Monday 22 June 2015
Sunday 14 June 2015
Space Camp!
I have much and more to document! Words escape me, for the closer the topic is to my heart, I struggle to bear it. Blasphemous habit for a writer, self-styled notwithstanding. It's at times like these that I wish I could borrow someone else's voice. Probably John Cleese.
You thought I was gonna say Morgan Freeman, didn't you? You mainstream little bastard, get off my blog.
Let me try. It's comforting to know that hitting the delete button could send it all into the ether. Jump out, little words. If I don't like you, I'll go Sparta all over your ass. Come on, don't be shy. Self-preservation be damned, you're not sentient, stop acting the part!
On a sleepless night, one of many, I stumbled upon this shady little page that organized trips to the Kattameya Space Observatory. Merlin's beard, I had no idea we even had an observatory! I got so excited the alien inside me almost jumped out of its skin suit trying to phone home. I registered myself and a dear friend, called the organizer so many times he decided to be friends with me out of self defense, made calls at 1 in the morning to a fellow alien asking her how the hell people pack sandwiches, whipped out my prized space bag (yes, I have one and it's glorious) and packed for the ride.
And I'm glad I did, if I had the least sense of survival, I would have missed out on what turned out to be - arguably - the best 16 hours of my summer break, thus far. Worry not, I'll top my own charts soon enough.
It was a ride of good music and dry energy bars, funny songs and tailgating professional bikers down the Ain Sokhna road. One of the bikers was a friend, and we honked the hell out of his tight-wearing ass. It's only fair.
We followed the winding roads between mountains that bore all kinds of trespass warnings, from military and animals alike. The suspension on my friend's car was shot, so we got a crunkin' cruise down the unpaved, pebbly paths.
We felt like thugs while we're at it, too. As the little black dude inside of me was appeased, the alien inside of me spasmodically fangirled at the sight of the observatory dome that peaked its head out of its hiding place soon after. I unabashedly gaped and shamelessly squealed. I would have waved, had it been socially acceptable to animatedly greet objects.
Arriving there, after our guide led a brief introduction to break the ice, I stashed some metaphorical icicle shards beneath my shirt just in case. Realistically, I packed some spare change in a book like the nerd I am, then packed the book into the camera case like the fangirl I am, then gave my camera case to my friend, like the hobbit I am. He's less likely to ruin the taters, I thought, and stumbled forth.
And it was good thinking, for within the next 30 minutes of exploring the site, I had amassed 6 different injuries, to the amused giggles of my friend. We had breakfast with our feet dangling off the farthest ledge of the encampment, looking onto the nothingness that fringed distant civilization. Desolation was beautiful, for it had the rare quality of non-habitability; humans ruin everything they touch, and they had not touched this place. I feasted upon the silence as we snacked on our clumsily packed sandwiches.
The campsite was built by the English, back when they colonized Egypt. The encampments were built in the style of lavish barracks, and mostly closed off to tourists. Organized trips were set by the staff during maintenance period, so it was mostly desolate. "Is that where scientists live?", I naively asked my friend who choked on his food at the suggestion of existing scientists in this shit hole. "I can totally see myself living in that one on that dune over there with a bunch of dogs. Who needs humans?", he concurred.
Space exploration wasn't set to start for another 15 minutes, so some terrestrial exploration was due. Having ignored the guides' disclaimer to stay close to grounds due to small predator attacks, we decided to ignore the guides' disclaimer to follow the program next. We scaled every unlocked building in site, and climbed up the steel-beamed ladder of the smaller observatory. It was there that I unearthed a primal truth; short people are scared of heights. My friend took turns morally supporting, threatening, pranking and taunting me to release my deathly grip of the ladder that I'd clasped onto for dear life mid-way, and I finally got up and took shitty pictures of great scenes.
