Days 9-11: Working at Karakhamun's Tomb (August 6, 2012)

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Monday morning: I've had one hour of sleep. One hour! I'm not going to make it through the day. That's what I was thinking when the alarm went off. I tried to suck it up as I dressed and made my way to the van that would take us to the dig site. We are in the Valley of the Kings. I'm not sure if I mentioned that, which means at night there is a beautiful view of the mountain that separates the kings from the queens. Kings are on the east side and the queens are on the west. So, this morning when I came out I got to see that mountain just at sunrise with a lot more detail and clarity than I had the night before. In fact, I found out Queen Nefertiti's tomb is there. From my vantage point, it looks like we could just walk straight and be there in an hour or so. Okay, maybe not walk. Drive.

My room...pales in comparison to what I had in Cairo. But, I
like it a whole lot better here.

My wardrobe...as it is called here.

The kitchenette that is shared by everyone even though it's in our
suite. We do have our own bathroom, which is great because
we only have to share with each other and not everyone.

The little kitchen. Simple and understated.

Tony Browder, our fearless leader, and Mohammed, our cook.

Me, at the end of the day, inputting all my registered hieroglyphic fragments.

The dig site is a ten-minute drive, which gives me no time to close my eyes. I have no expectations and just two certainties. One, it's going to be hot. Two, I forgot to put on sunblock and insect repellant. We pull off the highway into what looks like a rock quarry. There are huge blocks of limestone scattered around like a belligerent giant child got mad and kicked over his box of limestone Legos. The tail end of the mountain that I describe earlier juts out into our work site. And tent, the kind you see in dessert movies sits just beyond a one-room bunker where the guards sleep. They are onsite 24x7 to protect the site. Not that there's anything to steal of value, that was done by the Rasoul family (more about that later). The van stops abruptly and we all fall out and drag ourselves to the tent where we will have a briefing and get a chance to meet Dr. Elena Pitchikova. After all, she's part of the reason we're all here.

The tent...and our morning briefing.

Except, just beyond our tent the balloons
were being fired and ready for the day.

And I got a little distracted photographing them.

Dr. Elena is a small sturdy woman of Russian descent with short curly hair and a voice that belies her rugged exterior. Clad in a plaid cotton shirt and khaki work pants, she looks exactly like the photos I've seen of her. She looks around at all of us and although she's smiling she also seems a little overwhelmed by the large group of new faces. It is clear that familiar faces makes her comfortable as she catches glimpses of recognition of those who have been here before: Doug and Renita (although she didn't really remember her). Actually, now that I think about it Doug was the only familiar face in the crowd and the only face that made her eyes light up. She gives us a quick spiel about work assignments and such and then Tony takes us on a tour of Karakhamun's Tomb. It is much larger than I imagined and a lot of work has been done since the pictures I saw had been taken.

The only pic I feel comfortable showing of the site right now.
So many new discoveries have been made and until they are
registered and reported with the Egyptian Antiquities Department
we aren't allowed to share our pics until later this year. Stay tuned.

I guess this would be a good time to introduce Karakhamun. He is the main reason we’re here. There isn't much known about Nubia of Ancient Kemet, but Karakhamun was a Kushite Noble of the 25th Dynasty (713-664 BC). The more they discover in the glyphs (hieroglyphics) in Karakhamun’s tomb the more they can put together about his life and who he may have been related to. It appears he could be the son or brother of King Shabaka, who ruled during Karakhamun’s time. But, what is known is that he was a man of God. A priest.

The men are hard at work lugging buckets of dirt up from the site, digging, drilling limestone, and stacking rocks. To get down into the area, which is 20 feet below us, we have to walk down this rickety looking wooden plank. The thing is, the workmen are also coming up and down this same plank. I am not comfortable. I let a few of the others go ahead of me. Tjuan stops and tells me to follow him because he can see the uncertainty on my face. Oh, and it's not that I'm uncomfortable because the plank looks rickety. It's because I'm the clumsiness mofo this side of the Atlantic and I could just see me tripping over something and taking out half the workers as I go sprawling down the plank. Tjuan knows this too. We are both relieved when I make it to the bottom without incident.

We are standing in what is believed to be a Sun Room. This area is new and because it's new I can't describe it to you or show you any pictures because if the Egyptian Antiquities Department (I guess that's what it's called) found out I could get everyone in trouble. So, I will move on. The next area is the First Pillared Hall. There are four pillars on the right that represent the first twelve hours of the day and four on the left that represent the last twelve hours. The glyphs on the walls and pillars currently contain 33 chapters of the Book of the Dead. The sketching’s are sunken, which means carved into the stone, and they are exquisite. The details of each image are mind boggling because this space…the entire tomb…was carved out of the earth and below the earth in this area was all limestone. If you know anything about limestone, it’s very hard and difficult to cut. But, the builders of Ancient Egypt dug a hole and cut out this tomb. With what, I can’t help wondering because the workmen (now) are using 20^th century tools and it’s a long laborious process. What did the ancients use to create such an elaborately decorated space? One of the great mysteries of the universe.

The second Pillared Hall only has four pillars — two on each side. This area is still being pieced together, but they believe it will contain the remaining chapters from the Book of the Dead. Also in this area on a wall shared by both pillared halls is an elaborate and very detailed image of Karakhamun. He is seated on a bovine chair. A dog lies beneath the chair.

Behind us stairs descend another 20 feet. In this area there are no hieroglyphics on the wall. Just a large hole in the floor and the top of two ladders that have been roped together to reach the 60 feet burial chamber beneath stick out. Now, keep in mind I was cautious coming down the rickety plank, but the minute Tony asked who wanted to go in the first group of four down into the burial chamber I was the first one to raise my crazy assed hand. And, in my usual childlike manner I shout, “Me! Me!” And then I just stopped thinking and knew I had to stay in the moment for the rest of the trip. Not that I have a problem staying in the moment for the most part, but when I find myself in a different environment I often find myself in my head more than usual. As I climbed down the ladder, one step at a time, I realized there was no room for me to do anything but be in the moment.

The walls in the burial chamber are being restored and a conservator is busy as work putting pieces of wall into place and there's this look on his face that seems to convey the job is not as interesting as we may think it is. For one, it’s hot and even though he has a fan blowing directly on him I know the five of us have taken up most of the breathable air and are even blocking some of the blowing air too. And two, we’re standing in his light. He stops working and waits as Tony explains the paintings and such on the walls.

The ceiling is almost 75% intact and depicts an image of the Goddess Nut — goddess of the sky. The Goddess Isis as the star Sirius is visible to the right of her. Tony explains the Goddess Nut is holding the sun in its position in midday, then it will move through her body and she will give birth to it again at sunrise (I may have taken a little creative license with this explanation, but not too much). Karakhamun’s mummy has long since been gone and all that’s left is the hole constructed that once held the coffin.

I am reminded of the room of mummies at the Cairo Museum. It cost 100 pounds to go in this area. I remember telling Ahmed I wouldn’t go in that area if it were free. The whole idea that foreigners came in and stole mummies from their final resting place felt very wrong. And disrespectful. And sacriligious. Just down right wrong as two left shoes! And standing in Karakhamun’s empty burial chamber just solidified my feelings. Especially since I was standing in the hole where his coffin should have been. I mean even if the tomb robbers and raiders and archeologists didn’t understand the cultural relevance of the temples, tombs, and pyramids, they had to know a dead body when they saw one. I would think out of respect for the dead they would have left the remains where they found them. Guess not.

