Bikini Politics – or – Where will all the Russians go?

Egypt’s rising Islamists present vision for sin-free tourism:

no booze, bikinis

The Canadian PressBy Maggie Michael, The Associated Press | The Canadian Press – Mon, 12 Dec.

CAIRO – Islamists are dominating Egypt’s elections and some of them have a new message for tourists: welcome, but no booze, bikinis or mixed bathing at beaches, please.

That vision of turning Egypt into a sin-free vacation spot could spell doom for a key pillar of the economy that has already been badly battered by this year’s political unrest.

“Tourists don’t need to drink alcohol when they come to Egypt; they have plenty at home,” a veiled Muslim Brotherhood candidate, Azza al-Jarf, told a cheering crowd of supporters on Sunday across the street from the Pyramids.

“They came to see the ancient civilization, not to drink alcohol,” she said, her voice booming through a set of loudspeakers at a campaign event dubbed “Let’s encourage tourism.” The crowd chanted, “Tourism will be at its best under Freedom and Justice,” the Brotherhood’s party and the most influential political group to emerge from the fall of Hosni Mubarak.

Since their success in the first round of parliamentary elections on Nov. 28-29, the Brotherhood and the even more fundamentalist party of Salafi Muslims called Al-Nour have been under pressure from media and the public to define their stance on a wide range of issues, especially those related to Islamic law, personal freedoms, the rights of women and minorities, the flagging economy and tourism.

The Salafis of Al-Nour are up front about seeking to impose strict Islamic law in Egypt. The Muslim Brotherhood says publicly that it does not seek to force its views about an appropriate Islamic lifestyle on Egyptians.

Approximately 2 million Russians visit Egypt every year. They visit the pyramids at Giza and they take cheap charter cruises down the Nile. But however much they may broaden their cultural horizons during their programmed package tours, they don’t go to Egypt for the pharonic ruins or Coptic Churches, they go to Egypt for the sun. More accurately, they go for the opportunity to bare their lily white, sun-starved Russian skin while sitting, without a care in the world, on Red Sea beaches while drinking an astonishing amount of alcohol. They don’t queue up at Cairo’s golf courses, most do not visit the Egyptian museum, they avoid the picturesque Black and White Desert of the interior, and they turn down the 6 hour trip to tour the oasis at Siwa and the marvellous Adrere Amellal Ecolodge.  They go for the sun. And if they are forbidden to wear their speedos and bikinis, and pour back their vodka and Jonnie Walker Red, they just won’t go. And neither will their millions of dollars.

The Muslim Brotherhood and their dogmatic and narrow minded junior partners the Salafists had best figure that out pretty quickly or they will find their grass roots support evaporating away at an alarming rate. Over 8% of Egypt’s labour forces works in, or is associated with, the tourist trade. And those are the official numbers. There will be thousands and thousands of others who reap benefits from foreign dollars spent by the tourists who will also feel the pinch.

If the MB kills the proverbial golden goose with a strict application of their interpretation of Islamic law it will serve to motivate the masses to fill Tahir Square once again. Not that it will matter a whit, filling Tahir Square has become a reduntant exercise in futility. No one cares any more. But it would be an embarrassmnant for a newly formed and possibly vulnerable government. Further, it could have an unexpected domino effect, particularly if the MB’s silent but omnipresent partner, the Military, sees it as a way to curb the MB’s jihadist enthusiasm and rein in some of their more outspoken embarrassments.

It is hard to believe that a nation’s future could be tied to a bikini string.

Fat – damn!

fat

 

For all my adult life I have had a cooperative metabolism. Coupled with a fairly active lifestyle my good ol’ metabolism has allowed me to eat and drink to excess and not worry about buttons popping off of shirts, belts reaching their final holes, watch straps acting like tourniquets or collars slowly strangling me.

That’s not to say that my physical appearance hasn’t change over the years. I’ve certainly thickened, but this has been a function of aging, maturing and growing out of my gangly teenage self. But it’s been slow.

Over the past twenty plus years my trouser waist band has crawled its way from 32 inches up to a respectable 34 inch span. My neck measurement has gone from a scrawny 15 inches to a marginally more acceptable 16 ½ inches. Through time, my suits have gone from a 40 to a 42 Tall and generally speaking I have been pretty happy with the changes. My metabolism has kept me reasonably trim and fit looking, and saved me hundreds, perhaps thousands, of dollars in wardrobe replacement costs.

And then the paradigm shift.

It’s fitting that I don’t know exactly what is a paradigm shift. Because neither do I know why my Oh So reliable metabolism has abruptly changed its modus operendi.

