Buon Giorno, Sorrento

This is my last post because tomorrow we’ll be pulling into Civitavecchia (the harbor for Rome) at oh-dark-thirty and we’ll be shuffled off this ship as fast as the crew can haul our luggage ashore. I have no idea if I’ll have Internet access in Rome, or even the time to write if I do have access, so this is my swan song blog. That’s the bad news.
The good news is this last port is by far and away our favorite. Without a doubt, the word for Sorrento, and all of the Amalfi Coast is HEAVEN. I’ve decided to be really, really good for the rest of my days so I’ll be allowed to spend eternity here. Everything you’ve ever heard about this part of the world is true: the sky is bluer, the water is clearer, the architecture prettier, the food better. Italians may be goofy about their homeland, but doggone it, they certainly have a right to be.
Coming into port this morning was like drifting into a movie set for a film starring Sophia Loren and Ricardo Montalban (remember the guy who crooned about “rich, Corinthian leather” for Chrysler and later was the king of Fantasy Island?) Anyway, it was romance, romance, romance everywhere we looked. Gleaming white yachts in the harbor, steep granite cliffs topped by ochre-colored villas (actually hotels, but they look “villa-ish”), and lush landscape including palm trees (my favorite) and bougainvillea (Tom’s favorite). Coming ashore it just kept getting better: the steep winding roads were all cobblestone with a zillion scooters zipping up them like bees returning to the hive. We climbed on the bus to take us to the main town square (you can walk up a steep stone staircase, but I wanted to save our strength for the top) and they packed us in so tight a pickpocket could have stolen my bra and I’m sure I wouldn’t have noticed. The square was a bit crowded but who cares? It was gorgeous. Little shops and cafés ring the square and everybody’s smiling. You don’t get the same feeling here that we had in the Middle East where it’s sort of an “us” vs. “them” mentality—with the locals vying for our very last dime and us clutching our wallets like we were at an IRS audit. Nope. Here everyone seems to have reached an agreement: this is paradise and we’re all darn lucky to be here. Regardless of whether you’re a visitor or a local, this is a terrific day and we’re all just going to make the most of it.
We walked through the town and bought some crazy souvenirs and then sat in a café and had a cappuccino right outside a staggeringly beautiful church where a couple was getting married. They came out after the lengthy mass and proceeded to walk throughout town with photographers trailing behind, taking artsy photos of them in different venues: quaint shops, bakeries, dazzling harbor views, and so on. I couldn’t believe that the bride hoofed it along blocks and blocks of cobblestone streets (weaving in and out of hordes of tourists) in her obviously gazillion-euro beaded gown with ten-foot train. She played the good sport for the photographers who seemed bent on getting at least a hundred photos, smiling the whole time. When I commented to Tom that it was going to cost a small fortune to clean that white satin gown, he said, “like she’s ever going to wear it again?” He’s right. Everyone here is living in the moment, and seeming to enjoy every second.
In that vein, we joined in the fun by having a ridiculously high-priced lunch at a beautiful restaurant tucked away in the center of town. You had to go down a tiny alleyway entrance with golden walls and a low overhanging fabric ceiling to reach an oasis of calm. Once inside, the waiters did their best impression of Marcello Mastriani as they seated us and brought us a basket of the most chewy, tasty bread imaginable (4 euros—about $5 for the bread, so you can imagine the total bill!). Here’s a bit of good news: we were celebrating not only life, but a small financial windfall we never saw coming. Tom went to one bingo game on this entire leg of the cruise (30 days) and bought only one $10 ticket for one game (the BIG one). You guessed it, he won! The entire jackpot was $1,500 but he and another guy both had bingo at the same time so they split it, $750 each. So, we felt entitled to a little Italian joie de vive. We’re pretty sure the entire mother lode will be gone after three days in Rome (we’ve heard tales of $600 lunches!) but for now we feel flush.
