The End Is Near

It's hard to believe that I've been away from home for nearly three months now, mostly because this experience has almost wholly been defined by a fickle sense of endlessness and brevity. And with only two weeks left, I'm thoroughly ready to go back home, yet all the while, I miss this place that I haven't even left.

My friends and I have (mis)spent countless hours blissfully thinking of the things we'll do upon our arrival back on U.S. soil. But I'm honestly at a loss. Of course, I will hug and kiss the family and friends I have missed with an intensity I couldn't have anticipated. For sure, I will irresponsibly gorge on foods loaded with processed sugar, high-fructose corn syrup, and pasteurized milk that my American taste buds have long since craved. But aside from those savory embraces and that loving gluttony, I'm not sure what else I'll do.

When I reflect on this uncertainty, I realize it's not a consequence of my youthful apathy or a nullifying zeal, but instead it comes from an appreciation for living that I've learned here. Of course, I've always appreciated life, growing up in a region of the country where most people are self-proclaimed "pro-life(rs)" and then going to school in a region of the country where most people are anti-war and anti-death penalty, it would have been impossible for some sense of that love of life not to rub off on me. Yet, the main difference between the U.S.'s reactionary pro-lifers and rabid peace-lovers and the Jordanians I've met can be summed up in the following scheme: process/means driven vs. results/end driven; appreciating living vs. appreciating life.

These various activists in the U.S., purportedly concerned with life, think of it as some sort of lofty ideal, an intellectual concept that must be safe-guarded against the treacherously debilitating forces of radical, baby-eating abortionists or unscrupulous, profit-driven war hawks. All the while they forget the fun in living. The joy in the ride.

Take for example a debateably insightful illustration of this Jordanian living vs. American life paradigm--road rules.

A few days ago, my friends and I went on a road trip from Jordan's most populated city, Amman, to Jordan's southern most tip, Aqaba. While I had accompanied many a taxi driver on the seemingly unregulated Jordanian roads, this was my first time driving on them, and experience was my only teacher. So we pack our luggage, food, and eager bodies into the car and shove off. My friend takes the wheel first, driving us to our first and most important destination--Kalha, House of All Things Deliciously Falafel. We get the essentials--hummus, fool (a bean-based dish), and 20 savory falafel balls, all to accompany the bread we bought the day before. Now, we are officially ready.

At some point, I start driving. And it was then that I came to a striking realization. Soon after I had assumed the wheel, my friend who was visiting from France, unused to Jordanian driving customs, anxiously chuckled, "Tony, are you gonna drive inside the lines."

Somewhat surprised, I reply, "No. We don't really do that here." And it's true. All manner of drivers--taxi, truck, bus, everyday average citizen, pay no attention to lines and make scarce use of car signals.



It seemed like a trivial cultural note at first but then, driving on the way back, I began to reflect. I noticed a car in front of me who was driving in the middle of two lanes, drifting left and right as it made its way down the road along with the rest of the busy parade. I tried to imagine myself, strolling down the lazy streets of Memphis with similarly unconcerned leisure, drifting left and right as the humidity floods into my open car windows, splashing against my sweaty face, and I soon realized that in such a scenario, I would almost immediately be pulled over by a lurking police car and subsequently forced to wait for a minimum of 30 minutes as the officer and the back-up he or she had defaultly called collect my information and check my record. And why? Because driving in the middle of the street is unsafe of course. Always stay inside the lines and push forward expeditiously. It's vital for our well-being. That is unless you live in Jordan apparently.

So in closing, I think the first thing I'll do when I get back to the states is talk to friends, read some books, and maybe, in the words of the flower-children who came decades before me, go discover America. But don't worry, I'll drive inside the lines.

The South Will Rise Again

This is the long overdue entry about my incredible trip to Southern Jordan. In some surprising and interesting ways it reminded me of the southern United States--there were beaches, people holding onto a history that has long since past, and just generally beautiful scenery. Each of the places we visited is hugely important to Jordanian history, culture, and livelihood. What follows is a condensed version of my take on each place and a brief description of what the preceding, cryptic intro actually means.



