Anna and I spent our first two days together in the famous bizarre, Khan Al-Khalili, tackling her massive shopping list. In Egypt, you can haggle over anything. In fact, haggling is a true art form, one that I take great pride in practicing. There is a definite sequence of events that a seasoned shopper must recognize and respect in order to earn the most bang for her buck (or ginay, as the case may be). To attract attention to their stands, the shopkeepers make inane comments such as, "Come look at dees..I have jus dee camel for you." Or, when shopping with an Asian, "con chi chi wa gah." Often, they pretend to be stricken by a potential customer's beauty (whether she actually has any or not is of minimal importance). In such cases, the following remarks are offered as a greeting: "Ya Salaam!" (Oh Wow!); "Ya Aasal "( Hey Honey); or "Ya Mousa (which sounds very much like the Arabic word for banana. I spent the first few weeks here in utter confusion, as a banana is the fruit which I resemble the least. Fortunately, my friend informed me that this greeting means "Hey Hottie").
Now, after a potential purchase has been spotted, one must inquire as to the price. When the exorbitant price is given (as it will certainly be), one must 'tut, tut' with the tongue and shake the head like a native. My favorite line in response to being quoted a tourist's price is, "What, do you think I'm a foreigner?" This usually earns me an apology and better price. Yet, there are occasional skeptics. In such cases, I conjure up a light mist in my eyes and explain that my father is Egyptian but my mother is American and wanted to rear her children in the Land of Opportunity, thus I was long deprived of claiming my native land of Egypt. After years of waiting and wanting, I have finally returned home and the least, the very least, he could do is treat me like a sister.
Now the real haggling can begin. Here there are several potential strategies. If the seller is not nice to begin with or is still trying to rip me off, I may act angry and walk away muttering about the lack of justice in the world. The preferred method, however, is to the make the seller laugh. A good sense of humour-having 'light blood'- is of immense value. There is also occasional flirting, but only in dire situations. In any case, each transaction is very much a performance, as one seller noted after a particularly laborious deal. Following an hour of price whittling, walking away, tongue-clicking and feigned indignation, we had agreed on a price for Anna's six scarves. Once the money and goods had been exchanged, our demeanor instantly changed, for the handing of the bill is the final curtain call. The masks come off, rival turns to friend, the talk about weather or politics can resume, and a cup of tea is usually offered. This particular seller even took a bow and congratulated me on a great performance. Anna, meanwhile, went home with my Oscar.
Friday, December 08, 2006
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Touring the Big Mango with Anna
Anna got off the plane determined to see and photograph everything in Cairo. She had an ambitious to-do list which included a live belly-dancing performance, private belly-dancing lessons, sailing down the Nile on a felucca, riding a camel, an Egyptian cooking lesson and scuba diving in the Red Sea. We successfully checked off everything but the felucca. Apparently, Anna had envisioned a small boat with a white sail floating peacefully down a river where Pharaohs still bathed in shallow waters. Ahh, how disappointing reality can sometimes be. When she spotted the fleet of mini-ships donning flashing red chilli pepper lights and neon signs that say "Fun" and "Love", she decided that the picture on the internet had been misleading. That was Misconception Number One.
Number Two stemmed from her belief in the infallibility of her guidebook, which had recommended a cozy little place in downtown Cairo to enjoy a thoroughly Oriental night of belly-dancing. I had never heard of the club before but knew that downtown wasn't a great place for ladies to be alone at night, so we recruited two of my Egyptian male friends to accompany us. What we found was a dingy little hole in the wall with bad acoustics and even worse entertainment. A robust man in an orange suit moaned about loving some lady who apparently wasn't responding well to his bellows, while the 'belly-dancer' (who resembled Elvira with long, stringy dyed black hair and a black skin-tight dress to boot) walked around the stage as if she were competing for Mrs. Universe. To compensate for her lack of skill in her chosen profession, she substituted prancing for dancing, only stopping to shake her rear at the few men who stuffed cash in her bust. That one dance move, the rear shake, we later to learned is aptly named "the shiver."