Anyway, Sorrento was fabulous, as was this entire trip. I was a bit apprehensive at the beginning (remember me lamenting about packing for 75 days?) but I have no regrets whatsoever about doing this. It was wonderful to have seen glimpses of Australia, Micronesia, Japan, the Far East, India, the Middle East, Egypt, and now a bit of Europe. I don’t think we’ll be going back to the Far East or Middle East anytime soon, but a few weeks in the Mediterranean is definitely on our to-do list.
Thanks to all of you who’ve been loyal readers. Knowing I’d be reporting to you kept me awake during long bus tours (after all, I had to hear what the guide was saying so I’d have something to write), and kept me out of the casino (unlike Tom I rarely, if ever, win). The Internet service on this ship was weak (pathetic at times) but it was just enough to allow me to feel connected to you all.
Now it’s on to Rome and then on to home…See you soon!

Opa! A Day in Athens

Hello from Athens. I had to run some errands today and make an important phone call so I didn’t have time to “do” Athens. Tom has never been to Athens and I have, so I took care of errands and Tom took the grand tour of the city. So—Tom will be our “guest blogger” today.
Here goes:
JoAnn has asked me to write the information for Athens so this is a new voice on the blog. I will try to maintain the high blog standards previously established.
After the many-headed, fire-breathing Asian mythical gods and the strict and solemn religious ceremonies of the Islamic countries, Greece (Athens) was a breath of fresh air. Not only is it a Christian country (Greek Orthodox), it is the birth of democracy and the home of first real appreciation of the amazing and sensual human body. Well, maybe not this human body, but human bodies in general. Unlike many cultures that forbid or restrained any display of the human body, Greece embraced the human form in their art, culture and religion. Gods such as Athena, Zeus, Apollo and Poseidon are just a few of the obvious examples of their respect of the human body.
The word for Athens is DAZZLING. Not only is it a beautiful city, it is easy to traverse and the people are very accommodating. Around every corner are interesting shops, romantic restaurants and quaint coffee shops. Not to mention ancient ruins. It is hard to comprehend all that has occurred here over the millennia.
Yes, there have been some recent problems with riots and even killings here in Athens. The citizens are terribly outraged because it seems that the country’s leaders have spent all the money and the government is broke. Wow, look out California and Arizona. We didn’t realize that was riot material. The demonstrations have calmed down in the last few days so the captain decided it was safe to proceed into the port at Piraeus. He said to avoid public assembly areas such as Syntagma or Constitution Square so of course, that was the first stop on the “hop and ride” schedule. Several buildings sported fresh bullet holes and the growing pile of flowers and memorials at the murder site of the three demonstrators was very impressive.
With only hours to explore this major historical city, we discovered a “hop and ride” double-decker bus that visited all of the major historical sites. The first site on everyone’s list is the Parthenon and Acropolis. Built to honor Athena, the goddess of wisdom, it sits high above the city and it is as impressive as the brochure proclaims. Scaffolding covers much of the site and it appears the ongoing reconstruction will be complete in a few thousand years. The nearby temple of Zeus is also impressive. Every hill seems to boast some outrageous temple or monument and after a while it almost gets overwhelming. Impressive, but overwhelming. So let’s head for the Plaka, or shopping center for great Greek food and outstanding people-watching. The outdoor cafes are charming, serve great things like tzatziki and mousaka and usually end with a shot of ouzo, which pretty much puts the finishing touch on a pretty great experience.
More important than the monuments (and the Plaka) are the culturally significant events that have occurred here. Socrates walked these streets, mulling over the mysteries of the universe. Alexander the Great, Pericles, and the Apostle Paul all left their mark on the city. The first Olympic Games were held here in 776 BC. After defeating the Persians at Marathon in 490BC, Pheidippes ran the 26 miles to Athens to announce the victory. He died shortly after the run but hey, he too left his mark. About the same time, the first democratic reforms were instituted and Democracy was born. Science, philosophy, drama, architecture and the very foundations of Western Civilization were established in this amazing city.
One day is not enough to even begin to explore Athens, much less the country of Greece. It’s one of those places that will always remain on our “We’d go there again” list.