Petra-home to one of the oldest, greatest, and least known (at least insofar as I was concerned) civilizations in the history of the Ancient World. It seems that the tombs, monuments, and homes painstakingly carved out of the majestic boulders surrounding this area were once alive with the urban hustle and bustle of the millenia old Nabatean people. We commemorate their legacy of innovation and creativity by trampling on their ruins, littering on their streets, and growing trinket-shops in every fortified nook and cranny that can accommodate them--for real, these shops eek out of Petra's walls like some sort of pernicious weed who thrives not on sun and water but the starry-eyed ignorance of enthusiastic tourists.

However, don't think me a pure cynic. It was truly amazing to have had the opportunity to walk in the places that people walked in the early years before JC. In order to beat the crowds, we scraped ourselves out of bed before the sun had risen to ease our wake. We threw on some clothes, rolled ourselves down the stairs, and began the long trek through Petra. With the lukewarm, early morning sun on our backs we combed through the narrow stone paths and beaten walkways the Nabateans had so kindly prepared for us. At 6 o'clock, Petra wasn't teeming with its 21st century permutation of urban life. The only people to be seen, were my daring SIT compatriots and I, two other tourists, and the groggy trinket-shop owners who rose to greet their prospective customers. (*A note: the shop owners we saw were rising from sleeping bags sprawled out on their shop floors. Apparently, after the Nabatean people left Petra, they were replaced by nearby Bedouin communities. Athirst for places to live and spaces for their grazing livestock, they moved here. However, the Jordanian government, likely under the prodding of UNESCO and various tourist agencies, wanted the Bedouin out. So, they built them houses, all complete with the same standardized, indistinguishable, and purely functional government aesthetic that defines all public housing, just outside of Petra. Still, as we walked, smells of biological waste, assumedly both human and animal, and sights of the aforementioned sleeping bags made it quite clear that not everyone was taking (could take?) advantage of the King's generosity.) Being 'alone' amongst the natural and artistic beauty Petra had to offer was truly amazing. We walked; we climbed; we rested; we gazed; we soaked up; we breathed in; we sat; in silence.

On the way down, the number of tourists chasing after the vistas we had just enjoyed had multiplied exponentially. Given the narrow paths the Nabateans had forged for us, we were forced into awkward close encounters with our fellow sight-seekers. Growing up in a culture of obligatory courtesy, I felt painfully uncomfortable passing by strangers at only a distance of a few inches and not saying 'hello.' However, I was presented with a dilemma. Billions of tourists visit Petra every year from billions of different places. So for a while I decided I would just stick with the warm and hospitable Arabic "sabah al-khair." However, I soon realized that hardly anyone knew what I was saying. Stubbornly determined to be cordial with the fair-skinned passersby, I began to just rattle off every greeting I knew in an Indo-European language. "Hello; bonjour; buenos dias; guten tag"--they were all up for grabs really. Yet, alas, I elicited only laughs in response.

Soon we reached back to the main area and were greeted by an elaborate carnival of tired camels, smiling tourists sporting lavish kuffiehs, fully decked out Bedouins, Roman guards carrying severely plastic swords, and loudly eager salesman. It seemed like every group of people muddled together in this mass of commerce, exotification, and exploitation was in competition with the others to see who could produce the most ridiculously authentic parody of themselves. I think it's pretty indisputable that the Bedouins and the Roman guards won, everyone wanted a picture with them.




Dana Nature Reserve: "Dont pick up rocks, dont pick flowers, the creatures below them serve us"--these were some of the first words we heard upon our arrival to Dana, a beautifully preserved stretch of Jordanian land. At first, the restrictions that guided our every move felt like unnecessary steel bars blocking our path to discovering the nature surrounding us. However, once I sat to enjoy this land and talked with the people who work tirelessly to conserve and preserve it, I realized how fragile it truly is. The picture you see here is just a clumsy digital reproduction of just one of the many breathtaking vistas that surrounded our camp site. In this one picture you can see more than four different geological formations, countless types of flora and fauna, and just one piece of the ecological system that encapsulates it all.

During the day, my friends and I walked around looking and not touching the nature that surrounded us. We followed the guided tour led by a few strategically placed rocks and sticks; however, we got off the 'gently disturbed' path a few times to sit on some rocks and chat about life. It was here, in these moments, that I found an unexpectedly profound sense of connection to my friends and the scenery that housed us. It was then that the once seemingly unnecessary impediments to our own self-lead discovery became critically important shields protecting and guiding both us and nature to a place of harmony and coexistence. Really, you need to check this place out. Perhaps then these words would seem less corny.





