Thursday, April 08, 2010

T Mobile= JERKS.

T Mobile is going to charge me $200 unless I can convince Egypt to speak English.  Egypt speaks Arabic.  This will not be possible.


figure 0.: The Letter I received from the snakes at T Mobile:

If you have had a cell phone contract in the United States, you know how stringent they are about cancellation fees.  This is why I was so careful to read my contract when I signed up with T Mobile on New Years Day 2009. 

The contract, like most in the States, allows early termination for free if you move outside the coverage area.  Otherwise, there is a $200 fee.

On Dec 27 2009, I moved to Cairo Egypt.  I am living there now, and posting this from my home in Zamalek, Cairo, Egypt.  T Mobile does not get coverage here.  I checked.

Before I left, however, I set about informing the company that I was moving outside the coverage area, and thus would need to cancel my contract.  I will keep the sordid details out of this in the interest of brevity.  T Mobile told me to bring documentation to their store, which I did.  They then told me that my documentation (Plane ticket and Work Visa) were not enough for them, and that I would have to produce:

1. A voter registration card

2. A utility bill

3. A Driver’s license.

Furthermore, they told me, I would have to produce these IN ENGLISH.

Now, let’s go through these one by one to demonstrate why this is a ridiculous requirement, and totally impossible.

1. I don’t vote in Egypt. I Can’t Vote in Egypt.  I WON’T BE VOTING. IN EGYPT.  Egypt is a dictatorship, idiots.  Also, I am an American citizen.  You know this.  I showed you my passport.  Finally, even if I renounced my citizenship, registered to vote in Egypt’s worthless elections, I wouldn’t even get a “registration card.”  If I did, it would be in ARABIC.


2.  This one is slightly more reasonable.  At least it would be, if Egypt was America and thus spoke “American” as T Mobile seems to intuit that they do.  I am posting a copy of my utility bill here, for evidence of what I’m talking about.  In addition, Egyptian law is that utility bills are made out to the name of the landlord.  I am not a landlord, thus there is no utility bill in my name.  Oh, how I wish every country was America.


figure 1.: Egyptian Utility bill.  In Arabic




3. Driver’s License.  Clever.  I have posted below an Egyptian Driver’s License.  It is not in English.  Even if it was, I don’t drive in Egypt.  A cab is 5 le ($1) to get most places I am going, and traffic is a death trap.



figure 2.: Egyptian Driver’s License.  In Arabic.

Now, I wouldn’t be so mad about this if I hadn’t already tried in good faith to prove to T Mobile that I am in Egypt.  I already produced my plane ticket and my visa.  When that wasn’t enough, I showed them my new cell phone contract, with an Egyptian company and listing my Egyptian address. I also showed them a job offer from an Egyptian company.  Why, T Mobile, would this company lie to you, claiming they met me in January, simply to get my out of my cell phone contract? 

I am not lying.  I am in Egypt.  I will take a picture of myself on a camel at the pyramids holding the date, hand written, if need be.  Anything to get these bastards off my back. 

What makes me most angry about the situation is that T Mobile seems to be purposefully making it impossible for me to prove I am in another country to get their $200.  I refuse to believe that they are simply so ignorant that they don’t realize there are countries that don’t speak English.  If they are, the let this be a warning to any of their customers considering a move abroad:  You will be charged the $200 fee, even if your contract states you shouldn’t have to.

Also, be warned that T Mobile only accepts snail mail.  They don’t do emails, or faxes.  This makes life difficult for me, since I am in Egypt.  I don’t even know if my letter would get to them in 30 days from here, which they KNOW, because I already sent them documentation.

UPDATE;

If anyone would like to contact me regarding this issue, my email address is posted just to the right of the start of this post.  T Mobile, I am looking in your direction!

Thursday, September 03, 2009

Cairo photos on flickr

Hey people.  Cairo photos are up on flickr. Above: Camels cruising down the Mehwar in the bed of a pickup truck.

Trevor’s moment of wild contemplation

Click above for full size

Sunday, August 30, 2009

Dull-eyed men who clear desert roads

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 41

We were traveling west across the Gobi desert when a great wind arose from the south.  Carrying with it a mass of sand like a swarm of stinging locusts, it descended upon our convoy and halted our progress.  A great roar erupted as the storm hit our vehicles, and for all we could see the definitive lines that had made up the world had been erased.  All there was to see was a bleak orange, in a way: a timeless site, but in no way one that could accommodate us as beings who drew breath.

We struggled to seal the vehicles tightly.  We tried to speak, but above the roar no sounds could be heard.  We were rendered mute.  The motions of our hands, in that crippling darkness, seemed slower than before.  Time bowed to this terrible force.

