So I am back in Cairo. Armed with a much better knowledge of Arabic, the culture and the city, I though that everything would be so simple this time around. However less than then a minute after stepping through security I got a nice reminder about the Egyptian hustler.
The first thing to do was to make it from the airport to my hotel. Since I was dragging two rather large bags behind me, this requires a taxi. There are only about ten cabs in Cairo that have a working fare meter. This means that either the average tourist is going to get scalped every time they ride in a black and white car or the fare must be negotiated ahead of time. I find that this means considerably fewer problems than taking the ride with the driver expecting several multiples higher than he is going to get paid.
The first guys I talk to volunteers my price: 50 Egyptian pounds. Quite pleased with the expediency of this, I grab my bags and walk to the taxi where I hear the guy tell the driver 50 American Dollars, which is about 225 EP. Far too much but commonly known as the "Tourist Rate" (No joke, the locals really call it that). So I politely tell him in English that that was too much and I would pay 50 pounds. To which he responded that $50 was the normal rate (it isn't), that 50 pounds is what the gas costs (closer to 10 cents if the car gets bad mileage), and that he had three daughters to feed (a twenty year old guy who hustles tourists is unlikely to be married let alone have three kids). I decide that finding a new person to deal with is best, so I thank him and start to walk away. So he spits 70 pounds to my back with disappointment. Then the negotiation begins. We don't agree. Me, not being ignorant, and he, being greedy, could not come to terms with the flaws we saw in the other. So after about ten minutes of looking I find a driver who will make the trip for 60 pounds. Decent enough.
So the next day I put on my nice new suit and head to the main Citibank office where I am supposed to be working. Long story short, I end up waiting in the lobby for the better part of the day and the next day and the next. I finally get an email from my sponsor on Friday, five days after I thought I was starting work, that the head of the Finance department would call me on Sunday to work things out.
Having a week off gave me considerable free time. After doing a few searches for apartments to get a feel for price/location/size on my first three evenings in Cairo I decide that I am going to spend entirety of the next day looking for a flat.
Starting at 9:30 in the morning, I meet with broker Number 1. He tells me that a lot of rich Arabs come to visit Egypt in the summer and rent flats like hotels so finding something my size and price would be hard. He shows me a few bad flats and I end up not taking them. This gets me to lunch at One after which I meet with broker Number 2. He tells me the exact same thing and shows me two of the same apartments, but with the price increased by about 200 pounds a month. I decide at five o'clock more... ethno-centric approach is needed.
Each apartment building in Cairo has a Bowab, or doorman. He is responsible for making sure nothing bad happens to the building and runs small errands for the tenants. The Bowabs run the city. I decide that talking to a Bowab and seeing if they have any flats open would be a good idea. One of the big problems with this idea is that Bowabs do not speak English. Most of the communications between us are short, barely understood by either party and where horrificly time consuming. But I was seeing flats new so I roll with it. This leads me on a wild goose chase across greater Zamalek which results in seeing apartments what haven't been cleaned since he last Pharaonic Dynasty. After seeing the third overpriced flat with 4000 years of dust I decide that I'm giving up. However I get convinced to look at one last apartment.
It was fantastic. Exactly what I was looking for and a little below my price cap. Not a great view but had everything else. In attempting to get down to business the ring leader of the Bowabs enlists the help of the neighbor who spoke English decently well. So after a few brief sales pitches I finally ask what price he wants. The neighbor translates this to the Bowab who replies and the neighbor says "5000 pounds a month." He then turns to the Bowab in a rather annoyed tone and starts saying in Arabic "5000 a month?!? That's what I am paying for the flat across the hall and I only have one bedroom." So after they finish arguing the neighbor turns to me and says "He wants 8000 pounds." I refuse which seemed to create an argument between the Bowab and the neighbor. Then the neighbor told me that the flat wasn't available anymore because he was moving in, heres the fun part, for 5,500 pounds a month. I left.
I walk from northern Zamalek to mid-island to get a later dinner at a more reputable stand. As I was leaving the shwarma joint a guy randomly sitting on a stoop asks me if I found a place. I reply and get dragged to a building that looks pretty sketchy. Though it turns out to house the nicest flat I had seen so far. Exceptionally clean, spacious and a great balcony with a view of the Nile. The best place I had seen and in the best area as well.
As it turns out the Bowabs from earlier were freelancing as brokers who wanted 500 pounds from the owner for services rendered and 800 pounds from me. I was prepared to pay a marginal fee but not the 800 pounds that the guy wanted in addition to what the owner paid. After more negotiation, I agreed to pay 200 and the owner paid 300.
So here is Cairo and that little speck is me, just one in the 18 million. With a population density more than double that of Tokyo and a metro area half the size of Hong Kong, its easy to be overwhelmed. Lucky for me, I have my own little sanctuary on the 5th floor of a building on Hassan Asem Street.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Friday, August 10, 2007
The Urchin
My senses were suppressed by unintended sleep but I still felt the movement subliminally of something near my feet. The effort of moving my sedentary eyelids wasn't as considerable as comprehending what forms my sticky sweet and lethargy drugged brain was fed. The desert and the sea were there; as they had been when I succumbed to the inadvertent siesta. They looked... strange, like someone had painted half a sheet the paper blue and then folded along the divide but the paper splayed back out to a semi open state that elevated the blue higher than the white. From my vantage it looked as if the sea was rising above me and the next swell would sweep away me and my book and the... It was the dog. I instantly felt gratitude it wasn't the girl again, then... what? Shame? Pity? No not pity. That was earlier. The mutt was the sort of skinny that comes from eating to little and moving to much. I had tossed him scraps of my chicken the day before and he was the cautious melody of grateful that comes from being abused by shopkeepers and pitied by tourists. He had first approached me a step or two at a time. Just to be sure I wouldn't produce a broom and strike the instant he was in range.