Suez, Egypt—Blowing through the Canal

Today we transited the Suez Canal. You don’t “go through” the canal, you “transit” it. So, here we are, meandering down the impossibly long canal (all in all about 140 miles) with mostly sand dunes on both sides. On one side is “African Egypt” and the other side is the Sinai Peninsula, or “Asian Egypt.” And everywhere you look there are guards and army outposts and pontoons for taking men and tanks to the other side, if necessary. The little guard shacks run the gamut from tiny one-man affairs that are simply a roof and three walls (sort of like a miniature bus stop) to large army barracks with all the facilities. Speaking of facilities: we sailed past one of the tiny outposts this morning and there was a lone fellow in an army uniform (big machine gun strapped across his shoulder) with his back to the ship. We thought that seemed odd, since many of the soldiers were waving and whistling at us as we sailed by—nearly all seemed pleased to see other humans, even if we were some 600 feet away. Anyway, here’s this guy with his back to us, and then we realized: he has no “facilities.” The desert (with no place to hide, not a scrap of bush or tree or even a rock) has to serve many functions for him. We thought it amusing that this fellow’s attempt to relieve himself has no doubt been immortalized by dozens of photo-snapping cruisers about the Pacific Princess. Ah, the Egyptians are big on immortality, but I don’t think this is what they had in mind.
We are steaming into a gale-force headwind, which is both good and bad news. The good news is that the ripping wind keeps down the number of flies—there are millions of them everywhere; the bad news is it’s impossible to stand out on the open decks (or even on our balcony) and watch the passing scenery, it’s just too darn windy.
I was expecting that later today we’d be going go through the locks in the canal. I’d seen the elaborate locks at the Panama Canal, and we had locks for boats to go through from Lake Washington to Puget Sound when I lived in Seattle, so I was excited to see what it would be like to go through the locks between the Red Sea and the Mediterranean Sea in Suez. Wrong! There are no locks, because there is no change in elevation, and both the Red and the Med are salt water, so there’s no need for locks. So, there you have it. The Suez Canal is simply that—a canal. It has been the scene of many battles—between the Egyptians and the English, between the Egyptians and the Israelis (at least a couple of times), and between the Egyptians and the pretty much the rest of the world from time to time. After the Six Day War in 1967, when the Israelis took over the Sinai Peninsula (the east side of the canal) the Egyptians simply shut down the canal for eight years. Now, with Mideast oil being the lifeblood of this area, I don’t think the Egyptians could do that without incurring the wrath of their neighboring Arab countries.
We are still scheduled to go to Athens, Greece, for our next stop but most of us are wary. The situation there is calm for the moment but there’s talk of a big protest march scheduled for the day we arrive. We may have to stay aboard the ship in Pireaus, but there are certainly worse things than being detained in a place that has free food, a casino and a freshwater pool.
And yes, the packing has begun. We haven’t exactly messed with the U.S. trade balance in our souvenir purchasing, but we do have much more stuff than we started out with. The packing will entail a bunch of tough decisions—what goes in the trash; what goes in the “charity bin;” and what goes in the 50 pound suitcase. We’ve learned that American Airlines has become really cranky in enforcing their luggage policy and since nothing we’ve brought or bought is worthy of the hefty luggage fees, I figure the next couple of days will involve some difficult choices.

Petra, Jordan—Indiana Jones and a Few Other Movie Memories

Today we took another long journey—eleven hours—from the port of Aqaba (they don’t bother with the “u” after the “q” in this part of the world) to the lost city of Petra. You may remember Petra—it was featured in one of the Indiana Jones movies. He got there a lot more easily than we did, I’m sure! The bus ride is about two and a half hours each way, through some pretty desolate (and hot!) country. Mostly rocky desert (if you’ve ever driven through Yuma, AZ on route 8, you know what I mean) with villages perched precariously on the sides of the mountains. But Jordan has some stuff you won’t find on Interstate 8, like camels, Bedouins in their huge black tents, and mosques, lots and lots of little village mosques.