Minutes lumbered past.  As we sat, as if in a fever, the noise of the storm began to subside.  The roar faded. All was quiet.

We glanced out of the windows of our vehicles.  The world was naught but orange fog.  Surrounding us, suspended particles of sand at once impeded and refracted light.  The neighboring cars of our convoys were nothing but shadows.  Craning our necks downward, we were dismayed to find that the road was completely blocked by a massive dun set right in front of us on the road.  It had arisen during the storm, like a snow drift in a wintery climate, though heavier, more ancient, more apt to persist, less to melt, subside, or fade.

We could not move.

Minutes passed and then hours.  At first we spoke of our predicament, then we spoke in jest, then sat silent.  The ghostly fog around us persisted.  Orange.  Other worldly.

As silence gave birth to despair, we heard a rumble behind us.  Though we could not see through the suspended sand, it sounded like a large diesel engine, one perhaps powerful enough to move us past our predicament.  We exited our vehicle to wave the driver down, to beg for assistance. 

Those in our convoy acted in a similar manner, so there were many raised arms to greet our savior as he appeared out of the gloom.  Yes, it was a large frame, sturdy wheels and a raised driving platform: a tall dump truck.  We whooped with joy at the thought of rescue.

We were just as easily silence, however, as the truck rumbled up to the back of our convoy, moved right to avoid the trailing vehicles, then began to pass us.  Those who had been passed dropped their arms, dejected, sure that we would not receive help this day.

As the climbed back into their vehicles, the truck advanced to the front of our line and rejoined the correct side of the road.  As it reached the dune which blocked our path it slowed, and with a whine of its brakes and a release of exhaust, it came to a crunching halt.

A long moment passed as we waited to see the driver’s next move.  He climbed down form the truck’s cab, and without saying a word, moved through the dusty air to the back of the truck.  He climbed the chassis and released the hatch.  It screeched and clamored downwards.  Silence followed.

Thought he air was still thick, we could make out human forms emerging from the back of the truck.  Ragged men, in dusty, worn jumpsuits.  Their skin was made leathery and thick by the harshness of the wind, their faces were lined with deep canyons which were the result of days spent squinting against the sun, the dust, and the sand. Without saying a word, they dismounted the back of the truck, and assembled on the road. 

They each carried a shovel.  In number, they were over thirty.  Silently, they began shoveling the sand away from the road.

A slight wind began as they pursued their work, but they did not uttered a word.  Nor did we.  The only sound to be heard was the scraping of shovel and the falling of sand.

When the job was complete, they rentered the truck, like automata, like ghosts.  Their eyes were dull.  It was difficult to distinguish their features, though as the hatch was being shut they looked at us in our eyes.  The noise of the truck’s latch echoed to the back of the convoy, and sent a shiver up our spine.

The driver again climbed into the cab, and the engine sputtered then rumbled to a start.  The wheels whined, and the truck moved off into the distance.  When it vanished into the murk, we were awakened, as from a dream or from a spell.  The truck, no doubt, advanced onwards, and our host later told us that trucks like these roam the desert clearing roads, often without human contact for weeks at a time. 

Saturday, August 29, 2009

The hat salesman who hid his wares all over town

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 40

“You look as if you could use a hat!”

We started.  Where did the voice come from?  We turned around.

“A hat!” Said a tall, thin man.  “A hat! A hat? Nothing to fear!”

He began circling us quickly, jotting notes in a small notebook.  “Your size?” he said, craning his neck to the side, “No matter!  I’ll estimate!  I have just the hat!  The chapeau if you will.”

He ran off down the road.  Along the way he poked his head into various nooks and crannies: glancing into mailboxes, looking through bushes.  We ran after him, checking where he had checked.

“Hands off the merchandise!” he said, looking over his shoulder. In each place we looked we found some form of headgear.  A top hat, a bowler, a cap, or a beret.

Ahead of us, the man was climbing into a tree, which was just beginning to show the year’s first buds. He reached into a bird’s nest, disturbed its inhabitants.

“Pardon!” he exclaimed. “Excuse me!”

He produced a fedora out of the nest, and leapt back down onto the street.

“And here we have it,” he said with a grandiose air.  He was slightly out of breath.

He handed over he hat and held his hand out, apparently for remuneration.  When he received it, he walked off briskly, bowing to anyone he met and remarking upon their headgear.  Everyone in town, we noticed, was adorned with lovely, perfectly fitting hats.

The woman whose feet never touched ground

Atlas of Curiosities: Part 39

In the village, we were told, there was something to see.  We were brought to a certain hut, in which, we were told, was sleeping a middle-aged woman. 

