aric with an a

I’m not a huge museum guy.

Smithsonian? sure - could spend days in there.

and anything with photos.

but paintings? nawwwwww.

a few, once a year…maybe.

my quota for guys with bangs and moleskines ain’t much.

but the contact sheet for robert frank’s ‘the americans’ is somethin’.

seen it three times in the past 12 months.

I’d never read the book, seen the photos.

still don’t own a copy.

should, probably.

but to watch his eye around the country,

especially the one’s with numerous takes.

and the Tate Modern’s free.

so, you know,

go.

or something.

look, I’ve been hard on the pyramids and vocal about the pain that is the tourism sector here.

but have also had a few adventures here-and-there.

this one might top the list.

Egypt winning the African Cup was insane.

as you can see.

and I gave into the vibe and jumped on a horse-drawn carriage to celebrate.

you can also see that might not have been the best of ideas.

I inhaled more than I should have, as to let the sweetened-fog come out of my mouth in it’s own time, creating a temporary smoke-screen between me and this most enchanting of random, located in a tiny alley that years ago most likely adhered to the one-way sanction, but not anymore. violet plastic chairs pushed up against a pimpled honey wall in a pocket of Cairo forgotten, dogs and cats pay each other so little mind as if time had stripped them of all differences save for the title. a man with a skinny beard and ragged hat kisses his own palm before shaking theirs, greeting more with his tired eyes than his toothless smile. I want to ask him his name, how long he’d been here but couldn’t interrupt his dance from patron-to-patron, holding the glass pipe with one hand and burning coals in the tiny clay top with the other. he’ll give it a shake and drain out some excess water before sitting it down in front of those who know him, those who ordered once, years ago, but no longer need to - you don’t have to tip him a few coins, but that would make you the first. if money afforded it, he’d wear a nice suit and snap the napkins with grandeur when you sat - the name tag would read ‘Theodore’ and he’d insist you call him that in full. I sat, moving so quietly, so minimally, sitting between those two trees that afforded me both silent sanctuary and a perfectly composited view, mimicking the man in front of me - inhaling and exhaling - keeping the plastic tipped cord in my mouth the whole time, repeating 5-6 times and then breaking for the mint tea - balancing precariously on a thin iron table that dared you to bump it. at one point I think he saw his protege behind him and smiled - thanks for trying not to let on. the mechanic with his camouflaged hands finishes his cigarette next to us and brings his beast back to life with a pop! - momentarily passing out a flavor not advertised on the non-existent menu. boys ride by on different bicycles all balancing a variation of the same bake on their heads, but I’m the only one who takes note. there’s talk between those who commune, but not much - the occasional ring tone from hidden tracking-devices being the only sounds that remind each of us that there’s a big, big world just a few blocks away. it’s not that time stands still here, it just moves at the pace of your pipe. a streak of wind leaves white ash on my black shorts, but it takes me minutes to remember to clean it off. I sat there for hours, but left before my drink went cold, before my burning apple became stale, before the quiet cars awakened and the city nudged us all back to the day. the beauty queen probably can’t spell and I wasn’t going to stick around for the hard questions. as I walked away, waving to Theodore and wondering what he thought of me, the call to prayer above the lane began and I promised myself never, ever to come back…

although I probably would tomorrow.

‘Egyptians are horrendous.’ - this was told to me, in varying adjectives, by more than a few people.

a guy in Laos who rode his bike from London being the first,

the girls in the hotel when I first checked into Cairo being the latest.

and a good 5-6 in between.

I didn’t want to believe it,

who does?

but then, after a few days here, think I have it figured out.

[we consider ourselves so wise, don't we, us traveled? how annoying.]

70% of Egyptians are nice.

30% are not.

of those 30%, 28% work in the tourism sector.

and 90% of them are horrendous.

you will most likely only meet 15% outside of this genre.

meaning that, yes - the majority of Egyptians are horrendous.

I mean - bad.

on more than one occasion I’ve had to stop walking so that the man chasing me did,

grab his arm in a nice, but forceful way,

look him in the eye and say

‘I said no - go away’.

on more than one occasion.

I only had to do that once in a few months traveling around India.

and if you’re a girl, forgetabout traveling here solo.

as I’ve heard 5 stories already that would scare you as they did me.

so, somehow, find a way to get off that regular Cairo-Aswan-Luxor-Cairo trek.

find someone in the 70% to show you an Egypt[ian] most won’t see.