While on the bus our tour guide proceeded to give us his two-hour rendition of the Old Testament, from Adam and Eve, on to Moses and then through most of the major prophets. It was pretty interesting to hear the same Bible stories I’d heard in my childhood recounted through the eyes of an older Muslim man. Actually, it was even more interesting to note how little difference there is in the stories between the Christian version and the Islamic one. There’s a slight slant to the stories, though, because in his stories all roads lead to Mecca. And, of course Mohammed (peace be upon him) is always in the starring role. Speaking of that (the “peace be upon him” thing) our guide, Iue (pronounced, Eye-You) told us that in Islamic tradition you are supposed to say PBUH after speaking the name of any major prophet—Mohammed, Moses, Jesus (they don’t say “Christ” here), or Isaiah and so on. That’s the first time I’d heard that since I’ve heard the PBUH thing a bunch of times but only associated with Mohammed. Perhaps our guide was trying to be egalitarian with the tourists. There’s a lot of “misinformation” (it’s tacky to call it “propaganda”) on these tours. One gets the feeling that there’s a state-run “tourist bus guide school” in every country and they must pass a rigorous test to be allowed to collect tickets, hand out sani-wipes and point us to the restrooms. Seriously, these guides have a LOT of information in their heads (and they say it all in English, so that’s pretty amazing in itself) but I suspect some of it is rather slanted to promote the local regime.
The bus ride took us from sea level to about 4500 ft. in elevation. Then, it was up to us to hoof it back down into the deep canyon (they call it a “valley,” I call it a “canyon”) that holds the lost city of Petra.
The walk down was estimated to be a mile and a half into the “siq” (pronounced “seek”) that is the entrance to the long corridor of tall sandstone rocks that guard the city. Supposedly in ancient times the siq was only wide enough to allow a horse and rider to pass through. Later, it was widened (by the Romans they assume, when the Roman Emperor Trajan conquered Petra in the first century) to allow two chariots to pass side-by-side (all the better for chariot races, I presume). Anyway, we walked down, down, down a rocky path with occasional large cobblestones for a l-o-n-g mile and a half in the blazing sun (it was nearly noon) until we reached the opening to the siq. Once inside the siq, it was a bit cooler as the towering rock walls provide shade. The walk through the siq was another mile and a half and we were getting pretty worn out by the time we finally glimpsed the stunning façade of the Treasury—the most iconic symbol of Petra. This building is the one you see in the Indiana Jones movie. Although the Treasury was built as a mausoleum for a king of the Nabataeans (the people who originally carved Petra from the sandstone rocks) he was never buried there as he died in the Sinai and was laid to rest where he died (they bury people within 24 hours of death so there was no time to haul his remains back home). And, although it’s called the Treasury, it’s not a place where they made or held money. It was rumored that the Treasury held a fortune in gold hidden in the urn carved at the top of the building. Bad idea to get that story rolling. It seems for centuries people tried to get to the gold by any means possible—cracking the rock, shooting it, and so on. The urn is riddled with bullet holes, but so far the only gold that’s been found has come from box office receipts from the Harrison Ford movies.
Once inside the city, we saw camels (you could ride them but they seemed too ornery for my taste), vendors of various Petra-style souvenirs (the most popular was little glass vases filled with decorative Petra sand), and tourists. Lots and lots of tourists. It reminded me of that scene from “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” where, in the middle of nowhere, all these people suddenly descended on Devil’s Tower.
We walked around and took in the sights of the ancient city. There were tombs and cave homes and an amphitheater and so on, but by that time the sun and the long walk were starting to take a toll so we headed back before seeing everything. Actually, there was no way we would see everything. Petra is some 70 kilometers square (about 40 miles square) so even on a cool day one could only visit a small portion of it.
On the way back up the steep incline I started to fade at the exit from the siq. There were guys there (later we found out they were Bedouins) with horses and tiny one-horse carriages who would take you the mile and a half back to the top. Supposedly, the horses were paid for by our tour, but the carriage cost about $36 (which seemed to us like a ridiculous price for a short ride). We opted for the horses. The guy who led Tom’s horse (you ride the horse but the horse’s owner actually leads it so it doesn’t bolt and go flying over the rough terrain) told him he lived in a tent and had never gone to school as Bedouins don’t believe in public education. So it’s difficult for Bedouins to earn a living once they grow up. The Jordanian government gave him the horse to use (he’s not allowed to take it home, he keeps it in the state-sponsored stable at the visitor center) to earn a living. They hinted that tips were appreciated but not required.