Aqaba-Basically Aqaba is the Jordanian equivalent of Destin, Florida. A burgeoning sea-town for tourists both Jordanian and foreign alike, as I walked through Aqaba I got the strangest feeling that I was in a different country. The palm trees, salty air, and vast stretches of beach transported me from the predominantly desert country I had been living in and took me to a place where I could get delicious fruit juice and cheap fish in the same place.

Almost immediately after our arrival we went for a watery adventure. It was here, snorkeling along the world-famous coral reefs of the Red Sea that I met the cast of Finding Nemo. When we first dove into the icy Red sea waters, off the side of our faithful Glass Boat (called such b/c of the glass square on the boat's underbelly that allowed passengers a goggle-like view of the sea floor beneath them), we couldn't see much. Swimming around in circles, never straying too far from the boat for fear of being sucked into the busy propeller of a rival boat, we floated around oogling the colorful sea floor too far to examine closely. However, soon, some of our Aqaban sea-mates offered to take us to where the coral really shines. Following closely behind the bubbles of our able and knowledgeable skippers we begin to see the reef inching closer and closer to the bare feet propelling us forward. Soon, we find our selves floating only feet above a mosaic of rocks, inanimate animals, dancing anemone, hesitant fish, and brave coral. We can see rough, jagged scars torn through the reef, permanent memories of where indiscriminate boat propellers pillaged an ecosystem.

If there's one thing that this trip confirmed for me it's that finding beauty both unblemished and natural is near impossible.



Wadi-Rum-was no exception to this pithy aphorism. But because the face of Wadi Rum is naturally both mutable with the forgiveness of sand and jagged with stature of rock, the history of human contact with this area is not written on its surface but in the minds of local community members who have seen the area transform in the wake of budding tourism. Here we stayed in a mock-Bedouin tent site. We were served meals prepared with special ingredients and purportedly centuries old tradition, cooked in a sort of Dutch oven-style. The pot containing the veritable banquet we were served that night was buried deep under the sand. Its unveiling was a spectacular event. I think, perhaps for a brief moment, the simultaneous barrage of our camera flashes created a premature dawn in the deep darkness of the Wadi night.

We slept in tents arranged in a neat little semi-circle concluding at a sort of apex with the majestic Bait Shar--a grand daddy tent, elaborately decorated with traditional Bedouin fabrics and furniture. It reminded me very much of the Badia. However, there were a few striking differences. For example! In door plumbing--even though we were living in tents and cooking our food in sand, the bathrooms in this joint rivaled some of Williams College's finest. I mean generally, this place lacked all of the significant downsides to Bedouin life that seemed to figure quite centrally in my experience. Then again, I can't imagine that tourist would want to pay 25 bucks a night to enjoy Bedouin living and the poverty all-too often associated with it...

All in all though, friends and family, Southern Jordan is amazing. Tomorrow I'm heading back there for 3 more days. I think I need another healthy dose of contrived authenticity and desert livin'. Yalla.

My First Passover Sedar

Today is the 8th day of the "festival of freedom," celebratory cousin to the "festival of lights." However, while the all-too-familiar Chanukah commemorates the miracle of oil, Passover celebrates the miracle of freedom.

About a week ago, I had the distinct pleasure of ushering in the 2009 rendition of this centuries old holiday with some of my SIT compatriots. Sitting at a table in the SIT library, warmed by the softly lit ambiance of the setting sun, we sang, we ate, we thanked, we remembered. Only three of the seven or eight of us huddled around that table were Jewish, but such technicalities made no difference to me. In these moments we were a community, perhaps not organized around a faith in some common conception of God, but, nevertheless our hearts and minds were bound together by something powerfully strong--our faith in freedom.

The lead up to the night's ceremonies was riddled with problems. As it happens, Passover seders, like most religious holidays built with an intricate cast of rituals, require a number of very specific foods and tools. As it happens, in their attempts to gather all of the necessary items for our celebration, the leaders of our festival of freedom found themselves in an Arab country that purportedly had absolutely no Jewish population and likewise none of the necessary goods for our Jewish celebration. However, our more than able and desperately creative hosts gathered a delicious panoply of substitutes, using potato chips for matza, barbecue mixed nuts for the required legumes, and smoked salmon for meat.