The guide called us back to the first chapter of the day; he introduced us to different types of telescopes; comparing their history, usage, components and science behind them. I unblinkingly stared ahead, trying to retain as much information as the class pet presented himself for validation; a buff, square-torso'd bald man in his mid-thirties, who knew more about space than anyone I've ever met. At that point, I hadn't met the others, so it was true at the time.
We were herded to the biggest observatory, built in 1955 and renovated in the 70s and 90s. Mostly manual when it was built, workers manned the cogs, monstrous control gizmos and lever-based contraptions that now collected dust and stares on the sides. A button-choked sealed cupboard now automated the entire process. The renovation was sparked by the breakdown of the mirror of the gigantic telescope when oil leaked into the pressurized vault during cleaning. Maintenance expenses exceeded purchase expenses, so they went ahead and bought a new one, and replaced the motors while they're at it.
We were taken inside, and a huge speech was given about the workings of the gigantic machine that stood before us, then later led into the control room where we saw the monitor and he explained the process behind the scenes. A talk of parameters and physics, of space and machination, of lenses concavity angles and calculated rate of relative rotation, of passion and custom programming, I could cry. But the best was yet to come.
Pressing buttons, he led us outside. We climbed to the higher landing and stood sentry at the circular walls of the observatory, cameras cocked and ready. At the click of a button on a giant, generously colored remote control with an antenna thicker than a human finger, the walls started rotating. A shred of the ceiling slowly opened and attracted the giant telescope, which started gravitating towards the opening. I took pictures of the first glimpses, then I must have spaced out. I was too busy watching this giant ET finger call home. A scene for sore eyes, outdated as it were.
Night had fallen by the time we were out, and the breeze almost knocked us off our feet as we hurried to the car in pitch darkness, as fast as our clattering teeth would allow us. We put on all the extra clothing we had in the trunk; several unwashed t-shirts, shirts and a couple of jackets. Civilized we'd rushed in, and hobos we'd trudged out. We headed to the kitchen to make coffee, then retraced our steps to the clearing where the first several telescopes were laid out. It was still too early in the night to get clear view of the sky, so the people took their time setting up camera gear and settling down, to the cozy murmur of the guide prattling on about constellations and galaxies.
I had given up on figuring out how to handle and manipulate a professional camera on short notice. Defeated by the runes of aperture and shutter hexes, ISO charms and tripod curses, I went back to the car to bury my borrowed camera and take a bunch of energy bars, my inhalers and an extra plaid shirt instead. We used the time to have a meal of shrimp leftovers; my friend knew I'd accidentally starve us. He knows me too well. I gratefully nommed.
By the time we were back, the sky had settled and let us have a look under her skirts. We had a 5-hour window to sate our hungry eyes before the protective moon came home late from work and obliterated all chance of glances by his meager 18% clarity, chasing off all the chattering girlfriend stars and pulling the darkness coverlets for a night of uninterrupted slumber.
We made do. We saw most major constellations, as well as Messier 4, Messier 7 and the dwarf constellation of Messier 32. We saw the nearest galaxy, Andromeda, and shamelessly peaked in on our neighbors, discussing the possibility of sentient life. We saw NGC 6268 and NGC 6281, as well as the Prawn Nebula IC 4628. We peaked in on Venus and Saturn, and heard origin myths of Ursa major and Ursa minor, Scorpius and Sagittarius, and dispelled ignorant doubts that they had any hold over our fates against astrology enthusiasts through self-entitled, sarcasm-choked, pseudo intellectual debates. We talked of black holes and wormholes, until a loud ignorant creationist dispelled one-way-ticket space exploration journeys as suicidal, and although I had the knowledge and energy to dispel her very cognitive structure into the space junk belt where it belongs and pull her head out of her tight little sheep ass, I shoved an energy bar into my mouth and pretended it's astronaut food.
