I woke with the sun, the warm rays flooding my room through my semi-transparent curtains. It was early and I dreaded the fact that I would have to reach a full state of consciousness in the next half hour in order to make my appointment for my language exchange with my Arabic professor. I opened my window, sliding the old warped glass of the frame to let in a cool breeze. The Nile below flowed its usual chocolate-blue. Everything was in its right place. But as I looked across the horizon expecting to see the gray blanket of car exhaust and pollution that typically obscures the view of mosques across the river I instead saw a cloud of dust, a layer of burnt orange in the distance that gave way to the bluest sky I had seen since Lebanon. This cloud of smog and sand had enveloped the city for the past months, filtering the sunlight, trapping evaporated moisture which had made October nights uncomfortably sticky. This was a particular problem when it came time to hang our clothes out from our 16th story balcony, as they never seemed to completely dry. Yet there was something new and inviting about this view of the sky, portent of good that was to come.
Ramadan came and went as did Eid. It was cooler, though, than those July afternoons I remember walking the city, dripping with exhaustion and sweat. The meeting with my Arabic professor went smoothly, correcting the subtleties of his diction, accompanied by Sayed's litany of questions on the minutiae of English grammar for which I had to rack my brain to remember rules of English I had not contemplated since learning the language, if ever, in order to answer.
When I returned downstairs from his office my day brightened considerably when the package from my mother had finally arrived after its long journey across the Atlantic and the northern coast of Africa with a 3 and a half week layover in the bowels of the Egyptian customs building.
I walked hurriedly across the outdoor corridor of the University's main campus between the netted athletic courts that I passed on my way to class everyday. The first few weeks at AUC I had felt strangely voyeuristic sitting with my Egyptian classmates watching the various sports being played on the courts but in the months I had been here I had grown accustomed to blatantly people-watching as well as to the fact that these athletic areas surrounded a central area of one of the University's main academic hubs. There was no time to contemplate such things at the moment, however, for I had received my long awaited package from my mother.
I sat in the cafeteria type area, stabbing haphazardly at the numerous layers of fibrous tape which wrapped the box with my ball point pen when one of the custodial workers noticed my apparent frustration and offered his keys to assist in the opening of my Pandoral parcel. And as I opened its cardboard flaps I sat in awe of its contents that I had expected only to be various medicines and a stick of deodorant (both precious commodities for those foreigners living in Egypt). But again my mother had defied my expectations, filling the remaining space of the box with kitsch Halloween trinkets: plastic fangs, jack-o-lantern confetti and spider rings.
And then, deluge.
The cool breeze outside blew the black and orange confetti across the room in a wonderful fury. This was the first time I had been completely cognizant of how I registered the change of the seasons; my previous recollections of this were only cues received from the Halloween decorations in the grocery stores lining aisles in time for early September. The fact that I had previously known seasons through their consumer culture tailored decorations begotten of the nearest holiday was at once a reality. But here in Egypt, there are no such grocery stores in which plastic masks and fake blood pills line the shelves with bags of assorted candy, nor is there such a devilishly consumerist holiday on the last day of October to provide the impetus for such merchandise. Though I had only known the nearness of Fall through the approach of Halloween in the states, my mother's package, filled with enough decoration to make Martha Stewart blush, had jarred me to realize what I had been noticing all day: it was Autumn in Egypt.
And Lewis Black would be proud; I don't miss candy corn one bit...
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Lebanon part deux
After wandering around the market/souq in the Old City part of Sidon, I walked past a portley fellow cooking some sweets. As I stopped to watch him at his craft he gave me a piece of helluwa (sweet cake), cooked in a bit of oil on a large flat pan. The cake's texture was reminiscent of a pancake, with a fresh cheese filling and a sugar syrup on top. Delighted by this exquisite new dish I asked for a plate and he invited me in to eat with what he later told me was his family. He asked if I was German, then French, then Russian. I finally admitted to being American and he seemed amazed but pleased. Over the next few days I came to realize few Americans made it this far south in Lebanon since last year's war.
He offered me some water out of a blue glass container that resembled a flower vase. Not seeing a clearly defined drinking end, I asked the family how to drink from it so as to avoid impoliteness. The man then told me to use the small spout opposite the handle. I put my lips to the spout and took a gulp and the family burst into laughter. Grabbing the vase, trying to contain his snorts, he lifted the mysterious glass object about a foot above his head, tilting it slightly so that a small stream of cold water poured straight into his mouth. Looking at what I'm sure was an expression of sheer confusion on my face, he snorted again and turned away so as not to inadvertently spit on me in his fits of laughter. He gave a final hefty snort and fetched for me a cup.