But, before we could sink our teeth into these delicious symbols, we take pause to discuss and remember the struggle of past peoples. Not just Jewish, but enslaved and oppressed peoples everywhere. However, quietly crowded around a library table in our school as the building's land-lord continually interrupted our celebration with impatient reminders of how little time we had and how little noise we were allowed to make, the symbolic meaning of Passover celebration took on a very potent inflection of reality.

One of the most important tenets of the festival of freedom is being open and welcoming. One is actually supposed to invite strangers into one's home to join the commemoration. A fellow gentile who was participating in the festivities with us was supposed to meet some of her Palestinian friends about half-way through, but instead of leaving with them, she followed tradition and invited them to join us. Despite the nauseous protest of some of our friends, she goes downstairs with a precarious smile. We wait. After a few minutes, she returns with a precarious smile, and a conclusive shake of the head. Recounting their refusal, she says, "No, ana filisteen!" ('No, I'm Palestinian!' Let me just take a brief moment to say that contrary to popular belief, not all Palestinians dislike Jews and vice versa. For example, my family more than welcomes my good friend here who is Jewish. They open their homes and their hearts to her, sharing laughs and deliciously home-cooked food. There are countless people who understand the difference between Jewish identity and Israeli support. Having said that, I'm still not entirely sure how many of my Palestinian friends would jump at the opportunity to participate in a Passover seder.)

Upon her return, we continue. Moving from song to song and explanation to explanation, we remember, celebrate, and learn.

Time presses on. We soon find ourselves joined in a multi-faith chorus of love and devotion, singing songs of Jewish freedom as the 'hour before sunset' call to prayer rings out in harmony with our voices of praise. Even before my experiential knowledge of Passover, I had known something about it (see the picture above), but here, in this moment, the festival of freedom's promises took on new meaning for me: resistance, transcendence, and power both historical and present.

The festivities soon came to a rushed close, the landlord following on our heels as we hurriedly tried to gather leftovers and clean plates. After saying our many thanks and exchanging warm embraces, we parted ways, back to our homes, likely unable to share our experiences with homestay families who may not know why we 'Christians' would celebrate such a holiday. But on my way back, talking with my Palestinian taxi driver, enveloped in Arabic songs of liberation, I began to reflect.

Is it strange in a way that we commemorated the emancipation of a minority people who presently oppress, exploit, and otherwise dehumanize a minority people? Of course, such a question presumes the problematic conflation of Jewish and Israeli I spoke about earlier. But, nonetheless, I find it curiously ironic that the songs we sang continually painted a picture of Israel not just as a land of blissful utopia, but as a state of freedom. However, all the while, now, a similarly idealized and powerfully vivid narrative envelops this same plot of land, but calls it by a different name and describes it in a different language. It makes me wonder if and when the Palestinians will have a Moses-like prophet to lead their diasporic exodus back to their homeland. It makes me wonder if and when the Palestinians will ever have their "festival of freedom."

A Moment with my Jordanian Family

A few days ago, some manner of cheer or hysteria, brought on by the consumption of copious amounts of hot chocolate I'm sure, inspired my home-stay mother to call me, by way of air phone, while we were in the same room. For those of you who have never had the honor, nay, the privilege of having a conversation via airphone, let me explain. Essentially what you do is get an equally fun-loving/slightly strange friend as you, hold your hands to your heads as if you were going to speak into a phone, and then, in fact, speak as if there were a phone in your hands. It's genius really.

So, my mother's lips ring me. I answer. We begin chatting about how we are, the weather, and other such trivia. Then Ehab, who is also in the room, starts Arabically talking to mama about I don't know what. With an air of puzzled concern in my voice, I ask whom that voice belongs to. "Oh, it's just Ehab."

"Oh! OK, I say. Tell him I said, 'hi'."

She relays the message. Ehab, while visibly confused, replies with an amused chuckle.

We then move onto a variety of subjects from our favorite foods to my concern about how fruits and vegetables seem to be relatively absent in Arab cuisine.

"Yeah, I know, but food here is not like America," my mother declares, twirling her wavy hair the way I've seen her do so many times before when speaking to her friends and family on the phone. "Arab food takes too much time. 4 or 5 hours. We cook all day! Not like America. Everything is in the microwave!"

Although, I feel an imminently overwhelming sense of culinary nationalism rush over me, almost to the point of defensiveness, I decide to agree. Why? Because she's mostly right.

