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In his eclectic book Let My People Go Surfing: The Education of a Reluctant Businessman, Yvon Chouinard traces the unusual development of Patagonia from a one-man smithing operation in California to the world’s leading producer of outdoor clothing. Chouinard’s self-deprecating style belies his preternatural understanding of the universal human craving for individual freedom. The same impulse that drove him to scale peaks using homemade tools manifests itself in the desire to skip work on Wednesdays or wear unusual clothing. People oppose systems that treat them as cogs. This is one reason for communism’s failure, and it also explains why the assembly line is at once man’s most efficient and least inspiring contrivances:
It is the closest thing to a perpetual motion machine, for its inertia alone seems sufficient to sustain it. In many ways, the modern engineering organization is no different than this assembly line. Whereas Ford has its conveyors and pneumatic arms, the large engineering company has its “Big M” methodologies. Use Python for a business system? Too risky. Compress the management hierarchy? Too controversial. Go on the offensive during requirements development? Too costly. Breaking free from this order takes a refractory personality. This is precisely Chouinard’s conclusion:
One of my favorite sayings about entrepreneurship is: If you want to understand the entrepreneur, study the juvenile delinquent. The delinquent is saying with his actions, “This sucks. I’m going to do my own thing.” Since I had never wanted to be a businessman, I needed a few good reasons to be one. One thing I did not want to change, even if we got serious: Work had to be enjoyable on a daily basis. We all had to come to work on the balls of our feet and go up the stairs two steps at a time. We needed to be surrounded by friends who could dress whatever way they wanted, even be barefoot. We all needed to have flextime to surf the waves when they were good, or ski the powder after a big snowstorm, or stay home and take care of a sick child. Breaking the rules and making my own system work are the creative part of management that is particularly satisfying to me.
Chouinard now has the luxury of reflecting on his ascent, which was fraught with challenges. At one point, he resorted to eating dog food when his money ran out. Such is the life of one who challenges convention, which by definition is a position arrived at by force. A terminal moraine, a huge stone pushed by a glacier, is a natural corollary:
Business, climbing, and even car detailing each have their customs that were developed through natural selection over extended periods. Objecting to an established position is no more palatable than exterminating a particular species of animal. This is why Machiavelli wrote in “The Prince”:
And it should be considered that nothing is more difficult to handle, more doubtful of success, nor more dangerous to manage, than to put oneself at the head of introducing new orders. For the introducer has all those who benefit from the old orders as enemies, and he has lukewarm defenders in all those who might benefit from the new orders.
We often forget that some of our greatest luminaries were not overnight successes, but lately recognized geniuses.
This morning I ran in the RAK Half Marathon in Ras Al Khaimah, UAE (about three hours from Abu Dhabi). H.H. Sheikh Saqr bin Mohammed Al Qasimi gave 1 million dirhams (about $350,000) to fund the prize money, instantly making it the world’s richest half marathon. Accordingly, an exceptionally fast elite field entered the race. Sammy Wanjiru broke Haile Gebrselassie’s world record, finishing at 58:53 on the flat course. I also achieved a personal best, breaking 1:30 for the first time (1:29:49). Several other luminaries were present including the Shaikh and this unassuming dude, who was chatting with Wanjiru:
That’s Paul Tergat, the world record holder in the marathon. Our exchange went as follows (my thoughts in italics):
Me: “Hello Mr. Tergat. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” (greetings, god of running)
Paul: “Hello Spence, how did you do today?”
Me: “Fine. May I have a picture with you?” (yes, I’m shameless, O god of running)
Paul: “Certainly.” Placing a long slender arm around me, we take the photo above. (Chatting briefly) Then grasping my neck as I step away, “It was a pleasure to meet you.”
Me: ????? Uhhh. ????? “Thank you so much Mr. Tergat.” (I’m a fan for life.)
14-18 Jan 2007
The Greyhound gate was staffed by an obese, indifferent woman who punched tickets mechanically with absent regularity. Conversely, I was in both excellent condition and an elated state, for I was to start a five-day, 75km hike in the Drakensberg this afternoon. But I was late, and although my ticket had been punched and my seat reserved, I couldn’t board the idling bus outside. With characteristic carelessness, I had forgotten my camera, and had sent my friend Carl racing off to his house to retrieve it. I paced anxiously, observing seconds becoming minutes, and minutes accumulates in groups of ten and twenty. As the last person passed through the gate, the attendant looked up and assessed me grimly. “You’s responsible,” she said, before hoisting herself from a burdened stool and shuffling off. I mumbled anxiously, calling down curses on myself like Peter at the Gate, as the last porters loaded bags into the bus’s little cargo trailer. Suddenly, Carl burst through a crowd of people, clutching my camera and grinning mischievously.