Not quite like the girl. She was about six or seven and trying to peddle bracelets made of thread twisted like the coil of a whip. She had approached me with more gusto than the dog. Maybe that's why I had the first pangs of apprehension when I felt the dog near me; not because I found her company distasteful, but because of what vile things Jiminy Cricket whispered in my ear after.
"You buy one?" she in the staccato English of someone not quite sure of their words but sure their time is limited.
"Bee kem?"
"Ohhh you spoke arabee. What color you want?"
"Laa laa. Bee kem?"
"Pay what you think is fair."
"Black and red if you have them."
The perfectly pronounced and complete sentence stunned me into submission for a few tempos. In that time the girl had started pulling string off the spools in her bag.
Her bag. The first time I noticed anything about her was her bag. It had the flare and cut of something expensively European but was several years old as evidenced by splotches of black and gray on the handle which snaked round to cover the bottom.
"Whats that?" pointing to my upper lip which was iced in droplets of sweat.
"Sweat. Water" I said though my hand as I wiped the accumulation off.
"I don't get that." She quipped. "I'm brown." Too true.
The rest of her wasn't in much better shape than the bag. Her pink shirt had morphed into a Nantucket red. Her hair and feet were the sort of dusty gray that too much salt and sand produce over time. She had finish unwinding thread off her spools.
"Hold this" she said as she forced my index finder into loop of thread that needed a bit of coaxing to fit low enough so I could hold it.
After carefully selecting several threads of different colors from the tangle she started winding them around the lace stretched between her hand and mine. It was mesmerizing. She moved with the precision of a craftsman who is so practiced she just moves. No thinking. No planning. Just swift exact movements. Wind, wind, wind, wind, twist a loop and pull tight. She must have been left handed because she was holding the cord with her right hand and doing all of the precision work with her left.
"Where you from?"
"America. And you?"
"I'm Bedouin." I had noted that the instant came into my sight but I didn't feel like pursuing the topic so I let a silence settle.
"What State are you from?"
"New Hampshire"
She made a clucking noise between her tongue and palate which is the Bedouin thinking noise.
"The capitol of New Hampshire is Concord." I must have shown surprise somehow because she laughed the high pitched laugh of a child who is positively thrilled and excited.
"I have a map. The man down the street trys teach me English. He reads map to point."
She made a flourish with the end of the loose threads that had been wound about a third of the way down the remaining threads. Her thin fingers selected a few more white than black this time and started winding again.
"New Hamsheer have snow?"
"Lots and lots."
"Twenty meters?" I chuckled and she stopped winding to look into my eyes. Then she went back to winding.
"No, where I live we get one or two meters per year." The shoulder slump was so subtle I almost didn't see it in the sun. Disappointment maybe?
"But north of me they get three to five meters." Her sagged frame rebounded instantly.
"Who are they?"
"The people that live north my home."
"Whats north?"
"Above my home."
"In the sky?" I chuckled again but this time she didn't droop. Then I registered that she had been smiling since she spoke. A joke?
"Silly silly" she managed to get through a giggle. "I know people can't live in the sky."
The thread had almost run out so she stopped talking for a second to tie off the threads.
"Do you have...?" and she made a motion I didn't catch.
"I'm sorry?"
"You know..." then she made the gesture again. It was sort of a twist of the left hand so the palm was facing down which she then crossed her right over so she could rub her fourth finger on her left hand between her right thumb and index finger.
"Am I married?" Bingo.
"Yes! Are you married? With a... with a... waf, wif..."
"Wife?" I volunteered.
"Yes! Are you married with wife?" She paused her work to look up for the second time since she started.
"No. I'm not married." The dejection in her transparent childish face was devastating.
"No wife?" She had asked hoping to cling onto the one last chance allowed by her vocabulary.
"Nope." She sighed then went back to the winding. I started to fidget because the string was cutting off the blood to my finger.
"Stop! Stop!" She grabbed my finger and the cord in her minute hand. Then she slid down to a kneeling position like a mechanic trying to get a better view of an auto's suspension as she adjusted the loop.
"There. All better" she said like she had saved me from a horrible fate. She gave the half finished bracelet two subtle tugs to make sure her mechanic's eye was correct.
"A Russian woman told yesterday that her finger would" she cleared her throat as if to make sure she didn't mix up words then she said something in Russian.
"Do you know what that means in English?"
"I think it means 'my finger will fall off' but that can't happen," she looked into my eyes again, "Can it?" There was something urgent in the look she gave me, like I was the only person who could assuage her fear of losing a finger.
"Not if you keep moving the thread a little bit." Her apprehension instantly dissolved into her normal bright demeanor.
Another pause to tie off the threads.
"All done! Where do you have it?" I extended my right wrist to her. She gave a slight smile; the sort you give yourself after you think something is going to happen, then it happens just the way you knew it would.
"How tight? Good?" I placed two fingers under the band to space the bracelet away from my skin. She tied off the loose end then snipped the spare threads with a pair of scissors that looked to be of the same origin as her bag and just as worn.