I wandered around a bit more, admiring the Medieval European architecture of the souq, mentally comparing it to the architecture of Khan al-Khalili, the historic market in Cairo, heavily steeped in its Ottoman styles. I asked a man where I could find a nargileh (shisha) and coffee and he promptly grabbed my hand in his and walked me about 30 meters down the cobblestone path where a woman greeted me and asked if I needed a place to sleep. She then pointed to my travel guide that was protruding from a side pocket of my backpack and told me she was in it. I found the name of a place which I had circled the night before located in the heart of the Medieval souq I had been meandering through all afternoon called “Katia's”. I looked up and she said, “you're welcome here. I'm Katia.”
Fortuitous indeed.
Katia had a kind face. It didn't bear the wrinkles of the tired and troubled faces which roam Cairo but it was apparent her life had many worries. True, she was not poor in comparison with some of her neighbors living in the Souq, but for Katia, her troubles laid beneath her composed and somewhat calloused exterior. She businesswoman running one of only three hotels in Sidon (Saida in Arabic) located in the heart of the souq in a former convent in which she and her husband and two daughters had made their home, taking on guests when the opportunity arose. It became clear very quickly, however, that last year's war had exacted a costly toll on the tourism of this seemingly quiet and happy community. As we sat chatting in her husband's cafe she told me of a time thirteen months ago when the cobblestone paths of the souq were filled to the brim with European tourists with a spattering of Americans mixed in, when as many as 200 people outsiders would pass be the cafe over the course of a summer day. Now the labyrinthine streets weaving through the stunning Medieval architecture of the buildings of the souq were scattered with locals buying nargileh pipes, fresh fruits, haggling over the price of a tunic. I was the third tourist she had seen that day and the tenth of the entire week. Our conversation continued and Katia talked of the difficulties of being one of the only Christian families left in the area, much of the Christian community having left for Beirut during the war and the single bomb that exploded in Sidon. It was obvious by her husband's interactions with local Muslim patrons of his cafe that Katia's family was much more integrated into the fabric of the community than any Christians I have spoken with throughout the entirety of Egypt and with the exception of the occasional annoyed aside about the minarets which surrounded their home, blasting the call to prayer for the devout Muslims five times a day over their loudspeakers, there didn't seem to be any inherent conflict with the predominantly Muslim area. Yet Katia spoke with a bitterness when the conversation turned to the war and its causes.
“No one likes war. My daughters were frightened and as a mother, I was frightened for them.”
Her anger towards Israel for targeting civilian areas took a back burner to her contempt for Hizbollah for circumventing international relations and provoking Israel into last year's devastating war.
“We had just truly started to recover from our disastrous civil war and the Israeli occupation when Hariri was assassinated. We hadn't even finished picking up the pieces of his body when Israel came again. And now we are in a very bad way. A very bad way.”
It was clear to me that while she and her husband owned the convent and cafe, they were still struggling to get by. She talked about not wanting to leave the area that had been her home for more than thirty years but painfully relented to considering the option as the war continued for 34 brutal days.
Later that night after returning from a short tour of the town Katia invited me to sit and talk with her husband and her two Christian friends. I sat listening to the peculiarities of the Lebanese dialect, often substituting French words for Arabic ones. Although still Arabic, it was spoken with such a European, specifically French accent that I had trouble discerning even the most basic words. As I began to follow the conversation more, the topic of politics came up and the voices became lively. All of them expressed their frustration and discontent with the current President Emile Lahoud and his lack of backbone and political force. Then, in a most surprising moment, Katie turned to me and said she admired Mubarak for his strength in leadership and said she hoped for someone similar to come for the Lebanese presidency. Forcing my mouth closed from its gaping position I tried to explain the repression which dictates all political expression and cultural dissent in Egypt. I pointed out that few people in Egypt would feel comfortable talking about national politics in such a negative light because of the ever-present fear of the Mukhabarat (secret police). This word seemed to strike a nerve and she explained her familiarity with the secret police in Syria during her visit there to obtain an American visa five years prior. And upon discussing her travels to Syria her memory was jarred, as if waking up from hibernation and began to almost berate me over her difficulty of obtaining a visa and eventual denial because she was Lebanese. She told me of her pursuit to have her daughters educated to the best standards, in America. She talked of the necessity to flee Lebanon following the turmoil in 2000 but being unable again to obtain the desperately needed visa. But after a moment she seemed to recollect herself, recalling my numerous criticisms of American foreign policy and immigration laws, remembering the rapport we had developed in the afternoon hours.