“Across town and back in 20 minutes! Sure,” he said, which, when articulated by a South African, sounds something like, “Sshaww”. I thanked him, then hurried to the bus, hoping onto the first deck, then taking the stairs two-at-a-time to the second level. There, I found my seat partially occupied by the sprawling hips of an enormous African lady. Excusing myself diffidently, I lodged myself between her and the window. A film began on an overhead screen, but I from my enviable perch was content with the images of South Africa in summer that appeared through my window: vast tracts of farmland, made fecund by rolling sprinkler systems; women, carrying water on their heads drawn from nearby ponds; the sky, which has a particularly diaphanous quality in Africa, whose people have not scarred it with chemicals. These sights I cannot describe adequately, for some things were made to be seen and others to be read about. The South African countryside clearly belongs to the former category.
Three hours later, Colin McCoy, my guide, found me dozing in the midday heat at the bus stop in Harrismith, a quiet, provincial settlement south of Jo’burg. Short, with a ruddy, sun-burnt complexion, he had the lean build of one unfamiliar with the “9-to-5 thing.” We wasted no time, immediately setting off for Sentinel Peak, where our trek would begin. The trip lasted two hours by car, and along the way he introduced me to the area. The Drakensberg (”Dragon Mountain” in Dutch) range runs some 250km, north to south, from the Royal Natal area toward the Eastern Cape. It is characterized by an almost uninterrupted escarpment, portions of which rise above 3000m. The escarpment forms part of the border between South Africa and Lesotho, an independent, sovereign state enclosed completely by its accommodating neighbor. Lesotho’s inhabitants call themselves Basotho, and converse in Sasotho. Discomfited by this capricious nomenclature, many have elected to label the whole affair “Sotho”. This stratagem I adopted enthusiastically. We probably won’t see anyone, he said, save for some Sotho herdboys tending their flocks of sheep, goats, and horses.
Colin’s father guided the car onto a winding, dusty track that crawled south toward Sentinel Peak. My ears popped repeatedly as we ascended to 2500m. At a carpark there, Colin paid the R125 park fee as I reviewed my gear. Better authors than me, starting with Herodotus, have catalogued the things men carry with them on voyages and into battle. I thus feel no need to describe our proceedings at this stage, other than to remark that I forgot a pen. The absence of this instrument makes me feel more naked than missing trousers. This log then comes largely from memory, and if it has been embellished by my mind, then I plead with a certain Dutch philosopher that, “…a fictitious idea cannot be simple [that is, clear and distinct], but is formed by the blending of various confused ideas of various things and actions existing in Nature.”
With little fanfare, we bid Colin’s parents farewell and started south, climbing with Sentinel Peak to our left. Several passing day hikers remarked at the burdens we bore, and carried on relieved that they were not testing themselves in a similar way. After a 1.5km walk, we reached a rusting chain ladder strung from a recess above. Climbing this, we mounted the escarpment, and walked toward the Amphitheatre, emphatically marketed by KwaZulu-Natal Wildlife (e.g., “the man”) as “the world’s second highest waterfall.” Today, the world’s second highest waterfall was also its second highest trickle, though I suspected that the pregnant rain clouds to our backs would revitalize this alpine wonder. After filling our water bottles–Drakensberg hikers are blessed with an abundance of clean water–we retired to a drafty, stone field hut and gourmandized a frozen stew sent by Colin’s mother. Outside, a howling wind blew down from Mont-aux-Sources (so named by the nearby inception of four rivers) and across the flat escarpment.
Next day we arose at 6:30, leaving the hut by 8. We walked along the amphitheatre and past Ribbon Falls, youthful conversation turning quickly into meditative silence. We saw a few grey rhebuck, which are like small deer, grazing on the hills. Cresting a ridge, we looked down along a 10km trench bisected by a river. Basotho herds grazed on both slopes, and we saw the herdboys sitting nearby. Animal husbandry has remained a staple of this society, and these boys, whose ages range from pre-adolescence to mid-twenties, maintain a considerable amount of community wealth. Colin remarked that despite their poverty, their herds alone must be worth great sums. Indeed, I noted a few beautiful horses among the herds, and was transfixed as a herdboy came bounding down from his perch, mounted a horse bareback, and galloped after several wandering animals. In the evening, the herdboys move their animals into “craals”, which consist of a rectangular area adumbrated by a low stone wall. Occupying the craals center is a circular stone hut about 2m in diameter caparisoned with a thatch roof. We saw at least twenty of these structures, many of them abandoned, during our journey.
We passed a variety of landmarks, which I list here only for posterity: Ifidi Pass and the Pinnacles, Stimela Ridge and Stimela Peak, Mbundini Pass. By 4:30 a ‘Berg storm, characterized by intense lightning, had come up, so we elected to find shelter. Rat Hole Cave, our preferred destination, was not in its expected location; we observed it dolefully from across a deep ravine. We could not even locate Fang’s Cave, the next convenient stop. We thus quickly found a flat patch of ground–careful to avoid line-of-sight from the escarpment edge (the Basotho boys are not always innocent)–and pitched our tents, crawling in just as the rain came. The wind screamed across the ridgeline, and my tent shook violently, as if in the grip of a strong man. Later, we had a surprisingly sating meal that consisted of pesto and, of course, tea. We passed a quiet evening, our tents illuminated by the watchful moon.
