I feel as though I have lived an entire lifetime in Turkey.

The Clearest Water

So, not knowing quite where I was going, I got on the back of the little motorcycle and held on tight.

After about 15 minutes of driving between orchards and green rolling hills, we meet with a shallow stream full of very tall reeds. The water is brown and silty. We stand on the bridge and watch the fish kiss the surface, snapping flies. There are so many fish the water looks like a pot coming to a slow boil. We watch for a minute. "Come over here," my self-appointed guide says. 

We go around the side of the mountain, where rock is sticking out the side. It looks like raw marble; uncut blocks of centuries-old statues, pillars and royalty's flooring. And feeding into the sluggish stream is a deep pool of still water, literally clearer than glass. I gasp in suprise. It is so beautiful - the magnified rocks on the bottom, and the grains of sand glinting sunlight to the surface, the green of the reeds around the edges tinting the sides. 

"Listen, it's coming out here," my self-appointed guide says. He brings the sound of water to my attention, not torrential but still with some force, coming out of a crack in the marble. 

I'm so drawn to this crystalline pool - I come closer, feeling slightly hypnotized, and kneel to touch the water. I am reminded of Narcissus, if his face were both the sky and the earth at the same time. It seems like my hand doesn't even ripple the surface. When my fingers slip below the surface, I'm astonished - the water coming from underground has no bite of cold like an underground spring should have. It's warmer than the air, as warm as the sun on the marble. Pleasant to the touch... it almost feels like it has a soft texture, like a blanket that's been sitting in the sun. 

I'll never forget that moment.

Andrew observed yesterday outside the Blue Mosque that people create these gorgeous, ornate structures to replicate the beauty of God, and fall far short every time; how many come to these palaces of worship and look blandly at their splendor, half blind to the wonder humans create and completely oblivious to the much greater glory we cannot attain. 

We got back onto the bike and went to the sea. "There are my friends," the guide says, waving at a small boat on the water. We watch them pull up their nets and come back to shore. They had about four different kinds of fish today, plus two cuttlefish and an octopus. We helped them sort through the catch and bought about half - a good 5 kilos - all the favourites of my guide. I learned how to clean and gut them, bread them and fry them. Then a troop of us sat down to eat, ravenously, with our hands - good bread, delicious salad with greens just picked, perfect tomatoes, clean lemon and oil dressing. We ate one entire batch of fishe, cooked the rest, and ate that, too. Fresh out of the Mediterranean. I could try to tell you how delicious it was... but there are no words. I'm sure you expected as much.

Selshuk, you are your own world. I am so grateful to be here.

Afternoon in Tel Aviv

I have nothing profound to tell you, but I want to tell you I'm still here.
I am back in Israel, hopefully briefly on my way to Turkey, but I may come into some difficulties. I miss Egypt. Israel is cleaner, and there is more English, and the buses have a schedule, and the food is served on white plates with heavy silverware. Of course there are some cultural differences to what I'm used to "back home," but in general I understand the mindset, the gestures, the body language, the train of thought. I feel like I know the culture well enough to manipulate it a bit to my desires; I can walk alone in the streets in shorts, or go busking, or sit and read with a coffee, or any number of things I have learned to do in Canada to get by and float easily through life. But there is something missing...

Underwater

Hey there, world. You take some turns I don't expect.

Someone once said to me that I just needed to learn to trust the water. He was right. I don't know what it was that convinced me to take the scuba course. When I arrived in Dahab, I had no idea it was so well known for diving. I didn't even know diving was something you can't do without getting certification. And when I agreed to do the course, I didn't think much; just that maybe it would be interesting. I think I wanted to see how I would react.
Going under the first time is as awkward as everyone says it is. Also the second and the third. But once your body adjusts a bit more, and realizes you aren't drowning nor inhaling water, that the breaths you're taking of "artificial" air are actually sufficient if you learn to breathe it in deep enough... then there's a moment of calm once in a while. Where I find myself suspended between solid and liquid, knees resting gently on the sandy bottom while the instructor is doing an exercise with the other student, and I look around and see a fish next to me, and the sea-grass gently waving, and realize that I am doing something I never in my wildest dreams thought I would be doing... and not only that, but it feels okay.
And that's when it started to be really fun. Sometimes I would catch myself distracted by something, like a snail or the feeling of weightlessness, and realize objectively what I was doing (what, I'm underwater? Oh, right) and I'd start to laugh. Not a good idea, opening your mouth underwater. Especially a place as salty as the Red Sea. I had to learn how to laugh without breaking getting water in my mouth and coughing into the respirator.
Then, after being (pardon the pun) immersed in diving for two weeks, I accept an invitation to take very different plunge, no less life changing than the first - getting on a 12 hour bus ride and landing myself in a small town near Cairo, to stay with a new friend's family for a few days. I have so many impressions of Egypt and this culture and this wonderful loving home, but I'll have to save them for later, after I've digested a little. I am learning so much about what life is like here. My basic Arabic is coming along, I'm hoping it continues. I have to wear a headscarf and certain kinds of clothing when I'm out of the house, but I'm amazed at how quickly it's something you can get a little used to. I admit to feeling a lot safer with the scarf done in a Muslim style; unless someone looks closely at me and notices my lipring, there is literally nothing to distinguish me from the other people on the street any longer, so I blend in a lot more (at least until someone tries to speak to me, but I'm never alone without an Egyptian, so I seem to get along alright). Taking the ten minutes to get the scarf right before I go out has started to feel reassuring, even if it pinches a little around the chin.
So, here I am, making small cultural faux pas like cutting the lettuce too small or saying the wrong greeting, among dirt roads and donkeys and tuk-tuks and a lot of really beautiful dresses. And I'm loving every minute of it.
Hamd'allah, this is amazing. Too, too short.