This was surprisingly refreshing. for the first time since arriving in Egypt three months ago I had met someone who didn't immediately like me because I was American (thinking I could help them get a visa). But despite my explanations and protests, my encounters with uneducated Egyptians couldn't understand how knowing an American isn't an asset in the immigration process. Coming from a society in which everyone has a price and any service, government included, could be bought, they did not comprehend a system governed purely by bureaucracy. Furthermore, the concept of rules and laws as guarantors of rights and liberties which no politician could bend or break or change at a whim was a truly alien notion. And it is from several of these Egyptians to which I refer here that I received skeptical looks after informing them that President Bush was going to leave office after a little over a year. “Why would he do that,” they would ask. “Because we will have new elections,” I would reply. “Oh, we have those. But Mubarak wins them every time so they don't really matter.”
Having only known corruption they couldn't fathom any alternative way of life.
At this moment in my interaction with Katia I felt more at home than I had in months; she recognized me as a person and appreciated me for my beliefs and worldly outlook. Although I was obviously a visitor in this place, she treated me as a friend, regardless of my nationality, no, in spite of it. She gave me the validation I had been looking for in Egypt and had yet to find: she saw my personal merit as the main component of my identity rather than the place my passport was issued. Lebanon was a truly wonderful place.
He offered me some water out of a blue glass container that resembled a flower vase. Not seeing a clearly defined drinking end, I asked the family how to drink from it so as to avoid impoliteness. The man then told me to use the small spout opposite the handle. I put my lips to the spout and took a gulp and the family burst into laughter. Grabbing the vase, trying to contain his snorts, he lifted the mysterious glass object about a foot above his head, tilting it slightly so that a small stream of cold water poured straight into his mouth. Looking at what I'm sure was an expression of sheer confusion on my face, he snorted again and turned away so as not to inadvertently spit on me in his fits of laughter. He gave a final hefty snort and fetched for me a cup.
I wandered around a bit more, admiring the Medieval European architecture of the souq, mentally comparing it to the architecture of Khan al-Khalili, the historic market in Cairo, heavily steeped in its Ottoman styles. I asked a man where I could find a nargileh (shisha) and coffee and he promptly grabbed my hand in his and walked me about 30 meters down the cobblestone path where a woman greeted me and asked if I needed a place to sleep. She then pointed to my travel guide that was protruding from a side pocket of my backpack and told me she was in it. I found the name of a place which I had circled the night before located in the heart of the Medieval souq I had been meandering through all afternoon called “Katia's”. I looked up and she said, “you're welcome here. I'm Katia.”
Fortuitous indeed.
Katia had a kind face. It didn't bear the wrinkles of the tired and troubled faces which roam Cairo but it was apparent her life had many worries. True, she was not poor in comparison with some of her neighbors living in the Souq, but for Katia, her troubles laid beneath her composed and somewhat calloused exterior. She businesswoman running one of only three hotels in Sidon (Saida in Arabic) located in the heart of the souq in a former convent in which she and her husband and two daughters had made their home, taking on guests when the opportunity arose. It became clear very quickly, however, that last year's war had exacted a costly toll on the tourism of this seemingly quiet and happy community. As we sat chatting in her husband's cafe she told me of a time thirteen months ago when the cobblestone paths of the souq were filled to the brim with European tourists with a spattering of Americans mixed in, when as many as 200 people outsiders would pass be the cafe over the course of a summer day. Now the labyrinthine streets weaving through the stunning Medieval architecture of the buildings of the souq were scattered with locals buying nargileh pipes, fresh fruits, haggling over the price of a tunic. I was the third tourist she had seen that day and the tenth of the entire week. Our conversation continued and Katia talked of the difficulties of being one of the only Christian families left in the area, much of the Christian community having left for Beirut during the war and the single bomb that exploded in Sidon. It was obvious by her husband's interactions with local Muslim patrons of his cafe that Katia's family was much more integrated into the fabric of the community than any Christians I have spoken with throughout the entirety of Egypt and with the exception of the occasional annoyed aside about the minarets which surrounded their home, blasting the call to prayer for the devout Muslims five times a day over their loudspeakers, there didn't seem to be any inherent conflict with the predominantly Muslim area. Yet Katia spoke with a bitterness when the conversation turned to the war and its causes.