The same routine ensued the following morning: tea, exercise (for me, that is), and packing. We had an uneventful walk toward Mponjwane, stopping to bathe in a spring-fed pool. A pack of crackers bought me a picture with some jocular Sotho herdboys just after lunch. We chased a troupe of baboons up a short ridge, whose arresting screams, which have a human quality, made us wary. That evening we slept in Mponjwane cave, a dry crevice made comfortable by decades of travelers. One thoughtful person had lined the floor with straw. Another had built an enclosing wall, leaving a half-consumed candle attached to a rock. Colin spoke of a climber who in 1996 had proposed to his girlfriend in the cave. The following day, as he began to abseil from the top of Mponjwane, the boulder to which his rope was attached broke free. He fell 100m, mangling his face and legs as he crashed into the peak’s side. Still conscious, he lodged himself in a small recess while his buddy climbed down for help. It took more than a day for his friend to hike down, alert the emergency authorities, and hike back. The man survived and is happily married today. Nonetheless, such a proximate tale did not make for pleasant dreams.
I awoke around 3AM covered in water. A mist had come up, the only form of moisture that could enter the cave. Colin was awake a few moments later, and we laconically set to work on the tent. Several hours later I rose again, unsure if I had slept or not. The mist had not cleared, and we set off that morning with 10m visibility, an ominous portent for what would be an eventful day. My boots were soaked 15 minutes into the journey, and I sloshed along miserably until midday. Colin navigated by sight as features appeared, though as a general rule, one can proceed correctly by walking south and staying east of the escarpment. After lunch, we paused and Colin puzzled over the map for several minutes. The features ahead of us seemed indistinct to him. Finally, we turned east and scrambled up a 3100m ridge. Halfway down the other side, Colin realized his mistake. But now nothing seemed clear: not the river below us, not the abutment to our left. Colin took bearings and looked at the terrain from various positions. We aren’t lost, he said. You can only get lost if you don’t know where you came from.
Finally, he identified the Kwakwatsi River by the direction of its flow. Viewed from the south, the river flowed east, meaning that we were east of the escarpment. The only river flowing east in that vicinity was the Kwakwatsi. One problem remained: we stood some 500m above the river. Having lost two hours already, we elected to scramble down a nearby ravine. The run did not seem precipitous until viewed from the bottom. Standing below with necks craned toward the sky, we meditated silently for a few moments on what we had just done. Then we hurried off, following the river for 5 grueling kilometers.
By 430 we had a decision to make: camp now or go for the Tsektseke Hut, a shelter at the bottom of a mountain pass some 7km away. Sore but still energetic, we immediately decided to try the pass. Colin reasoned that we could reach the pass’s head by 630, which we did. I had walked ahead as he fussed with his map. Famished, I had started consuming the following day’s lunch, which we likely wouldn’t need. I stopped myself, though, for it is wise to reserve an extra meal for emergencies. He approached and, after taking some food for himself, looked north, soberly assessing a thickening storm on the horizon. We both unpacked our rain gear and headlamps and then staunched our bags. “It’s like we’re gearing up for an epic,” Colin said. “God.”
We took the pass. The hut was visible at first, a tantalizing 3km away. Then the storm came up, bringing lighting, rain, and opaque mist. Grass, dampened by the rain and flattened by the wind, hid the trail and we slid down the first kilometer in the gloaming. Night came and we switched on our lights, which illuminated the fog in the narrow pass, creating a broad, ambient effect. Our feet found only boulders, whose glabrous surfaces made for rough work. After another kilometer and another hour, the hut still had not materialized. My fatigue turned to panic, not for my own safety, but for ours collectively. Colin fell hard several times, and I knew that if he were to become injured, I would have a difficult time finding help. The trail was indistinct save for “cairns”, piles of rocks left by previous hikers, some of which were misleading. Another hour and half passed, and I finally demanded that we desist. The rain still came, and I could find only a viscid patch of alluvium upon which to lay my soaked tent. Colin went off to fill the water bottles. “Don’t die,” I grumbled, as he stalked off. His headlamp disappeared, and I was left alone to consider myself. Never have I discovered such a foul odor originating from my own person. Mud ran from my knees to my feet; decaying vegetation stuck to my pants and shirt; 14 hours of sweat had evaporated, condensed and evaporated again inside my jacket. My boots had begun to separate from their treads, and water sloshed inside of them. It was in this lachrymose state that Colin discovered me, grinning widely. “I found the hut,” he said.