’cause they’re incredibly warm people, nice people, kind people…

just not the ones who benefit from your ‘baksheesh’.

you might say to me ‘nice shot, Queen!‘ and I’d say ‘thanks!‘,

but you might also say ’seems a bit too good’ and I’d have to agree.

Egypt, so far, has been fine, but just that - fine.

nothing that blew me away.

and a lot of travel, a lot of waiting to get there.

asians and the elders,

groups led by generals with umbrellas and flags,

monuments that are always shot from wayyyy below,

and apparently, before opening times.

it’s touristy, too touristy,

I’ll get into that in a bit.

but one thing that makes it all worth it is Karnak Temple.

you just have no idea the size, the scope, the artistry, the effort.

so I finally smiled a smile of a pleased tourist.

there were still crowds though, yes,

but I made my way to an uncrowded area.

more columns, more hieroglyphics,

wondering what it was exactly,

that captivated us with the Egyptians more than anything else.

and then there he was.

standing.

looking.

and unbeknownst to me - waiting.

I snapped a few shots and then tapped him on the shoulder,

showing him the photo and handing him 5 pounds.

this I usually do when I take shots of folks,

when I take shots of folks,

as I usually don’t like taking shots of folks.

he seemed pleased and so was I - it was a great shot.

then he looked around, turned back to me,

pointed at the ‘work area!’ barricade next to us,

and with a slight tilt of his head and eyebrow asked me if I wanted to go in.

he knows an Indiana Jones fan when he sees one.

[read: any boy between 20-48]

yes I did want to go into where an archeological dig was happening.

we walked in, he put his finger up to his lips.

shhhhhhh, I assumed.

there were about 12 columns in this area,

along with a few rooms full of tools and dust,

both fighting the other.

I peeked in the first one and tried to find something ancient to remember.

but was ‘pssssst‘d’ at by my turban-wearing model.

he pointed out to the main temple, finger again to his lips,

and then with the same finger,

pointed me into the other opening.

‘sit down in there’ he whispered loudly, ‘and wait’.

I walked into the area filled with carvings that could have kept me busy for hours,

and there was a chair.

it wasn’t an odd chair,

just a chair.

but something didn’t sit right.

at all.

something had died in this room or something was happening outside,

neither of which I wanted any part of.

I poked my head out to see two more white people coming in, led by another guide,

and when they were led in the first room, I snuck out the second,

positioning myself up against the columns like a bad video game character.

they came out and into the next room,

and I bolted.

my ‘guide’ was waiting by the barricade, as he was before,

and looked shocked that I came out.

I made a point not to run,

but also not to walk.

as I turned the corner to leave, heading back to the main temple,

a police officer rounded the corner, almost bumping into me.

‘aswan‘ I apologized, and turned as if I was admiring the headless sphinx that would have seen us both.

as I lit up a cigarette with shaking hands, I forced myself to wander back through the arched opening.

‘not allowed!’ I heard being said loudly, in a bad accent.

and then white apologies.

white apologies to the tune of $100.

impressive.

I’ve been an asshole.

unintentional, but an asshole nontheless.

and am a bit embarrassed, but never mind.

last night, I hopped on an overnight train down south,

taking with me my little bag,

and initial thoughts on this project.

someone commented on the first post and, while cowardly as posting anonymously is,

it did get me thinking.

‘why am I doing this?’ - well, to meet some folks, and let them tell me their story. plenty of charities/NGO’s/individuals doing good things and could use some help getting the word out.

and, while not a pro, I can get a decent story out.

that’s when it hit me.

I was going about this selfishly.

very selfishly.

I’ve been given on the the most blessed lives and yet, here I am, still asking for things.

buy my photos?

help me meet people in Africa?

I’ve been handed so, so much yet found myself still asking.

and then, something else hit me.

an idea.

so, scratch the ‘help me meet people’ thing.

and sorry about that.

here’s what I’m going to do - even if it means losing the platform of Nat Geo, who emailed yesterday to say ‘they’re still super interested’.

[bear with me, it's only a day old, this idea, so might be klunky in the explanation part.]