“No one likes war. My daughters were frightened and as a mother, I was frightened for them.”
Her anger towards Israel for targeting civilian areas took a back burner to her contempt for Hizbollah for circumventing international relations and provoking Israel into last year's devastating war.
“We had just truly started to recover from our disastrous civil war and the Israeli occupation when Hariri was assassinated. We hadn't even finished picking up the pieces of his body when Israel came again. And now we are in a very bad way. A very bad way.”
It was clear to me that while she and her husband owned the convent and cafe, they were still struggling to get by. She talked about not wanting to leave the area that had been her home for more than thirty years but painfully relented to considering the option as the war continued for 34 brutal days.
Later that night after returning from a short tour of the town Katia invited me to sit and talk with her husband and her two Christian friends. I sat listening to the peculiarities of the Lebanese dialect, often substituting French words for Arabic ones. Although still Arabic, it was spoken with such a European, specifically French accent that I had trouble discerning even the most basic words. As I began to follow the conversation more, the topic of politics came up and the voices became lively. All of them expressed their frustration and discontent with the current President Emile Lahoud and his lack of backbone and political force. Then, in a most surprising moment, Katie turned to me and said she admired Mubarak for his strength in leadership and said she hoped for someone similar to come for the Lebanese presidency. Forcing my mouth closed from its gaping position I tried to explain the repression which dictates all political expression and cultural dissent in Egypt. I pointed out that few people in Egypt would feel comfortable talking about national politics in such a negative light because of the ever-present fear of the Mukhabarat (secret police). This word seemed to strike a nerve and she explained her familiarity with the secret police in Syria during her visit there to obtain an American visa five years prior. And upon discussing her travels to Syria her memory was jarred, as if waking up from hibernation and began to almost berate me over her difficulty of obtaining a visa and eventual denial because she was Lebanese. She told me of her pursuit to have her daughters educated to the best standards, in America. She talked of the necessity to flee Lebanon following the turmoil in 2000 but being unable again to obtain the desperately needed visa. But after a moment she seemed to recollect herself, recalling my numerous criticisms of American foreign policy and immigration laws, remembering the rapport we had developed in the afternoon hours.
This was surprisingly refreshing. for the first time since arriving in Egypt three months ago I had met someone who didn't immediately like me because I was American (thinking I could help them get a visa). But despite my explanations and protests, my encounters with uneducated Egyptians couldn't understand how knowing an American isn't an asset in the immigration process. Coming from a society in which everyone has a price and any service, government included, could be bought, they did not comprehend a system governed purely by bureaucracy. Furthermore, the concept of rules and laws as guarantors of rights and liberties which no politician could bend or break or change at a whim was a truly alien notion. And it is from several of these Egyptians to which I refer here that I received skeptical looks after informing them that President Bush was going to leave office after a little over a year. “Why would he do that,” they would ask. “Because we will have new elections,” I would reply. “Oh, we have those. But Mubarak wins them every time so they don't really matter.”
Having only known corruption they couldn't fathom any alternative way of life.
At this moment in my interaction with Katia I felt more at home than I had in months; she recognized me as a person and appreciated me for my beliefs and worldly outlook. Although I was obviously a visitor in this place, she treated me as a friend, regardless of my nationality, no, in spite of it. She gave me the validation I had been looking for in Egypt and had yet to find: she saw my personal merit as the main component of my identity rather than the place my passport was issued. Lebanon was a truly wonderful place.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Lebanon part I
As the plane made its final descent the mountainous city of Beirut appeared through the fog (I use the term 'mountainous' here liberally as the city is at sea level being a coastal town, but in comparison with Egypt, the hills of Beirut looked like the Himalayas). I had seen pictures before of Beirut, yet upon first glance from the window of the plane I was awed: the plethora of green vegetation mixed with the reddish soil typical of the Mediterranean was breath-taking. And yet there was something else that took my breath away with regards to the city's appearance but I couldn't immediately put my finger on it. I continued my conversation with the two young female high school teachers sitting adjacent to me in a combination of Arabic, French, and English. But as I turned to the window again I realized what was so stunning: it was the first time I had seen genuine rain clouds, not the mass of smog that envelopes the Cairo sky at dusk, in literally three months.