Well, you can imagine how that turned out. Once at the top, when we gave them each five dollars (for a fifteen minute ride) they started flipping out as if we’d ripped them off. It was completely in keeping with the local custom of making every tourist feel as if whatever they offer is never enough. We smiled, thanked them for the ride, and went to the hotel for lunch. We still harbored Yankee-American guilt until we did the math and realized that these guys had a free horse which they walked up and down a path for 8-10 hours a day. At five bucks a pop they were making around $160-200 a day—which they take back to their tent every night. The Bedouins don’t own property so they have no taxes, no home upkeep, and they wear traditional Arab garb which goes for about $15-25 at the souk. Where do these dudes spend their money—on fancy vacations to Dubai? It’s a mystery.
We had a traditional Jordanian lunch of whole lamb and rice (I stuck to the rice, thank you) and then made our way back to the bus. We had a short stop at a “women’s store” sponsored by Queen Noor, the American-born queen who married King Hussein, the much-loved king who died of cancer in the ‘90’s. His son is now king (not Noor’s son but a son from one of Hussein’s other wives—he had four).
It was a long ride back, but thankfully our guide was silent for most of it. Petra was a long walk but as it’s one of National Geographic’s 40 Places You Must See, it was one of the highlights of our trip. But it’s nice to be back on board the ship and sitting down. To quote John Candy from “Planes, Trains and Automobiles” –“These dogs are barking!”

Sharm Al-Sheik—The Art of the Barter

It is not without irony that most of the Palestinian and Mideast peace talks have taken place here in Sharm Al-Sheik, Egypt. This is Barter Central. The home of the so-called give-and-take. Nothing is sold in Egypt without a spirited discussion involving a lot of fake indignation, eye-rolling and head shaking on the part of both sides. When we first went into the market (here it’s called a “souk”) we were overwhelmed by the pushy salespeople and their relentless pursuit of our trade. We couldn’t simply walk into a shop and look around. It wasn’t allowed. Five seconds of even passing glances at the goods warranted a rather aromatic fellow attaching himself to our side extolling the virtues of his wares as if they were fenced items he was desperate to be rid of before the cops show up. We’d ask a price and he’d say something absurd, usually in the range of $50-75 US dollars (for something worth no more than $10-20). Then we’d try to turn on our heel and leave the shop. “Not-so-fast, Sweetie,” he’d say in Arabic (or at least that’s what it sounded like to me.) He’d whip out a calculator (they always have these humongous size calculators, as if only semi-blind people shop there) and start punching numbers. It was like watching an IRS agent on crack. He’d thrust the calculator into my face and watch my expression go from placid to horror. Then, he’d snatch the calculator back, and smilingly (with tobacco-stained teeth) offer me a substantial “discount” because I was a pretty English? Australian? American? lady. At first, this whole dance of commerce flipped out both Tom and I to the point that we avoided going shopping at all. Then we figured it out. What we figured out was, to paraphrase Paul Harvey, “the rest of the story.” After the “big discount” it’s our turn to dance. We start by acting really perturbed that we’d wasted our time in his store. Obviously this merchant wasn’t serious about wanting our business. We sniff and put back on the shelf whatever “excellent” item he’s thrust into our hand (it’s usually already in a bag by now). At this point the salesman gets glowingly irate and demands to know what we are willing to pay. He also usually asks our name (all the better to beseech you with, my dear). We don’t give him our name, but we allow him to know we’re from Arizona, USA. Then we give him a silly price, like five American dollars. He gets flaming-mad and starts screeching about the value of the selected item—its many superb qualities, its fantastic gift potential, and so on. Then either Tom or I (we traded off since this is a tough role to play) starts heading for the door, acting as if owning the aforementioned item would be the death of him or her. We appear to be in disagreement—one trying desperately to obtain the item at a fair price, the other wanting absolutely nothing to do with the item, the salesman, the other spouse, this market, or all of Egypt itself. The “good cop” spouse smiles apologetically at the merchant and says he/she is sorry they can’t do business today. The “bad cop” spouse is standing at the door, glowering at “good cop” spouse. The merchant sees the whole transaction slipping away. He is NOT happy. He barks at “good cop” “How much can you spend?” Good cop gives him a fair number (not a ridiculous price but a fair one he/she is willing to spend). Merchant practically spits on the floor and thrusts the bag at good cop and says, “Okay” in a tone that you reserve for kids caught stealing candy but you’ll let off just this once. Good cop then wheedles the money out of bad cop (this is an interesting move, a rather advanced step in the process that we thought up all on our own) to show no hard feelings between good and bad cop. Then, with Mr. Storekeeper throwing us a really Oscar-winning “man who has been cheated but who wants to take the high road” glare we leave and go on to the next market stall. All in all, it's a truly edifying experience.