Day in transit

The ferry ride - after persistent demands of what-is-in-that-case, now I have about 80 fans, all crowding around me, videoing me on their cell phones, clapping, laughing. Finally I have met a woman in this place where women are kept so far away; a big, loud, charismatic grandmother in beautiful draping clothing and headscarf. She kissed me on the cheeks, pulled on my shirt and sweater, tugged my jewelery, poked at my lipring, talking to me in an entertaining steady stream of Arabic the whole time. She taught me how to ululate - you know that sound, shrill and like a slow rolling of "rrr", but with a soft tone? - side to side with the toungue, not up and down like I had guessed. She clapped and ululated while I sang, then after the yelling and applause, took me by the hand and led me around the ferry, trying to help me with my entry stamp to Egypt (which I already had, but it was a nice gesture). Welcome!
Egypt on a Friday afternoon - The sun is warm, the sand is dry, the mountains are quiet and sharp. In the bus depot, the huge machines lie sleeping. A driver prays on carpet. Few people work on Fridays. I have three hours until the bus to Dahab stops in. I look up to cross the street. A car passes once in a while. I squint from the glare, skip across the pavement, feel the heat change over the black tar. The large open air cafe has only a handful of people, speaking quietly or watching TV in different corners. The worker has been frying onions, there is basil growing in planters. I have never been hungrier. I walk back to my pack sitting at my table. I breathe in the stillness and the warm afternoon sun.

Purim and Petra

PURIM IN ISRAEL WAS AMAZING.

For those who don't know about Purim, you might want to look it up before you read this, because I don't have time to explain anything about it except that you are actually supposed to party.

Took the bus to Jerusalem, where Purim comes one day late, a technicality no one seems to be able to explain the cause of. Finally in a warmer environment, Tzefat was actually pretty chilly. Booked into a hostel, went to see Yonah, hadn't seen her in years. Then bought some facepaint and turned myself into... something. For lack of a costume. 

We found our way to the old city of Jerusalem, looking for the ominous-sounding King David's Tomb, in the City of David. We got there just in time to look around and paint a few more faces before the Magillah reading. What an experience... wandering around a maze of arches and candles, orthodox men yelling and booing while they read the Purim story, echoes and shadows and stars from the patios. 

More people filter in, some of the costumes are really entertaining. There is a lot more room for creative costumes when the theme isn't overshadowed by the "dark spirit" theme of Hallowe'en. And then the live band starts, reggae and funk and wine and beer out under the stars in the entrance of this old sacred space. All in the name of Hashem. Beautiful.

It was a bit of a drag, I admit it, when they put up a screen at the back and suggested the women go dance there, but I got over it when they only asked once with a smile and I realized most of the people there didn't care and wouldn't expect me to. At least those women who would rather observe their religion that way had the chance to do so. I think we all still had a great time. 

I didn't leave until after 3 am. Walking through Jerusalem, the streets are packed, the costumes vary in creativity but the antics are pretty entertaining. Justin and I stop for a hamburger at a fancy restaurant. After extreme cardio for about 6 hours straight, believe me, that was the best burger I've ever eaten, I swear.  Back at the hostel at 4:30.

And up at 6. Sun miraculously bright out the window. Somehow I don't feel tired - adrenaline, I guess. Pack up as fast as I can, rouse Dillon off the bottom bunk, and we're walking briskly through the bleary folks who still haven't gone to bed on our way to the bus. We make it on the bus with literally 60 seconds to spare; it starts driving away as we put our bags at our seats. 

