Home  >> Stories  >> The Tale Spinner #2011-34

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IN THIS ISSUE

• Anaise Bourbon sends another of her insightful articles about Egypt
• Carol Dilworth and Catherine Nesbitt write to us
• Stan French tells the tale of Murphy, who was lost
• Deep thinking can be bad for you
• From Lew´s News, thoughts on aging
• Zvonko Springer sends another blonde joke
• Bruce Galway forwards a story of an outdoorsman
• Sites are suggested by Bruce, Catherine, Pat Moore, and Tom Williamson

Anaise Bourbon describes more of her impressions of

EGYPT

This complex country can fake you out, then break your heart in ways you didn´t see coming. One never really gets used to the child beggars in downtown Cairo, but it takes that lesson learned early in childhood of "bring enough for the whole class or none at all" and cubes it. So in finest Victorian manner, you learn to avert your eyes and pretend not to feel that tug at your sleeve. I suppose the revolution happening now is the Dickensian voice trying to awaken people to this situation. It´s not that the younger people here (and the demographics are heavily skewed toward the youthful population, with the majority being under 30 years old) are unused to seeing the beggars, so much as they realize that they are looking at a possible career path when they see them. Even with a good education (and Egypt has excellent academic standards), there is no guarantee of securing mid-level employment, or even a job that pays more than $200 a month.

These are facts which slowly seep into one´s consciousness. One is slow to realize the stark reality of the situation here because those who live here will always point you in a different direction. Just as people almost everywhere are proud of where they live and want to show off the best aspects of their home, people here will do the same. If you are from the West, that means either the antiquities for which Egypt is justly famed, or an up-scale Western style mega-mall complete with a food court selling uninspiring food. The malls here are practically interchangeable with malls everywhere; the stores have names familiar to Western eyes and they are clean, bright and massive.

There are differences if you care to look past the obvious surface appearance, of course. There is also the way one is treated. When I went into a mall restroom, the restroom attendant (an ubiquitous feature in washrooms everywhere here) was handing out a few sheets of toilet paper to each patron as a stall became vacant. When I approached, she offered me the whole roll. I declined, and took just as many sheets as the other women were being offered. Paper products are scarce here and part of her job was to monitor consumption. The attendant looked at me in a way I could not decipher: for all I know it may have been contempt, or perhaps merely surprise. Most of the Westerners I have watched or encountered here just take their privileged treatment as their due - it makes Westerners like me writhe in embarrassment inside when we see this. And that is the key to approaching an understanding of the culture here: keep your eyes open and try to understand what you are seeing.

I was sitting out on the balcony to catch the breeze that the desert breathes out most evenings. My room-mates had gone out shopping and were not due back for some time. It had been a day of higher than normal humidity, making the day hellishly hot but giving the darkening air a texture it usually lacks. There was the ever-present scent of smoke from some kitchen or corner stall. I found myself thinking that the moist, smoky air had a temperate clime autumnal tinge to it.

So suddenly I barely had time to register the transition, I realized this was no wisp of smoke, but a cloud that billowed into the apartment. I quickly put my scarf on and leaned out over the balcony rail, and it seemed that the smoke was pouring out of the apartment next door. Knowing smoke is the main killer in any fire, I crab- walked as low and fast as I could to my bedroom to get those things I knew I would need if our place caught fire as well. I certainly didn´t need to understand the Arabic word for fire that men were shouting as they ran up and down the stairs, banging on people´s doors.

It´s odd the things that run through one´s head in an emergency. We watch safety films and get and give advice to the point fire-drills just seem an annoyance. When something potentially life-threatening happens, all our courageous fantasies fly out the window and we simply try to hold on to the very basic facts we can remember. And silly things get in the way. I made a very quick mental list of those things I could not do without and which I could find immediately: my passport, wallet and medication. Yet there I stood in my smoke-filled bedroom, fretting because I could not find proper underwear (yes, your mother was right about that, I guess). I had to mentally slap myself and repeat, "Nobody will care about your undies if you´re dead, kid." Even so, I pulled on some of the capri pants I wear around the house under a skirt that already went to the floor. "This modesty thing will be the death of me, I swear" ran through my brain in a silly tune.