"Thank you."
"You are welcome, sir."
I pulled out three pounds from my pocket and gave the crumpled brown bills to her.
"No five?"
"Too much."
"Okay. Thank you."
She bounced up and waltzed between my book and the low table.
"Have a nice day."
"You too." She disappeared.
The guilt came swiftly. Then the shame; who combined with the first assailant to make a biting synergy that was enough to distract me from my paperback and look across the sea towards Saudi Arabia. Three pounds? I could see she was dirty, likely hungry, and probably without a real home to go back to. Three pounds? It wasn't the bracelet that made me ashamed. It wasn't completely the fact I gave her 53 American Cents. What was it then? I stared across the rough blue to the distant shore. That was it. It wasn't that I regretted my position in life or resented hers. The epiphany had come when I sipped my coke. That was it wasn't it either. Not the coke; the external form of which is know world round as is the product inside. The physic of the coke was immaterial. The essence not the external form was what made me conscious-stricken.
Was I regretting my position in life when compared to hers? Not exactly but it could be that I regret her seemingly limited potential. What could she do? Hawking bracelets on the beach will only get you so far and then... So what do I do? I could accept my moral turpitude and do nothing. I could raise money and help the street children.
On my way out of the restaurant I gave the attendant ten pounds and asked him to buy the girl lunch when she came by again. He was shocked. After asking me several times if I was sure before he finally conceded and took the bill while giving me an incredulous look. So that is what I do. Pray solipsism won't kill me and write bad literature in the vain hope that it will emancipate my soul.
Not quite like the girl. She was about six or seven and trying to peddle bracelets made of thread twisted like the coil of a whip. She had approached me with more gusto than the dog. Maybe that's why I had the first pangs of apprehension when I felt the dog near me; not because I found her company distasteful, but because of what vile things Jiminy Cricket whispered in my ear after.
"You buy one?" she in the staccato English of someone not quite sure of their words but sure their time is limited.
"Bee kem?"
"Ohhh you spoke arabee. What color you want?"
"Laa laa. Bee kem?"
"Pay what you think is fair."
"Black and red if you have them."
The perfectly pronounced and complete sentence stunned me into submission for a few tempos. In that time the girl had started pulling string off the spools in her bag.
Her bag. The first time I noticed anything about her was her bag. It had the flare and cut of something expensively European but was several years old as evidenced by splotches of black and gray on the handle which snaked round to cover the bottom.
"Whats that?" pointing to my upper lip which was iced in droplets of sweat.
"Sweat. Water" I said though my hand as I wiped the accumulation off.
"I don't get that." She quipped. "I'm brown." Too true.
The rest of her wasn't in much better shape than the bag. Her pink shirt had morphed into a Nantucket red. Her hair and feet were the sort of dusty gray that too much salt and sand produce over time. She had finish unwinding thread off her spools.
"Hold this" she said as she forced my index finder into loop of thread that needed a bit of coaxing to fit low enough so I could hold it.
After carefully selecting several threads of different colors from the tangle she started winding them around the lace stretched between her hand and mine. It was mesmerizing. She moved with the precision of a craftsman who is so practiced she just moves. No thinking. No planning. Just swift exact movements. Wind, wind, wind, wind, twist a loop and pull tight. She must have been left handed because she was holding the cord with her right hand and doing all of the precision work with her left.
"Where you from?"
"America. And you?"
"I'm Bedouin." I had noted that the instant came into my sight but I didn't feel like pursuing the topic so I let a silence settle.
"What State are you from?"
"New Hampshire"
She made a clucking noise between her tongue and palate which is the Bedouin thinking noise.
"The capitol of New Hampshire is Concord." I must have shown surprise somehow because she laughed the high pitched laugh of a child who is positively thrilled and excited.
"I have a map. The man down the street trys teach me English. He reads map to point."
She made a flourish with the end of the loose threads that had been wound about a third of the way down the remaining threads. Her thin fingers selected a few more white than black this time and started winding again.
"New Hamsheer have snow?"
"Lots and lots."
"Twenty meters?" I chuckled and she stopped winding to look into my eyes. Then she went back to winding.
"No, where I live we get one or two meters per year." The shoulder slump was so subtle I almost didn't see it in the sun. Disappointment maybe?
"But north of me they get three to five meters." Her sagged frame rebounded instantly.
"Who are they?"
"The people that live north my home."
"Whats north?"
"Above my home."
"In the sky?" I chuckled again but this time she didn't droop. Then I registered that she had been smiling since she spoke. A joke?
"Silly silly" she managed to get through a giggle. "I know people can't live in the sky."
The thread had almost run out so she stopped talking for a second to tie off the threads.
"Do you have...?" and she made a motion I didn't catch.
"I'm sorry?"
"You know..." then she made the gesture again. It was sort of a twist of the left hand so the palm was facing down which she then crossed her right over so she could rub her fourth finger on her left hand between her right thumb and index finger.
"Am I married?" Bingo.
"Yes! Are you married? With a... with a... waf, wif..."
"Wife?" I volunteered.
"Yes! Are you married with wife?" She paused her work to look up for the second time since she started.
"No. I'm not married." The dejection in her transparent childish face was devastating.
"No wife?" She had asked hoping to cling onto the one last chance allowed by her vocabulary.
"Nope." She sighed then went back to the winding. I started to fidget because the string was cutting off the blood to my finger.