Elvira wasn't the only one prancing. There were several prostitutes on stand-by, two of which singled out our friends Ramy and Kareem as potential customers. We were all thoroughly uncomfortable and slightly irritated at having spent money to feel very out of place and quite dirty. Anna, however, was so bent on seeing real live belly-dancing that Kareem offered the woman $20 to do something, anything, that resembled what Anna had seen in the movies. She gave him a wink and instead pulled Anna and me onstage--another clever trick to disguise her inability to dance. In an attempt to salvage the evening (and just because I like being on stage), I used the opportunity to showcase some moves I had learned from the girls at the orphanage. Anna, however, just turned red and ran back to our table. Not wanting to be mistaken for another of the Prancing Prostitutes, I was inclined to follow. After we choked down the drinks we had already paid for, we made our exit amidst pleas to return another night. Not unless I am bound and gagged will I ever see the inside of that place again. Lonely Planet will hear from me about this.
Number Two stemmed from her belief in the infallibility of her guidebook, which had recommended a cozy little place in downtown Cairo to enjoy a thoroughly Oriental night of belly-dancing. I had never heard of the club before but knew that downtown wasn't a great place for ladies to be alone at night, so we recruited two of my Egyptian male friends to accompany us. What we found was a dingy little hole in the wall with bad acoustics and even worse entertainment. A robust man in an orange suit moaned about loving some lady who apparently wasn't responding well to his bellows, while the 'belly-dancer' (who resembled Elvira with long, stringy dyed black hair and a black skin-tight dress to boot) walked around the stage as if she were competing for Mrs. Universe. To compensate for her lack of skill in her chosen profession, she substituted prancing for dancing, only stopping to shake her rear at the few men who stuffed cash in her bust. That one dance move, the rear shake, we later to learned is aptly named "the shiver."
Elvira wasn't the only one prancing. There were several prostitutes on stand-by, two of which singled out our friends Ramy and Kareem as potential customers. We were all thoroughly uncomfortable and slightly irritated at having spent money to feel very out of place and quite dirty. Anna, however, was so bent on seeing real live belly-dancing that Kareem offered the woman $20 to do something, anything, that resembled what Anna had seen in the movies. She gave him a wink and instead pulled Anna and me onstage--another clever trick to disguise her inability to dance. In an attempt to salvage the evening (and just because I like being on stage), I used the opportunity to showcase some moves I had learned from the girls at the orphanage. Anna, however, just turned red and ran back to our table. Not wanting to be mistaken for another of the Prancing Prostitutes, I was inclined to follow. After we choked down the drinks we had already paid for, we made our exit amidst pleas to return another night. Not unless I am bound and gagged will I ever see the inside of that place again. Lonely Planet will hear from me about this.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Cairo: The Good & Bad
I just spent a week looking at Cairo as if I were seeing her for the first time. My friend Anna came to visit, with Thanksgiving dinner and other essentials in tow. She brought creamed corn, themed paper plates, green beans, cranberry sauce, hand sanitizer and Stovetop Stuffing: all things she assumed could not be found in a developing country. She was right about the Stuffing. After a trip to the grocery store which hosted all the remaining items, we began to prepare Thanksgiving dinner. Conspicuously absent: Sweet Potato Casserole (the man who pushes his mobile factory of baked sweet potatoes had turned in early and could not be located); Turkey (Too expensive here. Besides, why get a turkey when you can walk down the street and pick a live chicken to behead for about $3?); Milo's sweet tea (one of the Uncles Who Can't Cook always brings that; I haven't any Uncles in Cairo); and Honey Baked Ham (Ham+Muslims=Haraam...you can't find a good pig anywhere.) Thus, in the history book of Thanksgivings, this one was not the most delicious. It was, however, one of the most memorable. So, I'd like to formally thank Anna Walley for being the only person I know who would pay overage charges on her luggage to make sure I had dressing and cranberry sauce.
I'd also like to thank her for the increased taxi fares and attention that comes to those who travel with foreigners. But, most of all, I'd like to thank her for helping me to rediscover a country that captured my heart two years ago and hasn't quite loosened its grip. Playing the role of hostess to a first-time visitor, I found myself both apologetic and proud.