I managed to find what I was looking for, then ran for the door. Even though I was so panicked I nearly dropped the key (and that would be a big mistake as the door-knob had fallen off long ago and the door only opened with the key). Yet even when I managed to open the door, nearly crying in frustration because the ancient lock did not want to turn, I ran back for the cell phone and of course, my head scarf.

This block of apartment buildings takes up a block and has a courtyard in the middle. Most of the buildings are joined, except where there is a main entrance on our side of the block. When I finally got outside and across the street, I realized that the fire was in an apartment in the next building. These apartments do not have glass windows, they have louvered wooden shutters instead. The smoke had blown horizontally down the building and been sucked into every apartment through these open windows and balcony doors.

As I and all the many tenants stood watching the smoke billowing out of the sixth floor apartment, I kept wondering where the fire department was. After about 20 minutes it arrived. It was an aged pumper truck with no ladders. The firemen were mostly just older teens who could only be distinguished as firemen by the stripes of reflective yellow tape that ran across the top of their sport shirts and the bottom of their chinos. They had no hard-hats, no boots (some wore only sneakers), no breathing equipment, and for sure, no equipment other than hooked poles.

Two pressure hoses were run across both the streets and the median dividing them. It seemed forever before there was any water at all running through them, and what there was could hardly have been at a high pressure: the hoses lay mostly flaccid across the ground. Still, these firemen ran valiantly up to the apartment, though what they could do seemed extremely limited due to their lack of even basic equipment. Even as they worked, cars continued to come and go along the street, seemingly oblivious to the flashing lights and crowds of people. I wanted to shout at them, "What´s wrong with you! You don´t run over fire hoses!" I had to stem the urge to run down and attempt to block traffic. No attempt was made to close off the road. This awful scenario was business as usual, apparently.

Suddenly it really hit home: Egypt is a third-world country. It is terribly poor; so poor that while there is the wish, the concept of fire control, there are not the means to realize them. Seeing those young men in their sneakers holding a piece of cloth to their face and armed only with hooked sticks in order to fight an inferno caused my eyelids to prick with the tears held back behind them. And this is not a slum, or even a particularly poor suburb. But it is Cairo.

The fire finally burned itself out and because these buildings are built to the 1960s USSR template of concrete and flaking plaster, it thankfully did not spread. I returned to our apartment. I paced restlessly, torn by both latent fear and a newly-awakened consciousness of knowing I could never be complacent here about something as basic as fire safety. Take such things for granted at your peril here. When I checked the computer the next day, looking for smoke alarms, all I found were ads for hotels which boasted of having smoke alarms. When I taxed my roommates on their return with not having this very basic safety device, one Egyptian friend had never even heard of them.

Later that night, restless with emotion and unable to sleep, I wandered out to the balcony again. I heard two distinct sounds: children laughing at play and a woman softly crying. I looked across the road and in front of the building that had suffered the fire, a man, two children and the crying woman were sitting on the median. My stomach dropped when it occurred to me that these were the people whose apartment had been gutted. This brought a new understanding to me. In Egypt, family is everything. It can drive you crazy if you have been brought up in a country that puts a heady value on independence, and where families are frequently temporary arrangements until the children leave home.

This is the first time my Egyptian friend had left home, and only then at the age of 32. The family my friend comes from still occupies a whole compound of their own that is filled with sons, daughters, aunts, uncles and uncountable cousins to the furthest degree. Those who do not live in the family compound still come and go at all hours, and I am constantly amazed at how many family members from so many generations my friend has. I had always thought this arrangement unspeakably claustrophobic and chaotic and was puzzled by all this interdependency.

As I watched the family sitting outside waiting for the dawn, not ready to abandon what had been their home, I understood. In a land with no social safety nets at all, family is all you have. Perhaps these people had come from another town and had no family members who could come and help them. In the absence of that there is no civic body to take responsibility, no army of charitably motivated people to come with the necessities of life, be they ever so few.

In the absence of the fundamentals of aid with which to try and stop a mother´s tears, one also realizes that pity is also out of place. There is no point to pity when it is help that is needed, and that might not come. Pity is of no use to people so bereft. Yet it welled up in my heart in a way I have not felt before. The images of the beautiful begging child and the crying woman´s homeless family melding together in my mind and giving solidity to the oft read but seldom understood category of third-world country.

This enchanted dream that is Egypt is a nested dream that contains within itself small nightmares which will wake you from your first- world sleep.

