Sunday, August 31, 2008

Spending the night in a crack house, and other stories from my weekend in Alexandria.

Full story to come, my friends. Just wanted to let you know that I'm alive, despite being threatened with swords and a chainsaw in the aforementioned crack house. After that night, a lovely time was had by all at a private resort with the son of an Egyptian general.
Ah, the adventures to be had in Egypt...

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

On worthless husbands.

Hey, my friends – I hope you're all enjoying watching the Democratic National Convention with the luxury of real-time tv. Waiting for 1 minute BBC videos to buffer, only to watch news that happened a good 10 hours or more before, kills some of the excitement of the campaign season.
Or…. I just showed my cards and admitted the extent to which I am a politics nerd. Don't judge me.

So I have received some complaints that my blogs might be a bit verbose. Sorry. It's only that I miss being able to recount my day to you all over a beer and with wildly gesticulated hand motions. Verbosity will have to do. I do it because I love you.

Regardless of how long my previous posts have been, this one will be lengthy without any apologies whatsoever. As one of my closest friends in Egypt is my former host-sister, Gigi—a woman whose husband beats her and just gave birth to a baby girl—there can be some heavy moments. For now, I need a little cathartic release to deal with this all.

My day began ordinarily enough with a frustrating phone call to my Arabic tutor. I haven't had Arabic class for 3 weeks, thanks mostly to my teacher being on vacation. I was sure I had been told that classes would resume again last Sunday. No, I'm informed—inexplicaby, I won't have class until Ramadan, which begins on September 2nd. Furthermore, they rescheduled me so that my teacher can break the fast on time at 6:30pm. The problem is that they rescheduled me when I have work. I'm going to talk to them today to hopefully get my money back.

In any case. Arabic class was cancelled, and my evening was unexpectedly free. I decide to go to Maasara to hang out with the family and relax in their soothing presence. When arrive, all appears to be well. Gigi is recovering from her C-section last Monday, and looks like she's finally had a chance to sleep. Her daughter, Myrna, is looking less like an alien.

I ask how things are with Hasam, Gigi's husband. "Not so hot," is the response, as is expected. After all, he refused to pay for Gigi's c-section, saying that he didn't care if Gigi or the baby died. He hasn't paid for any of their medicine. He hasn't even asked to see his daughter. In other words, as shitty as they come. The problem is that they need him to sign two documents for the government claiming Myrna as his daughter. Otherwise, big legal and social problems for Myrna.

Gigi's mom and sister went to Hasam's apartment to have him sign the first paper. He apparently spent the entire visit insulting them. They just smiled and took it in order to get his signature on one of the documents. Ballsy, shrewd women, to be sure.

"By the way," Gigi said nonchalantly, "he's actually on his way over right now." What?? I should have known something was up—all of the women had their hair in curlers, which they only do for special occasions. I panic slightly. How will I react when I see him? How will he act in front of me and in front of them? Can I be polite to someone so vile?

They prepped me for the meeting. Rule number one: We are all very happy to see him.
Rule number two: I never lived with them. If he knew that, he might start including me in the verbal abuse as an outsider interferer. Instead, I'm to say that I'm a friend from church.
Ruler number three: Hasam is trying to make Gigi go home with him right away. We are to continue to insist that Gigi is not well enough to travel yet—NOT that she doesn't want to, and hopefully, never will. So we're talking up the blood pressure and post-op pain. Got it.
I don't have long to wonder what Hasam will be like, because he arrived only moments later. The instant the doorbell rang, the curtain was up: the family turned on the charm and smiles like I have never seen before. Here they wre, cracking jokes, bringing him endless cups of tea and fanta, letting him hold and kiss the baby whose life and well-being he has cared nothing about.

I was not about to be the one to crack. If the family could smile at the devil, then so could I. I tell you, though, it was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do.

Then came the icing on the cake: He's a pediatrician. My jaw dropped visibly; I couldn't help it. How this doctor—whose two daughters from his previous marriage have to be escorted by the police to visit him because he beat them so badly before—is allowed near other people's children, or can be so brutally ruthless to his own, is beyond my comprehension.