What I do know is that overnight I have developed a paunch. Sometime between breakfast and lunch my pecs have turned into breasts and that before dinner my trousers became impossible to button up.

I feel betrayed.

And confused.

How did this happen?

I will admit to retiring from a long and satisfying career a short 10 months ago. But retirement hasn’t turned me somnambulant. I have remained active, walking my dog up to 6 km a day. Playing tennis (on occasion), running (jogging? stumbling?) regularly and taking over domestic responsibilities for the house. And let me tell you that cleaning, vacuuming, shopping and coordinating the myriad of details involved in home operations have increased the awe in which I hold my mother and wife and consumed more energy than I ever could have imagined.

And I’m pretty sure my caloric intake hasn’t increased…..that much. Or perhaps I hope my caloric intake hasn’t increased that much. After a couple of months of eating my way through the snack aisle of my local grocery store significant efforts have been made to ban chips, cookies and the like from all of our kitchen cupboards. Further, my alcohol consumption, frighteningly caloric, has been halved and much more closely monitored by She Who Must Be Obeyed.

Well perhaps the alcohol being halved is exaggerated, but everything else is true.

Balanced meals are the norm, and I have been pretty consistent in eating the veggies SWMBO puts on my plate.

But still I’m getting fat.

Previously unimaginable sympathies for the overweight have surfaced in my thinking. Packaging data on foodstuffs are being vociferously read. Structural integrity of furniture is being examined closely and springs and struts on my car being replaced.

Worst of all I have had to order new trousers, replacing all the constrictive pairs I have lived with for years. With much looser waist bands.

This new state-of-affairs is going to force me to make a bucket full of unanticipated decisions. Do I, for example, buy a new belt that goes over, under or across my brand new pot belly?

When, I have to wonder, will this alarming and expanding trend cease?

 

Rule # 1

There must be a book out there somewhere entitled “Things Men Shouldn’t Do”. And if it’s not a book, then it’s a honking long list, one that is regularly amended to reflect changes wrought by the passing of years while at the same time maintaining the time honoured verboten zones identified at such great cost to men through the ages. I’m pretty sure the entry that read “don’t take on sabre-tooth tigers with a sling” has been deleted, and no doubt the cautionary clause suggesting that “Allah Akbar” not be shouted at a Crusader Christmas dinner has been overtaken by the eons. And I am equally convinced that somewhere on that list are notes clearly stating that men shouldn’t play ice-hockey without a cup, should not rely on attached instructions when attempting to assemble a new bar-b-que and should not shop for their mothers at Victoria’s Secrets.
But at the head of the list, and emphasized in italics at the start of each section, should be the one irrevocable rule. The one that states MEN SHOULD NOT ARGUE WITH THEIR WIVES. All married men understand why the rule has primacy, why the rule has withstood the challenges of time, and, more importantly, what the costs are for breaking that particular rule.
I reckon that if the original author and guardian of the list died at the tender age of 41, moments after forgetting his own first rule, his successor took note and lived his full three score and ten.
There are costs associated with slavish devotion to Rule # 1. But generally speaking they do not outweigh the benefits. Nonetheless, that there are side effects must be recognized.
I have been married for a long (long) time. Although the definition of long will vary from relationship to relationship the fact that I have survived a long (long) time cohabitating with my wife does prove that I have shown faith in the veracity of “the rule”, but let me tell you, it comes at a price.
For example, I have long since given up attempting to explain micro (and macro) economics. When She Who Must Be Obeyed indicates that “we” need a new set of dishes I don’t suggest we wait six months for the tax rebate to get in, rather, I ask what colour. I no longer express opinions about American Idol, CBC News or when we are going to PEI on holiday. Regardless of taste I waste no time in telling her that a. dinner was delicious, and b. pink upholstery is perfect for the sofa. But I do physically wince in anticipation when I can see her beautiful mind coming up with a new idea.
Case in point. Just the other weekend, while enjoying my morning coffee on the deck, taking in the wonderful sun of an early summer, my delightful wife suggested that something had to be done to the wild rose bush that borders our property. It was getting too big, needed trimming, and should be tied to a trellis (in order, I presumed, to provide it some sort of horticultural discipline).
I winced, remembered the first rule, and said “Yes Dear”. Physical fear assailed me. But not so much as to make me even consider voicing my disagreement.
You see, this rose bush is in fact three rose bushes. At their highest they stand well over ten feet tall. Their total circumference rivals small redwoods and they have an area of influence that extends out well beyond my reach. They are impressive plants. Uninhibited, wild and standing proud in the belief of their own invincibility. To add to their intimidating stature, they come armed with thousands upon thousands of thorns. Adorning every branch, every stalk and every trunk associated with these bushes. It is clear that these things are dangerous, and a menace to anything that wanders close to them. And my wife was absolutely correct; they were getting big, did need trimming and likely needed a touch of discipline imposed on them. The problem as I saw it was that I wasn’t the man for the job.
This wee horticultural dilemma needed a modern day Paul Bunyan, armed with axe, chainsaw, a shiny suit of armour and some attitude (and supported by Babe the Blue Ox along with all his muscular siblings).
I looked around in hope but wasn’t surprised to see that Mr Bunyan was nowhere in sight. In fact the only thing I saw was my cowardly dog slinking out to the front yard wearing his not my problem buddy expression on his face and SWMBO draining the last of my coffee.
Realizing my options were pretty limited I resigned myself to the task and started gearing up for the enterprise. Changing from my shorts into a thick pair of Wranglers and donning an old hockey sweater over my t-shirt I went searching for my gloves. Sorrowfully discarding two catcher’s mitts for not allowing sufficient dexterity I settled for my newest and stiffest pair of leather gardening gloves. Although I spent as much time as I could searching for some twine and the pruning shears (in the hopes that my wife would head off shopping and give me time to devise a evasion strategy) eventually I was as ready as I would ever be.
A blow by blow account of the struggle isn’t really necessary. Suffice to say that after hours of dodging thorns (badly), wrestling branches (poorly), bleeding (prodigiously) and sweating through six layers of clothing I determined that the job was done. My wife, tired of my piteous moaning and herself exhausted from removing sixty-four thorns from various parts of my anatomy, allowed that the rose, if not subdued, was sufficiently chastised for me to cease my labours.
As she went back to the deck, the rose and I eyed each other cautiously, but with a certain degree of respect. The rose acknowledging that judicious applications of binder twine eased the strain on its hanging branches and, me, realizing just what the Chinese meant in describing death by one thousand cuts. We were quits.
I have subsequently been searching for the address of the guy that looks after the damn list. Don’t get me wrong, I still am an adherent of the first rule, I just reckon a new entry should be added: Men shouldn’t wrestle with rose bushes.