Egypt: Glory Days

It’s been nearly a week since I last posted an update. That’s because we were at sea for five days. We left Muskat, Oman on Friday night and arrived in Safaga, Egypt on Thursday the 6th. During the sea days, I don’t have much to tell you (except perhaps you’d be thrilled to learn I came in 3rd in the World Cruise Cribbage Tournament? No? Well, okay then.)
We were amazed by Egypt. We went on a twelve-hour tour from the cruise port in Safaga to Qena, then on to Luxor, then we crossed the Nile to the Valley of the Kings and took in a bunch of tombs (King Tut was buried there) then on to Queen Hatchepsut’s Temple. Actually, Queen H preferred to be called “King”— she even dressed in men’s clothing and wore a fake beard. I guess you could call her one of the original cross-dressers.
During the unbelievably long bus ride from Safaga to Qena and then on to Luxor, (there’s nothing in Qena to speak of, but it’s the place where Egypt stops being sandy desert and becomes green due to the Nile valley) our guide, a young Egyptologist, gave us hours and hours of information about the ancient Egyptians. Meanwhile, the bus driver was negotiating the dozens and dozens of armed “checkpoints” along the road. Every half mile or so there’d be a checkpoint, with soldiers carrying automatic rifles and a bunch of policemen armed to the teeth, as well. We had two armed guards on our bus, and I saw one guy’s gun poking out from under his suit coat. It was a huge black thing that looked like a sawed-off shotgun or a little Uzzi. We joked that in Egypt, “Security is Job One.” Nearly every other guy you see is in some kind of security job.
Anyway, the guide is droning on about Egyptian history, but we were prepared because we’d watched a bunch of Discovery Channel and History Channel programs on the ship. The ancient Egyptians were basically interested in only a few things: political power, land, water, and death. You can pretty much sum up everything they did by grouping it in to one of those four categories. The preoccupation with death was due to the fact that they believed that this life is only a short time which prepares you for eternity (sound familiar?). So, you better have your ducks in a row before you check out. For instance, as soon as a king or queen was crowned, they began work on their tomb in the Valley of the Kings. The VotK was created before the pyramids—these tombs were made some 3,000 BCE (BCE is the politically correct way to measure time. It used to be BC, for “before Christ”. Now, it’s BCE “before the current epoch.” Clever, huh?)
Luxor is a spectacular place of huge statues, columns and a temple that boggles the imagination. How did those ancient guys get those immense stones to the top of the columns? How did the intricately-carved hieroglyphics withstand 5,000 years and not get sandblasted off or wrecked by invading armies? Why on earth do they allow mere mortals like us to just amble through these priceless treasures touching everything and climbing on stuff to take a picture? Amazing.