The evening wasn't all bleak, however. At one point, we left Gigi and Hasam alone to talk, and we all shuffled into the living room. Gigi's sisters-in-law brought down a boombox. Everyone—from the arthritic father to the 2 year old girl—began dancing. And in a confirmation of solidarity, the family told me to dance with them—which is the first time they've let me dance with their male relatives around. "You're our sister now," they said. To see the family celebrate—and to join with them—in the midst of such a difficult evening was very moving.

Shortly thereafter, their pastor arrived. It's traditional to celebrate a birth one week after it happens—it's called "Subooa." Without money to throw a big, proper party with food for all the neighbors, they opted for an intimate, spiritual evening instead. The family began clapping and singing worship song enthusiastically in Arabic, and I was able to clap along and feel a part of the moment well enough. Very conspicuously, Hasam sat there silently glowering, and finally got up and left the room. The family continued undaunted. Pointedly, the pastor spoke on the theme of loving your enemy. I squirmed uncomfortably, realizing that this central message from Christianity was meant precisely for people like Hasam and situations such as this. Truly, people who can understand this, much less do this, are saints.

Hasam around 10:30pm, with lots of smiles and invitations to return.
The moment he had gone and the door was closed, the family gathered into Gigi's bedroom and erupted in a collective release of emotion.

He had hurled insults at Gigi when they were alone together. He had refused to pay for any part of the surgery, for medicine--and even more upsetting, even for the cost of the taxi so she could go to the doctor to get a painful rash from her c-section checked out. $4 for a taxi, and he won't even do that. Gigi was yelling as she was venting, which I had never heard her do before.

The family looked worn out from such an elaborately staged evening, which resulted in very little. The mom is going to go back to his apartment in a day or two to have him sign the final birth certificate. Once that's done, they don't need to put up with his shit, and I'm sure he knows that.

I spent the night there and left at 7am so I could go to my apartment and clean up before work. I had never seen Maasara as peaceful as it was that early in the morning--I was suddenly noticing these new alleyways and corners that I had never seen during the day before. The morning sun coming through the dust in the air was really beautiful. I felt better.

Taking the microbus and the metro to Garden City, like i used to do every day when I lived there before, was also strangely soothing. I feel a lot of solidarity commuting with the Egyptians, even though I love my fairly solitary walk that I do every day now. But crammed into the back of a microbus, squished between Egyptians who seem fairly nonplussed to have me there, is a good feeling in some ways. like I belong.

Tonight my roommates and I return to Maasara—this time, to celebrate Myrna and have a proper (if small) Subooa. It's time to eat, laugh, and dance, and leave all worries about Hasam for another day.

Monday, August 25, 2008

Insight #34 into daily life in Cairo.

Now, when I call Cairo "the city of Sand," in truth, I could just as easily call it "the city of dust," "the city of mud puddles," or "the city of litter gently rustled by the breeze."
Now, I've seen some cities in my day that were less than hygienic. "Burning garbage" was the predominant scent in Quito, Ecuador—though the smell isn't quite as pungent as you'd think. Half submerged bicycles poked out of the Chicago river behind an old apartment in the Albany Park neighborhood, and steely urban squirrels terrorized us from garbage dumpsters.

The problem with Cairo isn't so much that it has some litter around—and, in reality, a lot of neighborhoods here are very clean. It's that the dust and sand gets in your shoes, coats your feet and legs, bathes your furniture, and settles into your lungs. Garden City having paved roads, I'm not breathing it in and developing the black lung to the extent that I did when I was living in the rustic district of Maasara. But even just walking 20 minutes to and from work on a wide sidewalk—which looks deceptively clean—my feet are several shades darker than when I began. Walking anywhere else in the city, they're black. Nevermind if you're wearing shoes and socks, it still finds a way to get there. Wearing a skirt only makes it worse. Not much of a skirt wearer in the States, skirts are not only better for the culture here, but they keep you much cooler than you would be wearing pants. The problem is that it gives the dust even greater skin access than it would otherwise have.
On the plus side, nightly foot washing can be a surprisingly soothing activity. On the other side, as I was engaging in my weekly leg-shaving ritual last Friday, I was definitely removing equal parts dirt and hair from my legs.
Sandals end up being the best way to go. The dust is going to get you anyway—you might as well give it an escape route. Wearing shoes traps the dust and dirt inside, and the result is less than pleasant.