“What is special about her that we have been asked to witness?” we asked.

“When she walks,” we were told, “Her feet are always a finger’s-width above the ground.”

We were ushered on to other things, and thus can’t give an account as to whether or not this was true.

The old butcher and his late wife

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 38

Arriving in town we were met by a meandering young man who asked if we had a moment to help him.  It was early morning, and there was no one else awake, let alone on the street.  We agreed, and we followed him through the brightening mist to the town square. Once there, he led us to an old iron park bench which was stationed underneath an old-fashioned street lamp.  He paused and pointed to the bench, upon which we could now make out the form of a slight old man curled up asleep.

“It’s my grandfather,” the young man whispered.

We inquired of the young man how exactly we were expected to remedy this situation, which we found exceedingly odd.  The older gentleman was not by any means a hobo or a vagrant.  On the contrary, he was well dressed, wearing silk pajamas and a sleeping cap, after the custom of this area.  He did not seem uncomfortable.

“I have to get him back to his shop,” the young man told us. He began to step towards his sleeping grandfather.  He paused then, and motioned for us to take hold of the feet.

Lifting the snoozing old gentleman, we carried him across the town square and into the entryway of a small butchers shop, where we laid him across a row of chairs.

“Grandfather!” the boy hissed.  He jabbed the old man lightly in the ribs.  “It’s morning!”

The old man woke and rubbed his eyes.  With looking around or acknowledging our presence, he hobbled into the back room, presumably to change out of his pajamas.

“This is….ordinary?” we asked, trying to inquire into the nature of the situation without offending the young man.

“Now it is,” he said.

He told us that his grandfather had been waking up in various locations throughout town for a number of months, and that his father had assigned him the duty of seeking the dozing patriarch and returning him to his place of work each morning.  We asked him if the old man was prone to sleepwalking, and the young man told us that as far as he could tell, that was “Not exactly true.”

Well, we asked him, what could it be then?  The young man sighed heavily and rubbed his hand along the back of his neck.  “You promise not to laugh?”  We promised. 

“Last night, I locked his door,” the young man said. ” And I put a door under the handle.  And I locked the kitchen door and the main door to the house. He could not have comes out that way.”

“Then?”

“Well,” he continued.  “My grandmother recently passed away.  She was a large woman.  Much bigger than my grandfather.  When they shared a bed, she took up the majority of it, and he had only a small sliver.  Before she died, though, she kept complaining that my grandfather was keeping her awake all night.  Because she outweighed him, we thought she was delusional, or suffering from dementia, because she could have simply pushed him out of bed if there had been a problem.  She certainly pushed him around when he was awake.”

The boy chuckled at his joke, then his face quickly darkened.

“Right before she died, though, she told me something very strange.  She told me that my grandfather flew in his sleep.”

“Flew?” we asked.

“Yes,” he said.  He nodded earnestly.  “She said he flew every night just when the stars came out, and that he would lift out of the bed and bring the covers with him.  She said that she had to stay up all night just to pull him back down, and she said she was afraid that one night she would miss his grabbing ankle and he’d fly right out the window.”

He looked at his feet.

“I laughed at her,” he said.  “I said, ‘Oh gram. Don’t tease with me.’”

“But you know what?” he said.

We waited.

“When I went into his room this morning, the sheets were all off the bed.”

The old man emerged from the back room, wearing a butcher’s smock.

“Hello my boy,” he said in a warm voice. “I just had the most marvelous dream.  I floated around town as light as a feather, and seeing only by starlight, I looked into chimneys all over town.”

Saturday, August 22, 2009

The man who lived only with mannequins

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 37
He was the keeper of a warehouse of window models, plastic human beings who wore clothes well, like toys, or like ghouls, depending on your point of view.  His point of view was unique.  The sole man living in this warehouse, and a worker here since a very young age, he had never seen the outside world.  His universe consisted of the four walls of his small room and the wider warehouse, with its towering floor to ceiling shelves of dark metal.  He knew only the cavernous roof which capped the chamber… and the mannequins.

There were no other workers to dissolve his solitude, nor did he receive visitors from the outside.  Deliveries arrived without accompaniment, and shipments were sent in the same manner.  He kept company only with the rows upon rows of stationary and static human beings, in various poses, with whom he was forced to establish a strange camaraderie.

The shelves were lined with one blank stare after the next, and the man walked up and down each day, greeting them by name, asking them questions, even quarreling with them.  Nearly every mannequin was taller than he was, and given their position on the metal shelves, they towered over him in a manner that was almost demeaning. Still, he moved back and forth through the shelves, roaming in order to keep up the inventory which existed in his mind. His footsteps echoed, and the words that he mumbled to himself were lost int he vastness of his enclosure.