"Stop! Stop!" She grabbed my finger and the cord in her minute hand. Then she slid down to a kneeling position like a mechanic trying to get a better view of an auto's suspension as she adjusted the loop.
"There. All better" she said like she had saved me from a horrible fate. She gave the half finished bracelet two subtle tugs to make sure her mechanic's eye was correct.
"A Russian woman told yesterday that her finger would" she cleared her throat as if to make sure she didn't mix up words then she said something in Russian.
"Do you know what that means in English?"
"I think it means 'my finger will fall off' but that can't happen," she looked into my eyes again, "Can it?" There was something urgent in the look she gave me, like I was the only person who could assuage her fear of losing a finger.
"Not if you keep moving the thread a little bit." Her apprehension instantly dissolved into her normal bright demeanor.
Another pause to tie off the threads.
"All done! Where do you have it?" I extended my right wrist to her. She gave a slight smile; the sort you give yourself after you think something is going to happen, then it happens just the way you knew it would.
"How tight? Good?" I placed two fingers under the band to space the bracelet away from my skin. She tied off the loose end then snipped the spare threads with a pair of scissors that looked to be of the same origin as her bag and just as worn.
"Thank you."
"You are welcome, sir."
I pulled out three pounds from my pocket and gave the crumpled brown bills to her.
"No five?"
"Too much."
"Okay. Thank you."
She bounced up and waltzed between my book and the low table.
"Have a nice day."
"You too." She disappeared.
The guilt came swiftly. Then the shame; who combined with the first assailant to make a biting synergy that was enough to distract me from my paperback and look across the sea towards Saudi Arabia. Three pounds? I could see she was dirty, likely hungry, and probably without a real home to go back to. Three pounds? It wasn't the bracelet that made me ashamed. It wasn't completely the fact I gave her 53 American Cents. What was it then? I stared across the rough blue to the distant shore. That was it. It wasn't that I regretted my position in life or resented hers. The epiphany had come when I sipped my coke. That was it wasn't it either. Not the coke; the external form of which is know world round as is the product inside. The physic of the coke was immaterial. The essence not the external form was what made me conscious-stricken.
Was I regretting my position in life when compared to hers? Not exactly but it could be that I regret her seemingly limited potential. What could she do? Hawking bracelets on the beach will only get you so far and then... So what do I do? I could accept my moral turpitude and do nothing. I could raise money and help the street children.
On my way out of the restaurant I gave the attendant ten pounds and asked him to buy the girl lunch when she came by again. He was shocked. After asking me several times if I was sure before he finally conceded and took the bill while giving me an incredulous look. So that is what I do. Pray solipsism won't kill me and write bad literature in the vain hope that it will emancipate my soul.
Perfidiousness
Not to sound pedantic but my preferred example of hypocrisy and its best friend, irony, is the life of Justus von Liebig and the results of his work. Like most good intentioned scientists, Liebig started out wanting to help his fellow man. True to form of other altruistic scientists his first invention was Sulfur Mustards which became prolific in World War 1 trench warfare before being defamed then used again in Egypt and Sudan fifty years later. The diminutive is that this chemical development was the genesis of chemotherapy which saves a respectable number of cancer patients per year. The voluminous irony though is that Liebig was the first person to make a process for Nitrogen fixing fertilizer economically viable. This single invention allowed farmers to stop the time consuming process of rotating crops and just revitalize their fields instantly. The irony is that without Liebig's nitrogen work the world's population (especially in China) would be far outstripping the ability of farmers to produce enough food to feed everyone. The hypocrisy is that Liebig didn't consider any of his works to be significant enough to change peoples lives in any momentous way.
Which brings me to Fashion in Egypt (Ok so maybe that was a bit pedantic). My humble estimate is that roughly three quarters of native women wear head scarves while an additional ten percent wear a full burka (click the links for pictures). Where I see the hypocrisy is that most younger women choose to wear highly colourful head pieces which naturally attract the eye and draw attention to the girl. Isn't it just a touch hypocritical that the article of clothing that's main purpose is to dehumanize the wearer is emphasising the only visible aspect of the Arab woman's femininity?
Which brings me to Fashion in Egypt (Ok so maybe that was a bit pedantic). My humble estimate is that roughly three quarters of native women wear head scarves while an additional ten percent wear a full burka (click the links for pictures). Where I see the hypocrisy is that most younger women choose to wear highly colourful head pieces which naturally attract the eye and draw attention to the girl. Isn't it just a touch hypocritical that the article of clothing that's main purpose is to dehumanize the wearer is emphasising the only visible aspect of the Arab woman's femininity?
Friday, August 3, 2007
Dating
Yes, dating. Why dating? Scrutinizing the way courtship, marriage and how people interact in a society can offer some excellent insights. Due to a prevalence of religion in Egypt, dating is slightly different that in the States. Now please understand that my meager knowledge of this topic is holistically secondhand and/or hearsay. So to remove ambiguities here are a few of the most pertinent questions answered.
What is dating?
The popular definition is: Where a young man and woman (or boy/girl) are in a one-on-one intimate relationship, spending time together alone, "getting to know each other" in a very deep way before deciding whether that's the person they will marry. Quaint, eh?
Is dating forbidden is Islamic culture?
Yes
What, what?
Dating in Islamic countries is highly frowned upon by religious doctrine but I will get to that later.
Is "dating" in Islam comparable to dating in America?
Yes, but no. It's purpose as a selection process is slightly different and the standard procedures are very different.