I took over the guide's green laser pointer with my midget charms - best use of childlike body type if you ask me - and completely spazzed at the possibilities. It extended in a long visible line into space, and the guide used it to point out constellations mid-speeches as if space itself were a two-dimensional canvas. Dragging my friend by the sleeve to show him my recent, prized loot item, we lay on our backs in the middle of the clearing and pointed to space. We wrote our names on constellations, we wrote mirrored messages to aliens, perchance one happened to be looking for one out there, and tried to persuade momma ship to come back and beam us home with an "I forgive you" note, in case she was worried about the holidays. "What would we wish for if we happen upon a shooting star?", I asked him. "That it crashes into earth?", he pontificated. We happened upon four shooting stars, and wished upon every one. Each wish stupider than the former. But most importantly, that it crashes into earth.
The moon was due in 45 minutes, and people were hungrily groping for any visible constellations they might have missed. We shortly froze our asses off and ran back to the car for a woolen blanket. We swapped jackets because mine was warmer and I was less affected by the cold, then we came back and claimed our spots; smack in the middle of the clearing, right under the most crowded hub of stars. We made a blanket sandwich and snuggled in, and napped under the stars while the others hurried to catch the best photo. I can't speak for the both of us, but that star-speckled view is ingrained my living memory, better than any flimsy film could etch on ephemeral paper or imaginary bytes. Visceral develops best; all memory blemishes serve as color correction anyway.
We woke up an hour later, when I mistakenly thought the rustling of wind-carried paper wrappers were hyenas sneaking up to ravage our throats. Shivering, we went for coffee, then headed to the common hall. Most people were sleeping by then, napping before sunrise, only the staff was up. The engineer sat balled up on the couch, watching a vapid late-night show. One lid closed, we joined him, and we talked about space. Covering a wide range of topics; we had all sorts of questions, and later tried to suggest a program to bring people in. All that place needed was advertising and good planning, but it had a lot of potential. I was curious about him as a person. The man had come to give me hope, an astronomer and space researcher in his own right, and I was baffled as to how Egypt could let me have that.
As passionate as he was about his field, and as good as he was at it, he'd ended up in the space department by mistake. "Small department it was at al Azhar, run just so the government would say it's there, housing 6 students in most years, and 15 at its most fruitful year. I heard that it was fun, so I jumped in, and here I am! Thankfully I graduated top of my class, worked as a TA then was conveniently shipped off here, where I've been working since. They have nowhere else to send us, really. As you can see, it's a ghost town up here, the best work this place does is help people write their masters, but that's about it. We get a sheepish 0.003% of the national budget a year. We had a lot of plans for this place, money-aside, but it falls on deaf ears. Not much we can do but do what we do."
I asked him what his PhD was about, he said he was still working on it, and he said it was about the effects of cataclysmic variable stars, and mentioned the red giant star being in its last state of stellar evolution and how it affects neighboring stars that it ensnares in example. I asked him what the most awe-inspiring thing it was he'd seen in his years and years of work, and he said he saw two constellations in their long, drawn-out process of collision, on their way to becoming one, back when he was a doe-eyed researcher. I secretly wondered if that man knew how cool his job was. Wonderful man, with a millennial kid sitting across the couch wanting to be him, and he had no idea.
Talking to my friend about space stations and the James Webb telescope over our last sips of coffee, we walked out of the common hall and were surprised it was light out. Sunrise wasn't for another 38 minutes, so we walked. Most people were setting up camera gear again, to prepare for shooting a time lapse of the sunrise. We went back to the clearing to get a glimpse of the moon, and we did. We said goodbye to Galileo's telescope, Newton's telescope and Dmitry Dmitrievich Maksutov's telescope.
Trudging into the desert where people have gathered near a construction site for what will soon turn out to be the most recent installment to the place; an auditorium, we said our good mornings and snuck in, mapping out what everything will be from the looks of the helix, then climbing up to the roof and drooling at the scenery. We came down just in time, and stood quietly facing the sun like a crowd of grim reapers, behind a row of tripods holding all kinds of cameras that could be bought with mortal coin, to Red Hot Chili Peppers' Californication jingling out of a pocketed phone, followed by several other songs that stood the test of time we were wrestling against to catch those videos. It was beautiful.