Anyway, our next step was the tomb of Karabasken, which is about 50-100 feet to the left of Karakhamun’s. This tomb was so damaged they haven’t even bothered trying to restore it. Instead they use the space to store all the fragments found in Karakhamun’s tomb. There have to be millions by now. The walls are filled with cabinets and the shelf of each cabinet is full. So is the floor in front of them. And then the fragments spill into the center of the room. There is only an aisle wide enough to walk through, which means we have to be super careful. I imagine the conservators going through the pieces like a gigantic jigsaw puzzle as they try to recreate the tomb of this unknown Kushite noble. On our way out I, of course, trip on something and am grateful it was just a piece of limestone and not a fragment with hieroglyphics on it. That would have been really bad. Especially if I'd broken it. SMH. (Shaking My Head)

Having wasted enough time, we are sent to our battle stations. My job? I am part of the Registration Team. We catalogue the pieces found so they can be sorted and categorized accordingly. Then each piece is photographed and I promptly took the reigns on that part. None of what I’m explaining is easy or straightforward. Let’s see if I can give you an example. One of the pieces was shaped like Illinois and on its face there were five hieroglyphics, but only a few were recognizable (after I scanned the pages of glyph examples to see if I could find anything that came close). I had to describe the fragment in detail. It’s weight, height, and depth. Whether there are any scratches or cracks on the surface or any part of the rest of the stone. What color is it? Grey, pink, yellow, or blackened. Grey or yellow typically means natural wear over the years. Pink means it was in contact with heat or chemicals. Blackened means it was burned somehow. What condition is the plaster in? Is there any secondary plaster? Which means someone tried to cover up the original glyph for one reason or other. Before Dr. Pischikovca had the area declared a historic landmark, a village sat above the tomb. The ceiling caved in in the late 20th century and the villagers were using the hole it created as a garbage dump. Before that (like centuries ago) the tomb was home for various groups of people and they each had their own way of trying to ignore the symbols they didn’t understand. And, as a result tried to cover them up and create something new they could relate to. I guess it made sense to them since there were living there. Anyway, I also had to determine the condition of the hieroglyphics? Are they intact? Are some missing and, if so, what percentage is present and what percentage is missing? And on like that. Then I had to draw they glyphs I could see. Then describe the fragment in writing. Then on the back of the form I got to play like Romare Bearden and draw the fragment the way I interpret it. Fun and not fun, trust me.

Janice, our guide through the registration process.

Janice is in charge of our pack the first two days and she does an excellent job of explaining the ropes to us. So me, Tjuan, Bunmi, Nzingha, Renita, and Belinda make up the first group that first day. Between the getting to know each other chatter and the cracking of numerous jokes it’s a wonder we got anything completed. And, try doing all that in temperatures that breach 100 degrees in the shade. The first day it was 103 and it didn’t help we were all worn out because almost all of us got very little sleep…the heat made it even worse. The second day it was 105 and it is expected to be 110 or above the rest of the week. We have Friday off and then we’ll be back to work on Saturday.

An average day starts at 5am and we break for lunch at 9am. Mohammed, our cook, brings us whatever creative concoction he has created and it usually consists of pita bread, cucumbers, goat cheese, and eggs…and then we have some sort of bean dish. Lentils. White beans. It varies. When lunch is over we have about 2 hours left and it’s next to impossible not to start the countdown. That first day I was so sleepy and tired I wanted to pull up a slab of limestone and go to sleep. And, when quitting time finally rolled around none of us could get back to our flat fast enough. I don’t think any of us even bothered showering before taking a nap and I know all of us slept right through lunch because when we finally woke up and converged for dinner Mohammed was a little heated because he’d cooked and no one came to eat. We apologized profusely, scarfed down dinner, and hit the sack to start all over again the next day. This has been my life since Monday. It’s now Wednesday and I’m looking forward to tomorrow. We’re going to Luxor Temple and taking a boat ride on the Nile River to watch the sunset.

The mountain of the Valley of the Kings

Men at Work

I just thought this was a cool photo so I took it.

My new roommate...I think I'll name him Amenhotep.

I take pictures of the balloons every morning now.

Our die hard Registration team at work.

One mode of transportation

And another

So…until tomorrow!

Peace,

Glodean

The Grown Ass Woman Travels

Day 8: Leaving the bowels of Cairo (no pun intended...well, just a little bit) (August 5, 2012)

Today is bittersweet. I've been considering all the times I heard, "Welcome home" from one of the natives since my arrival. Or all the times I've heard, "I love your skin color." Or, "I love your hair." Is it wrong to feel like this is not home though? I don't know if it is because none of the people look like me or what, but I just don't feel home. The minute my feet hit the tarmac in Ghana I knew I was home. Here it's different. I am ready to say goodbye to Cairo, but on the other hand I feel there is more here for me to see. More to learn. Perhaps more to help me understand. I don't know. I am, however, very happy that I will be meeting up with Tjuan and the rest of the group so we can make our trek to Luxor and begin the work of part-time archeologists and excavators. I am anxious to meet Karakhamun through his tomb. But, I must say, as much as I love traveling alone, having someone with me makes the experience much richer. So, I'm headed to the airport and I'm not sure if I will have an internet connection because Luxor is no where near the city Cairo is, meaning it's countryside. So, this may be my farewell until I return to the states or just my farewell for now. We'll see...

I’m back and in Luxor! Tjuan was at the airport in Cairo waiting for me and we had three extra hours to catch up because our plane was delayed. Instead of leaving at 4:45 pm we didn’t leave until almost 8. Thankfully it was only an hour flight. We arrived in Luxor at close to 9, got to our “flat” at almost 10, had dinner as a group and a quick orientation. There are a total of ten of us here, each with our own room in our own quads. Tjuan and I share our own suite. He with his room. Me with mine. Our own bathroom. And the kitchen, which is where everyone comes to have their meals. There’s Belinda from Alabama; Tor, Nzingha, Bumni, Doug and Renita from the Washington, D.C. area and at the end of a three week stint is Janice who has been living in the islands for the last five years. And, of course, there’s Anthony Browder, our fearless leader.

I don’t feel at home here, but I do feel a lot more comfortable than I did in Cairo. Our quick orientation took a lot longer than anticipated and by the time we finally settled in to bed for sleep it was midnight. Wake up call: 4:30 to be ready to get in the van to head to the site by 4:50. I told myself to go to sleep, but by the time sleep finally came it was 3:30. I don’t have to tell you how I felt when the alarm went off, right? Let’s pray I make it through the day tomorrow.

Until then…

Peace,

Glodean

The Grown Ass Woman Travels

Day 7: Cairo Museum and the Marketplace (August 4, 2012)

Okay. I didn’t write about the food I’ve eaten since I arrived because it wasn’t exciting enough to mention. At the hotel the night I checked in I had a rice dish with grilled sea bass. It was really good, but not so good that I needed to describe it in detail. Then yesterday we stopped for coffee and I grabbed a sandwich from the pre-wrapped section, something I would NEVER do in the States. I figured salmon was a safe bet. Well, at 3 am I found out it wasn’t. I spent the next few hours running back and forth to the toilet and when 10 am rolled around I felt like I’d been rode hard and put away wet.

I couldn’t miss the museum and the marketplace so when Ahmed called to find out where I was (because I was still in bed groaning at 10 am) I told him how I was feeling, but promised to be down in a few minutes. An hour later I’d managed to pull it together and made my way to the lobby. He took one look at me and said, “What’s wrong? Diarrhea?” I nodded and he made that face people make when they know something you don’t and told me to wait in the car. He came back with a package of pills called Antinal and told me to take one. There was no box. No instructions. Just twelve pills in a package and I didn’t ask any questions. I took them and prayed for the best.