How is it different?
The biggest disparity is the amount of family involvement. The Quraan states quite explicitly that couples should always be accompanied by a family member because "Whenever a man and a women are along together they are accompanied by Satan." This is slightly reminiscent, to me at least, of the British World War 2 poster advocating carpooling that proclaimed "When you ride alone you ride with Hitler" and had a nice little picture of a Wanker riding with a ghostly fuhrer. Furthermore couples should "lower their gaze to guard their modestly." Good thing the Brits didn't advocate that practice while driving.
Ok so step 1: Pray that Allah will send a suitable mate your way. This applies to both men and women.
Step 2: Family meeting! The pertinent members of the family gather to investigate and discuss potential nominees. After consensus is reached the mother or father will approach the head of the selectee's household.
Step 3: Meeting the date: This stage is the closest thing to "dating" and is always conducted in a group setting meaning the couple will always be accompanied by a family member, usually the mother of the girl. This reminds me of the courtship strategy suggested by Joshua Harris in "I Kissed Dating Goodbye", a book which many parents of my high school contemporaries forced their progeny to read. Mr Harris's thesis is that the concept of dating should be exchanged for a "Group Courtship" which I do condone however Mr Harris did not foresee the probability that if a couple, Christian or otherwise, get married they will be spending time alone and will have no bearing on how their now spouse is during the non social hours. This rather skewed view of Ah well, target your market as they say. Mr Harris has sold a million copies of his book and 300,000 of the accompaniying study guide (these are mostly denim jumper home schoolers after all).
Step 4: Background check time. The families ask about the other family by talking with friends, family, co-workers, religious leaders, and of course, Google.
Step 5: Pray again. Just to make sure all the metaphysical bases are covered.
Step 6: Decision time. A while ago the powers that be decided that the people who are to be married should have final say in who they marry. This was done to avoid making women a commodity and discourage marriage becoming a parental business venture.
What is dating?
The popular definition is: Where a young man and woman (or boy/girl) are in a one-on-one intimate relationship, spending time together alone, "getting to know each other" in a very deep way before deciding whether that's the person they will marry. Quaint, eh?
Is dating forbidden is Islamic culture?
Yes
What, what?
Dating in Islamic countries is highly frowned upon by religious doctrine but I will get to that later.
Is "dating" in Islam comparable to dating in America?
Yes, but no. It's purpose as a selection process is slightly different and the standard procedures are very different.
How is it different?
The biggest disparity is the amount of family involvement. The Quraan states quite explicitly that couples should always be accompanied by a family member because "Whenever a man and a women are along together they are accompanied by Satan." This is slightly reminiscent, to me at least, of the British World War 2 poster advocating carpooling that proclaimed "When you ride alone you ride with Hitler" and had a nice little picture of a Wanker riding with a ghostly fuhrer. Furthermore couples should "lower their gaze to guard their modestly." Good thing the Brits didn't advocate that practice while driving.
Ok so step 1: Pray that Allah will send a suitable mate your way. This applies to both men and women.
Step 2: Family meeting! The pertinent members of the family gather to investigate and discuss potential nominees. After consensus is reached the mother or father will approach the head of the selectee's household.
Step 3: Meeting the date: This stage is the closest thing to "dating" and is always conducted in a group setting meaning the couple will always be accompanied by a family member, usually the mother of the girl. This reminds me of the courtship strategy suggested by Joshua Harris in "I Kissed Dating Goodbye", a book which many parents of my high school contemporaries forced their progeny to read. Mr Harris's thesis is that the concept of dating should be exchanged for a "Group Courtship" which I do condone however Mr Harris did not foresee the probability that if a couple, Christian or otherwise, get married they will be spending time alone and will have no bearing on how their now spouse is during the non social hours. This rather skewed view of Ah well, target your market as they say. Mr Harris has sold a million copies of his book and 300,000 of the accompaniying study guide (these are mostly denim jumper home schoolers after all).
Step 4: Background check time. The families ask about the other family by talking with friends, family, co-workers, religious leaders, and of course, Google.
Step 5: Pray again. Just to make sure all the metaphysical bases are covered.
Step 6: Decision time. A while ago the powers that be decided that the people who are to be married should have final say in who they marry. This was done to avoid making women a commodity and discourage marriage becoming a parental business venture.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
The Art of the Hustle
Egyptians are amazingly adept weaseling money out of tourists. The areas where it is worst (of course) is around the famous attractions. The biggest Pyramids and the Sphinx, Sakara, Dashur, and Memphis inhabited by a very insistent contingent of Egyptians hawking a multiplicity of identical crap. Then comes the welcomed invading task force of Japanese, British, and French uniformed in immodest clothing, floppy brimmed hats, Tiva sandals, full wallets and armed with cameras. Like most wars fought against former farmers on their land the invaders are beaten back with heavy losses. Since my roommate and I have grown accustomed to the force full selling techniques in downtown Cairo we thought we would be well prepared for the next league.
These people are pros. They move in small squads; none carrying the same product (weapon) so not only are they not stepping on each others toes, they can also cover more sectors with fewer people. Want a perfect replica solid alabaster Sphinx? Talk to Ahmed(100 pound good price!). Semi-Authentic Arabian headdress? Talk to Muhammad (100 pound good price!) . Authentic Egyptian jewelry made in downtown Cairo? Talk to the other Ahmed(100 pound good price!). I can't be sure of the true price of the products however with a bit of market research I am guessing that the average cost to the retailer (Ahmed Ahmed and Ahmed) has a rather extreme mark up. So the widget they are selling for US$20 cost them roughly 8 cents.