Soon, it was time to go. We were called back by the guide to gather our things and head for the cars and parked bus. I cleaned my friend's car, then we had a light breakfast on the ledge that started the trip in a desperate attempt at closure, went back for group photo, said goodbye to our old astronomer friend and got into the car.
And we dreamily bounced off into the artificial horizon, that stood stubbornly poking out at the skies and chasing off all stars and planets with the dreams that they carry, separating what is and what could be by a white and black layered fart cloud, chalking the horizon.
You thought I was gonna say Morgan Freeman, didn't you? You mainstream little bastard, get off my blog.
Let me try. It's comforting to know that hitting the delete button could send it all into the ether. Jump out, little words. If I don't like you, I'll go Sparta all over your ass. Come on, don't be shy. Self-preservation be damned, you're not sentient, stop acting the part!
On a sleepless night, one of many, I stumbled upon this shady little page that organized trips to the Kattameya Space Observatory. Merlin's beard, I had no idea we even had an observatory! I got so excited the alien inside me almost jumped out of its skin suit trying to phone home. I registered myself and a dear friend, called the organizer so many times he decided to be friends with me out of self defense, made calls at 1 in the morning to a fellow alien asking her how the hell people pack sandwiches, whipped out my prized space bag (yes, I have one and it's glorious) and packed for the ride.
And I'm glad I did, if I had the least sense of survival, I would have missed out on what turned out to be - arguably - the best 16 hours of my summer break, thus far. Worry not, I'll top my own charts soon enough.
It was a ride of good music and dry energy bars, funny songs and tailgating professional bikers down the Ain Sokhna road. One of the bikers was a friend, and we honked the hell out of his tight-wearing ass. It's only fair.
We followed the winding roads between mountains that bore all kinds of trespass warnings, from military and animals alike. The suspension on my friend's car was shot, so we got a crunkin' cruise down the unpaved, pebbly paths.
Road trip!
We felt like thugs while we're at it, too. As the little black dude inside of me was appeased, the alien inside of me spasmodically fangirled at the sight of the observatory dome that peaked its head out of its hiding place soon after. I unabashedly gaped and shamelessly squealed. I would have waved, had it been socially acceptable to animatedly greet objects.
Arriving there, after our guide led a brief introduction to break the ice, I stashed some metaphorical icicle shards beneath my shirt just in case. Realistically, I packed some spare change in a book like the nerd I am, then packed the book into the camera case like the fangirl I am, then gave my camera case to my friend, like the hobbit I am. He's less likely to ruin the taters, I thought, and stumbled forth.
And it was good thinking, for within the next 30 minutes of exploring the site, I had amassed 6 different injuries, to the amused giggles of my friend. We had breakfast with our feet dangling off the farthest ledge of the encampment, looking onto the nothingness that fringed distant civilization. Desolation was beautiful, for it had the rare quality of non-habitability; humans ruin everything they touch, and they had not touched this place. I feasted upon the silence as we snacked on our clumsily packed sandwiches.
The campsite was built by the English, back when they colonized Egypt. The encampments were built in the style of lavish barracks, and mostly closed off to tourists. Organized trips were set by the staff during maintenance period, so it was mostly desolate. "Is that where scientists live?", I naively asked my friend who choked on his food at the suggestion of existing scientists in this shit hole. "I can totally see myself living in that one on that dune over there with a bunch of dogs. Who needs humans?", he concurred.
Space exploration wasn't set to start for another 15 minutes, so some terrestrial exploration was due. Having ignored the guides' disclaimer to stay close to grounds due to small predator attacks, we decided to ignore the guides' disclaimer to follow the program next. We scaled every unlocked building in site, and climbed up the steel-beamed ladder of the smaller observatory. It was there that I unearthed a primal truth; short people are scared of heights. My friend took turns morally supporting, threatening, pranking and taunting me to release my deathly grip of the ladder that I'd clasped onto for dear life mid-way, and I finally got up and took shitty pictures of great scenes.