Egypt is no Paradise. In fact, if there were some way to measure this accurately, we'd likely find the Mother of Civilization much closer to the Hell end of the spectrum. She's dirty; closed-toed shoes are a necessity for walking Cairene streets and the poor men who sweep the streets are merely feigning productivity. She's dangerous; I am NOT talking about terrorism here or even crime. The dearth of crime is surprising and terrorism is an overused label that allows us to forget that the Middle East is brimming with people, real live human beings, who have the same lust for life as their Anglo counterparts. No, what I am referring to is traffic. The kind of traffic that makes pedestrians run across streets in prayer, just in case things don't turn out as planned. The kind that doesn't stop unless you know the magic signal (It's a hand gesture where all four fingers touch your thumb, but is ineffective unless coupled with an "I mean it" look.) The kind that often grazes my leg or backside and makes me more determined than ever to attenuate those danger areas. (Pilates can save lives if properly used.) The traffic terrified Anna, just like it did me when I was new in town. Had seeing the Giza Pyramids necessitated crossing Midaan Tahrir (the city's busiest square), I don't think she would have gone.
Cairo is also noisy; 80 percent of the background symphony hails from the aforementioned traffic. Ten percent--Allah forgive me for admitting this, but my cultural sensitivity runs short at precisely 4:45AM--comes from the Shaikh belting out the call to prayer right below my apartment five times a day, most notably before dawn. Anna noticed this immediately and began sleeping with earplugs. I can sometimes sleep through it and can even study to the sound of "Allahu Akbar...Ya Allah, Ya Allah." Nonetheless, I've made an addition to my on-going list of how to live a better life (Thank you, Dr. Magdi): "Do not rent an apartment above a mosque. If there are no other options, make certain to attend at least one call to prayer to ensure that the Shaikh has a decent voice." This rule should save me from future feelings of guilt, as I usually laugh when he fails to hit a high note. The final 10% comes from my Bowab (omnipresent doorman). Mohamed, a sweet old man who once told me that I was like his granddaughter, has suffered trauma to his esophagus from years of screaming, "I'fil il-bab!! (close the door)." His dedication is laudable; though his voice is suffering, he's still screaming and apparently the tenants are still leaving the door open.
Thus concludes my list of why I still daydream about living in Italy. Now, to be fair, I should tell you why I will fight back tears the day I leave this city.
Cairenes are funny; Not just humorous, but wet-your-pants funny. They know they've got some problems and they laugh about them all. President Mubarak suffers most from their jokes, with our own illustrious leader Mr. Bush not far behind. Example: Some crazy man flagged down my cab the other day and, upon finding out that I am an American, said he needed to ask me a serious question. Uh oh, Here we go. "Listen Sister (if you speak Arabic, sometimes you get to be a sister), I need to know something. Who do you think has a bigger ego--Bush or Mubarak?" Having just sat in a cab for two hours because Mubarak's entourage was out and about, I had to go with the Egyptian dictator of 25 years. "Ha!, scoffed the man, "Today, yes. But Bush will do something tomorrow and you'll have to change your answer." Then he got out of the cab as abruptly as he had entered it, leaving the driver and me confounded but amused.
Next on the list of reasons to love Cairo are two of Anna's favorite perks: delivery and relativity in matters of time. When anyone here says that he will meet me in the morning, he usually means around noon. We say Sabah al-Kher (good morning) until lunchtime (3-4pm). Everyone delivers: all fast food restaurants, the ritzy restaurants, coffee shops, the pharmacy, the grocer, the alcohol store, the fruit man, the peanut girl, and the lady who will wax anything you request--this is a hermit's haven. Of course, the downside to delivery is that traffic renders most meals lukewarm by the time of receipt. Fortunately, I've been here long enough to learn to laugh about problems much worse than a cold shish tawouk.
This is an abbreviated version of Anna's first impressions. Details of navigating this city with a foreigner will soon follow.
*Disclaimer: I no longer consider myself a foreigner. The moment of conversion came one month ago when I asked for change back from the taxi driver and he readily gave me the due amount. (ie, I got the Egyptian price and didn't even have to fight for it!) I made a note on my calendar: October 14th, 2006, Ava Leone became an Egyptian.
I'd also like to thank her for the increased taxi fares and attention that comes to those who travel with foreigners. But, most of all, I'd like to thank her for helping me to rediscover a country that captured my heart two years ago and hasn't quite loosened its grip. Playing the role of hostess to a first-time visitor, I found myself both apologetic and proud.