The airport was pristine and gleaming, and the public officials were courtous and helpful, and the processing of passengers was the most efficient governmental service I had seen in some time. Despite popular belief that I would be detained at the border in a place of supposed lawlessness where terrorists roam freely my first impressions of the country were similar to those I remember from my visits to France and Germany: welcoming and inviting.
After walking the city for a couple of hours, meandering from back alley to seaside, no one asked why an American would come to Lebanon, though it was apparent by the reactions to my response as to their inquiries of my nationality that few Americans frequented this place. The more common question was “Why are you learning Arabic? French and English are much better.”
I could certainly see how this place had earned the title the 'Paris of the Middle East'. It was, without a doubt, worlds away from Cairo. The French Mandate-Era had a profound impact on the area, reminding me more of Marseilles in the south of France than anything I have seen thus far in Egypt.
There is an interesting feeling to the city as well, without alarming my family who will inevitably read this, because of the quite noticeable military presence. In Egypt, with the exception of the heavily armed guards in front of the American embassy, the soldiers and police are mostly decorative, that is, placed strategically for intimidation and repression. In Cairo it is not uncommon to find police officers asleep, head resting on the open barrel of their AK-47s. In Beirut this is certainly not the case. Every five blocks or so you will see a small squad of military troops donning their black, white and gray camouflaged uniforms, and although some of the guns they tote are dirty, the chambers and actions of the guns are polished from recent use. In one building that had been ravaged by the civil war and never been renovated, the walls were completely torn off one side and jungle tarp mesh hung from the ceilings concealing the forty-odd soldiers who must have been housed there. Out front there were two large anti-aircraft mobile gun batteries. This, mind you, is but a 5 minute walk from the heart of downtown.
Another observation I found interesting was that the city of Beirut was literally plastered with poster with the words “truth الحقيقة" sometimes accompanied by pictures of Rafik Hariri, former Prime Minister of Lebanon who was assassinated in 2005. There is much speculation as to who was responsible for the assassination but as the posters clearly demonstrate the issue is still a hot topic in the hearts and minds of numerous Lebanese.
One final note before I go out to experience the infamous Beirut nightlife, several of the buildings in the downtown sector were constructed with a rosy granite. In all honesty, it reminded me of the capital and surrounding buildings in Austin. Beirut's buzzing downtown was just as green and the people were likewise extraordinarily friendly. They spoke a bit more Arabic and French than you would generally find in ol'Waterloo, but I can certainly live with that.
The airport was pristine and gleaming, and the public officials were courtous and helpful, and the processing of passengers was the most efficient governmental service I had seen in some time. Despite popular belief that I would be detained at the border in a place of supposed lawlessness where terrorists roam freely my first impressions of the country were similar to those I remember from my visits to France and Germany: welcoming and inviting.
After walking the city for a couple of hours, meandering from back alley to seaside, no one asked why an American would come to Lebanon, though it was apparent by the reactions to my response as to their inquiries of my nationality that few Americans frequented this place. The more common question was “Why are you learning Arabic? French and English are much better.”
I could certainly see how this place had earned the title the 'Paris of the Middle East'. It was, without a doubt, worlds away from Cairo. The French Mandate-Era had a profound impact on the area, reminding me more of Marseilles in the south of France than anything I have seen thus far in Egypt.
There is an interesting feeling to the city as well, without alarming my family who will inevitably read this, because of the quite noticeable military presence. In Egypt, with the exception of the heavily armed guards in front of the American embassy, the soldiers and police are mostly decorative, that is, placed strategically for intimidation and repression. In Cairo it is not uncommon to find police officers asleep, head resting on the open barrel of their AK-47s. In Beirut this is certainly not the case. Every five blocks or so you will see a small squad of military troops donning their black, white and gray camouflaged uniforms, and although some of the guns they tote are dirty, the chambers and actions of the guns are polished from recent use. In one building that had been ravaged by the civil war and never been renovated, the walls were completely torn off one side and jungle tarp mesh hung from the ceilings concealing the forty-odd soldiers who must have been housed there. Out front there were two large anti-aircraft mobile gun batteries. This, mind you, is but a 5 minute walk from the heart of downtown.