We had stopped less than 50m from it, and he had seen it immediately when he went down to the river. I dropped my bag inside, stripped down, and walked down to water, entering it and feeling the frigid current envelope me. Presently, I felt better. We ate together silently and crawled into our sleeping bags. We had walked 25km over the last 14 hours, the last 3km of which had taken nearly four hours.
Next day we slept in until 7. Sunlight poured in through the hut’s window: it was a refulgent day. We covered the last several kilometers in about three hours. From a distance, we saw the Cathedral Peak Hotel, its staff busy with morning chores. Birds, absent at elevation, made song in the morning heat. A golf course, freshly cut, stretched before us. Rain fell as we crossed the park border and hiked down to Colin’s car. We were tired, wet, and jubilant.
Later, I sat outside at the Amphitheatre Backpackers Lodge, with the whole Northern ‘Berg stretched before me. The Sentinel’s familiar outline was visible to my right; Cathedral Peak peered through clouds to my left. I was once again armed with a pen but, looking toward Mponjwane, again covered in mist, I found that I had little to write other than, “I was up there.” This, I suppose, is the satisfying observation that heals many wounds and inspires future achievements.
Guide: PeakHigh Mountaineering
Last evening I returned from Cairo. No other city in the Middle East (except possibly Baghdad) differs more from Abu Dhabi. The oldest building in Abu Dhabi was erected 30 years ago; the Pyramids have dominated the Cairene skyline for five millenia. 4.5 million people live in the Emirates; 20 million live in Cairo alone, though no one is really sure because the government is a mess. Egypt has the Nile; the UAE has desal. Egyptians work, while Emiratis hire Hindustanis to work for them. Emirati women cover, while Egyptians wear the latest European fashions. Culture, history, economy, society, government. Everything is different, except Islam, but the realization of that aspect differs as well. This was a tourist trip and everything that I saw is well-documented in more reliable sources than this one. I have included some factual information with the pictures. Instead of an exhaustive description, I will comment on the impression that Cairo left on me.
Two things immediately strike the disembarked visitor: the filth, both in the air and on the ground, and the ubiquitous presence of the police. Besides the frequent historical landmarks throughout the city, these are the two most pervasive elements. The air is dirty and heavy and leaves a viscid film on everything: buildings, cars, people. It does not discriminate. Although less humid than the Gulf, the viscosity of the air makes breathing a similarly conscious activity. As I labored down the ladder to a waiting bus, two officers with AK-47s waited for me. This is a fearsome weapon and I circumnavigated the two men with great caution.
Though formally called the “Arab Republic of Egypt”, the country is a police state. Clusters of armed men occupy almost every street corner and sit before every building of relative import–hotels, embassies, government buildings, museums. Once I noticed machine-gun nests encircling a large, statist edifice. The sign above the building noted some department of the Interior Ministry and I noticed a flow of ruffians engaged in inauspicious activity near the site. I think they were renewing their drivers licenses.
Evidently it requires little effort to obtain one of these permits, for the roadways represent a significant threat to humanity. Never before have I seen such a collection of derelict vehicles. The most common machine seemed to be an old Fiat four-door that was probably last produced when REO Speedwagon’s glory years. The roads have no lines and people drive where they will. Once I hired a cab for a twenty minute ride from Gezira (near Downtown) back to Ma’adi, where I was staying. The driver weaved back and forth on the road not to gain advantage, but for amusement. He beeped his horn twice and the car beside us responded with two friendly beeps. He played a melody on the horn. The other car finished the last chord and weaved to and fro. He cut off an expensive sedan and waved as its disgruntled driver sped past. We carried on in this fashion for 20 minutes until I indicated a forthcoming left turn, at which point he applied the brakes and brought us to a screeching, fish-tailing stop. The local police deputation, which included a crossing guard and his weaponized friend, took no notice.
Despite their armament, the cops really are apathetic. In the heat of the afternoon, they typically snooze at their posts, either leaning on their weapon or laying it haphazardly beside them. A slightly urgent man could lay waste 50 of them before any sort of alarm sounded. Given the pointlessness of their occupation, any source of stimulation seems to arouse them. One evening I attended a party for an Embassy employee. A few officers stood watch outside when we arrived. When we left, 15 men loitered in the street with five more crammed into a dilapidated truck nearby. They weren’t menacing at all, but eager, as if hoping that if they waited just long enough, maybe Heath Ledger would walk out.
Egyptians are exceedingly hospitable people; they will not allow you to enter their home or office without serving a refreshment. They don’t prefer Gulf Arabs, who come to Cairo and do nothing but slouch around the hotel, eat, and chase women. Politically, they are not sequacious, but resigned. They cannot criticize the government openly, but they readily offer contrarian opinions in hushed voices. Unlike most countries in the Arab world, it is possible to be Egyptian and non-Muslim. Restaurants serve alcohol, though the phenomenon of pork BBQ has not found fertile soil. Yet. If not for the apparently incompetant grip in which the government holds the people, this country could regain a measure of its past cultivation.