Our first stop was the Cairo Museum. But, before I tell you about the museum I have to tell you about the burned out building right next to it. Before the Cairo Revolution of 2011 it was the National Democratic Party building. Today it is a burned out shell of itself. Why? Because the people of Cairo hated the building and what it represented and believed everyone who worked inside the building were corrupt. So, with Molotov Cocktails at the ready they burned the building to the ground and when it looked like the fire was going to spread to the museum the people positioned themselves between the NDC and the museum to keep the thing they hated from burning down their history.

Burned out National Democratic Party Building

The area where over 1 million people came to participate in
the Cairo's revolution in 2011.

This whole concept is fascinating to me because there was a time in the States when people would come together to create change like that. Force change. But, now…well, we’ve become such an apathetic, “If it ain’t affecting me it doesn’t matter,” type of society it would take a nuclear holocaust to make people stand up and take notice. By then it would be way too late. Now, I’m not by any means advocating for Americans to burn down the Capitol or anything like that, but I am wondering what it’s going to take for us to force the powers that be (the government) and the so-called all mighty and powerful 1% to stand down. Oh well…that’s a conversation for a different day. Or, a different blog.

Anyway, there are no cameras allowed in the museum so I’m going to do the best I can to describe in writing what was awesome and breathtaking in real life. For one, there are over 30,000 individual pieces in the Cairo Museum, which makes it the largest museum in the world. Not because of its size, but because of the number of pieces it contains. The only thing missing was an air conditioner. I would have been satisfied with a gigantic fan. So, the heat did not make my tummy issues or the fact that I’d broken out in a cold sweat as a result of my tummy issues any better. Twice I had to have Ahmed stop so I could sit down and compose myself. And, twice I had to go to the toilet to compose myself. So, this may not be the best relayed details, but I’ll do my best.

The first floor is primarily dedicated to statues and artifacts of the last two dynasties of Ancient Egypt. Of the antiquities we visited the most interesting one was the statue (or what remains of it) of Hatepshut. She was the first woman to rule Egypt. Her husband, Thutmose II, was also her brother because the ancient Egyptians believed in order to keep the royal bloodline strong siblings had to wed. When he died, she named herself pharaoh, denying her son/nephew his inheritance. Now, I want to clear something up. Because they wed within the family, they did not breed children together. So, King Thutmose had a secondary wife (as most of the kings did back in those days) and that son, Thutmose III, should have been king. Since Hatepshut denied him his birthright, he had a great hatred for her and did everything in his power to usurp hers. Unsuccessfuly. She ruled for twenty years. So, he did the next best thing. He had her killed. And, to make sure she suffered in her second life, he had all the statues that had been erected in her honor destroyed and those he didn’t destroy he had the nose destroyed. Why? Because they believed when a person died their Ba (soul) returned to the body so they could live a second life. The nose is a symbol of pride, so when Hatepshut’s Ba returned to her body she would be have no nose and have to live her second life in shame.

Next we visited the dreadlocked pharaohs and statues of pharaohs painted black. Ahmed said when he was taught about these particular pharaohs the explanation for them being black was because their Ba was in a dark place when the statue was created. I shook my head and laughed. He said, very seriously, “That is ridiculous, yes? Why cannot they just say they were [Black]? We both know the truth so that is all that matters.” Enough said.

Then on to King Tut’s exhibit. Seeing his artifacts in books and on television pale in comparison to seeing them up close and personal. I won’t go into the whole collection because it is HUGE. I will say two things: one, Tut’s tomb was never planned or finished because they didn’t expect his early death. So instead, they buried him in a tomb designed for a priest. Remember the mask? Well the mask was on his mummified remains in a gold casket. That casket was placed inside another gold casket, which was placed in a gold box (about 6’x8’), which was placed inside another gold box, which was placed inside another gold box. How? They built the largest one first and then built the remaining two inside that. I’m really not doing a good job describing these pieces because they are so remarkable it boggles the mind. And I did mention each piece was made entirely of gold, right?

The Antinal pills finally kicked in somewhere around Tut’s Tomb, which made the rest of the visit much more bearable. In four sections on the second floor, just outside of Tut’s Tomb, is an area dedicated to the dark skinned Egyptians — also known as the Nubians — because again it’s kind of ridiculous to call these Egyptians Africans as if everyone else isn’t. Anywho, their exhibits were remarkable in a different way. Each of their pieces was carved of wood and resembled the wall carvings in the tombs that depict every day life, except these were the size of dolls and very intricate. The pieces were of the Middle Kingdom, 11^th Dynasty and were found in the tombs of Ni Ankh Pepi and Mesehti. These are two pharaohs I’d never heard of and now am so fascinated by them I want to go look them up because they appeared to be great rulers and mighty warriors (based on the replicas in this part of the museum). And, I have to be honest, after seeing this section I was done. Not only worn out from tummy troubles, but I didn’t feel there was anything else to see and not enough time in one day to see it all. Satisfied I’d seen the most important exhibits, we left and went to the marketplace.

Now, remember I said how aggressive the vanders were at the Great Pyramid? Well, imagine an entire marketplace full of equally aggressive sellers. I didn’t want to explore. I wanted to sit at a café and take pictures, which is what I started out doing as I sipped my Turkish coffee and prayed it wouldn’t keep me up all night. But, Ahmed told me to go. Walk around. Get the full experience. After some serious cajoling, I finally took his advice. And guess what? It was too overwhelming for the kid. I wanted to take pictures and nothing more. There were shops with silver jewelry everywhere, and beautiful silk and Egyptian cotton materials of every color in the rainbow, and spices, and hookas, and I mean the list goes on and on. But, with each of these things came one or two push and aggressive Egyptian men and well…I walked through the marketplace as quickly as I could and told Ahmed I was ready to go.

On the drive back to the hotel, we passed a cemetery and Ahmed told me their were people who couldn’t afford to buy their own property and instead built small rooms next to the tombs in the cemetery. I’m thinking about the cemeteries back home and just how morbid it all seemed, but he said they didn’t have a problem with it. And now, he added, they are very rich because they are drug dealers. And I’m thinking to myself, this is what happens in a society where there is no welfare and no governmental assistance. The same conditions exist, they are just handled differently. Poverty exists, but everyone has a hustle so they can eat. Those who can’t hustle with souvenirs and such sling drugs. The difference, they make a way. They don’t have the luxury of sitting around feeling sorry for themselves. And while I don’t necessarily condone graveside living, I do condone making a way for oneself. Oh, and ain’t nobody shooting nobody over turf they don’t own or drug deals gone bad. A very interesting concept.

It was a long day today and with my tummy troubles I didn’t really fully enjoy the day. All I was looking forward to was my bed and the privacy of my own toilet, which I now have. I am going to go now and nurse myself back to health. I’ve got a plane to catch and plenty more things to do and see while I’m here.

Until tomorrow.

Peace,

Glodean

The Grown Ass Woman Travels

Day 6: Memphis, Sakkara and Giza: The Great Pyramid (August 3, 2012)

Ahmed warned me the city would disappear at 7pm when Ramadan ended. Everyone sequestering themselves off for breakfast. After saying breakfast he wanted the American term for it, which I assumed he meant “dinner” merely because of the time of day. But, I asked him why would he call it dinner when they are literally breaking fast. He was pleased to see that I understood so I told him to call it what it is in his country and let’s not worry about how Americans would label it. Or anything for that matter.