Hayk, my roommate, loves to barter. We had decided to see the Giza Pyramids in style. So instead of walking we decided it would be more memorable if we rented horses. The starting price was 420 pounds. After 15 minutes or so of... debate the price had dropped to 200 pounds. Not bad for two horses and guide for 3 hours. Hayk had never ridden a horse before. Having never developed a touch for animals and their particular temperament quirks he was ill prepared for riding his horse which had been abused by the aforementioned Camera wielding Japanese. My horse tried to bite me once. Since my brother's last horse was a particularly vivacious harridan who's alacrity in tormenting, demoralizing and expertly heckling anyone who got in her personal sphere still makes the base of my neck twinge; the location where she planted a particularly vicious bite while I was feeding her. I should be gracious though. As soon as my horse swung his head around to plant a nip on my shin I saw the scenarios unfolding. The first was I get bit and the horse loses the meager respect for me which in hindsight was probably the only thing keeping me in the saddle. So I selected option B. Moving my foot a touch higher resulted in the less common combination of boot and soft flatness between the nostrils. For the rest of the ride my eunuch was a saint.
Hayk however was less fortunate. The second time he snapped the reins the horse decided that it was better for both of them if they went their separate ways. Which incidentally was Hayk in the sand and the horse smugly cantering away. After Hayk's dirt nap we regained control of the horse and kept moving.
After trotting for about 10 minutes we crested a dune. There they were. The worlds three largest monuments to despotic opulence and their half woman-half lion guardian. When one is confronted with this type of sight for the first time there are several different reactions; I reached for my camera. Then our guide (Ahmed wouldn't you know) said "I make photo to you" and took my camera. After which he proceeded to (whoop) let my camera slip from his hands and fall (soft whistle) none to lightly (crack) to the rock (tinkle tinkle) his horse (whiny that sounded like "Ha! sucker") was standing on. So to reiterate the score: First time within a Berry Bond's swing of the three largest monuments to human slavery still in the world and our guide had broken my camera.
Swiftly moving forward to the Pyramids we went through a gate and were confronted with several Mounted (on camels) Egyptian Tourism Police who confiscated our horses and informed us we could reclaim them outside of the protected area. So we walked the rest of the way to the biggest Pyramid, which I though would be considerably bigger, and went in.
It is a 45 meter slide bounce and scramble down into to the stale and urine scented air. Moving a bit deeper in the air gets more stale and the scent diminishes or possibly I just acclimated to the aroma. After the jaunt through the stone chute we ended in a room. That was stone. And about the size of two short buses placed side by side. And I am having to draw out the description to make it seem copiously much more fulfilling than it actually was.
When we got out there was the expected regiment of tourist hustlers pushing Coke, water and odd lumps of clay which were supposed to be the Pyramids. Fighting through the horde we recovered our horses and proceeded back to the stable. Halfway there our guided demanded a "tip" which we "didn't understand."
Honestly would you tip the guy who broke your camera in front of a wonder of the world? I thought not.
These people are pros. They move in small squads; none carrying the same product (weapon) so not only are they not stepping on each others toes, they can also cover more sectors with fewer people. Want a perfect replica solid alabaster Sphinx? Talk to Ahmed(100 pound good price!). Semi-Authentic Arabian headdress? Talk to Muhammad (100 pound good price!) . Authentic Egyptian jewelry made in downtown Cairo? Talk to the other Ahmed(100 pound good price!). I can't be sure of the true price of the products however with a bit of market research I am guessing that the average cost to the retailer (Ahmed Ahmed and Ahmed) has a rather extreme mark up. So the widget they are selling for US$20 cost them roughly 8 cents.
Hayk, my roommate, loves to barter. We had decided to see the Giza Pyramids in style. So instead of walking we decided it would be more memorable if we rented horses. The starting price was 420 pounds. After 15 minutes or so of... debate the price had dropped to 200 pounds. Not bad for two horses and guide for 3 hours. Hayk had never ridden a horse before. Having never developed a touch for animals and their particular temperament quirks he was ill prepared for riding his horse which had been abused by the aforementioned Camera wielding Japanese. My horse tried to bite me once. Since my brother's last horse was a particularly vivacious harridan who's alacrity in tormenting, demoralizing and expertly heckling anyone who got in her personal sphere still makes the base of my neck twinge; the location where she planted a particularly vicious bite while I was feeding her. I should be gracious though. As soon as my horse swung his head around to plant a nip on my shin I saw the scenarios unfolding. The first was I get bit and the horse loses the meager respect for me which in hindsight was probably the only thing keeping me in the saddle. So I selected option B. Moving my foot a touch higher resulted in the less common combination of boot and soft flatness between the nostrils. For the rest of the ride my eunuch was a saint.
Hayk however was less fortunate. The second time he snapped the reins the horse decided that it was better for both of them if they went their separate ways. Which incidentally was Hayk in the sand and the horse smugly cantering away. After Hayk's dirt nap we regained control of the horse and kept moving.