Next to the Pyramids, the Nile is Cairo’s greatest attraction. From the air, it looks like a long aerated vein, a ribbon of life in an otherwise desolate country. Ancient Banyan trees sway in the cool breeze along the river. Long grasses fill the shallow water, which has remained clean despite the city’s colossal footprint. It doesn’t have the same obvious filth as either the Thames or Seine, for example. Perhaps I should not infer too much from the appearance, though. After millenia of use, the river has learned how to clean up after its frequenty inattentive patrons.
I thoroughly enjoyed my stay, though I would approach permanent residence there with caution. Benefits include a relatively open society and space to quickly master Arabic. The country also has tremendous geographic diversity, from the fertile Luxor region, to seaside Alexandria, to the barren Sinai peninsula. But Cairo is a fast, huge place and the grime causes constant anxiety. Though I practiced appropriate personal hygiene there, I felt constantly in need of ablution, like a fervent saint. The government could mitigate this problem if only it issued bottles of 409 to its moribund ranks.
Last evening I returned from a week in Paris with mom and Mary Bowden. We mainly visited the museums and instead of chronicling an uneducated person’s wandering through those cavernous halls, I list several ideas from the exhibitions:
-From Cezanne: The new lies not in the subject, but in the manner of expressing it.
-From cubism (esp. Picasso)-The possibility of fusing multiple perspectives into the same image. Several spectators witnessing the same event will provide different accounts. From these accounts, an image emerges, though it may appear distorted and irregular.
-Foucault’s Pendulum (the Pantheon)-The subtlety of experience. The earth spins at a significant rate, yet we have no obvious consciousness of it.
-With sculpture, an artist has the opportunity to utilize real space to great effect. At the Musee Rodin, for example, a scene from Ugolino is set in the center of a pond, thus creating a sense of isolation.
-The paradox of materialism-Tourists walk by a grand rendering of Louis XIII in Notre Dame without the slightest stimulation, then stand mesmerized before a van Gogh piece. Wealth purchased the king ambivalence, while the ailing pauper created a legacy.
The city’s pulse stimulates the senses. I felt like starting a novel after a day there.
On the 10th we visited Normandy, following this route: St. Mere Eglise, Utah Beach, St. Marie du Mont, Pointe du Hoc and Omaha Beach, the American cemetary, Port en Bessin, and Arromanches. Ordinary men are capable of extraordinary things. I photographed all but the cemetary, which I was reluctant to commoditize. Each must have his own experience there, I think.
The pace of the last few months has prevented a thorough accounting of my travels through southern Jordan last December. In January, I devoted considerable attention to work, which had suffered in the fall due to the variety and extent of my leisure activities. February provided no respite, as I made two diving trips, ran a (lackluster) marathon, and traveled by car through Oman. Now I sit in Heathrow, awaiting a plane to Paris, thinking of the improbable sequence of events that characterized the Jordan expedition. But I’m getting ahead of myself… Incidentally, my notes date to December 11, when I installed myself at the same table (Gate 20, Heathrow, just near a coffee shop) and wrote brief notes about the trip. Then, a week had passed; now, three months. And yet time has not damaged the clarity of those days in my mind.
—
12/1/2005
Ali Bushnaq, a Palestinian/Jordanian friend, had climbed in the Aqaba/Ramm region (go here: He will climb Everest in April) and described its beauty. He also referred me to a discount airline and guide in the area. I proposed the plan to my friend Anthony who embraced it with no reluctance, an example of his habitually sang froid demeanor. We purchased tickets from a travel agent who revealed a price of only $125 round-trip. After confirming that this price included engines for the aircraft, we drove to Dubai airport on the evening of December 1.
The flight left from Dubai Airport Terminal 2, which appears as the bastard stepchild of its regal parent. Pakistanis and Indians lined the dreary entrance atrium, each laden with a tower of luggage. Quilts, bundled with tape, boxes bursting with the tchotchkes, suitcases larger than coffins, old bags, new shirts, and a litany of other containers. An Emirati guard bellowed at them in Arabic to stay in line; he would have fared better commanding the wind. Capitalizing on the chaos of the situation, we slipped behind the weary Arab and cut to the front. In line at the baggage counter, a Jordanian women turned when she heard us speaking English. If she had related primary knowledge of the Exodus, I would have believed her, such was her withered appearance. I inquired as to her destination, and she said, “America. Atlanta. You know the High Museum?” How improbable! This woman had immigrated 17 years ago and ran an alterations shop in Powder Springs. She was leaving after a Ramadan visit with her brother in Dubai and noted that she would return in January for Hajj. I acquired her number in the event of a problem in Jordan and then passed through customs to the gate.