His isolation had become so extreme, we heard, that the shock of true human contact might cause him great distress.  As a result, we prepared a written message which our host graciously slipped under the warehouse door.

Late that night, a reply came written in what our host described as a childishly formed Mandarin script.  In translation, it read:

“No one is home.”

Our host sighed at reading this.

“Imagine,” our host said. “Not a single time has one of his jokes been met with laughter.  At his touch there is no reaction, not even revulsion, to signal that he is not alone.”

“Why doesn’t he leave,” we wondered.

“Perhaps he might pose the same question of you,” our host mused.

We laughed.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Adventures in being Proselytized: LaRouchePAC

Executive Summary: The protester who got mocked by Barney Frank was not a conservative Glenn Beck type.  She was part of a smaller but in some ways weirder group called LaRouchePAC.

I love being Proselytized.  Mormons, Jehovah’s witnesses, I invite them in.  They are annoying to most people, but to me they are fascinating.  They try to convince me that crazy things are true.  I smile and nod.  Inside, I am studying their ways.

Today, LaRouchePAC, one of my favorite groups, made national news when a young follower accosted Barney Frank saying that Obama’s health care policy was, you know,  Nazi-ish.

Don’t worry.  I have been studying these people.

Overview

LaRouchePAC is a group centered on one man, Lyndon LaRouche.  It is unclear what LaRouche does exactly, other than give a lot of speeches. We are led to believe that he is a “mover and shaker,” but honestly I think that is untrue. Usually, his opinions are focused on who is or is not a Nazi.

His opinions come out through the group’s website, through webcasts, or through his army of young followers. What the young Dartmouther (the town not the college) said was taken almost verbatim from LaRouchePAC.  So was her poster, which depicted Obama with a 1940’s-era German dictator style of facial hair.

How did LaRouche’s ideas make his way to that town hall?  Well, his followers are the most interesting part.  They are young, usually college aged.  They are articulate, and they will present LaRouche’s ideas in what seems to be an intellectually viable light.  If you question them, they will become extremely angry.  They will not defend their ideas with logic.  Instead, they will call you ignorant.  They will tell you that their ideas are the only thing in between America and certain doom.  They will tell you the only way to learn their ideas is to buy a DVD.  The DVD is $25.

Profit Motive

The conversation you are likely to have with a member of LaRouchePAC on the street is aimed at getting you to either sign up or buy something.  They will tell you that the knowledge they have has the potential to prevent a Major Disaster. Personally, I take great issue with the strategy, which seems to be immoral whether or not they are telling the truth.

Think about it: If you have information that would save the entire country, then people need to see that.  Give it out for free and let the word spread.  Don’t profit off this essential knowledge. It is like keeping the cure to AIDs locked up in a safe.

If your ideas are actually crap that is made up and that doesn’t matter at all, then why am I paying $25 for it? Why are you selling me lies?

Is it a Cult?

The most interesting thing about the LaRouchePAC is that despite this immorality and despite the crazy nature of LaRouche’s ideas, he manages to get loads of young people to support him and peddle his weird Nazi-accusations.  There are plenty of old men that talk crap, but very few who can mobilize so many people. How does he do it?

First of all, LaRouchePAC gives alienated kids a feeling of belonging. They have regular meetings and are in constant contact about “current events,” volunteer activities, and gatherings.  They meet regularly.  My suspicion is that LaRouchePAC becomes the main social outlet for many of these people.

At the same time, the outlandish nature of LaRouche’s claims create an us vs. them mentality among his followers.  He sets them out to go into the street and talk crap.  When they face arguments, they turn to other members for support and validation. This makes the group insular and strengthens existing bonds.

In these ways, it sounds kind of cult-ish.

It seems even more cultish, however, if you actually watch what LaRouche releases into the world through his webcasts.  I have watched these. They are fascinating. 

The Webcast (Dear Leader LaRouche)

The average webcast is about 3 hours long, and does everythign possible to make LaRouche seem like a great prophet or hero.  The first stage is a worshippy introduction of LaRouche by a middle aged woman who you can tell has contempt for anyone who doesn’t just love LaRouche.  She talks a lot about what a genius he is, and how intellectuals and academics from around the world have been knocking down the door to get to LaRouche. Outside of this land of ignorance, we are led to believe, LaRouche is seen as the One Sane Man in America.  (Note: This is bullshit).

Then, LaRouche himself comes on.  He talks.  And talks.  And talks.  He weaves together long historical analysis with high-sounding talk about what the human race is meant to achieve.  He says we need to go to Mars.

