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Date:
November 6, 2002
Today marks the beginning of the Islamic holy month,
Ramadan and my fifteenth month on the road. During
Ramadan it is prohibited to eat or drink during
daylight hours. Normally, this would drive my
metabolism bonkers but two days ago I poisoned myself
on pickled vegetables. Every time my heart beats the
world goes a bit dim and I am always on the verge of
vomiting except my back door seems to be the path of
least resistance. I have been spending enough money on
water and soda to buy fifteen falafel sandwiches a
day.
Outside the internet cafe, three wind surfers are
being blown across the Gulf of Aqaba here in Dahab,
Egypt, by the gail-force wind. It looks like fun but,
considering I can't tack against the wind, I'd
probably ground myself against the shores of Saudi
Arabia visible in the distance. "No, no, I'm not
American. I'm from Da'win, Australia."
(Whew. These Arabs smell like goats. And the flies in
this place are driving me mad with tickling.)
Anyway, being sick gives me a lot of time to read and
think, two of my favorite activities, though thinking
frequently backfires through my brain like pickled
vegetables left uncovered and untouched by the locals
backfire through my intestines causing me to crap
myself.
So, I was wondering about one of the great questions
of life: Who am I? I know what I am not: I am not just
a bicyclist or an artist or an American. I am not the
food I eat, the air I breathe or the water I drink.
The pattern of life exists in every cell, the atoms
being replaced and the pattern duplicated every six
months; yet, I doubt I would be my clone. Therefore, I
am not my physical being, the ever-changing reflection
in the mirror. I close my eyes and my body disappears.
I am not the heaving of my chest, the beating of my
heart or the weight of my body. I am not who I was
yesterday, or who I will be tomorrow. I am not the
mistakes of the past or my accomplishments of the
future, or vice versa. I am not any one thought, for
instance, 'This one.' Nor am I any string of thoughts,
like these sentences. I am not who I think I am.
Perhaps, when I am soaring a mile high over Turkey or
swimming meters below the Red Sea in Egypt, when my
mind and body seem to disappear, I am like a blank
screen reflecting the myriad colors of the gliders and
fishes floating around me; or, I am like a light bulb
illuminated by the electricity of life.
Well, I have to run, if you know what I mean.
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