Egypt is no Paradise. In fact, if there were some way to measure this accurately, we'd likely find the Mother of Civilization much closer to the Hell end of the spectrum. She's dirty; closed-toed shoes are a necessity for walking Cairene streets and the poor men who sweep the streets are merely feigning productivity. She's dangerous; I am NOT talking about terrorism here or even crime. The dearth of crime is surprising and terrorism is an overused label that allows us to forget that the Middle East is brimming with people, real live human beings, who have the same lust for life as their Anglo counterparts. No, what I am referring to is traffic. The kind of traffic that makes pedestrians run across streets in prayer, just in case things don't turn out as planned. The kind that doesn't stop unless you know the magic signal (It's a hand gesture where all four fingers touch your thumb, but is ineffective unless coupled with an "I mean it" look.) The kind that often grazes my leg or backside and makes me more determined than ever to attenuate those danger areas. (Pilates can save lives if properly used.) The traffic terrified Anna, just like it did me when I was new in town. Had seeing the Giza Pyramids necessitated crossing Midaan Tahrir (the city's busiest square), I don't think she would have gone.
Cairo is also noisy; 80 percent of the background symphony hails from the aforementioned traffic. Ten percent--Allah forgive me for admitting this, but my cultural sensitivity runs short at precisely 4:45AM--comes from the Shaikh belting out the call to prayer right below my apartment five times a day, most notably before dawn. Anna noticed this immediately and began sleeping with earplugs. I can sometimes sleep through it and can even study to the sound of "Allahu Akbar...Ya Allah, Ya Allah." Nonetheless, I've made an addition to my on-going list of how to live a better life (Thank you, Dr. Magdi): "Do not rent an apartment above a mosque. If there are no other options, make certain to attend at least one call to prayer to ensure that the Shaikh has a decent voice." This rule should save me from future feelings of guilt, as I usually laugh when he fails to hit a high note. The final 10% comes from my Bowab (omnipresent doorman). Mohamed, a sweet old man who once told me that I was like his granddaughter, has suffered trauma to his esophagus from years of screaming, "I'fil il-bab!! (close the door)." His dedication is laudable; though his voice is suffering, he's still screaming and apparently the tenants are still leaving the door open.
Thus concludes my list of why I still daydream about living in Italy. Now, to be fair, I should tell you why I will fight back tears the day I leave this city.
Cairenes are funny; Not just humorous, but wet-your-pants funny. They know they've got some problems and they laugh about them all. President Mubarak suffers most from their jokes, with our own illustrious leader Mr. Bush not far behind. Example: Some crazy man flagged down my cab the other day and, upon finding out that I am an American, said he needed to ask me a serious question. Uh oh, Here we go. "Listen Sister (if you speak Arabic, sometimes you get to be a sister), I need to know something. Who do you think has a bigger ego--Bush or Mubarak?" Having just sat in a cab for two hours because Mubarak's entourage was out and about, I had to go with the Egyptian dictator of 25 years. "Ha!, scoffed the man, "Today, yes. But Bush will do something tomorrow and you'll have to change your answer." Then he got out of the cab as abruptly as he had entered it, leaving the driver and me confounded but amused.
Next on the list of reasons to love Cairo are two of Anna's favorite perks: delivery and relativity in matters of time. When anyone here says that he will meet me in the morning, he usually means around noon. We say Sabah al-Kher (good morning) until lunchtime (3-4pm). Everyone delivers: all fast food restaurants, the ritzy restaurants, coffee shops, the pharmacy, the grocer, the alcohol store, the fruit man, the peanut girl, and the lady who will wax anything you request--this is a hermit's haven. Of course, the downside to delivery is that traffic renders most meals lukewarm by the time of receipt. Fortunately, I've been here long enough to learn to laugh about problems much worse than a cold shish tawouk.
This is an abbreviated version of Anna's first impressions. Details of navigating this city with a foreigner will soon follow.
*Disclaimer: I no longer consider myself a foreigner. The moment of conversion came one month ago when I asked for change back from the taxi driver and he readily gave me the due amount. (ie, I got the Egyptian price and didn't even have to fight for it!) I made a note on my calendar: October 14th, 2006, Ava Leone became an Egyptian.
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