He also calls politicians Nazis.  He calls President Obama a child and a Nazi (I know….what?).  He says Obama needs “adult supervision.”  He all but encourages people to “lynch” their members of congress.  He says that if we all don’t listen to him, the whole country will collapse. He gives dates for this collapse.  October 4th-16th, 2009.

Finally, everyone applauds and cheers for him, and then LaRouche takes questions.  It is made abundantly clear that only really serious questions will be allowed because LaRouche does not have time for bullshit.  Another hour or so elapses as LaRouche fails to answer the questions being asked of him.  He talks a lot about going to Mars.  He calls more people Nazis.  He speaks in a very dramatic fashion. Concluding.  Very dramatically.  Like this. 

The result of this is clear when you speak to his supporters.  LaRouche is very clever about mixing nonsense with seemingly-accurate historical information.  He creates an utterly impenetrable hurricane of words and then throws out a soundbyte about how someone is a Nazi.  If you hadn’t been following up until that point, you are now, and the one thing in your head is “Obama=Nazi.”  The nature of his speech has made you feel like you are the idiot for not understanding the rest, not LaRouche for saying it in the first place.

LaRouche’s most recent claim is on one of his favorite themes: the evils of the British monarchy.  He is now claiming that the British Monarchy might assassinate Barack Obama.  If you are like me you are thinking: “.............sorry, what!?”

Conclusions
The girl in Dartmouth today needs to be understood in context.  She did not come up with these ideas on her own, nor did she watch Glen Beck.  She is likely not a conservative.  In fact, she is outside the mainstream political spectrum all together.  She is part of an insular group that provides her not only with political beliefs, but with companionship and a sense of belonging.

By all indications, current political “upheaval” and economic trouble are adding to LaRouchePACs popular and monetary support. 

If anyone would like to hear more about LaRouchePAC, let me know. I am not trying to out them as “dangerous” or “evil” because frankly, I don’t care.  I think that they are interesting to learn about, just like Mormons.  Anyway, one of the members of LaRouchePAC calls me about twice a week (this is one of the ways I learn about them) trying to get me to go to meetings.  If anyone has questions, I can pass them along to him.

Update: I have been getting a fair amount of feedback about this short article.  Apparently LaRouchePAC touches a nerve.  As I was digging a bit more into it, I stumbled upon this fascinating wiki entry about LaRouche’s criminal history. Apparently he got into “scuffles” with Kissinger, Oliver North, and a bunch of other sinisterpowerful people. This is some can of worms….

Monday, August 17, 2009

The leaves that bore an ancient script

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 36
We heard rumors in neighboring villages that a certain type of leaf was being saved, and indeed, upon entering several homes in the area we found quite a few bundles of this variety of leaf tied together with twine, ribbon, or thread. We were told that the leaves, which were in various conditions, were prized for the unique way in which their veins were woven throughout their flesh.

We maintained a curiosity about these leaves, and were thus intrigued to find that upon departing the lower regions farmland and heading into the foothills of the mountainous region we encountered many travelers carrying these same leaves. We inquired time and again into their purpose, but were rebuffed by shrugs and unknowing smiles.  We resolved to follow these villagers, who were growing more numerous as we ascended the mountainside.

Soon, the trickle of travelers fed into a steady stream, and we observed that a sort of queue had formed up the side of the mountain.  We joined this queue in the hopes of discerning the meaning of the leaves.  While we were there, an old woman who spoke our language agreed to discus with us what she knew.

“The veins of the leaves,” she told us, “are written in the script of a forgotten language.  It is perfectly legible and beautiful rafted, but we cannot read it.  The people of this area believe it to be so miraculous that they save each leave in order to have it translated into our tongue.”

“All of these leaves have writing?” we asked.

“Yes,” she said.  We followed her up the hillside to a small hut.  Inside, we were told, lived an old man who was the sole keeper of the ancient script borne upon the leaves.

Finally entering the hut, we surprised the old man by revealing that we had no leaves.  He looked up from where he was seated.  Around him were piles upon piles of dried leaves.  Discarded, perhaps, or perhaps kept for a particular poetic or philosophical quality.  The man wore thick glasses over pin prick eyes, and he moved slowly but deliberately to look at us.  He beckoned us to approach, and we gathered that he was not used to receiving visitors bearing our style of dress or mannerisms. When he found that he had nothing for him to translate, he began to wave us away, but since we were accompanying the old woman, he indulged us by hearing a few questions which she translated.

“What do the leaves say?” we asked.  “What is their message for us? From where does their meaning come?  Are they from God?”

The man laughed and answered in his own language.

The old woman translated.

“They are translatable,” she said. “But it is mostly nonsense.”