The plane landed at 3:30AM in Aqaba and we rode by cab to the city center to find a hotel. The expanse of the Red Sea appeared as dark abyss on our right. After a lengthy interval, we found a hotel that evidenced at least a degree of structural integrity, secured a room, and retired for the night. I had a halting but fitful night of rest, awakened only by Fajr (the pre-dawn call to prayer).
Next morning we inquired as to the bus stop’s location. English is not widely spoken in southern Jordan, thus I was forced to speak Arabic here and for the remainder of the trip. It is remarkable how proficiency in a language increases when one has no other recourse. The hotel clerk (who also served as guard, concierge, cashier, etc.) handed us off to an Egyptian carrying a newspaper. He lead us up a steep incline, the pellucid Red Sea at our backs, and gave us to another pedestrian. This misdirection play eventually lead us to the station, where we discovered that no busses ran to Wadi Rum on Friday. A delighted cab driver indicated that he could provide transport for a special price. Though the solicitation probably varied by several orders of magnitude from that enjoyed by non-Western clients, we considered it, given the weakness of our position. No bargaining could happen here, for these simple people had discovered that collusion yielded better results than internecine price warfare. None would undersell his neighbor. The weary capitalists thus acquiesced and headed toward Rum.
First, the driver (who spoke broken English) directed his machine toward a dilapidated residential section. I was alarmed as he backed into an alley and spread a curtain around the rear of his car. A man came out bearing a canister, and we learned that this was a Saudi gas bootlegger. “Better price,” the driver said with a wink. We left him to this ignominous business and joined a vigorous soccer match in the alley. Four Jordanian boys tried to outmaneuver us while conversing in the international language that consists of such components as proper nouns (”David Beckham”), similes (”like Beckham”), abbreviations (”Becks”), and colloquialisms (”the bender”). Several pleasant minutes passed before the driver collected us. We joined the highway, speeding north.
The terrain differs dramatically from the Gulf region and one could scarcely aggregate the variety of landscape under the rubric “desert.” The mountains look as if formed by a dramatic collision between continents, not as the rolling terrain of America’s east coast. A blanket of course rubble covers the hills and the sand has a red hue, which causes the desperate plants installed in narrow crevaces to stand out in relief. This regal patina inspires the spirit. What is a man’s brief walk on Earth compared to the timelessness of this country? If we accept the thesis that man constructed religion (that is, we deny revelation), then perhaps it is no coincidence that the three major world religions originated here.
Before the 2003 campaign in Iraq, our guide drove trucks along the 1000km route from Aqaba to Baghdad. He criticized the new Iraqi regime, predicating his discontent on the “benevolence” of the Baathists, who evidently distributed money to the people. Like many other Arabs, he likes America but not its leader. In my experience, the prospect of liberty without effortless money is quite unpopular in the Middle East.
We neared Wadi Rum, Lawrence of Arabia’s camp during World War I, and our guide phoned his friend, who would transport us into the village. Mattalah met us about 5km from Rum. His truck was held together by necessity. We tossed our bags through the broken rear window, mounted the wretched artifacts that served as seats and went speeding off through the desert.
Mattalah stopped before Lawrence’s “Seven Pillars of Wisdom,” which looked as squat columns arrayed in a delta, with the infinity of the azure sky as capitals. We proceeded toward a sealed road, which was the only avenue into Wadi Rum. The village followed a remarkably regular programme with residences arrayed in blocks along a grid of narrow streets. At the entrance, a row of tents indicated the government Rest House, where we intended to sleep that evening. Across from there, boys rode about on camels, their short legs straddling the massive dromedaries. Mattalah took us to his home, where he said that his brother would guide us into the desert. Now Ali Bushnaq had referred us to a fit fellow who could take us into the mountains, but spontaneity had yielded fruit thus far. We had thus agreed to hire Mattalah’s brother under the precondition that he would take us hiking. To our dismay, a sedated man appeared with a burdened method of ambulation. He seemed two bits short of a dollar, and we later learned that he had crashed his truck into a ravine or something. “You want hiking okay,” he said, whereupon he drove us into the desert, pointed to a hill, and said, “You hike there.” Anthony and I decided after five seconds of deliberation to return to the camp and find Ali Bushnaq’s friend. Though I suspect this man could scarcely recall the content of his last meal, he did understand that we did not want to pay him, which elicited a significant response. Having already learned the nepotistic nature of this country and unwilling to soil such a small pond, we gave him ten dinars and told him to beat it. This paltry sum, we later learned, was not enough to extricate us from the cab driver’s acquaintances, or himself.
At the Rest House, Lafe Mohammad waited for us. About 21, he had a generous smile, a healthy, though not obese build, and an unfettered demeanor. A supple lock of hair curled over his brow with a flourish, making him a bronzed Elvis. He first lead us to his home, a concrete box with sleeping mats, barred open windows, and a television equipped with a despairing device. A power cable ran from the ceiling and was spliced directly into the box’s rear panel. One passage lead into several interior rooms, from which we heard younger children at play. Lafe left us to purchase gas so I took leave for a walk through the village.