Another observation I found interesting was that the city of Beirut was literally plastered with poster with the words “truth الحقيقة" sometimes accompanied by pictures of Rafik Hariri, former Prime Minister of Lebanon who was assassinated in 2005. There is much speculation as to who was responsible for the assassination but as the posters clearly demonstrate the issue is still a hot topic in the hearts and minds of numerous Lebanese.
One final note before I go out to experience the infamous Beirut nightlife, several of the buildings in the downtown sector were constructed with a rosy granite. In all honesty, it reminded me of the capital and surrounding buildings in Austin. Beirut's buzzing downtown was just as green and the people were likewise extraordinarily friendly. They spoke a bit more Arabic and French than you would generally find in ol'Waterloo, but I can certainly live with that.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
new shisha and days of old
In a back alley of Garden city I found an cafe to rest my tired soles, reflecting on my experience and impressions of Cairo and Egypt thus far. After meandering from the Mogamba office to the American Embassy and back in the heat of the African sun my tunic shirt stuck to my torso. The sweat of an afternoon walk downtown was the gratifying badge of a successful journey through Cairo, discovering cultural nuances in every block. I reached for one of the many wooden-wicker chairs at an empty table in the open-air cafe. This ahawa was typical of traditional haunts that pepper the back streets of downtown, wooden paneling lining the walls, adorned with fans made in the late 60s. I imagined myself traversing the dusty streets of Cairo in the era of Nasser or Sadat when few women wore the hijab and the niqab was nonexistent. Maybe previous days had been spent celebrating the victory of the war of attrition against the Zionist state. Heated conversations following the Sadat's assassination for his appeasement of Israel flaring up over every table. I sat, pensive, contemplating this place that hadn't changed in thirty some years, realizing when I stepped over the threshold of the entrance I had walked into the glory days of Egypt. As I wrote in my diary, the clatter of ivory dominoes penetrated the Arabic conversations around me like rattling bones. The only thing new in this place was the apple and molasses tobacco that filled the bowls of the plethora of shisha water pipes and it was the constancy of shisha culture and continuous demand for shisha that, I supposed, had kept this relic in business. Today, many of the shisha cafes have succumbed to the pressures of modernity, often employing televisions to entertain patrons with a steady stream of music videos, both from the Arab world and America. Yet this house of shisha willfully defied change; not antiquated as younger Egyptians might say but rather, a monument, a living relic providing respite for those who seek to remember better days. After finishing my shisha, I paid the three pound tab and walked towards the street rested, nostalgic for a time before my days, of Egyptian prosperity. But the clouds beneath my feet dissipated as quickly as they came as a glistening new yellow hummer sped by the alley blaring a Justin Timberlake song.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Egyptian dating
Tonight I had my first date with an Egyptian girl, two in fact. Samah and her friend Nora met me at Groppie Cafe in Medan Talet Harb for the most interesting practice of my Arabic skills to date. Between the two of them, they have had nine years of English training but their English skills were very poor, virtually non-existent, which made null and void my conversational charm that typifies my interactions with members of the opposite sex. In all seriousness, this was a chance for me to woo these girls in Arabic, so my usual fumbling for words could be passed off as a cute foreigner struggling with a new language.
Yes, this cultural encounter truly defied all of my preconceived notions of dating from which I extrapolated a number of truths. Firstly, flirtatiousness is a universal language that transcends even the most tenuous communicative scenarios.
Nora began the conversation by quizzing me on Arabic words found in my borrowed Egyptian Arabic phrasebook but after some time the novelty of such practice wore off. And so we seemed at an impasse: I had exhausted my limited vocabulary of Ammaya (Egyptian Colloquial Arabic) and the girls began to seem frustrated with the lack of steady communication. At this moment, when it seemed this evening was about to be filed into one of the over-flowing cabinets in my brain labeled 'failed attempts', just went I thought the night was about to come to an abrupt end, I began to smile.
Truth number two: never underestimate the power of a smile.
I smiled, musing this date marked my third Friday in Cairo and I was already having dinner with two Egyptian girls. I smiled because in three weeks I have made numerous potentially lifelong friends, Egyptian, European, and American. I smiled because Egypt is beautiful and I was sitting across from two beautiful young Egyptian women. And then something wonderful happened...they smiled back.
These weren't run-of-the-mill, everyday smiles. No, They weren't even the typical Egyptian smiles, pleasant and inviting, which accompany everyone who returns your salutation. No. These smiles conveyed a feeling of contentment and happiness that, had we the words in any language, would fail description. They were filled with warmth and beauty. A truly wonderful smile is not just a few muscles in the mouth contorting to a pleasing form but rather it is a body language of infinite expression involving the entire face, eyes, and posture. These smiles spoke volumes.