Flying High

I don’t know much about airplanes, the Air Force, aerodynamics or pilots. Why would I want to? For that matter, why would anyone want to?

Well, perhaps there are a couple of reasons. For example, I would imagine that if one is to engage in any sort of modern day conflict it would likely be handy to know about things like effective fighter jets, and to have them on call. You know, some sort of kick-ass airplane that could convince the bad guys not to shoot things at you, your troops, your country or your pals. Now, or ever.

So I reckon it’s no surprise that the Royal Canadian Air Force looked towards the F-35 Joint Strike Fighter when it realized that sooner or later the CF-18 was going to have to be replaced. And why not? It’s being produced by one of the world’s leading aircraft manufacturers, it has the backing of the US government, and the timing of its production seemed about right for replacing the CF-18. Further, the RCAF would be joining a crowd of investors that included the UK’s Royal Air Force, Australia’s air guys, the Danes, the Turks and the Italians and Dutch. What could go wrong?

Well, according to Canadian opposition politicos and the Auditor General (the Odd Gen?), lots can go wrong; specifically the cost estimates for the programme that they claim are being criminally hidden by the bean (and dollar) counters in DND. And, of course, once the planned procurement had attracted some negative attention the usual suspects, the bad news vultures, swept down to feed.

Unneeded, they cried. Un-Canadian, they postulated. Illegal, they claimed. And, thoroughly demonstrating their mastery of history, military strategy, and fortune telling, not something that Canada, the Canadian Forces or the RCAF would ever need. Why would an state-of-the-art fighter jet be needed they asked. Obviously, it is clear that the world is definitely becoming a friendly and conflict free sphere. Just ask the Sudanese (north or south) or the sane management currently running North Korea. Under no circumstances can it be imagined that Canadian pilots would need to be seated in the best fighter in the world. Nah, let ‘em keep the CF-18, that’ll do.

Now, as I mentioned earlier, I know little about the air force and have little interest in changing that comfortable fact. But, if I were jumping on a bandwagon throwing allegations around and criticising folks who probably are experts I might take a couple of minutes to find out a couple of things.

And what would I find? Well, the reality is that for the third straight year F-35 flight tests are ahead of schedule, the cost to build each plane is falling fast, and international partners are so enthused that new customers are getting in line for the F-35 on a regular basis. Any paper thin query would have determined that the Pentagon’s recent disclosure concerning rising costs in building and operating the F-35 included estimates for inflation and reflected changes in how costs are calculated. A quick call to the RCAF maintenance folks would have discovered that costs associated with keeping the CF-18 airworthy would be at least as expensive as the projected F-35 bill. You think keeping a 6-year old Ford on the road is expensive, try a 30-year old fighter jet.