I slept until about 7:45 and then woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep, which allowed me to hear the rest of what happens after sunset during Ramadan. Everyone gets loose. I heard music playing and envisioned the people in my neighborhood still eating, drinking and smoking for as long as they could…well, until 3am when Ramadan begins again. And, because I was still awake I got to hear this part of the city fall quite as the clock struck 3. Not that I was watching it. It was more like the music was playing and then all of a sudden to got quiet and when I looked at the clock it was a little after 3. I climbed back in bed and lay there watching TV because there’s a flat screen in my room and there’s nothing else to do because my mind is racing so writing is next to impossible. Besides, I know I really need to get some sleep so I’m hoping something will come on TV that will put me to sleep. Finally, around 6am having gotten no help from the boob tube I doze off. The next thing I know I’m awake again and looking at my phone for the time. It’s 8:26. I have four minutes to get dressed. In ten I’m downstairs waiting for Ahmed. If I’d know he would be late I would have moved just a little slower, but no worries because I’m excited about today’s activities.

We will go to Memphis, Sakkara, and Giza today. We’re starting in Memphis because it is the oldest part of Egypt. I gaze out the window at the dirt along the roadside, horses pulling men and their carts. There’s even a truck in front of us hauling buffalo. I mean they’re crammed in this little truck with no roof like sardines. I ask if they will be dinner or if they have another purpose. Ahmed says they will probably be taken to market to be sold, more than likely they will be used on a farm. But, a couple may wind up as dinner. Children clomp by on horseback. And a little three wheel number that looks like a football helmet on little wheels rolls by. One seat for the driver and a wider seat behind him for passengers.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“A trok trok,” he says.

Up until this point I have not taken any pictures. I mean the camera is out and I’m ready to take some, but it isn’t until I see the buffalo stuffed in the truck that I actually snap the shutter. To be honest, Ahmed kind of insisted I take that picture and I’m glad he did because it pulled me out of whatever trance I’d been in. I’m still not feeling completely settled here in Cairo, but I’m here so I might as well do what I came to do, right? And doing so makes me feel better.

After about a twenty-minute ride we pull up in front of an open air museum. Well, I don’t know what it is looking from the outside. Ahmed tells me it’s a crappy museum but there is something inside that will make our whole trip worth it. He’s right. It is a crappy museum. There’s a small building to my right and just beyond it two rows of kind of cheesy statues. Meaning they’re fragments of bigger pieces except for the statue of Ramses, which is fully intact. I take a few shots of Ramses, but I ignore the rest of the statues because Ramses is so nice to look at.

Behind us, in the center of the museum is a small version of the Sphinx, not to be confused with the large one that sits in Giza. I take a few pictures, but I can’t help feeling disappointed that there isn’t much to see here. Ahmed assures me I am going to see something so great in the small building near the entrance that none of the rest of this will matter. They don’t know what pharaoh this particular Sphinx was created for because it was found alone (I hope I am remember this correctly. Maybe if wasn’t found alone, but they definitely don’t know who it belonged to. That I am certain of.)

And, finally, we go into the small building near the entrance and my mind gets completely blown. There is a statue of Ramses lying on his back, literally cut off at the knees by an earthquake many moons ago. But, even in his shortened stature the monument is gigantic. Not to mention it is absolutely beautiful. The details of the face lend to its beauty. The wide eyes, strong nose and jawline, and those lips. I mean I know it’s a statue and all but if I ever met a man with that face and those lips I would have to kiss him. Or, maybe not kiss him but stand really close to take in every inch of him and come just this short of kissing him. I’m just saying. Ramses and Ahkenaton are my FAVORITE pharaohs in all the land. LOL And I love the fact that Ahmed pointed out the clearly African features in Ramses and said it was undeniable he was African. Now here’s where things get dicey with me. Egypt is in Africa, right? Which makes everyone on that continent African, right? So, what does that mean he was African. Perhaps he meant a dark skinned African because before anyone is Egyptian or Ethiopian or Senegalese they are African. I’m just saying. But, I get his point and I guess that should be what really matters.

Our next stop is Sakkara, which by the way is the oldest carpet-making village in the world. In fact, they have schools that teach children how to make these carpets in order to keep the tradition and authenticity of the carpets going generation after generation. We drive down a dirt road and scattered on both sides of us are these carpet-making schools At least six in that five hundred foot space. At the end of the road we come to a roadblock and a policeman in a stark white uniform, which give his black gun, belt and boots and nice contrast, comes up to the car. He wants to know where we’re going and he writes Ahmed’s license plate number down. Satisfied with the answer he lets us pass only for us to have to stop again not even ten feet later. Ahmed gets out and buys tickets so we can continue on. We are now driving into the Sahara Dessert. I sit up and take notice. The city falls away behind us as we climb the hill and then the partially paved road begins cutting through sand on the left and right.

Directly in front of us as we come around a slight curve is a type of pyramid I’ve never seen before. It looks like stair steps, but it’s also under construction (repair) so I can’t get a good look at it because the scaffolding is in my way, not to mention the sun is blaring down on us making it impossible for me to get a shot. Ahmed can see my excitement and tells me to relax, we’ll come back to it. First we must see the great tombs. The one he really wants me to see is closed, the tomb of Mereruka, but the next one is just as interesting. Inside this tomb there are carvings in the wall that depict the everyday life of the tombs occupant, Ka-Jamni. I am trying to conceptualize how long it must have taken to build these tombs and decorate them so elaborately. Many, many decades I am certain. But, the artistry is beautiful and the one thing that stood out to me is that saying there is nothing new under the sun.

The images depict fishermen using hooks and lines, one man carries a pig (yes, a pig). There are horses and buffalo, crocodile, and hippopotamus. And the people were brown, or at least some of them were still brown. Most of the paint has come off of them and I don’t want to say it was rubbed off deliberately, but it looks that way. I wasn’t supposed to take pictures, but I snuck just to show you because sometimes showing a person is a whole lot easier than telling them.

When we left Sakkara we went to Giza and that’s where things got very interesting. Funniest moment happened before I even got into the site. Ahmed, told me the vanders (people who hustle souvenirs for money) would bombard me. "Pay them no mind," he warned. So, in my attempt to "pay them no mind" as they bombarded me, the began handing me souvenirs and one of them even place a head cover on my head. When I said I didn't have any money to pay them, they said, "No, it is free. A gift. You are African—you are one of us. I said, "Free? Really?" "Yes, ma'am. Yes. For you." They said, following me to the car. As I was getting in with my "gifts" they asked for a "little something. American. Egyptian. It doesn't matter." When I said, again, "I don't have any money." They promptly took my gifts right out of my hands and then snatched the head cover right off my head. I laughed for almost ten minutes before I could compose myself. Ahmed couldn't even drive because I was laughing so hard I had him laughing. He had to pull over to compose himself. And now I am laughing again at the memory!

Anywho…we get out of the car and I look up in wide-eyed wonder and cannot believe my eyes. I’ve seen this pyramid a million times in my life. In photos and movies. But, even though I’m looking at it I can’t believe my eyes. It’s ginormous, if you can imagine. And if you can, imagine bigger than that because that’s what it is. How they ancient Egyptians were able to build this enormous monument is still a mystery, which is why, Ahmed explains, it is one of the great wonders of the world. And, here’s some truth behind it.