And, with my confidence renewed, I switched to speaking foos'ha, a bit archaic to their ears, I'm sure, as it is not a spoken language but rather the written language for Quranic studies. It was, nonetheless, discernible to their ears and a way to further the conversation. As we continued chatting we came to the subject of religion. Perhaps they were using very simple sentence constructions to facilitate my understanding or perhaps it is just a common question but they asked “do you know Mohammad?” Being the cheeky bastard that I am, I replied in good smart-ass fashion, “I know many Muhammads” (because the name Muhammad is so prevalent, there is a common joke among Egyptians that, if you call for Muhammad down a crowded street, everyone will turn around). But after seeing their confused and disconcerted expressions they repeated the question, this time using the definite article 'the' to make their point clear (a bit redundant because Muhammad is a proper noun, definite by nature). I then, more tactfully replied, “Yes, I know the Muhammad.” They then asked if I loved Muhammad and it was here that I was really at a loss as to the proper response. On the one hand I could say yes, knowing full well that the connotation of such love conveyed a religious affiliation and I would be expected to act accordingly. (It is also of note that to the everyday Egyptian, the first reason a Westerner, especially an American, would learn Arabic is because they are a Muslim.) Yet saying I didn't love Muhammad would have brought a most certain premature end to what had thus far been a wonderful evening. So, in one of my more brilliant moments (few and far between though they may be) I reached for the Arabic phrasebook and rifled through the pages to spit out quickly “I am Christian.” In my haste to find the word I butchered the pronunciation, so I pointed to the Arabic script on the page. They let out a long “ah” of approval, then saying, “so, you love the Messiah.”
“Yes, I love the Messiah.”
Crisis averted.
The next fifteen minutes of the conversation were spent trying to decipher a phrase that I had not yet come into contact with. After much struggling I reluctantly reached again for the Arabic dictionary. They were using the future tense, with which I am not familiar. I frantically scoured the book to find their meaning. At last, the word they were using I translated to mean “next meeting.” She was asking for another date.
And the saga continues...
Yes, this cultural encounter truly defied all of my preconceived notions of dating from which I extrapolated a number of truths. Firstly, flirtatiousness is a universal language that transcends even the most tenuous communicative scenarios.
Nora began the conversation by quizzing me on Arabic words found in my borrowed Egyptian Arabic phrasebook but after some time the novelty of such practice wore off. And so we seemed at an impasse: I had exhausted my limited vocabulary of Ammaya (Egyptian Colloquial Arabic) and the girls began to seem frustrated with the lack of steady communication. At this moment, when it seemed this evening was about to be filed into one of the over-flowing cabinets in my brain labeled 'failed attempts', just went I thought the night was about to come to an abrupt end, I began to smile.
Truth number two: never underestimate the power of a smile.
I smiled, musing this date marked my third Friday in Cairo and I was already having dinner with two Egyptian girls. I smiled because in three weeks I have made numerous potentially lifelong friends, Egyptian, European, and American. I smiled because Egypt is beautiful and I was sitting across from two beautiful young Egyptian women. And then something wonderful happened...they smiled back.
These weren't run-of-the-mill, everyday smiles. No, They weren't even the typical Egyptian smiles, pleasant and inviting, which accompany everyone who returns your salutation. No. These smiles conveyed a feeling of contentment and happiness that, had we the words in any language, would fail description. They were filled with warmth and beauty. A truly wonderful smile is not just a few muscles in the mouth contorting to a pleasing form but rather it is a body language of infinite expression involving the entire face, eyes, and posture. These smiles spoke volumes.