But blasting budgets and the military is easy. No thought required. And say it loud enough and just watch who will join up.

It is really too bad, as this could be a good news story. Canadians should be told that when this programme is completed their pilots will be flying the most capable, cost-effective tactical aircraft produced in the last 60 years. Flight tests are steadily verifying all the performance features of the aircraft and are years ahead of schedule. The US Air Force and the US Marine Corps, two of the plane’s largest customers, are delighted with tests to date.
And everyone should be delighted with production costs. Estimates for unit costs for the common variant of the plane fell well below the $150 million mark by the third production run and will be less than $100 million by the fifth run. The RCAF reckons it will pick up its planes somewhere after the fourth production run.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not pushing for these planes. I don’t know enough about the subject to discuss it with any comfort. And I’m sure that $150 million is basically the “drive it off the lot” cost and that someone will still have to ante up for weapons, communications, an electronics package, training and the like. But I am sure that it wouldn’t take the naysayers long to check that out. That’s really all I’m asking. Do the due diligence and check the facts. After all, its Canadian troops we’re talking about here, not politics.

As an aside, and appropos of nothing, I would cut a few F-35s off the total package and invest in an Armour Brigade and double the budget for the JTF-2. Now that’s something that could really kick some ass!

“Blue jeans crying in the rain”

Today started badly.

I retired an old pair of blue jeans this morning. Retired, in this case, being a euphemism for binning, ditching, heaving or throwing out. It was a sad day because this particular pair of jeans had been with me for about 15 years. They carried with them a lot of history; successes, failures and much of what life has to throw at you. Now don’t get me wrong, it was time. I am not of the generation that buys new jeans with holes and tears; I just can’t get comfortable with the idea that my trews will let in more breezes than they keep out. Nor am I likely to regress to wearing patched jeans, as when a child. Iron on patches that, if Mum had time, were affixed to the inside of the leg, and reinforced with a fine line of stiches. Or, when she didn’t have time were hastily slapped on the exterior of the hole and ironed so fiercely that the patch itself was afraid to fall off. So when my old buddies finally developed that wear hole along the thigh I knew it was time. Nor was this sad event unexpected. These old soldiers were like a second skin; they were a perfect fit even after a wash, somehow understanding through the years that my belly was larger, my arse wider and my patience the only thing thinner about me. They, for more than a decade, were the epitome of comfort. But, their good service had worn them down.  They were paper thin, they were tired and I knew it was but a matter of time.

What surprises me is that I am the only one who will mourn their loss. My delightful wife, not recognizing just how much a man can identify with his jeans, has campaigned for years to bedeck me in newfangled designer labels. She wants jeans that go with a sports coat, with a roll neck sweater, and with a pair of penny loafers. I want jeans that I could wear whenever, and with whatever was clean. She winced every time I pulled those jeans on. My daughters, giggling behind open palms, would whisper things like camel-toe, cowboy, grand-dad and worse. When pressed they would admit to preferences for jeans that came from high end shops with names that remind me of perfume or those fellows that embroider their names on women’s blouses. Even my son will not be saddened by their passing. But that’s because he’s a man, and won’t notice and, if he did, could care less. That at least I can understand.

Perhaps the dog will miss them. I gotta figure that after 15 years those old jeans must have accumulated a bunch of really good smells. I know where some of them might have come from, but refuse to comment any further on that.

I reckon this is just a small piece of life’s jigsaw. A microcosm, a definition, a metaphor. Or, on the other hand, it could just be that the damn jeans finally wore out.

Pity though, I really liked those jeans.

Bikini Politics – or – Where will all the Russians go?

Egypt’s rising Islamists present vision for sin-free tourism: no booze, bikinis

The Canadian PressBy Maggie Michael, The Associated Press | The Canadian Press – Mon, 12 Dec.

CAIRO – Islamists are dominating Egypt’s elections and some of them have a new message for tourists: welcome, but no booze, bikinis or mixed bathing at beaches, please.

That vision of turning Egypt into a sin-free vacation spot could spell doom for a key pillar of the economy that has already been badly battered by this year’s political unrest.

“Tourists don’t need to drink alcohol when they come to Egypt; they have plenty at home,” a veiled Muslim Brotherhood candidate, Azza al-Jarf, told a cheering crowd of supporters on Sunday across the street from the Pyramids.