The guide called us back to the first chapter of the day; he introduced us to different types of telescopes; comparing their history, usage, components and science behind them. I unblinkingly stared ahead, trying to retain as much information as the class pet presented himself for validation; a buff, square-torso'd bald man in his mid-thirties, who knew more about space than anyone I've ever met. At that point, I hadn't met the others, so it was true at the time.
We were herded to the biggest observatory, built in 1955 and renovated in the 70s and 90s. Mostly manual when it was built, workers manned the cogs, monstrous control gizmos and lever-based contraptions that now collected dust and stares on the sides. A button-choked sealed cupboard now automated the entire process. The renovation was sparked by the breakdown of the mirror of the gigantic telescope when oil leaked into the pressurized vault during cleaning. Maintenance expenses exceeded purchase expenses, so they went ahead and bought a new one, and replaced the motors while they're at it.
Ground control to major Rory!
We were taken inside, and a huge speech was given about the workings of the gigantic machine that stood before us, then later led into the control room where we saw the monitor and he explained the process behind the scenes. A talk of parameters and physics, of space and machination, of lenses concavity angles and calculated rate of relative rotation, of passion and custom programming, I could cry. But the best was yet to come.
Pressing buttons, he led us outside. We climbed to the higher landing and stood sentry at the circular walls of the observatory, cameras cocked and ready. At the click of a button on a giant, generously colored remote control with an antenna thicker than a human finger, the walls started rotating. A shred of the ceiling slowly opened and attracted the giant telescope, which started gravitating towards the opening. I took pictures of the first glimpses, then I must have spaced out. I was too busy watching this giant ET finger call home. A scene for sore eyes, outdated as it were.
Sex!
I had given up on figuring out how to handle and manipulate a professional camera on short notice. Defeated by the runes of aperture and shutter hexes, ISO charms and tripod curses, I went back to the car to bury my borrowed camera and take a bunch of energy bars, my inhalers and an extra plaid shirt instead. We used the time to have a meal of shrimp leftovers; my friend knew I'd accidentally starve us. He knows me too well. I gratefully nommed.
By the time we were back, the sky had settled and let us have a look under her skirts. We had a 5-hour window to sate our hungry eyes before the protective moon came home late from work and obliterated all chance of glances by his meager 18% clarity, chasing off all the chattering girlfriend stars and pulling the darkness coverlets for a night of uninterrupted slumber.
We made do. We saw most major constellations, as well as Messier 4, Messier 7 and the dwarf constellation of Messier 32. We saw the nearest galaxy, Andromeda, and shamelessly peaked in on our neighbors, discussing the possibility of sentient life. We saw NGC 6268 and NGC 6281, as well as the Prawn Nebula IC 4628. We peaked in on Venus and Saturn, and heard origin myths of Ursa major and Ursa minor, Scorpius and Sagittarius, and dispelled ignorant doubts that they had any hold over our fates against astrology enthusiasts through self-entitled, sarcasm-choked, pseudo intellectual debates. We talked of black holes and wormholes, until a loud ignorant creationist dispelled one-way-ticket space exploration journeys as suicidal, and although I had the knowledge and energy to dispel her very cognitive structure into the space junk belt where it belongs and pull her head out of her tight little sheep ass, I shoved an energy bar into my mouth and pretended it's astronaut food.
I took over the guide's green laser pointer with my midget charms - best use of childlike body type if you ask me - and completely spazzed at the possibilities. It extended in a long visible line into space, and the guide used it to point out constellations mid-speeches as if space itself were a two-dimensional canvas. Dragging my friend by the sleeve to show him my recent, prized loot item, we lay on our backs in the middle of the clearing and pointed to space. We wrote our names on constellations, we wrote mirrored messages to aliens, perchance one happened to be looking for one out there, and tried to persuade momma ship to come back and beam us home with an "I forgive you" note, in case she was worried about the holidays. "What would we wish for if we happen upon a shooting star?", I asked him. "That it crashes into earth?", he pontificated. We happened upon four shooting stars, and wished upon every one. Each wish stupider than the former. But most importantly, that it crashes into earth.