When I returned, Anthony had wandered off. Lafe’s sister, Thoriah, came from the concrete box and motioned for me to follow. We walked through a section of sand demarcated by a fence that was strewn with years of mechanical refuse: cylinders, a few engine blocks, a dilapidated jeep, and dessicated timbers that could have come from Noah’s ark. Anthony had found shade from the oppressive afternoon sun under a tent, where he was having tea with Lafe’s family and refining his pidgin. Bedouins here brew their tea in an unusual manner. First they boil a small pot by placing it directly on smoldering coals. Next, they pour tea leaves into the water itself. Finally they add several heaping cups of suger and a generous helping of condensed milk. The result has the viscosity of Karo syrup and tastes exceptional, though it may be correlated with the porous dental profiles displayed by these people.
The family invited us to explore a Nabatean temple just behind Rum; their children followed us. The temple has existed in various forms since antiquity, though only a foundation, stone floors, and the bases of several formidable columns (see Qur’an, Sura 89) remain. Aretas IV (8/9BC - 40AD) enlarged the original structure and Rabbel II further elaborated it. Jebel Rum explodes from the ground just behind the temple, as if God had hurled it down from heaven.
Lafe returned with a truck and we left for the desert with his friend. He stopped at a pathetic boulder that rose no more than twenty feet. By now, these lethe bedouins had exhausted our enthusiasm and Anthony, flush with displeasure, consulted his palette of vivid imperatives to address our navigator. Lafe could not decipher the slogans applied to him, but was clever enough to slam the vehicle into gear and find more compelling terrain. Several minutes later, we breasted a dune and the wheels sank into the malleable surface. Anger turned to laughter and after twenty minutes of struggle, the machine rolled down the dune. Lafe sped down a ravine, around a bend, and onto a flat basin. He spun to the right, developing a cylindrical cloud of dust and killed the engine. Several hundred feet above us, a land bridge connected two precipices. He pointed with a hopeful grin. Good boy, Lafe, your English has improved.
Approaching the cliff, Lafe hesitated to join us for the hike. His friend elected to brew the tea and guard the jeep, while he finally resigned himself to the task, leading us to a sloping boulder. Just before the stone, he abandoned his porcine shuffle, discarded his shoes, and bounded up the mountain like a monkey. The metamorphosis stymied me, but I quickly joined the chase, relucant to let this duffer gain the advantage.
The climb took an hour and from the peak we could discern the network of canyons, rifts, and ravines spreading like arteries over the desert. Pebbles, smoothed by water millenia ago, littered the ground. The descent lasted a half hour and after a tea break, we drove to another precipice to watch the sunset. I wandered off, alone, pausing to hear the silence. I thought of a cave: no insects, no wind, no rustling leaves. Just as the horizon swallowed the sun, it gave a great shout, its crimson streaks of protest bathing the mountains and billowing clouds. I thought of the following:
Let all the earth fear the Lord; let all the inhabitants of the world stand in awe of him.
For he spoke, and it was done; he commanded, and it stood fast. (Ps. 33:8-9)
Back in the jeep, Lafe inserted a tape into the stereo. At first, nothing happened. Then he slapped a dusty box next to him, which I recognized as a boombox speaker. A wire extended from the dashboard to the box. Arab music bloomed from the speaker and he looked to Anthony for affirmation. I tell you the noise was just awful, but Anthony masked his revulsion and forced a smile. Ebullient, Lafe floored accelerator, his head rocking back as we lurched forward. Bronze Elvis hit the box again, whooping as we sped toward Rum.
He brought us to his tent. Flaps had been attached to its side and course rugs laid across the sand. Smoke from the fire traveled along the roof’s pitch and exited from an opening at one end. We had tea with his immediate family and various friends and relatives made visits. They offered us dinner, then said we could stay with them that evening. We accepted each offer with increasing enthusiasm. After dinner, I walked to the Rest House and met a timorous Italian reclining by the restaurant. A farmer, he worked only five months out of the year and spent the rest traveling. This year, he had purchased a motorcycle and ridden across Greece, the Balkans, Turkey, Syria, and now to Jordan. Next he would cross the Sinai to North Africa. You meet such vagabonds in these places.
I returned to the tent and found Anthony locked in combat with a winsome five-year-old. These bedouins had never played “Knots and Crosses.” Neither had I, until the child fashioned a tic-tac-toe board before me. After a brief argument in which my label was judged as base by this Imperial noble, we spent the remainder of the night demonstrating various learned techniques. In a thousand years, long after the West’s flame has burned out, I suppose these people, living as they always have, will speak of the promethean Anthony, who brought fire from Olympus.