Eilat is scorching. We cross the border into Jordan on foot and after a few hours, arrive into town where we realize it's Friday, Muslim day of rest, and the buses to Wadi Musa aren't running. We sit at the empty bus shelter, taking it all in. Someone asks if I can play a song. What else should I do? I open up the case, play some bluegrass, a crowd starts to gather, some people are clapping and drumming on the hardcase. 

And then a man with really good English asks us where we were trying to get to. Wadi Musa, Petra. "I'm on my way there, I live there". Of course. So, what else should we do? We talk about it for a minute, get in his car and go. You get a feeling for people so quickly. Ali is an amazing host, wonderful person, caring and gentle. We stayed on his balcony (literally) for two nights. The kindess he showed us is, apparently, normal bedouin hospitality, this catch phrase thrown around out here. And at this point, after experiencing similar generosity from about a dozen others out here in three days, I believe that it's probably common - but still, Ali has a caring side to him that is rare to find in anyone, and I feel so blessed to have found it. Bacha slacha... sieze the luck!

Tourist culture. Tourism destroys old cultures and firmly upholds the awkward imitation of the culture that replaces it. Petra and Wadi Musa are incredible places to be. And I feel this overwhelming sense of privilege as I look around me. Here I am, funny looking white chick in man's clothes, being yelled at by men and chased by children with postcards and totally ignored by any women who aren't trying to sell me something... the women I see, anyway, and that's not many. Usually they seem to be kept at home. And this is a really strange line to walk - making friends with some of the locals, the overly hospitable and generally carefree young men wandering around, seeing if you will buy something or sleep with them often, yes, but also genuinely welcoming ones who have all their needs met and just want to hang out and drink a cup of tea or smoke shisha, because that's just what you do with strangers. And those ones are the ones that are fun, when you get to hang out with them all day and see the immense desert from all of their favourite corners (if you can manage to scramble up the cliffsides behind them, that is. I feel so out of shape compared to them). But being this half-man, half-woman creature... does uncovered hair or bare ankles mean I have no values? Are you allowed to shake hands? Share tea? Dance? And these young men, growing up around tourists but still very engrained in their culture and life, used to the sight of white folks in white folk's clothes, introduced to some of the western ideas but not immersed in them, craving a woman who is more relaxed or allowed to go out with them and drink a beer or read intellectual books, but they are only restricted to the bedouin women taking care of their nieces and nephews, stuck in the house and quiet. I can imagine those young men feeling trapped by it... they all say they have had foreign girlfriends, but once those girls leave to continue their travels, the boys are left behind, too attached to their idyllic way of life in nature with no want for housing or food to give it up for the chance of a mate. This coming generation... it will see some changes, I'm sure. It's fascinating... cultures everywhere changing so quickly.

Story written line by line on the bus, ~Feb 18-19

Once upon a time, a special child was hungry. 

So the special child went for a walk.

As he approached the pond, he raised his hand up high. 

But the water didn't move and he was pissed. 

Luckily, the boy did not believe in miracles, because if he tried to part the water...

He knew all the fish would die.

But his heart was set on it. 

So, with jaw set and shirt tucked tight, he grabbed a firm hold on his determination. 

And he set off, manhood intact and proud, towards his next adventure: in the belly of the beast!

He had only to retrieve something lost, again something sacred, before he could return again to his beloved family. 

But his beloved family was what was lost, and so needed to be sought. 

Unfortunately, their souls had been captured in seven bronzed objects distributed across the continent.

He faced a decision: recover his ancestor's souls and resurrect the family... or eat chocolate cake?

Pulling a warm, moist slice of cake from his pocket, he paused briefly and decided he would not give up on his kin - and he will also eat the cake.

Finished thusly, a sweet taste on his lips and crumbs in his pocket, he reached for the telephone.

As his hand moved forward, time seemed to freeze and as the receiver reached his face, all events leading up to this moment spun out of the continuum and slammed him up against the glass of yesterday morning.

"Oh shit, it's Groundhog Day again," he grumbled as he picked himself off the glass for yet another day in purgatory.  

He groped for the alarm, catching a ray of light in his eye before putting on his boots. 

He tied the laces tight, ran out the door and started running, leaping hedges and crowing like a raven guarding a nest. 

Deeper into the forest he ran until a foot shot out of the darkness and the taste of dirt found his mouth. 

"This is not the culinary feast that Birthright promised me!" he said as he spit the dirt out. 

By: Justin Shenk, Sabrina Beram, Sherri Cohen, Tzomi Burkhart