After trotting for about 10 minutes we crested a dune. There they were. The worlds three largest monuments to despotic opulence and their half woman-half lion guardian. When one is confronted with this type of sight for the first time there are several different reactions; I reached for my camera. Then our guide (Ahmed wouldn't you know) said "I make photo to you" and took my camera. After which he proceeded to (whoop) let my camera slip from his hands and fall (soft whistle) none to lightly (crack) to the rock (tinkle tinkle) his horse (whiny that sounded like "Ha! sucker") was standing on. So to reiterate the score: First time within a Berry Bond's swing of the three largest monuments to human slavery still in the world and our guide had broken my camera.
Swiftly moving forward to the Pyramids we went through a gate and were confronted with several Mounted (on camels) Egyptian Tourism Police who confiscated our horses and informed us we could reclaim them outside of the protected area. So we walked the rest of the way to the biggest Pyramid, which I though would be considerably bigger, and went in.
It is a 45 meter slide bounce and scramble down into to the stale and urine scented air. Moving a bit deeper in the air gets more stale and the scent diminishes or possibly I just acclimated to the aroma. After the jaunt through the stone chute we ended in a room. That was stone. And about the size of two short buses placed side by side. And I am having to draw out the description to make it seem copiously much more fulfilling than it actually was.
When we got out there was the expected regiment of tourist hustlers pushing Coke, water and odd lumps of clay which were supposed to be the Pyramids. Fighting through the horde we recovered our horses and proceeded back to the stable. Halfway there our guided demanded a "tip" which we "didn't understand."
Honestly would you tip the guy who broke your camera in front of a wonder of the world? I thought not.
Monday, July 16, 2007
The White and Black ones don't stop for Pedestrians
One thing about living in a city is the constant movement. Not only are there people, cars, large amounts of cash and general stuff moving in and out of the city limits; there is a mass of material, people and junk that spends its life just moving around the city. If your lively hood depended on being able to move fast from one place to another you'd get rather impatient when someone is interfering with your means of making money. So naturally when a widget is having to wait in traffic for longer than 4 1/2 seconds it gets annoyed and tries to find a faster way. Then another widget sees the first going faster and says "Laa Zachma!" When you add fourth and fifth widget to the constipation things get painfully slow. Since Egypt is so amazingly old and the normal strictures of civilized society have been deracinated for several thousand years the term "Road rage" isn't used. Its the norm.
Taxi drivers should be noted as being particularly ruthless; not only for their driving but also in fare collection and customer acquisition. Historical note: In the mid seventies the president decided that Cairo needed to have a standardized taxi aesthetic and fare. Nearly all cabs that were put into service were Peugeot 504 series and had a mechanical meter. 30 years later all of the taxis are frayed around the edges and the meters are broken. The most common fare proposed to me is "Fifty Pound. Good price since first time Egypt." (50 pounds is about US$8.75) Enough to buy a large meal at US McDonald's? Here that is enough to go from Giza to the Airport with good tip; two of the furthest destinations apart from each other. To go from school to my hostel? "50 pound good price for husband and grapes! (I think he meant for a man and his family)" So naturally I have to negotiate the price down. If you're patient enough you can always get a good price since there 1/3 of the cars in the city are taxis. So after four rounds of "Hamza" "Laa Ashrah" "Hamza" the cabbie finally gives in and accepts a 10th of what he originally asked. So I'm happy and the he is wondering why a white guy is paying 90 cents to go across town.
There are no seat belts. There are no airbags. There is driver with anger issues and a 2000 pound French car that was build during the cold war. The first few times there was also an sweaty American clinging to anything resembling a handle so that he wouldn't be thrown dramatically through the windshield when the very light car ran into something with more mass and less inertia. Now that Ive acclimated to the lack of inhibition and air conditioning I am much less worried that any second I could be t-boned by a 4 ton bus. Atleast I don't have to worry if my driver is drinking on the job or not.
Taxi drivers should be noted as being particularly ruthless; not only for their driving but also in fare collection and customer acquisition. Historical note: In the mid seventies the president decided that Cairo needed to have a standardized taxi aesthetic and fare. Nearly all cabs that were put into service were Peugeot 504 series and had a mechanical meter. 30 years later all of the taxis are frayed around the edges and the meters are broken. The most common fare proposed to me is "Fifty Pound. Good price since first time Egypt." (50 pounds is about US$8.75) Enough to buy a large meal at US McDonald's? Here that is enough to go from Giza to the Airport with good tip; two of the furthest destinations apart from each other. To go from school to my hostel? "50 pound good price for husband and grapes! (I think he meant for a man and his family)" So naturally I have to negotiate the price down. If you're patient enough you can always get a good price since there 1/3 of the cars in the city are taxis. So after four rounds of "Hamza" "Laa Ashrah" "Hamza" the cabbie finally gives in and accepts a 10th of what he originally asked. So I'm happy and the he is wondering why a white guy is paying 90 cents to go across town.
There are no seat belts. There are no airbags. There is driver with anger issues and a 2000 pound French car that was build during the cold war. The first few times there was also an sweaty American clinging to anything resembling a handle so that he wouldn't be thrown dramatically through the windshield when the very light car ran into something with more mass and less inertia. Now that Ive acclimated to the lack of inhibition and air conditioning I am much less worried that any second I could be t-boned by a 4 ton bus. Atleast I don't have to worry if my driver is drinking on the job or not.