Last week I toured Oman by car. This country exceeds the Emirates in every way (geography, culture, social decorum, history, etc.) save for financial prosperity. Below I have included excerpts from a letter to a friend. I hope the friend doesn’t mind… Look at the pictures as well.
We crossed the border around 10 intent on camping along the beach in Sohar, just two hours away. Seldom have I driven through such a desolate area; we went many miles without passing a building or any other sign of life (besides a stray donkey or two). Exhausted, we reached the beach after midnight, and found it strewn with trash and lined with fishing boats, prepared for an early start. Aimless men drifted along the road and we decided not to stimulate them. The idle mind finds great solace in peculiar phenomenon, such as two white guys pitching a stupid tent beside a mosque. The traditional town of Sinbad the sailor had managed full hotel occupancy that night, though, due to an enterprising development. A concierge, presiding over a rager (likely 100 guys and a Moroccan belly dancer), informed us that “A new business…it is coming now.” Everyone seemed most pleased, hence the rager, except for us, having received neither invitation nor subsequent accomodation. We thus slept in the car.
Yesterday, we explored Muscat, the capital, and were amazed by two things. First, the local people are among the most congenial Arabs that I have met. As far as one can generalize about a population, the are not afflicted by the insufferable arrogance caused by effortless money. Also, I am not ashamed to say that Omani men are beautiful. They have clear skin of dark bronze, lean frames, and distinctive facial features: eyes sharpened by the sun, high, punctuated cheek bones, and slim mouths set in an inquisitive smile. Should I marry one day, I will never bring my wife here.
After a long drive south this morning over dirt roads, we reached Wadi Tiwi (”Wadi” = valley or canyon in Arabic). A wadi tends to collect rain water, which causes tropical plants to grow, despite the neighboring desert. This one had emerald pools flanked by rows of date trees, wild grass, and shrubs with broad, rubbery leaves. The canyon walls, which rose severely for several hundred feet, revealed striated stone of ochre, purple, and orange. We had spent several hours at a previous wadi and were now somehow anesthetized to the beauty of this place. As we walked, I devoted my attention to kicking a rock. We continued on for a time and then a truck approached from the wadi’s entrance. Seven Arab boys filled the cab and bed. The truck slowed and I asked in broken Arabic how far they were going. I understood the driver’s response as two kilometers, though he had a thick accent. We climbed in the back with the others and continued on. None of them spoke English.
We went through several villages and then began ascending the wadi’s latter wall. The truck had not slowed, so I asked again how far we were going. This time, I heard “12″. I suppose that we could have hopped out, but what fun would that have been? The roads deteriorated significantly as we approached their village, “Meeboon”, and we bounced along like socks in a dryer. After ascending for miles, the truck accelerated down a short decline, rounded a bend and came to a halt. The village was a wonder. Concrete shacks were perched along precipices above the road. A small date farm covered the ravine to the left; the sound of running water indicated the source of this oasis in the mountains. Adults sat on the roofs of the huts and children ran about barefoot. As we climbed from the vehicle, the children immediately ran towards us, saying “Hi, Hi!” and shaking our hands. The boys that had brought us here–all students returning from school–moved quickly to their homes for lunch and a change of clothes. We were lead from one child to the next, as if a baton in a relay. Finally, a boy of thirteen and his brother lead us down the ravine toward the running water.
The thick trees gave way to a series of pools separated by waterfalls. Although at ease, we chose not to swim, which would further compromise an already disadvantageous situation. I thus retrieved my Arabic book, sat down, and started learning with these kids. It has been several years since I received a lesson from an 8 year old. After several minutes, three other boys appeared, one of which greeted us from a distance in good English. His mates followed close behind, the smallest of which produced a large, serated knife, which he gripped by the blade. I was disconcerted, to say the least. Before I could get up, he was behind me, and I thought that I would soon meet God, Osama, or both. The older boy immediately explained the weapon. It’s a date knife, he said. That boy has been working. Although still unsettled by a three foot boy with a one foot knife, I spent the next hour with these boys, learning words and hearing about their lives. We found the same driver later that afternoon and he took us down the mountain to our car. No problem.
The alarm comes not from personal experience but from my nationality and the world situation. In general, these people are more open and forthcoming than Americans. For example, if I showed up at your house unannounced, you’d likely tell me to beat it. Sometimes I lie (today I was a British English teacher), but most of the time I don’t worry. Only a few degrees separate adventure and stupidity, but the risks that I have taken thus far have resulted in the most remarkable interactions.
I just returned last night from three days in southern Jordan. The pictures are available now (without captions) and I’m working on the description. I traveled with Anthony Kilbride, a good friend that I made through diving. We spent the first day in a Bedouin camp, Wadi Rum, which was made famous by T.E. Laurence. The next day, we hitch-hiked up to Petra. Jordan is a stunning country, both aesthetically and spiritually.
Also, I’ll post the last part of my Church and State piece in a few days.
Can’t wait to see everyone in a few days.
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