Friday, August 22, 2008

Online dating in Muslim countries, and other thoughts.

Dear friends, 

I find myself writing to you once again from the peaceful dark of my balcony. It's almost midnight here in Cairo, and though parts of the city are only now coming to life and there are markets and squares teeming with warm bodies and the swishing of fabric in the welcome breeze--it's completely silent now on my small street, except for the soft hum of air conditioning units. My roommates are out, so I find myself happily alone to take in the quiet evening with a havana honey and cup of cinnamon flavored Nescafe. No, I certainly have no regrets bringing two cartons of flavored cigarillos with me. 

Now, a word on the Nescafe--I recently received a shipment of fresh-from-the-source Ethiopian coffee, and it could break your heart. After two months, I had literally almost forgotten what normal coffee tastes like--much less "We invented coffee, biotch" Ethiopian beans. I'm not quite BA enough to drink it (which I've learned to make Turkish style using this crazy tin-can-with-a-handle contraption on the stove) at night and fall asleep before dawn. And, not one to forsake my old friends, Nescafe still has a special place in my heart.

A word on the American election.
At my morning job, it is one of my sole responsibilities to track the presidential campaign, particularly when it relates to Middle Eastern policy. I'm to the point where I could nearly track their bowel movements, much less their travels across the states. But hey, no surprise, right? After all, I'm an American and researching the election is part of my job--no wonder I'm engrossed in it.
But what may surprise some people is how closely the Egyptians are following the Presidential election--from the Secretary General at my internship to illiterate taxi drivers. And it goes beyond mere name recognition: these same folks will tell you exactly what they thought of the policies of every American president from Carter to the present and forecast political scenarios based on the possible victories of either candidate. In short, they might be a savvier electorate than significant swaths of the United States.
Some political comments from recent weeks.

Alaa: I love George Bush.
Me: Why?
Alaa: I think he's beautiful. And he is very intelligent. I am actually his son. It's a secret. Shh... the CIA might find out I'm here. 
Me: Alaa. You hate George Bush. You told me so before.
Alaa: No, he is a very handsome man. How could I hate a handsome man? ...Ok, yes, you're right. He is very stupid. 

A co-worker: Of course I like Obama, and we hope for him over McCain. But no matter what President comes next, nothing will change--the USA and Israel will be as close as ever. Did you hear what Obama said about Jerusalem? Not even George Bush will promise Jerusalem to be the undivided capitol of Israel. 
Me: Of course, it's the campaign season--he has to say all sorts of things to win over the Jewish voters back home. Who knows what his real policies will be? Plus, he met with the Palestinians--that's significant, isn't it?
Co-worker: Honey, when you've seen as many American Presidents as I have, you know it's all just variations on a theme.

Member of my host family: I love George Bush.
Me: Really? Why?
Memer of my host family: He is a Christian. I saw him praying on TV. He is a good man inside.
Me: He may be a good man inside, but he is not too smart in his head. 
Member of my host family: What? 
Me: Nevermind. 

Esam: I think someone will kill Obama.
Me: Why??
Esam: Because America has many problems with the black people.
Me: But the fact he can run for President shows that things are getting better. I don't think anyone will assassinate him. Plus, he's very popular.
Esam: Yes, but there are always crazy people. It's like Islam. Most every Muslim loves peace. But there are also crazy, bad Muslims. Many Americans may love Obama, but there are still some crazy ones who may do something very stupid. I think you will have another civil war if he becomes president.