Then we went to lunch at a fancy-schmancy hotel in Luxor that was right on the banks of the enormous Nile River. The Nile is huge—more like a lake in spots than a river. And it flows north—the only river that does this. The reason it flows north is that Egypt is kind of “backward.” When they say “Upper Egypt” they are talking about the south. When they say “Lower Egypt” they are referring to the northern part of the country. The reasoning behind this is that Upper Egypt is higher in elevation than Lower Egypt, thus the water flows from the higher point (in the south) to the lower point (in the north) and then into the Mediterranean Sea.
We then went to the Valley of the Kings. It was hot to the max. A real scorcher out there in this huge mountain of rock where the Egyptian Kings had their remains squirreled away with a few million dollars worth of gold, jewelry and knick-knacks to keep them company on their way to the afterlife. The whole afterlife story is depicted in the Egyptian Book of the Dead, and believe me, I know more about the Book of the Dead than I ever wanted to know, but briefly, the BotD is a scroll that is buried with people to help them get through the many hurdles that await them on the way to the “Place of Reeds” or Paradise. The BotD reminds one a little of the Hobbit books. There are all kinds of bad guys and challenges and disaster lurking at every turn. The BotD is sort of a “cheat sheet” for the dead guy to refer to whenever he runs into a problem.
The sad truth about most of these tombs is that there’s not much left of them. Robbers took most of the really good stuff soon after many of the kings were buried (again, we’re talking some 5,000 to 3,000 years ago). The kings even tried clever ways of foiling the robbers. One foil was to create shafts (like empty elevator shafts) between the different chambers of the tomb so that robbers would fall into the dark shaft and die trying to plunder the tomb. But the thieves figured that one out and continued to spirit away (bad pun, sorry) most of the goods. The current thinking is that most of the thieves were guys who had worked on building the tombs. They were blindfolded each day before being led to work (on foot) but don’t you think that after traveling the same route for six to ten years you’d have the muscle memory to go back there once the dude had died? Yep. Probably so.
We went past King Tut’s tomb opening (it was closed when we arrived, but it doesn’t have much left since all the goods are now in the Cairo Museum) and went on to King Ramses III’s tomb. It was really spectacular. I thought the tombs would just be bare walls with a few hieroglyphics of guys with falcon heads and some cats or something. Nope, the entire inside of the tomb is painted and it’s still as vibrant and colorful as it was 5,000 years ago. Amazing. They do not allow photography of any kind in the tombs (all the better to sell you postcards) but we understood because too many flashes would certainly fade those natural colors and because they are in the dark (with photo-sensitive lighting so you can see in there) they stay pristine.
Then we went on to Queen (or King, whatever) Hatchepsut’s temple on the other side of the mountain. That temple is known for two things: first, it is in the “modern style” which means it has columns and a roof and is three stories high, and second, it’s the place where some tourists were killed a few years ago. I can’t stress enough the amount of security that we observed on this trip. Guns everywhere. Cops everywhere. We had to travel in a long convoy of buses (twelve buses) and mini-vans with an armed police escort at the front. We went about a hundred miles an hour on the way back to the ship because, as our tram driver told me on the way down the mountain from Ramses’ tomb, “The bad guys come out at night.”
It was a long day, but an incredible experience. I would love to come back and go to Cairo and see the museum there. There’s so much to see, it boggles the mind. And, the TSA could take a few tips from these guys regarding security. Flashing a bunch of big guns around certainly got my attention. On second thought, forget that. As Tom pointed out, you really don’t want to give those TSA guys and gals anything approximating a gun…

Muskat Love

Today we went to Muskat, a major city in Oman. To say the least, we weren’t expecting much. I had visions of sloe-eyed camels lumbering across mountains of shifting sand and little tribes of black-robed Bedouins camped at the local oasis. And for centuries I probably was right, but ah, what a difference a bit of oil (and natural gas) makes. Oman is rapidly coming into its own, with gleaming low-rise resorts and blindingly white two-story houses (think Mykonos, Greece) popping up along a pristine shore of glittering blue water.