CORRESPONDENCE

Carol Dilworth writes: The newspaper headline from 2031, "Baby conceived naturally. Scientists stumped" is the subject of P. D. James´ "Children of Men".

Catherine Nesbitt writes about my apology for sending the Spinner out late on August 6: Your apology made me laugh! I am delighted to receive the Spinner at any time. It occurs to me that it might be fun to receive it at random times, so that it always is an unexpected pleasure.

How´s that for a different note of appreciation of your Spinning?

ED. NOTE: Thank you, Catherine, for your approbation, but I´m aware that my compulsively "neat, practical, and methodical" nature would not allow me to send out the newsletter at different times. The quote is from my high school principal when he was recommending me for a job at the Salmon Arm Observer over 70 years ago. The fact that I still remember it so precisely is an indication of just how much it irked me. (Can it really be that long ago? I checked my math twice, and came up with 71!)

Stan French tells the story of a lost cat:

MURPHY WAS HERE

After lunch last Friday we heard plaintive meowing outside the house. We were sure it was not one of our two cats and I soon discovered it was a large bedraggled black and white cat we´d not seen before. It had sad eyes and a left ear that looked battle-worn from an old encounter. He looked like an exhausted warrior. He was warned away by our two cats in the driveway, but he persisted and headed for our front porch to plead with Emily. He looked forlorn and hungry. I was on my way in the car and expected the cat would not be welcomed by my wife when she saw it challenged by old Gordie and little Sweetie.

However, when I returned home almost an hour later, our cat-loving son, Randy, was sitting in the shade at the sidewalk keeping the strange cat company. He had obtained the phone number from one of two tags it wore, and Emily had called Animal Services. The man who answered said the cat was listed as from Danforth, Coxwell area, two or three miles from here. He called the phone listed and Emily heard an answering machine in French; he let her leave a message in English with our phone number for a response.

Murphy relaxes

We know Gordie has no front claws to defend himself and this cat looked like a fighter, so we decided Randy should glove-up and we would use Holly´s large pet porter (cage) next door. Holly is a small dog I walk, but she was at the cottage for a long weekend and I was just looking after their guinea pigs next door, so the cage was available. The strange cat wasn´t pleased, but we wanted a safe place in case the cat´s owners called here. Animal Services closes at night.

We later transported the pet cage to our living room after disassembly to remove the lid and hose the base clean. Randy had left food and water inside the enclosure next door - it is quite large - suitable for a golden retriever - so there was room for a litter tray overnight.

No call came that night and we had our cats in safe places. The new one was so far nameless, so I called it "George", but it could be Georgina - we were not sure of its gender. George was sociable and very affectionate, but never stayed on a knee for more than a very few minutes. He had moments of hissing at the strangeness - but for the most part he was trying to be friendly with the three of us, and he was thankful for the food, water, and attention. He rattled the cage door a couple of times in the night but he was quiet. He did demonstrate on emerging from the cage that he has the loudest meow!

Emily called Animal Protection in the morning and they promised to come about 10:00 a.m. to get "Murphy". The answerer this morning had the cat´s name handy - it would have been better the night before - but there was no special response noted when we used his name. The fellow who came said Murphy was from Woodington Avenue, near Danforth, and that is 2.7 miles away according to Google. We will not likely have any news, but we wonder how and where Murphy is tonight.

Later: Emily learned Monday that Murphy is 15 years old. The shelter keeps them only for five days. There was no answer where he lives so they may be on vacation, or the owners may have moved without changing his listing.

Still later: On Thursday morning, Animal Services sent the good news that Murphy has been returned to his owners.

This man´s experience should be a warning about the dangers of

HEAVY THINKING

It started out innocently enough. I began to think at parties now and then to loosen up. Inevitably though, one thought led to another, and soon I was more than just a social thinker.

I began to think alone - "to relax," I told myself - but I knew it wasn´t true. Thinking became more and more important to me, and finally I was thinking all the time.

I began to think on the job. I knew that thinking and employment don´t mix, but I couldn´t stop myself.

I began to avoid friends at lunchtime so I could read Thoreau and Kafka. I would return to the office dizzied and confused, asking, "What is it exactly we are doing here?"

Things weren´t going so well at home either. One evening I had turned off the TV and asked my wife about the meaning of life. She spent that night at her mother´s.