The moon was due in 45 minutes, and people were hungrily groping for any visible constellations they might have missed. We shortly froze our asses off and ran back to the car for a woolen blanket. We swapped jackets because mine was warmer and I was less affected by the cold, then we came back and claimed our spots; smack in the middle of the clearing, right under the most crowded hub of stars. We made a blanket sandwich and snuggled in, and napped under the stars while the others hurried to catch the best photo. I can't speak for the both of us, but that star-speckled view is ingrained my living memory, better than any flimsy film could etch on ephemeral paper or imaginary bytes. Visceral develops best; all memory blemishes serve as color correction anyway.
We woke up an hour later, when I mistakenly thought the rustling of wind-carried paper wrappers were hyenas sneaking up to ravage our throats. Shivering, we went for coffee, then headed to the common hall. Most people were sleeping by then, napping before sunrise, only the staff was up. The engineer sat balled up on the couch, watching a vapid late-night show. One lid closed, we joined him, and we talked about space. Covering a wide range of topics; we had all sorts of questions, and later tried to suggest a program to bring people in. All that place needed was advertising and good planning, but it had a lot of potential. I was curious about him as a person. The man had come to give me hope, an astronomer and space researcher in his own right, and I was baffled as to how Egypt could let me have that.
Wonderful man.
I asked him what his PhD was about, he said he was still working on it, and he said it was about the effects of cataclysmic variable stars, and mentioned the red giant star being in its last state of stellar evolution and how it affects neighboring stars that it ensnares in example. I asked him what the most awe-inspiring thing it was he'd seen in his years and years of work, and he said he saw two constellations in their long, drawn-out process of collision, on their way to becoming one, back when he was a doe-eyed researcher. I secretly wondered if that man knew how cool his job was. Wonderful man, with a millennial kid sitting across the couch wanting to be him, and he had no idea.
Talking to my friend about space stations and the James Webb telescope over our last sips of coffee, we walked out of the common hall and were surprised it was light out. Sunrise wasn't for another 38 minutes, so we walked. Most people were setting up camera gear again, to prepare for shooting a time lapse of the sunrise. We went back to the clearing to get a glimpse of the moon, and we did. We said goodbye to Galileo's telescope, Newton's telescope and Dmitry Dmitrievich Maksutov's telescope.
Trudging into the desert where people have gathered near a construction site for what will soon turn out to be the most recent installment to the place; an auditorium, we said our good mornings and snuck in, mapping out what everything will be from the looks of the helix, then climbing up to the roof and drooling at the scenery. We came down just in time, and stood quietly facing the sun like a crowd of grim reapers, behind a row of tripods holding all kinds of cameras that could be bought with mortal coin, to Red Hot Chili Peppers' Californication jingling out of a pocketed phone, followed by several other songs that stood the test of time we were wrestling against to catch those videos. It was beautiful.
Soon, it was time to go. We were called back by the guide to gather our things and head for the cars and parked bus. I cleaned my friend's car, then we had a light breakfast on the ledge that started the trip in a desperate attempt at closure, went back for group photo, said goodbye to our old astronomer friend and got into the car.
And we dreamily bounced off into the artificial horizon, that stood stubbornly poking out at the skies and chasing off all stars and planets with the dreams that they carry, separating what is and what could be by a white and black layered fart cloud, chalking the horizon.
Tuesday 2 June 2015
Mom's Spaghetti
Yesterday I learned that if you pitch the human in you against the animal in you, even if the human had his word, the animal will always win. And that the real struggle lies in aligning them so that they find common ground in a manner that will still leave you a choice.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)