loose on the streets of Cairo!!!

Fri Feb 18, 2005
Subject: loose on the streets of Cairo!!!

I lengthened my leash - I got brave and went out into the vast city of Cairo - alone! Okay, I didn't really go very far from home. Two miles, maybe. But I walked - and what an experience that was! I've been out just about every day since, and I'm getting used to things - but there is never a lack of entertaining adventures waiting for me. This journal entry, as long as it is! is only going to touch the surface of the things I find here.

Karen took me around the neighborhood a couple of times before I braved it on my own. She taught me about the taxis, and how much I should pay to go up to al Areesh - the street where I do most of my shopping - 5 LE, each way, and don't let the drivers pitch a fit and try to get more. Every cab has a meter, it's the law. None of the meters work. You pay what you think you should pay, there is no set amount. She taught me that the Peugeots are better than the Fiats - more head room. The bus is only 50p, but look for one that isn't crowded, since they're usually mostly men; it's best to avoid being the lone foreign woman crammed in with a bunch of Egyptian males. Not that they're a group of sex fiends looking to get lucky with an unsuspecting American; they're like any men on public transportation anywhere, and there are those who will grab whatever bit of Western flesh they can, when the opportunity presents itself. No Egyptian man would ever consider touching an Egyptian woman.

I crack up at the buses - they are white VW buses, like the one my parents had when I was very little - late sixties, early seventies - (but I think ours was blue?). I told Karen the story of how my sisters and I once fell out the back of our VW bus when Mom took off too fast from a stop sign, and the rear hatch popped open. Then we both had a good laugh - thanks Mom! There are standard buses that run, but they're not as common, nor as interesting. The VW's are run by individuals, not a company. Guys buy these buses, deck them out as they choose, then cruise up and down the street picking up riders. There are dozens - hundreds - of them on the streets, and they're almost always crammed full. They cruise by 4 and 5 at a time, you never have to wait long. We got on one the other day. Joe Cool was our driver. He and his crew (the guy who hangs out the open door shouting for riders, as the bus careens down the street) were lingering around the bus, waiting for it to fill with passengers. The atmosphere was light, and party-like. There were massive speakers in the back, and the music was cranked. The driver had a small bag of popcorn, and he offered some to each of us on the bus, and to a few pretty girls who were walking by. Eventually we took off, and our studly operator proceeded to meander on up Faisal Street, swerving in and out of the "lane," insofar as lanes are defined here, whenever something to the left or the right caught his attention. A couple of times he slowed down to watch girls walk by, to offer popcorn and flash his rakish smile. He was in no hurry, and Karen and I were entertained, so simply sat back and enjoyed the ride.

Karen is a tall blonde. She gets a lot of attention on the street, but she is savvy, and fluent in Arabic, so she doesn't get messed with. When I'm out with her I can hear people whispering when we walk by, the hushed, and not so hushed comments. We're enigmas, intriguing. I've been here three weeks, and have yet to see another European-looking person walking down the street, although Karen assures me that they are here. To the locals we are interesting. Karen laughed at me the first few times we went out. In the beginning I responded to every single "hello!" and "welcome to Egypt!" She would tease me about smiling at the men, and then warn me to not do it. It gives them the wrong impression. It's not a social nicety here, it's a come-on. I quickly discovered that what I take to be innocent rhetoric: Hello; How are you?; Fine, thank you, can, with the wrong man, quickly turn into, "come, meet my family," complete with gestures down tiny alleys, and into the dark backs of shops. They want me to have tea, and chat, and see where things go; to see if I fit the popular stereotype. "Shukran, shukran," as I back away. Lesson learned.

The children and the women are different. I speak to any child that speaks to me first: "Hello!" they say, wanting to practice their English. "Helllooo," I answer back, a la Jerry Sienfeld, and it makes them laugh. "How are you?" I ask. And they smile and blush and look up, down, away. Occasionally one remembers that "fine" is the proper response. Sometimes they will say, "What time is it?" and I will tell them, and they will look at me blankly. Their repertoire of English completed, I smile and go on my way, waving. I see the women watching me, in the way that women can look without appearing to be looking. When I smile and say hello, they smile back, beautiful, full smiles. The kind that leave you feeling warm and fuzzy. I think though, that my favorites are the teenage girls. Their enthusiasm is contagious. Like the women, they wait for me to smile first, then they smile back. When they're alone it's a shy smile, maybe a nod. When they're in groups they crack me up, because I will smile, then they all smile. Then suddenly they will grab each other, giggling hysterically, as teenage girls do, leaning into one another, whispering in loud, teenage girl whispers. I giggle, too, and we continue on our ways.

One day I was walking along Faisal when a bus full of young women went by. It was a double-decker, with an open top, and they were all on the second deck, clapping and singing as the bus drove along. One of them spotted me. I saw her point, and heard her shout, and they all turned, simultaneously, to look at me. I was startled at first; they all cheered and shouted and waved, grabbed at each other's arms, and pointed "look, look! do you see?," so I waved back, smiling a dopy, surprised smile. I listened to their shouts fade down the road as the bus sped off with the traffic.

When I am alone, I am much more conscious of the attention that I receive. I completely understand the veil. It affords a comfortable anonymity that I could easily appreciate. When I go out now, I put on my blinders (figurative!). When men approach, as they occasionally do, I ignore them, as I would in SF or Paris. If one says "hello" or "welcome" I acknowledge them, but keep moving. If they say anything beyond that, I pretend that I didn't hear, and keep going. Taxi drivers receive a "shukran" and I step up the pace. When someone asks where my husband is I say, "California."