Oman is a sultanate (a popular form of government in these parts) with a much-loved sultan (although to tell the truth, ALL of the sultans in the countries we’ve visited would be classified as “much loved”. I think Saddam Hussein was termed “much loved” by the locals—it’s sort of a required appellation to anyone holding ultimate power). Anyway, in Oman, according to our taxi driver, everything is free: free schooling (even university in foreign countries if you qualify), free housing, free hospitals, free government (no taxes), and so on. Of course the sultan lives like, well, a SULTAN, with immense palaces here and there and a yacht the size of a destroyer, but hey! we get free hospitals!
We took a one-hour cab ride around the area which was just enough (it was 117 degrees outside so it limited our eagerness to linger) to see Muskat and the surrounding villages. In that hour, we took in the souk (market) where Tom was fitted for an abaya (the red-checkered headdress worn by men) and I bought a hotsy-totsy silver headdress favored by belly dancers. We have visions of our own Arabian Nights scenario with Tom playing the role of sultan and me playing Scheherazade. (Sorry, kids, I know this is TMI…but I couldn’t resist).
So, after the souk we went to see the sultan’s palace (both front and rear). I was amazed at how close we were able to get to the palace. There was only one shy guard at the gate (I say “shy” because he waved off our attempt to take his picture) and the gate was propped open. Then I saw the 50 caliber machine guns mounted at the gate and realized they don’t have to worry about tourists storming the palace. Glancing around, I noticed big mounted weapons everywhere. I was amused by a woman I met later in the Laundromat here on the ship who asked if I’d seen the “water cannons” at the palace. Lady, those weren’t water cannons. It reminded me of that scene in Crocodile Dundee “That’s not a knife, THIS is a knife.”
Perched above the new palace we saw the ancient old palace, which looked like a Moorish fort carved into the towering rock hills overlooking the harbor. We would have loved to have seen the inside—no doubt those three-foot thick walls of rock could talk!
We went past mosque after mosque but there was no going into mosques today as it’s Friday, their holy day and no infidels will be allowed to darken the door on Fridays. Fine with me. As you see in the photo above, black burquas were the order of the day for nearly every woman we saw. This is not cosmopolitan Dubai, with equal parts western dress or Arab dress. Here, all the men wear the long white dress and jaunty “pillbox hat” and all the women are shrouded from head to toe in billowing black. To say I felt “exposed” in my long khaki skirt and green (short-sleeved) tee-shirt would be an understatement. After all, they can see my hair! my chin! Heaven forbid, my forearms!
But everywhere we turned the streets were swept and the city seemed calm and welcoming. It was in sharp contrast to Dubai which seemed business-friendly—Oman seemed people friendly. We drove out to the old fort and then on to the village of Sidab, where little white houses huddle against the stark rocky hills overlooking the sea. Then we went further, out to Bustan, to the “palace.” We thought the driver was telling us that he was taking us to yet another of the sultan’s palaces, but once we arrived we realized we were mistaken. It was the Bustan Palace Hotel, a stunning 95-star (okay, maybe not 95, but some really big number) Intercontinental hotel perched above a pristine beach out in the hinterlands that would be my destination of choice if I were on the run from drug traffickers or the IRS. We popped inside and were dumb-struck by the lobby. Tom went to the front desk to ask for a rate card and was greeted by a smiling, yet unambiguous look that meant, “If you have to ask the price, you can’t afford to stay here.” The guy gave Tom a business card and suggested he look them up on the Internet. We slipped outside, only to find that our humble cab had been relegated to the far reaches of the parking lot. Only Bentleys and Rolls are allowed to dawdle at the front entrance.
We zoomed back to the cruise port, accompanied by the driver’s ongoing praise of the sultan. It seemed maybe the guy’s car was bugged or he was hoping we’d yell, “Praise Mohammed, peace be upon him, the Sultan’s The MAN!” as we exited the taxi and the driver would get a prize. Needless to say, we didn’t say anything but Marsalam (thank you) as we paid and made our way to the shaded area to wait for our shuttle back to the ship. The shaded area cut that 117 down to something reasonable—say, 110.
But as we say at home, it was a dry heat. And it was a short, but memorable romp in Oman. In other words, we liked it. And if the bank ever makes a mistake and inadvertently wires millions from some mobster into our account we know just the place to lay low for a while.