the daily bus to Sinai. We thought it would depart at 10:30 but it's been moved to 11:00. Tickets were 45 LE each, and the bus ride lasted from 11:00 until about 7:00.

I have never really used buses to travel before, so I wasn't sure what to expect. Overall the experience wasn't too bad. The bus was far from squeaky clean—the windows were specked with black paint and had developed a fine patina of grime that nobody ever bothered to clean off. The upholstery was a dingy gray relic from decades past, which was kind of a relief because I couldn't see too many stains. The A/C was weak, but this problem was easily solved by opening the windows. During the entire ride Arabic prayer music wheezed from the bus intercoms. There was no instrumentation, just a lonely voice competing with the roar of the engine and the air rushing through cracked windows. It faded in and out, just like all the dozing passengers.

I was surprisingly comfortable the whole time. There were few enough people on board to allow us all to recline in our seats, and there was also plenty of leg room. There were lots of stops along the way, which usually turned out to be either pit stops or passport checks. The one bathroom I used was so nasty that I decided I would rather use the squat toilet than sit down on anything, but that isn't any different from half of the American gas stations I've stopped at. Where's a good sand dune when you need one? By the way, when using public bathrooms in Egypt, you need to bring your own supplies. I always stash a purse-sized packet of tissues in my backpack for such occasions.

I am currently lounging around outside at a Bedouin guest house run by the very personable Sheik Mousa, who also owns the camp next door. Wireless internet and unlimited mint tea make for a very nice evening. This place is friendly and comfortable, and I am very glad we decided to stay here. Immediately after the bus dropped us off at Al-Milga (the tiny town near St. Catherine's), we were swamped by cab drivers who wanted to bring us to their favorite hotels—i.e. the ones that would pay them commissions for bringing in new guests. These guys are actually really nice, just poor. Tourists are their only hope for business. We viewed rooms at one camp but were unimpressed, so we migrated over to Sheik Mousa's. Check out the view from our porch!



The room itself is simple but comfortable. I can already tell I'll be grateful for the mosquito net!



I won't be sleeping much tonight, though—in a couple of hours Dan and I will head out for a hike up Mt. Sinai so we can watch the sun rise. After that, we'll wander down to visit St. Catherine's.

Last Week On Site

This past week was my last at John the Little this season, and it was busy. We had to make sure to shoot in all necessary architectural features and then smooth out the final version of this season's map, which was unbelievably troublesome. The program we use, Pythagoras, is always coming up with new ways to thwart us. But while Pythagoras may have bested us in a skirmish or two, I think that the survey team won the war. Here is our awkward group photo, desert loner edition:



Overall this week was full of scary moments that fortunately turned out all right in the end. On a spontaneous trip to Dandy Mall, one of my worst nightmares became reality. You know how when you insert your ATM card into a machine, you feel slightly afraid that the machine will eat your card and never give it back? Yes, it happened to me—I typed in my PIN and the machine just...froze. Fortunately the bank remotely reset the ATM and it spat my card back out, but I was seriously panicked for a good twenty minutes.

My birthday was also one of the more eventful ones I have had. I spent most of my morning dangling off of ladders and standing on top of crumbling mudbrick walls on my quest for a beautiful site map. At one point, I stood on the sand next to one of the rooms, not on the wall where my weight could cause a niche to collapse. Unfortunately, my "safe" perch was not safe at all—suddenly the ground underneath me disappeared and I was falling into the room through the back of one of those fragile niches. Fortunately I managed to claw my way out, but it was a terrifying experience. Nothing was actually damaged, although one of my friends ended up with an extra giant pile of sand in her unit where it had fallen in through the niche.

By this point I thought I was home free and had been through quite enough birthday terror. I went about my business mapping more features, until suddenly I felt an uncharacteristically cool breeze blow across my right leg. I looked down and, sure enough, the crotch of my pants had utterly disintegrated. There I was, my underwear partially exposed in front of my friends and not a few Egyptian workers. I tried not to draw too much attention to myself, held a water bottle in front (but there wasn't much I could do about the back) and scurried to our tent, where I asked Gillian, our ceramicist, for help. Fortunately she is a brilliant problem solver and made me a makeshift sarong out of some stray cloth. To complete her fine work, she wrote "Birthday Girl" across the bottom in permanent marker.



After all of that chaos, it was only breakfast time, and I have to admit that I was feeling bummed about having such a crappy birthday. But then, a miracle! Dan had remembered my b-day and thought to put a coke in the breakfast cooler, just for me. It was chill, crisp, and exactly what I needed. My whole day turned right around. Who needs trustworthy pants when they have incredible friends?



Dan had a few adventures of his own this week. After a couple of workers got into a fistfight and caused some chaos, one of them brought some lovely pink flowers to site—flowers Mohamed, our chief archaeologist, distributed only to the men. Dan was a great sport and a potential model for the cover of National Geographic.