I get laughed at regularly when I shop. I have maybe 6 words I can say in Arabic, and I can count from 1-10; slowly, and mostly only in order. Often when I am trying to buy something I will speak slowly in English, using only a few key words. Sometimes this works, sometimes it doesn't. I'm careful with hand gestures, because I'm still not quite clear which ones are offensive. When I realize that I'm not going to get my point across, I stop with my slow, carefully chosen English and say, quickly, easily, "malish," (nevermind), and whoever is standing around, listening, cracks up. Sometimes people laugh at me, and I don't know why. I'm having to develop a thick skin.

Karen pointed out the milk store to me - that's how you shop here - there's the milk store, the pharmacy, the housewares store, the fruit store, the chicken store (they chop off the head, and pluck it for you. You carry it home warm, in a plastic bag.) Not much one-stop shopping - although Carrefore is one of the few exceptions - like Le Target on a Saturday afternoon - but with everyone wearing galabayas. Carrefore is one of France's big chain stores - definitely not swanky in France, as my snarky British friend pointed out to me, but yes, a bit swanky here! The first time I stopped at the milk store I didn't know how to say yogurt, and the guy had no clue what I wanted - malish! I left. Yogurt-less. The next time I went I was prepared. I had written down the words for yogurt (zebaadi) and rice pudding (roz benlubaba). When I walked in the next time, the guy recognized me - I am the only 6' tall American in the neighborhood. He looked at me, but didn't say anything. I smiled, raised my eyebrows, and reached dramatically into my bag for my notepad - he smiled and raised his own eyebrows, questioningly - consulting my notes, I made a little flourish with my hand and said, "zebaadi." And he laughed, asked me how many in Arabic, and held up some fingers, so I knew what he was asking. I said, "talaata" (three). And chuckling, he handed me my yogurts. Then I said, referring to my notepad, "roz benlub ... benlub ...," "benlubaba" he finished for me. Ayya! (Yes!) how many? waahid (one). He said something that sounded like "good choice!" and handed my my roz benlubaba. I will be buying more of that stuff!

Karen laughs at me because despite my frequent communication problems, I often have full conversations with people here. They speak to me in Arabic, and I speak to them in English, casual comments about the weather, the traffic, the quality of the produce, whatever, and we seem to understand one another just fine. I cannot explain this, it just happens. Always satisfying.

Cairo and Giza are (is - it's Cairo to the right of the Nile, and Giza to the left - I live in Giza), a huge place. Yet, the impersonal, impatient, hurry that exists in America's big cities does not exist here. Every inch of space is crammed with people, donkeys, horses, wild cats and dogs. The traffic thick, the air thicker, the poverty wide-spread, blatant. I do see families on the streets, but not nearly as many as I expected, and I'm not so sure they don't have a home to go to. It seems that everyone here has a niche that belongs to them, whether it's a 180sm flat, a lean-to with a dirt floor, or a bawab's room on the side of an apartment building. And yet everyone is friendly, everyone seems to accept their status. In the Koran, their lives are pre-ordained, it's their duty to make the most of what they have. Those who can afford it, employ those who need it - I have Henan, she cooked for me today - ahhh, my full, happy belly - and the plethora of tupperware packed with good food in the fridge! Next week she will clean. I feel strange having someone do these things for me, but this is how she feeds her family, and for me, it doesn't cost much. When little boys open cab doors for me, I give them 50p. When they walk up to me on the street, with their practiced pathetic look, and the hand to the mouth - "hungry, hungry," I shoo them away. There are too many; if I give to one, I have to give to them all. This is my neighborhood, they will remember me, and I would go broke. Besides, one little guy, not more than five, tried that on me. Cute little street urchin, filthy dirty, with his little bare feet. Then he accidentally dropped a huge wad of cash on the ground. Grinning broadly he picked it up, shoved it somewhere into the dirty recess of his top, and went on his way. I give 1 LE to the mothers on the street with their toddlers for the personal packages of tissue that they sell. (Always carry tissue, in case you're unfortunate enough to have to use a public restroom.) The system here is foreign to me, as an American, but it works. And do you know what I do not see here? I do not see drunks, passed out on the sidewalk, soaking in their own urine. I do not see drug addicts staggering down the street. Everyone works, everyone hustles to earn their Eygptian pound. Crime seems to be low. I suspect the penalty isn't worth the risk. Karen and I were grocery shopping the other day. We left our purses in the "trolley," (she's bound and determined to make me lose my American accent!), and they were perfectly safe. I would never do that at Safeway.

Egyptians are about the friendliest people I have ever met. The few bad seeds that exist are well compensated for by the rest of the population. I walk down the street, day or night, feeling completely safe. Mom, Gram, Bettye and Cindy - never fear! There are police on every corner in my neighborhood. They know I'm around, and keep an eye on me - they help me into cabs, okay the amount I intend to pay, and give stink-eye to the overly aggressive cabbies that want my fare, even after I've told them I'm walking.

My next project is to find an Arabic class. I want to increase my vocabulary - okay, I want to get a vocabulary. Maybe by the time I leave, I'll know what everyone is laughing at.

Unil next time,

Dawn

p.s. meet Karen: http://www.heartofegypt.com/

p.p.s. for those of you who keep asking - Ahmed is ONLY a friend, and he is my first English student ... you people, always trying to marry me off ... sheesh.