And, with my confidence renewed, I switched to speaking foos'ha, a bit archaic to their ears, I'm sure, as it is not a spoken language but rather the written language for Quranic studies. It was, nonetheless, discernible to their ears and a way to further the conversation. As we continued chatting we came to the subject of religion. Perhaps they were using very simple sentence constructions to facilitate my understanding or perhaps it is just a common question but they asked “do you know Mohammad?” Being the cheeky bastard that I am, I replied in good smart-ass fashion, “I know many Muhammads” (because the name Muhammad is so prevalent, there is a common joke among Egyptians that, if you call for Muhammad down a crowded street, everyone will turn around). But after seeing their confused and disconcerted expressions they repeated the question, this time using the definite article 'the' to make their point clear (a bit redundant because Muhammad is a proper noun, definite by nature). I then, more tactfully replied, “Yes, I know the Muhammad.” They then asked if I loved Muhammad and it was here that I was really at a loss as to the proper response. On the one hand I could say yes, knowing full well that the connotation of such love conveyed a religious affiliation and I would be expected to act accordingly. (It is also of note that to the everyday Egyptian, the first reason a Westerner, especially an American, would learn Arabic is because they are a Muslim.) Yet saying I didn't love Muhammad would have brought a most certain premature end to what had thus far been a wonderful evening. So, in one of my more brilliant moments (few and far between though they may be) I reached for the Arabic phrasebook and rifled through the pages to spit out quickly “I am Christian.” In my haste to find the word I butchered the pronunciation, so I pointed to the Arabic script on the page. They let out a long “ah” of approval, then saying, “so, you love the Messiah.”
“Yes, I love the Messiah.”
Crisis averted.
The next fifteen minutes of the conversation were spent trying to decipher a phrase that I had not yet come into contact with. After much struggling I reluctantly reached again for the Arabic dictionary. They were using the future tense, with which I am not familiar. I frantically scoured the book to find their meaning. At last, the word they were using I translated to mean “next meeting.” She was asking for another date.
And the saga continues...
Sunday, June 10, 2007
friend from Dahab
We left Cairo near half past nine, quite early considering my 5am return from the Omar Sharif film cast party on the Nile the night before. Following a brief shisha and tea with my Egyptian friend Tarik and Swedish friend Stefan, the three of us caught a microbus to Giza, but before delving into the minutiae of my pyramidal adventure I'd first like to share a few words about Tarik, a truly unique character. A former man of the street the face of the fifty-something Egyptian was that of leather, worn, marked by creases stretching the length of his forehead and far more defined and deep than his age would suggest. Fifteen years ago the street beggar cleaned up his act, quit drugs and drinking, the impetus for said drastic changes I suspect was a European woman he met and maybe loved. He has spoken about a Western woman who gave him the advice to extricate the 'Egyptian” sense of time from his mind. When dealing with Western tourists, always be punctual and on time, if not early. To best illustrate the concept of Egyptian time I refer to my recent lesson in Arabic noting there are no words in commonly used Ammaya or Egyptian Arabic to specify a time increment of less than five minutes. That is, there are only words for five after, ten after, one-quarter past, one-third past, ten till half past, five till half past, and so on. In addition, a time, say 5:31, is commonly referred to in Arabic either by five till half past, half past, or five after half past; there is a ten minute window of time that is, by Egyptian standards, is completely equivalent. None of these is more correct of a response than the other. With this understanding of the Egyptian notion of time one can begin to understand the magnitude of change in behavior required for an Egyptian to become punctual in the Western sense. And now Tarik is truly the most punctual Egyptian I have met in my two and a half weeks here in Cairo. To say his life has been hard would be the understatement of the decade; one look at his face and you see years of accumulated worry and struggle that many in America and elsewhere in the West could not begin to fathom. Despite his relatively small stature, the man stands tall and proud, having spent the last fifteen years off the streets, working two jobs in Dahab to pay for private lessons for his two daughters. He is still a man of meager means and even so, he refused to let Stefan and I reimburse him for the numerous coffees, teas, and shishas he has purchased for us. To accept something like this would be an act of charity in his eyes, and it is this pride in being honest, he would contend, that sets him apart from the everyday impoverished beggar. I would say in addition it is his firm belief in moral absolutism, his notion of right and wrong, that distinguishes him from people in many cultures. Albeit, he is a bit rough and sometimes crude, these are simply byproducts of having spent the majority of his life fighting for each meal. His soul is kind and his magnanimous actions reflect his truly genuine character. He treats us as friends. He treats us as Egyptians. And he makes us feel at home...
Unfortunately it is past my bedtime. Tomorrow, insha'allah (God willing), I will write about the horse ride in the desert, riding frantically from the cops, and tell of more fascinating people I have met along the way.
Saturday, June 9, 2007
ya'allah
to placate the massive number of people who have been clamoring for my blogging on my end, here are a few pictures of the absolutely surreal horse ride through the desert by the pyramids. hopefully this will you all off until i have some more time tomorrow (and better internet connection) to add a couple of posts.
best,
~e
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