First of all, it was not built by Jewish slaves. In fact, it wasn’t built by slaves at all. In those days people revered the king and in tribute to them they would construct these monuments. The people built Khufu’s pyramid and then were laid to rest in tombs of their own less than 500 feet away. If slaves had done this work, do you think they would have been buried this close to the king? In their own tomb?

Here’s another fact I didn’t know. There are six pyramids on this site that I could see. Khufu’s which is the largest and behind it are three very small pyramids (like a kid would have a good time climbing up and over them) that belonged to Khufu’s mother, sister, and daughter. Then there’s the pyramid of Khafre, who is Khufu’s son, and Menkaure, who is Khufu’s grandson. In the valley of this area, positioned in front of these pyramids is the Great Sphinx. It is there to protect them. And, the sphinx was created using the body of the lion to depict the strength and power of the lion and head of man to depict his intelligence. Geez, had I never come to Egypt I never would have known. I thought the Sphinx sat somewhere else and I never knew the significance of its existence. Travel is good no?

Once we left the pyramids, I was bushed. We headed back to the hotel where I climbed in bed and didn’t wake up until 3am with what I thought to be a bout of gas. More about that tomorrow.

Peace,

Glodean

The Grown Ass Woman Travels

Day 5: Cairo, Egypt and the Safir Hotel and some other musings (August 2, 2012)

The airport is actually an airport with gates. When I arrived in Ghana and Costa Rica the gate was a portable staircase, today I walked down a gangway and into an air-conditioned relatively modern airport. Nice. I know this is a stereotype, but I believe a county’s airport says a lot about the country. Well, maybe not a lot but it gives visitors a sense of where they are and what to expect. Maybe it’s just me. Like my plane ride, the people don’t seem to be too friendly. Thank God Ahmed is picking me up. He has to be friendly because he came highly recommended.

I stopped to use the facilities and the stalls are no different here than they are back home. SMALL. I tried to shove me and my suitcase, backpack and camera case into one of them and one of the women who works there (I guess she was a cleaning woman) came out of a large stall, much like the handicapped stall back home. She ushered me in and said something in Arabic that assured me it was a better option, not that I needed the assurance. It was a huge stall. I dropped my backpack and purse on the baby-changing table and set my suitcase against the wall so I could do my business. As I got up to adjust my clothes I looked around for some way to flush the toilet, except I didn’t see a handle to flush. I did see a white lever on the side of the toilet near its base so I used my foot and gave it a good push. A large stream of water shot out and doused my backpack and the floor in front of the toilet. I don’t know why I found it funny, but I fell out laughing. A bidet? Who expects a bidet? Not me.

When I went to wash my hands I let the lady know I’d almost flooded the floor. Her bathroom partner went to check my handiwork and came back smiling and telling me its okay. The first lady smiles and dumps a good portion of liquid hand soap in my hands and turns on the water. I’m reconsidering my unfriendly people comment. She snatches off a bundle of paper towels so I can dry. I thank her profusely. Next thing I know she has her hand out and is asking for money! I pulled out two dollars and handed it to her. She nods at the other woman and insists I give her money too! For what, I’m wondering. She didn’t even do anything and then I realized she was going to have to clean up my mess. But, isn’t that her job. Well, I said I didn’t have any more money and got out of there before they jacked me.

To enter the country, meaning to be allowed to go through customs and out into the belly of the airport, you have to pay $15. Of course, even though Ahmed told me this in an email before I arrived in the country I expected to see a sign that said, “Purchase VISA Here” so I went to the customs line assuming it was there I got the Visa. The woman asked for my Visa and when I told her I didn't have one she pointed to something over my shoulder and told me to go there to get it. It took a minute to see the small 8x10 piece of paper taped to the window of a small office on the wall behind me, but once I coughed up the $15 bucks I got a small card that said Egypt Visa. I gave it to the woman she stamped it and pasted it in my passport. $15 for that? Yes, because ten feet later I had to show my passport with my $15 visa in it to an armed guard (police/military it was hard to tell) who didn’t smile or even grunt. He just looked at it and handed it back to me.

As I made my way toward the doors where Ahmed said he would be waiting I saw a crowd of people behind the large glass walls near the baggage claim. I’m so glad I learned how to pack light, I hate waiting for my luggage and I’m always afraid it will somehow get lost. All the people seem to be staring at me and I couldn’t help feeling like a specimen behind a cage as I made my through the doors. I scanned the crowd for someone holding a sign with my name on it and right before I was about to panic because I didn’t see Ahmed, there he was unfolding the sign that read, “Goldean.” We smiled, pleased to meet one another and then he led me to the car explaining it was Ramadan and everyone was fasting. We would need to stop for water and snacks if I need them, which meant I needed money. Egyptian pounds, of which I had none. We walk back to the row of ATMs and while I’m pulling money out I see a guy over my left shoulder staring at me. I turn to look hoping he will stop staring now that I’ve let him know I see him, but he doesn’t. He just smiles at me with his nicotine and coffee stained teeth and keeps staring. I’m thinking he’s watching to get my ATM code or some such thing so I hurriedly collect my cash, entering 100 in the machine and thinking I’m going to get it in U.S. dollars. Dumb, right? Well, I also walked away from the ATM machine and left my card in it. The same brown-toothed man that I’d judged not less than two minutes prior walks over and hands it to me, smiling even more brightly. I thank him and Ahmed shakes his head. “Welcome to Cairo,” he says.

Why I go to other countries expecting them to be anything like the U.S. is beyond me. I thought Ahmed would have a modern car, something maybe resembling a Lincoln Towncar since touring is his business. Instead he gets in a well-worn foreign number (can’t remember what kind) that reminds me I’m ain’t in Kansas no mo’ (yes, that’s how I meant to say it). I’m reminded of my pickups in Ghana and Costa Rica again. And, like them, Ahmed is a very nice guy who speaks English very well although he doesn’t think so. Bags in the trunk, he hands me the internet USB stick he has promised to let me use while I’m in Cairo and suggests I test it on my laptop on our way to the hotel. I do and it does and I’m happy even though I had Verizon send me a loaner phone that is supposed to work as a hotspot. Then, like a shot, we’re off into the bowels of Cairo.

I hate to describe it that way, but I honestly thought that maybe one of the reasons the people on the plane were so rude was because Cairo was a wealthy country. You know, much like the way most Americans are perceived to be arrogant when they visit other countries because we come from a so-called wealthy country. Or is it because we are a powerful nation? Well, as far as Cairo is concerned that wealth might exist on paper but to look at it…not so much. It’s exactly like the “third world” countries I’ve visited. Even though there are lines on the road it’s still a free for all with cars zipping past each other, honking as they go. The apartment buildings look like something out of a Mad Max movie. And, while I am thinking I would feel good being here I don’t. I can’t explain it. I feel like the foreigner I am. A feeling I didn’t have when I went to Costa Rica. In fact, I felt welcome right from the moment I got off the plane. Ghana? I felt at home the minute my feet hit the tarmac at the airport. Maybe I feel this way because I can’t believe I’m here. Of all the places in the world I’ve always wanted to go, Egypt was right up at the top of the list — a desire inspired by Malcolm X’s visit to Mecca. Kemet. Here’s hoping things change.