I soon had a reputation as a heavy thinker. One day the boss called me in. He said, "Skippy, I like you, and it hurts me to say this, but your thinking has become a real problem. If you don´t stop thinking on the job, you´ll have to find work elsewhere." This gave me a lot to think about.

I came home early after my conversation with the boss. "Honey," I confess, "I´ve been thinking...."

"I know you´ve been thinking," she said, "and I want a divorce!"

"But Honey, surely it´s not that serious."

"It is serious," she said, lower lip aquiver. "You think as much as college professors, and college professors don´t make any money, so if you keep on thinking we won´t have any money!"

"That´s a faulty syllogism," I said impatiently, and she began to cry.

I´d had enough. "I´m going to the library," I snarled, as I stomped out the door.

I headed for the library, in the mood for some Nietzsche, with a PBS station on the radio. I roared into the parking lot and ran up to the big glass doors ... they didn´t open. The library was closed. To this day, I believe that a Higher Power was looking out for me that night.

As I sank to the ground, clawing at the unfeeling glass, whimpering for Zarathustra, a poster caught my eye. "Friend, is heavy thinking ruining your life?" it asked. You probably recognize that line. It comes from the standard Thinker´s Anonymous poster.

Which is why I´m what I am today: a recovering thinker. I never miss a TA meeting. At each meeting we watch a non-educational video; last week it was "Porky´s". Then we share experiences about how we avoided thinking since the last meeting.

I still have my job, and things are a lot better at home. Life just seemed ... easier, somehow, as soon as I stopped thinking.

These reflections are from Lew´s News:

AGING

You´re aging if you´re pushing 60 and it´s pushing back.

A man is only as old as he looks and if he only looks, he´s old.

You´re getting old when you paint the town red, and you have to take a long nap before you put on a second coat.

You´re getting old if you spend more time looking at the menu than you do the waitress.

Aging is when you can remember what you did yesterday only by what hurts today.

By the time you learn to behave, there´s nothing else you can do.

You´re getting old when you can remember when you needed help to carry five dollars worth of groceries.

You´re getting old when everything hurts, and what doesn´t hurt doesn´t work.

You´re at that age when everything Mother Nature gave you, Father Time is taking away.

Ladies, you´re getting on in years if you´re just as pretty as you ever were but now it takes an hour longer.

Zvonko Springer forwards this blonde joke:

THE PORCH

A young blonde girl in her late teens, wanting to earn some extra money for the summer, decided to hire herself out as a "handy woman" and started canvassing a nearby well-to-do neighbourhood.

She went to the front door of the first house and asked the owner if he had any odd jobs for her to do.

"Well, I guess I could use somebody to paint the porch," he said. "How much will you charge me?"

Delighted, the girl quickly responded, "How about $50?"

The man agreed and told her that the paint and brushes and everything she would need were in the garage.

The man´s wife, hearing the conversation, said to her husband, "Does she realize that our porch goes ALL the way around the house?"

"That´s a bit cynical, isn´t it?" he responded.

The wife replied, "You´re right. I guess I´m starting to believe all those dumb blonde jokes."

A few hours later the blonde came to the door to collect her money.

"You´re finished already?" the startled husband asked.

"Yes," the blonde replied, "and I even had paint left over so I gave it two coats."

Impressed, the man reached into his pocket for the $50 and handed it to her along with a $10 tip.

"Thank you," the blonde said. "And by the way, it´s not a Porch, it´s a Lexus."

Bruce Galway sends this one:

THE OUTDOORSMAN

I told my friend:

"This morning I waded across a raging river, escaped from a bear in the woods, marched up and down a mountain, stood in a patch of poison ivy, crawled out of quicksand, and climbed up an enormous tree!"

My friend said, "You must be some outdoorsman!"

"No," I replied, "I´m just a lousy golfer."

SUGGESTED WEBSITES

Bruce Galway forwards the URL for a video of what static electricity can do:

Catherine Nesbitt sends this link to the coolest dog in the world:

Still on the subject of dogs, Catherine also sends a link to a video of dogs in a British pub:

Pat Moore suggests this website that will keep you entertained for the next ten years:

Tom Williamson sends this link to a video of Gareth Maybin making shots that will have golfers green with envy:

How can cities help save the future? Alex Steffen shows some cool neighborhood-based green projects that expand our access to things we want and need - while reducing the time we spend in cars:

To check out the features of the "freedictionary", which changes daily, go to