Deir el-Baramus

This Sunday we took a special trip to Deir el-Baramus, one of the four active monasteries in the Wadi al-Natrun area. Right next to the active part of the monastery is an ancient site from the same period as the manshubiya we are excavating, so it was exciting to examine a somewhat different monastic settlement. Inside the church itself, there are a few awesome Coptic wall paintings from the 13th century or so.



Most interesting, however, were the people hanging out at the monastery and even in the church itself. When we got off the bus, I saw young boys kicking a soccer ball and filling the air with joyful screeching. People milled around the gift shop and snack bar, and they sat in small groups on the floor of the church. One woman was chatting on a hot pink cell phone. In a more remote room, a man had fallen asleep with his back against a stray lectern, a can of Pepsi still half-gripped in his hand. Groups swarmed around an Abouna who was seated on a chair to dole out his blessings.



In the deepest room of the church that is accessible to the public, we were able to venerate some holy relics. We were not alone—the crowd of people inside spontaneously burst into song and kept it up the entire time we were there.

Desert Dogs

Dawn, Sean and I are making tons of progress with our survey work. In fact, we are just about done with the site map, including all mounds that probably mark the locations of ancient structures. To finish up our plan, we had to shoot in points on the outskirts of site, which meant walking long distances in the heat of the day (it took fifteen minutes to walk from the total station to our backsight). The worst part of this walk: Dogs.

Apparently one of the site's neighbors is a farmer who owns a pack of dogs, who enjoy barking at whoever comes by. They can get pretty aggressive and will keep creeping closer to you as you pass by, which I find terrifying. It's not so much that I am afraid of being torn apart—the dogs are mostly just bullies. There are a few large ones, accompanied by small yappy dogs who add their barking to the fray and try to act all tough. Toadies.

The worst was yesterday, when I was alone at the total station near the road, and the dogs started crossing the street to bark at and harass me. I have had a middle class suburban upbringing, and I have never met a dog that wasn't somebody's pampered pet. It was so freaky to be reminded that cute puppies are not always even remotely cute, and that one nip can get me shipped to Cairo for a bunch of rabies shots. I didn't know what to do, so I called someone who would. She told me to get ready to throw rocks, and sent a worker over who only had to WALK AT the dogs to make them back off. Apparently stray dogs are taught to fear beatings from puppyhood, and know that a human carrying a rock can mean some serious pain.

Aside from the hellhounds, I'm still enjoying wandering through the desert. Today Sean and I got to help Dawn with a basic surface survey. We went from mound to mound assessing the relative frequency of various ancient materials that have made their way to the surface. Since it is so hot outside, we also occasionally take breaks, which often result in impressive art made from sand, stones, and potsherds. We have termed some of our efforts "sherd art," or "shart." (Ha ha.) Here is a pretty sweet chicken head, courtesy of Dawn:



And Sean decided to do an homage to the pyramids this afternoon:



Surveying has been a ton of fun, even though it's physically tiring. I'm so glad I got to learn the basics this season. I haven't noticed any change in my appearance, but when I forgot something in my room this morning, I bounded up two flights of stairs and was on my way back down again before I realized I didn't feel tired at all. Progress!

Bad Vampire Books

After last year's incredible experience with Secret Life of a Vampire, there was no question that we would go back for more—especially when the girls from Wittenberg brought eight paranormal romances for us to swap back and forth. We even have a rating system. After reading a book, the reader writes her (his?) name, a rating of one to five crosses, and a single word to represent the book. My favorite so far is not exactly one word, but it's close enough: "showerscene."

We also have the occasional live reading, for which we always choose the most embarrassing scenes. Laughter inevitably follows.



A lot of these books seem to have similar trends—a woman who is aging or otherwise insecure about her body is suddenly noticed by a devastatingly handsome vampire (or other supernatural creature) who sweeps her off her feet, makes her immortal, and almost immediately commits to an eternal monogamous relationship. The women who write these books all appear to have terrible pen names that overuse the letter "Y." Examples: Rhyannon Byrd, Yasmin Galenorn. Some of the plots are pretty wild—one book involves a woman with three husbands, including a fox demon and a dragon. But most are what you'd expect, since if you read the back matter, it's not exactly difficult to determine who will be getting together.

Our absolute "favorite" of all vampire romance authors is Lynsay Sands, whose vampires originated on Atlantis and require blood to feed the scientifically advanced "nanos" that eternally regenerate their bodies. Here are some real gems, possibly paraphrased. Can you really blame us for finding these so entertaining?

"She felt like an invaded country."

"He sprang away from her like a rat from a sinking ship."

"The man had a butt you could bounce coins off."

"He obviously felt no shame at using his skills so shamelessly."