I was anxious to see the Nubian Village I’d heard about. I’d asked Ahmed about it in my email communications, but he told me Aswan was too far to travel from Cairo. Of course, me being who I am I couldn’t understand what distance had to do with anything. So, I asked again why visiting the Nubian Village couldn’t be part of my package. He explained that it’s 900km from Cairo and would take a long time to drive there. To help me understand, he further explained that from Luxor it was only 300km…or did he say three hours. No matter, I got his point. I’ll wait until I get to Luxor. I found myself even more intrigued after he said, “The Nubians risked everything to save our country and got screwed by the government in the end. They are the most honest people in Cairo, way more honest than any of us and it was wrong what happened to them.” I merely responded, “It figures.” And it does. My question is: what is it about the dark skinned people of African descent that is so damn threatening to the rest of the cultures? Why are we regarded with such disdain? Why have my people been forsaken? Why does it continue to happen? Why was I subjected to that same consciousness on the plane because only God could tell me otherwise. Suddenly I understood the behavior. If the Nubians are treated like Blacks in America then it’s no wonder I received that same treatment. No respect for the Nubians, no respect for any other black skinned African or one of African descent. Tjuan is coming over on Sunday and I’ll be curious to see how he was treated on the plane. Maybe it was all me. Maybe there was something about my energy that day…or something going on with the flight attendants that caused it all to happen. Maybe.

As we drove along I asked Ahmed why so many apartments looked unfinished. What I really wanted to ask is why they looked so war torn. There wasn’t a clean dwelling anywhere along the way. He said it is Egyptian tradition for a man to buy a plot of land after he gets married to build his home on. When he has children, boys, and they get married they will build on top of their parents home. Sometimes the father starts the second floor before that happens or sometimes the brother starts the third floor to help his brother. It is a way to keep the family close together, which for Ahmed is a good and not so good thing. Good because they are together and can eat together when necessary. Bad because if the kids get into a fight their mothers will inevitably fight too. A totally understandable scenario, but I admire how other countries have such a high regard for family. Unlike us in the U.S. where we talk about family and how important family is, and we muddle through despite the dysfunctionality of it all.

To me, in the U.S., we get to say there’s nothing like family, which is then translated to mean, “We can treat you like shit, disrespect you, but one love one family.” It is for these reasons I choose to pick my family because if I’m going to depend on someone and have love for them, I want to feel loved and respected in return. And, family should certainly not be a one-way street, where one person does all the work and everyone else just sits back and waits for the phone or doorbell to ring. I’ve been in Chicago four years now and in my own apartment two years and not one time has any member of my family called to check on me to see if I was dead or alive. A situation I am having a hard time letting go of no matter how many times I pray on it and forgive myself and them and try to let it go. Why? Because family really is important and when you are as close to family as I now am, it’s hard to accept that the closeness is merely proximity alone. I might as well be back in California, at least it wouldn’t hurt so much. But, I don’t call anymore. That was my choice. So, why am I still beating myself up about it?

Which is what I’m thinking when we pull up to the hotel. I sigh with relief at the newness of the building. The lobby is akin to the Four Seasons and I’m thinking to myself, “Wow! Maybe the internet actually showed the hotel the way it really is.” Amr checked me in, Ahmed stood next to me giving him directions in Arabic and making sure everything worked out okay for me. I’m beat and all I can think about is climbing into bed. Ahmed and I make our plans to meet in the lobby at 8:30 the next morning. I look at the clock. It’s 2:45 pm. I have plenty time to get some sleep and be ready in the morning. Next stop: the pyramids! For now, I have got to lay it down. Until tomorrow.

Peace,

Glodean

The Grown Ass Woman Travels

Day 4: Egypt Air...are you f'ing kidding me?! (August 2, 2012)

Getting through ticketing and security at JFK was far less uneventful than my actual plane ride. Oh, except for the fact that I was carrying a very large bottle of IntraMax (my vitamin supplement) and forgot to put it in smaller bottles to be able to carry it on the plane. Well, the guy checks my bag and pulls it out and tells me I can't take it with me and all I can think is I am not about to throw 80 bucks down the toilet...or in this case in a large dumpster full of liquids confiscated by TSA at JFK. So, I think fast. "It's my medication," I say.

The guy immediately looks at me and then calls for a supervisor. The supervisor comes over and has this look of incredulity on his face when I tell him it's my medication. He says, "Oh yeah, where's the RX on it? Is it over the counter?" to which I reply, "No, I get it from a naturopathic doctor." To which he looks even more incredulous and by that I mean ridiculous because he's trying to figure out what a naturopathic doctor is so he says, again, "Oh yeah, where's the Rx?" And I say, "I don't have one, but that is my medication and I need it." He let me go with a roll of his eyes and a "Don't let me see you again" sort of look on his face. And I thanked him. Profusely, I thanked him. Albeit it was to the back of his head, but I thanked him nonetheless.

Persistence won out. Another quality I can attribute to being Frances Champion's daughter, except had she been in this exact same situation she would have schooled him on the whole process of medical doctor vs. naturopathic doctor and she would have shown him how brainwashed he was, like most of the rest of the country, to believe that something is not "officially" medication unless it has an Rx stamp on it. And then she would have watched as he walked off in a huff wishing he'd never said, "Oh yeah, where's the Rx?" But, I'm not quite Grown Ass Woman enough to behave that way. Maybe in five years. In the meantime, I have to make sure I put what's left of my IntraMax in smaller bottles so I don't have this problem on my way home.

Relieved I make my way to the gate. The line is longer than the one at the Amtrak station and moves even slower. But, I finally get on the plane and get situated in the middle seat. I am praying that the person occupying the seat to my right doesn't show so I can get comfortable. My prayer was answered. Thanks, again! Now, this is complicated what I am about to say and if you're reading this and feel compelled to post a comment trying to explain "the other side" I want to respectfully say, "Please don't bother." So, here's what happened:

The flight attendant at the doors greeted the person in front of me and behind me and as I sat in my seat watching every other Egyptian (non-Black face) that went by. But, I'm sort of used to that so I tried to let it go. I mean one person's ignorance cannot speak for their entire culture.

But, then the beverage cart comes around and although I'm sitting right on the aisle the guy passes right by me and doesn't even bother asking me if I want something to drink. I mean he didn't even look at me. I wasn't watching a movie, I wasn't writing or reading. I was just sitting there trying to figure out which of those I wanted to do first. So, I tap his shoulder and ask if I can get something to drink.

Then, it's dinner time and while this same flight attendant asked me if I wanted fish, beef, or chicken he didn't wait for me to answer. Again, I tap him and say, "Fish." He grabs the meal and sets it on my tray a little harder than necessary. And even when the guy behind me asks me (in a telling me kind of way) to put my seat up so he can eat, I acquiesce because it's the right thing to do.

Then, somewhere between dinner and midnight they come back through for the continental breakfast because it is Ramadan for Muslims, which means they fast from 3am to 7pm, which means in Egypt is is close to 3am or something...I don't know. All I know is one flight attendant with his big fat belly tries to reach across me to take several trays of breakfast. Except he's all in my personal space so I push him back because it's hella rude and I'm not appreciating it. Especially when they could have gone to the hallway, just one row behind me, to hand off to each other. But, I let it go.

Then, the guy who asked me to put my seat up so he could eat dinner just pushes my seat up so he can eat breakfast and I'm thinking I'm tripping because no way did he just push my seat up like that. But, yes he did. So, now I'm sandwiched in my seat because the person in front of me has her seat back and I can barely get comfortable. Instead of making a scene, I politely ask if he can put his food on the other tray because I am uncomfortable and he goes into a litany of reasons why I should just sit there with my seat back upright and deal with it. Again, I let it go. I mean really, how long could it take him to eat a couple danishes and down a cup of coffee? How long? Thirty minutes. That's how long. But, I let it go.