…

charity.

we all like charity, and have most likely given to a few. but, fair-or-not, we always walk away hoping that our money actually gets to the people in need.

take Haiti, for example, it’s become a bit of a mess.

and that $20 you give, well, by the time it gets to the place you want it to, it’s more like $7.

and I understand that - a little.

but, what if, what if, there was a way to, almost instantaneously, see a need, give and see your offering in use.

well, I think there is, and I got no sleep in my moving bunk last night coming up with this idea.

tell me what you think of this:

I would head to a place, a village or whathaveyou, and through the local contact find out what they are in need of - let’s say that there’s 20 kids in the area, none of which have shoes, but they all want to play football without cutting up their feet. they run about $20 a pair in the nearest city.

this would be filmed, edited and uploaded within 3-4 days of arriving; a 2-3 minute short. here’s the place, here’s the problem, here’s how much the shoes cost.

still with me?

cool.

ok - here’s the fun part.

I’d have a phone with me, internet capable. we release the link on Twitter/Facebook/etc and for 24 hours, accept donations via PayPal. on the 25th hour we’d take the money donated, run back into town [all of this being filmed], buy however many shoes we got money for [hopefully all], head back into town, hand ‘em out to the kids and turn ‘em loose. I’d take the footage and edit another short within 24 hours or so, meaning that within 2-3 days of releasing the original video, people who donated would be able to see exactly where their $20 went.

that’s it.

I really, really don’t see how this wouldn’t work.

I really don’t.

that was written ['I really don't'] about 12 times in my diary last night - not all at once, but intermittently…if I’m using that word right.

so, let me know what you think about this idea.

I’m going to go after finding a corporate sponsor for the back-end of things…

and to be totally transparent, here’s what I’m asking for:

- my expenses [transport, food, visas, internet connection, a roof, etc] would be around $1000 or so a month.

- web design and constant support - am guessing about $1000.

- any equipment we might need [for now, I could film it on the little Leica and use my portable mic for sound, but eventually would want a real cameracorder] - $2000 to be safe.

- salary for the local guide/translator - [no idea]

…which would bring it to around 8-10k for a 4-month project.

while that might seem like a lot to you [me as well], I can tell you that for a corporation, this is shrapnel.

…

give me your thoughts, friend. advice? what am I not thinking of? what could go wrong?

anything you got.

many thanks to Leah Lamb at Current TV for mentioning my new little project.

shoulders & giants, I’m tellin’ ya.

okay, so.

here’s the big idea.

I wanted to wait until I had a bit more time to talk it over with some folks,

but this is the last night I’ll be at Ryan’s - with his free wifi and beers.

a dangerous combination, usually, but hey.

I made enough, thanks to people like you, to get to Africa.

but I can’t just do a few pyramids and say ‘yep - been to Africa.’

I want to experience it in a way that only being poor could.

tourism, it’s all be tourism - just longer than most, I think.

I want an adventure.

so here it is:

cairo to capetown…with no money.

[the only cash I'll keep will be for internet access, as this depends on it - $15 a week]

no money.

overland.

quick - look at a map.

that’s a long way down.

and into some dicey areas.

Sudan? dangerous in places, yes.

even Brother Scott had a few words of warning for me about Sudan - and he’s the bravest cat I know.

so, a week or so ago, I wrote it off and was just going to try and find a few NGO’s to work with.

but it kept at me, this little thought.

and then there was this fantastic lady I shared a cab with who just so happened to have lived/worked in Sudan.

so I took that as a sign.

and I finally spent money I don’t have on the domain.

fuck me, I’m off topic and haven’t even explained it.

sorry.

no money, just asking, in advance, for friends-of-friends

or charities you might know

who’d let me show up, do a bit of work, or help get their message out

in exchange for a bite to eat, a blanket and a ride into the next town.

I might have to hitchhike.

I might have to have a few pages of phrases translated each place I go.

I might, as a semi-healthy white guy, get some funny looks when it’s me begging for food,

but I’m living proof to the kindness of strangers.

I’m living proof on how Facebook/Twitter helps you meet people.

and I’m living proof you need not be educated, wealthy, nor informed to travel.

this is the project I spoke with Nat Geo a few times about - still don’t think they’ll legally be able to do it.

and that’s okay, it was the confidence I needed to get me to the next step.

so - I’ve bought the site, and admitted it publicly.

and in a few weeks, I’m going to try and do it.

but will, once again, need your help.