Then, all of the sudden, my father wants my attention.

"No!" My mother slaps his hand. "Tony, you have a call waiting?"

"Ahh yes," I say with stuttered hesitation.

My father defiantly starts, "What? Why you want me to..." Admitting defeat in midsentence, he holds out his imaginary phone, taps the invisible call button and awaits my answer.

"Oops! Hold on mama, I have a call" I say with theatrical surprise. "Hello?"

Silence.

Then baba flustered and frustrated mutters, "Oh, shits, I forgot what I wanted to say!"

Laughter rips out and fills the room.

This whole conversation was in Arabic, and I think I might have learned more in those twenty glorious minutes than I could have in the span of an entire class.

I'm so very fortunate to have the family that I do.

Yesterday, my homestay sister was pitifully lamenting how hungry she was in the hopes that mama would make her something. I decided to humorously interject, suggesting that she should just go eat ice cream. My mother, thinking my suggestion was sincere, said "Ma fi booza (there is no ice cream)" her eyes welling with fear of my certain disappointment. "Mish mushkileh!! (no problem)" I declared hoping to reassure her of the comical intent of my suggestion. "Oh ok" she said.

Today, when she returned from her long and tiring day at work, she came bearing gifts. What, you might ask? Ice cream.

Again, I'm so very fortunate to be a part of the Hammad family. But as I understand it, such immensely heart-warming care is not unique by any means. Many an SIT student comes to school recounting moments of a sort of warmth and kindness that doesn't fit properly into the category of hospitality. The only category that can comfortably accommodate the kinds of moments we share with our families is that of love. It's kind of hard to believe that we've been here for a measly two months, just given the incredibly meaningful relationships we've managed to build in spite of so many different boundaries. Either way, their smiles, their comfort, and their affection make the reality of our missing friends and families awaiting our return back in the States just a little easier to cope with. Thank you, family.

Chocolatey Manifestations of a few "isms"

To invoke the words of many a Williams professor, "Let's unpack this, shall we?" The aluminum covered candy at the top of the picture depicts a once very popular cartoon character named 'Little Black Sambo.' The cartoon was inspired by a children's story of the same name that was essentially about a young, very dark boy, trying to escape the ravenous clutches of a large tiger. See the youtube video below for more info.



Now, it is debatable as to whether or not the content of this story is racist in and of itself, but what is indubitably problematic is the way in which the black characters are depicted. Their impossibly dark skin color, overtly large lips, and unusually broad noses culminate in a reproduction of racial stereotype that defines many of the ways black people are depicted even today.

But aside from these debates, one thing that is especially interesting/problematic/scary/definitely racist is that the name of this chocolately morsel in Arabic is "head of the slave..."

As for the second piece of candy. I mean, I think it speaks for itself. Although, a few of my friends of the female persuasion took a shot at eating one of those bars, and they managed to finish it suprisingly. Although it did take all five of them to do it.

Aside from the rather obviously discriminatory nature of these two candies' marketing schemes, the worst thing about them is the fact that they are oh so delicious. It seems that oppression's unscrupulous reach knows no bounds. Not even the sanctity of chocolate is safe.

I'm Brown

As each day passes and my hair gets increasingly curlier with growth and my complexion increasingly darker with sun, my appearance inspires such fun, yet possibly problematic comments as, "Wow, you really do blend in." Or "You're looking especially Arab today, Tony." Or "When you came up behind me I thought it was another(...?) creepy Arab man." Of course, the racial ambiguity that leads to these sorts of double takes is a reality that I must deal with. Indeed, it's a reality that I sometimes take advantage of. For example:

My Egyptian (mis)adventures were shaped by a number of interesting, amazing, fun, scary, and confusing experiences. Recall if you can the 'overwhelmingly large market' ingredient in the Egyptian recipe. A combination of common sense and first-hand knowledge led to my discovering that I was being ripped off in nearly every single transaction that took place during the hours I spent here. However, when comparing prices for nearly the same items with my friends, I learned that they spent a great deal more money on these items than I had.

In one instance, I bought a small, glass hookah, complete with tobacco, coals, rubber hose, and two bowls for about 11USD. My friend, however, got a similarly small, glass hooka, with tobacco, coals, a fabric/plastic hose, and one bowl for about 23USD. Of course, in the states either of these prices is insanely cheap, but in Egypt it's a different story. Why the difference in price, you ask? Well, I'm neither a mind-reader nor an economist, but that reliable combination of common sense and first-hand experience I mentioned earlier leads me to think that it's because my friend is white.