Then, the same flight attendant who didn't ask if I wanted a beverage reaches across me to tell a passenger two aisles up to sit down because the "Fasten Your Seat Belt" sign is on. So, again, I push him out of my space. And when I say he was in my space I mean two feet and half his body in the row with me. Or, at least it would have been had I let him get that last leg up in the row. But now I'm wondering what in the hell is going on. I'm also trying not to generalize and say, "Egyptians are rude and racist, because I don't know that to be fact. What I do know is that the Egyptians I was dealing with were rude and racist.

Then, another flight attendant comes down the aisle to give water (oh, and there were two coffee runs in between this incident and the exact same thing happens with them that does with the water). This time she looks dead at me and walks right past so just as she got to the next aisle I touch her arm and take a cup out of her hand. She sucks her teeth and pours my glass halfway full. I shake my head and drink my water insistent on not letting any of this get to me but it is getting to me and it's making my blood boil because I started watching the flight attendants and how they interacted with the other passengers (all of which were Egyptian...or more specifically, not Black Like Me). None of these things were happening to them.

Then, we land and it's time to deplane and I'm used to people being rude when it's that time. You know, they grab their stuff and step in the aisle and unless you insert yourself into the place you belong in the pecking order you'll be assed out. Well, that's not what happens in this case. I ask my row mate, the kind gentleman who sat in the seat to my left (see, another reason why I can't generalize about all Egyptians), if he could hand me my suitcase. He does. As I'm about to put it on the floor the guy in the row behind me gets his luggage out and sets it directly in my row so that I cannot get out of my seat or put my suitcase down. So I tap him and ask him to pull back so I can put my suitcase down and he said, "Just a minute," but proceeds to help his son out of his seat and with the two of them standing there I cannot move.

That's when I got mad. I push his suitcases out of the way and I shove mine down in the space I'm able to make because I'm shoving it until I make a hole. The whole time he's telling me to wait. For what? I want to know. What am I waiting for? But, I wait because he asked me. And do you know what he does? He pushes his luggage and his son (who has down syndrome and that's the only reason I didn't blow my stack) past me. Which opens the aisle for the people behind him to bogart past me too. Well, enough is enough and too much is too damn much. I practically throw my full self into the aisle and use my body like a middle lineback and I make them stop, which wasn't easy.

Now, here's why I felt compelled to share that experience. I have been subjected to people's ignorance about culture in the United States. I've experienced covert racism and bigotry and prejudice, but it was always masked with something else that made it a bitter pill not so hard to swallow. I've also been able to see it when it was coming or as it was happening to either speak up or get out of the way. In this case I was stuck like Chuck. Add to that, all those other experiences never left me feeling like I didn't matter. Feeling like you don't matter is a whole lot worse than feeling invisible. At least when you're invisible it's like you're not there and people manage around you. When you don't matter it's right up in your face. Your value is displayed like the McDonald's Dollar Menu.

So, here's my point. In each one of those scenarios I was reminded of a time I didn't speak up for myself. Or, when I turned the other cheek. Or, when I pretended it didn't bother me. But, I realize now when I do that I'm saying to the other person, "Just walk all over me. I don't matter." And that is so not true. Like there have been times in relationships when my partner, or even a friend for that matter, has done something extremely disrespectful or rude and I chalked it up to their ignorance. The problem with that is silence is acknowledgement that whatever is being done is alright, which in time can make a doormat out of anyone. Even me.

Well, from now on when someone steps on my toes I am not going to chalk it up to their ignorance alone. It very well could be their ignorance or their shit or whatever and however it needs to be categorized. What is is bigger than that is that whatever is it is something that made me uncomfortable and it's okay to say that. And it's okay to shut them down when they try to justify their behavior because one does not have anything to do with the other. It's not about fighting victimization. It's about saying, "I'm tired as hell and I'm not going to put up with this anymore." It's about seeing my value and not necessarily forcing anyone else to see it, but to protect it and the rest of me at all cost because it's free for people to treat you like shit. They walk away without giving it a second thought. But, the more that happens the more of you begins to die inside. The more of you begins to feel devalued and irrelevant and there is no reason anyone should put up with that. And, now that I'm thinking about it I can't believe I ever did.

That is all. I will not let that experience taint my opinion of Egyptians or Cairo. I will leave it where it is and pick up what I need from the experience. Until tomorrow...

Peace,

Glodean

The Grown Ass Woman Travels

Day 3: Planes, Trains and Automobiles...for real (August 1, 2012)

I didn't want to get up this morning. For one, I was still tired and two, and most importantly, it was raining out. But then I reminded myself the Universe had my back. The rain will stop. So, I got showered and dressed and sure enough right before I walked out the door the rain stopped. Of course I said my thank you's and headed off down the street toward the subway. I had two purposes: one, get a spare battery for my camera so I wouldn't be in Cairo wanting to take a picture only to discover my battery was low...or worse, dead. The other purpose was to photograph little known landmarks in Manhattan (and some known one's that I'd never photographed). First stop, the African Burial Ground at 290 Broadway.

I took this pic for obvious reasons.

One of many subway stations I would encounter today. In
addition to the Q, I took the 2, C, and 1 (by mistake) and
the M34 and M2 buses. All for less than $12.

I made my way down 7th Avenue in Brooklyn to the train station on Flatbush Avenue. I don't know why I love that name so much, maybe because it's become so famous from all the movies filmed on or around it. I don't know, but Flatbush Avenue just has a nice ring to it. Flatbush. Nice. The train ride was uneventful. Too early in the morning I guess.

I got off on Broadway and Canal and made my way to the African Burial Ground. I was kind of excited until I got to 290 Broadway and saw it was the Ted Weiss Federal Building. For some reason this just didn't sit well with me, so even though I'd made it that far I just didn't feel compelled to go inside. Not to mention I was on a time schedule and the museum itself didn't open until 10. I didn't have 30 minutes to spare. Besides, it seemed blasphemous to find a United States government building sitting on sacred ground. I mean the Africans buried beneath weren't in caskets, buried with dignity in unmarked graves. No, they were dumped in the ground much like garbage and covered with dirt to be discovered some 100 years later. Disgusted, I snapped a few shots and made like a leaf and got the hell out of there! Except the thing is I don't know what's on the other side of those doors and now I'm curious. So, when I get back to New York on the 17th I'm gonna go see. Next stop: B&H Photo. I won't go into that excursion except to say that store is like Toys R Us for photographers and techno geeks. I'm glad I didn't have an extra $20,000 lying around...I would have gone crazy.

African Burial Ground...in the Ted Weiss Government Building.

And, for my Chicago readers...how's this for a surprise:

Yes, that's right! Garrett popcorn in New York!

So, in total tourist fashion I hop on the bus to make my way to the Empire State Building. But, when the bus arrives and I get on I find out I can't pay ON the bus. I have to get off and do all that at this kiosk at the stop, which means he can't leave until I figure it, which also means someone had to get off the bus to help me because I was holding up progress and she wasn't having it. She was nice though and I truly appreciated the help. I mighta been standing there a whole two minutes without her assistance.

Now, I have been to New York numerous times, I believe I've already said that. But, out of all the times I've been there I've never been to the Empire State Building and once I got there it seemed a little lackluster. I took a picture, but it wasn't special enough to share. When I left there I went to the main branch of the New York Public Library. The one where Carrie Bradshaw (for you Sex and the City fans) would have gotten married if Big had only gotten his ass out of the car...or if she hadn't pummeled him with her wedding bouquet for not getting out of the car and then having a change of heart and wanting to go through with the whole thing but then she drove off. Anyway, I said all that to say, "What writer wouldn't want to get married in that building. It's beautiful and filled with all those wonderful books." Did you know that the two lions in front of the building actually have names? Me, neither. Their names are Patience and Fortitude and they just turned 100 years old, although I would be hard pressed to tell you which is which.