“They came to see the ancient civilization, not to drink alcohol,” she said, her voice booming through a set of loudspeakers at a campaign event dubbed “Let’s encourage tourism.” The crowd chanted, “Tourism will be at its best under Freedom and Justice,” the Brotherhood’s party and the most influential political group to emerge from the fall of Hosni Mubarak.

Since their success in the first round of parliamentary elections on Nov. 28-29, the Brotherhood and the even more fundamentalist party of Salafi Muslims called Al-Nour have been under pressure from media and the public to define their stance on a wide range of issues, especially those related to Islamic law, personal freedoms, the rights of women and minorities, the flagging economy and tourism.

The Salafis of Al-Nour are up front about seeking to impose strict Islamic law in Egypt. The Muslim Brotherhood says publicly that it does not seek to force its views about an appropriate Islamic lifestyle on Egyptians.

Approximately 2 million Russians visit Egypt every year. They visit the pyramids at Giza and they take cheap charter cruises down the Nile. But however much they may broaden their cultural horizons during their programmed package tours, they don’t go to Egypt for the pharaonic ruins or Coptic Churches, they go to Egypt for the sun. More accurately, they go for the opportunity to bare their lily-white, sun-starved Russian skin while sitting, without a care in the world, on Red Sea beaches while drinking an astonishing amount of alcohol. They don’t queue up at Cairo’s golf courses, most do not visit the Egyptian museum, they avoid the picturesque Black and White Desert of the interior, and they turn down the 6 hour trip to tour the oasis at Siwa and the marvellous Adrere Amellal Ecolodge.  They go for the sun. And if they are forbidden to wear their speedos and bikinis, and pour back their vodka and Johnnie Walker Red, they just won’t go. And neither will their millions of dollars.

The Muslim Brotherhood and their dogmatic and narrow-minded junior partners the Salafists had best figure that out pretty quickly or they will find their grass-roots support evaporating away at an alarming rate. Over 8% of Egypt’s labour forces works in, or is associated with, the tourist trade. And those are the official numbers. There will be thousands and thousands of others who reap benefits from foreign dollars spent by the tourists who will also feel the pinch.

If the MB kills the proverbial golden goose with a strict application of their interpretation of Islamic law it will serve to motivate the masses to fill Tahir Square once again. Not that it will matter a whit, filling Tahir Square has become a redundant exercise in futility. No one cares any more. But it would be an embarrassment for a newly formed and possibly vulnerable government. Further, it could have an unexpected domino effect, particularly if the MB’s silent but omnipresent partner, the Military, sees it as a way to curb the MB’s jihadist enthusiasm and rein in some of their more outspoken embarrassments.

It is hard to believe that a nation’s future could be tied to a bikini string.

People in Glass Houses

I have spent considerable time living in Cairo and New
Delhi. While there I felt a distanced sympathy for the locals as they ran their
heads into the brick walls of what passed for local bureaucracy. I pitied the
Indians as they faced up to the babus who had learned about
officialdom from the Brits and refined it to unimagined levels. Babus who
wallowed with delight in their volumes of undecipherable regulations.  I commiserated with the Egyptians as they
stacked their wallets with cash prior to any foray into the hallows of
government, ready to shell out the baksheesh needed to go from one faceless
desk to another in the hope of solving an innocuous issue.

But I am beginning to learn about envy. Whatever else the
Indians and Egyptians faced when they fronted their local bureaucracies they
knew what to expect.

I have recently been defeated in my attempt to secure a
building permit. Derailed by Kingston’s own version of third world red tape.   Our city officials apparently have an
aversion to common sense, hide willingly, dare I say eagerly, behind the armour
of regulation and by-law, pay scant attention to argument or explanation, and
have only a cursory understanding of the pressures caused by time, space and
budget.

In my case ( an attempt to obtain a building permit to
construct a 200 square foot addition to my existing house, situated in splendid
isolation on almost 10 acres, with my nearest neighbour invisible more than 100
meters away)  they denied my application
while telling me, sotto voce,  they
disagreed with the decision. A decision, I must add, that surprised their own building inspectors my very experienced contractor. Regulations,
city planners insisted, must be met and by-laws adhered to religiously.

An appeal to my local Councillor presented me with a moment
of hope and a possible course of action. Heady stuff, that amounted to naught.
His “very best on my behalf” wasn’t nearly good enough and I am left facing an
expensive minor variance process and owing money for services that were part of
the initial application.

So my extension plans have been buried, my faith in
municipal government shattered and my envy for my Egyptian and Indian
bureaucracy-suffering brethren on the rise.
People in glass houses indeed.