So what did I do in the midst of one of my few experiences with a preferential racial treatment that grouped me among the benefited and not the exploited? I milked it.

When we went back to that market I told every salesman who detected my not so-subtle accent, subsequently asking where I'm from, that I was Egyptian. Why can't I speak Arabic? I live in the United States; I'm visiting family.

Now this isn't to say that all buys following the revelation of my newly acquired identity were cheap and easy. I still had to put up a bit of a fight, but I'm sure it wasn't nearly as fierce as my white friends.

While I understand how the manipulation of racial privilege is problematic and unproductive in all of its nefarious forms, perhaps even when its benefiting the historically oppressed, I just couldn't help myself. And honestly, I don't feel that bad about it. Not simply because I got my variously important tourist trinkets for a reasonably cheaper price than my white counterparts, but because the history of colonialism, exploitation, and oppression that continues to define so many people's lives is alive and real. It's nice to feel what it's like to be in the 'majority,' to bask in the various privileges associated with that status, despite the fact that my inclusion is ultimately an illusion. Nevertheless, as I walk around various places in this region, I feel myself abstracted from the various partitions that would ostensibly separate me from my Arab hosts. The sometimes insurmountable barriers of culture, ethnicity, language, etc. seem to crumble in the face of our phenotypic commonalities.

This imagined solidarity is most powerful when I walk in groups with my white friends. As we stroll carelessly down bustling Jordanian streets, eliciting stares, glares, and gawks with our difference, I emerge unscathed by the smiles or smirks that comb through my group of friends. Of course, sometimes my clothing gets caught in the fray, but everything else is invisible.

I suppose this new found invisibility is so powerful to me because of where I've grown up and gone to school. Memphis is a city defined in black and white terms, the end. And as for we folk who lay somewhere in the fuzzy gray areas of race, we are forced to choose our alliances. In Williamstown, a thoroughly homogeneous town in a thoroughly homogeneous region of the country, I stick out like a soar thumb. Strangers in both places usually assume that English is my second language and that my political commitments lie beyond U.S. borders. Here, people make the same exact assumptions, but they do so with a familiar ease and not an exotified apprehension.

Perhaps in the end what I've come to realize is that the bonds of hair texture, skin color, and facial structure are far more profound than those of culture, language, or politics. For some people that is. I don't usually count myself among those who think so, but it's been nice to do so, just for a little while.

I leave you now with a picture:


That's me. I'm the brown one next to the car.

Recipe for my Egyptian Experience

Ingredients:

3 Parts ancient history




1 Part Whirling Dervishes



22 repressed and desperate Americans: Preparation of ingredient--Steep Americans in Amman, a very quiet city where one would be hard-pressed to find the sort of insane debauchery that defines some individuals' college experiences.

1 Part overwhelmingly large market



A handful of exploitative, money hungry taxi drivers: The Cairo taxi routine--get in taxi, exchange a few rounds of pleasantries, wait to arrive at your destination, get out of the taxi, hand the driver the amount you deem appropriate, walk away quickly with a medley of Arabic protestations and complaints playing behind you.

A socioeconomic structure that reproduces extremities in both wealth and poverty

1 criminal justice system whose balance can be dramatically tipped at the drop of a coin. (On one occasion, I was driving around with friends and we ran into a cone barrier blocking off a part of a busy intersection. Instead of driving around, all of my other Egyptian passengers started glibly declaring "Egyptian routine." My friend then drove up to the police officer, greeted him, slipped him 10 pounds, and then drove through the now unblocked intersection.)

1/3 cup economic development

2 handfuls of annoyingly loud, ignorant, and oblivious tourists.



1 falooka ride on the Nile



Cooking Instructions:

First get one large, 20 million-person city, add in 1/3 cup economic development, and heat to medium high heat, maybe about 80 degrees.

Next, haphazardly and wrecklessly dump everything else in. Cook for about seven days, stirring constantly and furiously, to the point of nausea preferably.

To finish sprinkle on some amazingly nice Egyptian people and flavor with smog, C02, dust, and a variety of other gaseous toxins, to taste.



SaHtain! (kind of like cheers)