Monday, July 9, 2007
Walk like an Egyptian: Barefoot in the Desert
This weekend my Armenian roommate, Hayk (sounds like Mike), Nance and I went on a Safari in the part of the desert known as Bahria. This is divided in to two distinct sections called the Black and White deserts. The Black is in a formerly volcanic area and there are black stones on top of the yellow sand which gives the impression that the entirety is black; but in actuality there stones are about 1-3 inches apart so the blackened effect is only seen when looking over a large area. The white desert is sedimentary rock that is a very pure white color. Since it has been around for a few years and was formerly underwater, there are a good number of oddly shaped formations. I know this seems like a trivial geology lesson but it was enough to convince the three of us to drive down and see the sights.
Driving down was a quite..... something. We took the bus. If you have ever ridden on a bus in the States you'll notice that the normal clientele of Greyhound does not consist of people you would want to consort with or even sit next to for hours at a time. Egyptian buses are so much worse. Not only are all of the seats filled; the aisles are packed with standing room tickets and any overflow from there is put in the cargo compartment. Since bus drivers are always late they try and make up time by not stopping. Ever. So if you need to get out you have to hit the ground running or not get off the bus. The people under the bus tuck and roll to get off and it is rather startling to see a family of five roll and bounce as they sprawl out. After getting used to the scents and praying coming from people around it was finally our turn to tuck and roll into the hotel.
The next morning we had a traditional meal before jumping in our range rover and heading out to the desert. We started by going dune jumping in the black desert. From there we headed to an Oasis and went swimming. I made the mistake of jumping out of the water and running across the sand. As soon as the water had burned off my feet, my feet started to burn off. Since I hadn't realized what was happening until I was a solid 150 feet out, I made a rather long and hasty sprint back to make a timely dive into the water. Lunch consisted of Fuol (A type of bean and tomato soup pronounced Fool), flat bread and fresh melon.
After a 250 kilometer drive we went of road again to drive though a part of the white desert who's Awe inspiring ability rivals the Grand Canyon. We struck camp just in time to watch the sunset. After dinner Hayk and I decided to take a walk across the desert to go to another group of campers. We figured since it was sandy with a spattering of rocks where we were camped that trend would continue till we got to the other camp. Walking barefoot, in the dark, in starlight, over rocks you can't see is not a good idea. When we finally got close to the other camp we discovered that the 10 South Koreans were quite scared because of all the strange sounds coming from the void beyond their campfire. After assuring the Koreans and their guide that our bodies were indeed corporeal we were treated to Bedouin Whiskey or Whiskey Maroc. This consisted of tea mixed with a healthy amount of mind then sweetened. Think two tablespoons of raw sugar for a shot glass of tea. Coke seems bitter after drinking a glass.
I woke up at just before sunrise. Peeking out from under my blanket I saw the bright spot that foretold the coming heat and thought "Oh that's going to be a good picture. I should get my cam...ZZZZ." Unfortunately I have misplaced my right forearm so it was not under the blanket. I spent two days in the desert sun and the only place I got a burn was a 3 by 16 inch patch on the forearm. The rest of the ride home was rather uneventful. But hoo boy the shower after getting to the hostel was fantastic.
Photos can be found here.
Driving down was a quite..... something. We took the bus. If you have ever ridden on a bus in the States you'll notice that the normal clientele of Greyhound does not consist of people you would want to consort with or even sit next to for hours at a time. Egyptian buses are so much worse. Not only are all of the seats filled; the aisles are packed with standing room tickets and any overflow from there is put in the cargo compartment. Since bus drivers are always late they try and make up time by not stopping. Ever. So if you need to get out you have to hit the ground running or not get off the bus. The people under the bus tuck and roll to get off and it is rather startling to see a family of five roll and bounce as they sprawl out. After getting used to the scents and praying coming from people around it was finally our turn to tuck and roll into the hotel.
The next morning we had a traditional meal before jumping in our range rover and heading out to the desert. We started by going dune jumping in the black desert. From there we headed to an Oasis and went swimming. I made the mistake of jumping out of the water and running across the sand. As soon as the water had burned off my feet, my feet started to burn off. Since I hadn't realized what was happening until I was a solid 150 feet out, I made a rather long and hasty sprint back to make a timely dive into the water. Lunch consisted of Fuol (A type of bean and tomato soup pronounced Fool), flat bread and fresh melon.
After a 250 kilometer drive we went of road again to drive though a part of the white desert who's Awe inspiring ability rivals the Grand Canyon. We struck camp just in time to watch the sunset. After dinner Hayk and I decided to take a walk across the desert to go to another group of campers. We figured since it was sandy with a spattering of rocks where we were camped that trend would continue till we got to the other camp. Walking barefoot, in the dark, in starlight, over rocks you can't see is not a good idea. When we finally got close to the other camp we discovered that the 10 South Koreans were quite scared because of all the strange sounds coming from the void beyond their campfire. After assuring the Koreans and their guide that our bodies were indeed corporeal we were treated to Bedouin Whiskey or Whiskey Maroc. This consisted of tea mixed with a healthy amount of mind then sweetened. Think two tablespoons of raw sugar for a shot glass of tea. Coke seems bitter after drinking a glass.
I woke up at just before sunrise. Peeking out from under my blanket I saw the bright spot that foretold the coming heat and thought "Oh that's going to be a good picture. I should get my cam...ZZZZ." Unfortunately I have misplaced my right forearm so it was not under the blanket. I spent two days in the desert sun and the only place I got a burn was a 3 by 16 inch patch on the forearm. The rest of the ride home was rather uneventful. But hoo boy the shower after getting to the hostel was fantastic.
Photos can be found here.
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