…

we’ll start with the first three countries - who do you know in either Egypt, Sudan or Ethiopia who’d be willing to help?

what am I not thinking of?

what should I prepare in advance for?

and if you don’t think it can be done, tell me why.

it was evident as the old bus pulled around the corner,

a corner wayyyy up top on a mountain.

next to another mountain with snow.

snow - in Beirut? who knew.

I sure didn’t.

and then looking down, down, down to the coast

the downtown sticking out like an arrow into the Med.

gorgeous beaches in Beirut? nope - had no idea either.

I knew jokes, and news stories.

and other things that were sad.

but the evidence, things that were evident,

were up on that corner.

see, a few turns later, we started to descend.

my ears knew this before my eyes did.

about the 3rd switchback was a sign

‘portabello sandwich!!’ great - thanks Hardee’s.

[who knew, who knew]

but below the highlighted mushroom declaration was a little house,

a little old guard-post.

red, if I remember correctly.

with some holes. and lots of chipped paint.

burgers and bulletholes - welcome to Beirut.

they go out, my gosh, they go out a lot.

nice cars, good boobs and lips and other assorted purchases.

one big ‘fuck you’ to something somewhere, whatever they used to have

or might again someday.

men with hard faces guard the buildings they once cannoned.

boom! went the town. and then boom! went the industry.

explosion and commerce.

tragedy and the aftermath.

but through the haze, the expensive jazz clubs

and many, too many sunglasses for one person

hovers the reminder, right up there by that first turn,

that no matter the size of the capitalistic plaster,

there will always be a few spare scars,

of a small-pox called yesterday.

years ago, about 10 now, Symon and worked in Spain for 6 months.

down in the South, right across from Morocco.

it was at a pub where a lot of people had their holidays,

and we didn’t shut until the last person either threw-up, was beaten-in or stumbled out.

it was messy, but fun.

every morning, around 5am, when we would walk back to the taxi stand,

[the same taxi stand Symon would save my life at when I decided to man-up to a guy who ended up having a gun]

but before that, we’d hit the kebab stand.

this guy was magic,

and I’m pretty sure he was putting on top of the meat what we were selling under the table.

we lived for it.

chemical smiles, celebrity tips and kebabs.

that was our 1/2 year in Spain.

but I’ve recently found another.

I don’t want to say ‘replacement’ because too many memories come with the original,

but this guy here, in the little town of Hama, Syria, will forever have a place in my heart.

his kebabs are good, of course, or I wouldn’t be writing this.

the past 3 days I’ve eaten there 5 times.

it’s just about his, well, the way he goes about it.

the first time I went there, he jumped up from the back where he was counting money to help me.

the second he wasn’t there, I guess the counting went well.

the third time, he came out from his shack to talk to me,

and talk all about New York City.

see, this was a trick I learned in Turkey, as everyone has at least one family member in New York City.

can’t say the same about Oklahoma.

so we talked New York City.

oh, he wanted to go and ‘drive big car with big women’, but would tilt his head to one side and put a hand up as if to acknowledge that he would never have the pleasure of either.

the fourth he took the kebab out of the hand of one of his workers and did something magical - he made it, stuffing it full of chicken-goodness and the special yoghurt sauce and then [get this], he rolled the kebab around in the grease below the fire, threw a few squeezes of lemon on it and then stuck it into the flame, creating a caramelization of wonder and delight.

that was yesterday evening.

and then, tonight. I thought he was going to hug me across the cash-register when I told him that tomorrow I was heading to Damascus.

but I had to see him.

one last fling.

he took his time with this one.

same as last night, so much chicken he broke the first pita.

again with the grease and lemon.

he turned around to show it to me, I approved with a vertical thumb,

but he wasn’t done.

with his spare hand, he pointed to his eye and to me,

threw extra sauce on top.

and then piled it high with more chicken.

…

I’ve seen a lot of kebabs in my life, been eating an average of one-per-day for the past 3 weeks.

and I ain’t never seen anything like that.

so, if you ever find yourself in the middle of Syria.

visit the enchanting town of Hama.

next to the giant water wheels is a cobblestone bridge.

he’s in the shack right next to it.

just don’t expect the same kebab.

[and if you do get it, please don't tell me.]