After the library I made my way uptown to the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture to check out the Gordon Parks and Monetta Sleet, Jr. photo exhibitions. On my way there I encountered a Flavor Flav look-a-like and clearly a wanna be sitting on the train blasting his boom box. Yes, you heard me correctly. A boom box! I tried to be slick and take his picture on the sly, but I think he figured it out. Who cares? Why would anyone wanna be Flavor Flav look alike? Isn't one enough? And homeboy was even wearing the big clock around his neck! Gee wiz. Only in America. My only question is: what is up with homeboy's hair? Like I said, only in America.

Okay, I've seen both Gordon Parks and Monetta Sleet, Jr.'s work before. In magazines or on the internet. I'd never seen them up close and personal. These two men were brilliant in their own right, but I have to take my hat off to Gordon Parks because he had vision. If I aspired to be like anyone in the photography world it would be Gordon Parks and when I was listening to his video commentary on being a photographer just starting out, he said he knew he didn't want it to be a hobby. He was too broke for that. If he was going to do "this thing" then "I'm going to have to make money at it." He spoke it into existence. He was clear about his intent. Which made me think about my photography as a business and why I haven't done more with it. Well, because I didn't believe I could or didn't think I was good enough. Those two thoughts have always been in the back of my mind because I was so busy focused on the fact that there seem to be two photographers for every one person nowadays and they're all out to make some money. Now that I'm here pouring out my heart about a very sensitive subject, I realize I let all that get in my way.

The thing I have in common with Mr. Parks (and I can say this with conviction) is my knack for capturing the essence of my subject. That is a gift and not everyone can do that. So, I found myself standing there trying to rethink my attitude toward my art. And then, on my way back (I know I'm jumping ahead a little) I met this sista on the bus who asked if I was a photographer and I said yes. But, I hesitated. Like I didn't want the label and I couldn't understand why until she asked me "What type?" I seriously have problems with labels. I wanted to say, "What do you mean what type? What difference does it make?" Then I realized why she was sitting there asking me these questions. Because I needed an answer. Because I'd just had that experience standing in front of a very popular photo of Langston Hughes and I had no idea Gordon Parks took the photo. Just like I always thought, all these years, that the American Gothic photo he took in D.C. was of a man in dress. It wasn't. It was a woman, Ella Watson, and he didn't just photograph her at work (she worked at the Capitol building as a cleaning woman). He went home with her and photographed her home and her children, of which she had about five or six, and she fed and clothed them all on her one-thousand-and-something-dollar-a-year income. And there's another photo of Parks' that is one of my favorites of a boy and girl in their underwear crouched down on the floor. She is holding a white baby doll and he is staring intently into the camera lens. Well, guess what? Those are Mrs. Watson's children!

Anyway, my answer to the woman was "I'm an artistic photographer and I shoot people in everyday life doing what they do." So, then she asks, "What do you want to do with your art?" And I said, without hesitation, "I want my work to sit in museums and galleries, where I know if someone is buying them two things are happening: one, they have an appreciation for art and specifically Black art; and two, they can afford to pay what they are worth. What I am worth." And that's the thing that has always been my issue when I called myself a so-called "professional" photographer. What does that mean anyway? I'm professionally hard pressed to get someone to pay me what I'm worth, even though they all say, "Oh, I love your work. But..." So, I am empowering myself to say I am an artistic photographer and I am not doing this as a hobby. I am empowering myself to put myself out there and submit my photos to galleries and shows and whatever else I have to do to become that photographer whose work sits in museums and galleries all over the world. Because that's what I want...I mean if I'm going to do this at all, which I am. And, I want to thank the Universe for always putting me where I need to be.

So, there it is. I put it out there. And so it is! Ashe.

But, I completely went off on a necessary tangent. Allow me to bring you back because the rest of the trip was about the Harlem Renaissance artists. I walked the Harlem streets (and took a few buses) to photograph the homes of Claude McKay (writer), James Weldon Johnson (writer), Duke Ellington (musician, composer, bandleader), and Paul Robeson (actor/singer).

  

187 W. 135th Street home of
James Weldon Johnson

180 W. 135th Street - home of Claude McKay
and many other Harlem Renaissance writers
who migrated to New York.

935 St. Nicholas Avenue - home of Duke
Ellington

The "National Landmark" plaque marking this building.

However, when I got to what I thought was Paul Robeson's former residence there was a woman standing out front (you see her in the pic in the yellow and coral). She's 84 years old and has lived in the building for 35 years. Can you imagine? I sure can't. Anyway, I asked her if Paul Robeson really lived there and she said she didn't recall him living there, but she did recall Eskine Hawkins having lived there. In case you don't know who he is, he was a famous trumpeter and band leader and is most known for his song "Tuxedo Junction." She also said Donnie Hodges, Duke Ellington's sax player lived there, which was totally believable seeing as how Duke Ellington's residence was just around the corner and down one block. And, I'd never heard of Snub Mosley, but he lived there too and he was a trombonist who played for Fats Waller and Louis Armstrong. And, he invented the slide saxophone, which had a slide like a trombone but also had a saxophone mouthpiece. If I wasn't in a rush to get back to Brooklyn to get my things and get to the airport I would have stayed and talked that woman's ear off. But, time wasn't on my side so I had to go.

555 Edgecombe - suspected home of
Paul Robeson. Absolute home of Erskine
Hawkins, Donnie Hodges, and Snub Mosley.

I needed to be back in Brooklyn by 3pm, 3:30 at the latest. It was almost 2pm and I managed to get from way up town, which by the way used to be known as "Sugar Hill" in Harlem, all the way down town and across the river back into Brooklyn with exactly fifteen minutes to spare. But, here's the thing that made me accept I am Frances Champion's daughter (meaning I can't go anywhere without seeing someone I know or meeting someone new). As I get on the 2 train toward Brooklyn I look over and see Xochilt, who is actually a friend of a friend but friendly enough for us to be on a first name basis and very much always happy to see each other when such occasions should happen. But, I must point out these occasions usually happen at Whole Foods on Roosevelt Road in Chicago. NOT on a New York City subway. I loved it though. Those kinds of surprise meetings of good people just make me smile from my feet. And so, Xochilt if you're reading this...it really was great seeing you and meeting your sister. I hope you had a great time during your visit. I sure did.

Xochilt (right) and her sister. Chance meeting on the 2 train.

Back in Brooklyn with very little time to spare.

As I was walking back to Deirdre's place I spotted a young brotha in a gypsy cab and asked him to take me to the airport. Turns out he was an international student from Senegal studying at one CUNY colleges and drove the cab in the summer. It was my pleasure to give him the $35 to take me to the airport and because he didn't take the long way, but cut across Brooklyn and had me at JFK in 30 minutes flat, I also made sure to give the brotha a decent tip. As I got out of the cab another sista saw him and got him to take her into Manhattan. Now that's what I call looking out for one another...especially our young people. She could have easily hopped in the yellow cab that was sitting less than two feet away from her, but she didn't. She didn't. You gotta love that. I did.

And, I love New York!

And, I love my people.

Peace,

Glodean
The Grown Ass Woman Travels