Amir: President Bush was sitting on an airplane with Dick Cheney and Karl Rove. He found a dollar bill under his seat. Bush asked Dick Cheney what to do with it. Dick Cheney suggested that he get 4 quarters and throw it out of the plane so that he can make 4 people happy. 
Bush thought this was a good idea--after all his approval ratings have been pretty low with the Iraq war and all that. He turns to Karl Rove. Karl Rove suggests he gets 10 dimes and throw it out the window to make 10 people happy. "Even better," thinks Bush.
He turns to ask the flight attendant the same question. "Why don't you throw yourself out of the plane," she suggests, "and make 6 billion people happy."

A friend's uncle from a village in upper Egypt: Bush is finished?
Me: soon--in January. Then there will be a new president.
Uncle: Good. Bush hates Muslims. He thinks any Muslim with a bomb will be a disaster. Yet they encourage Israel to have nuclear bombs. America tries to create problems in the Middle East so that they cannot unite. If the countries of the Middle East were united, they would not need America. But now, they have a conflict, they have a war--and they say "Oh, America, please help us." So Bush creates problems to keep America important. 
Me: Bush never says that he hates Muslims. He tries not to talk about Muslims in general--he talks about "radical Muslims" or "al-Qaeda" or things like that.
Uncle: That is because he is very clever with words. But when he says things like this, people don't hear the difference. They just hear "Muslim."


Of course, when we're not talking politics, life in Egypt continues to be a bright flurry of activity. I went this morning to an English serice at an Episcopalian church. Though the service was in English, I'm pretty sure my roommate and I were the only Americans there--there were Sudanese and Ethiopians, South Africans, New Zealanders, lots of Brits... 

I then spent the afternoon with my old host family (who I stayed with when I was a student here two years ago) in Imbaba. We ate fish and fresh honey brought up from Upper Egypt, played several rounds of Go Fish, and went shopping in the local market.
Going shopping in Imbaba--possibly the densest neighborhood in a city of 17 million--is a test of toughness and cultural savvy. What would have overwhelmed me to tears two years ago was a thoroughly pleasant outing. Some of my host brothers and sisters are starting school in 3 weeks, so we were shopping for school uniforms. Weaving through a maze of stalls (it got better once we were past the meat and chicken butcher section of the market--I still have to breathe through my mouth whenever we pass by those), I helped them try on skirts and headscarves and window shopped some very chic Muslim-appropriate shirts.
All the while, Nemsa (the host sister who's my age and my closest friend in the family) kept insisting that we take breaks to pound sugarcane juice. 
Sugarcane juice might kill me some day, but damn, it is good. It's almost like someone asked the Egyptian society, "How could you more quickly develop Type II Diabetes?" "Ah, I know, we could make sugar juice and sell it for 10 cents on every street corner." This stuff goes down smooth. They serve it in glass steins. You stand at the counter, chug it, and slam the glass down on the table when you're through. Nothing better. 

As we waited for some of my host sisters to try on some things, Nesma and I took a seat on some concrete blocks to munch popcorn and rest.
"What's the biggest age difference you think a couple should have?"
"I don't know, maybe 10, 12, 15 years... I've seen it work before. Why?"
Nesma met a 38 year old Canadian Muslim on an Islamic version of Match.com called "Halal girl"--the Islamic equivelant of what "Kosher Girl" would be for the Jewish community.
I asked how her parents felt about this--apparently her mom was partner to the crime, and had been helping Nesma sort through the profiles while her dad was out of town visiting relatives.

His good qualities: He's memorize the Qur'an, has served as an Imam, speaks good Arabic from living in the Persian Gulf for a few years.
Downsides: He apparently has a large nose. 

She's very excited about the prospect. As I may or may not have had some brief stints on Match.com and having a few thoughts about older men, I was a good person to discuss this with--although I quickly found that we had some differences in how we thought about relationships.
"He will come to visit me soon, inshahallah."
"Ah, that's very good, Nesma. Sometimes people seem different in person then they do on the internet. Plus, you'll want to know more about his family and his personal history, etc. But maybe there just won't be a spark, too. When did you meet him, by the way?"
"3 days ago."
"wow. Nesma, that's very soon to talk about him coming to visit."
"But the spark doesn't matter. As long as I know we have the same interests and the same mind, we can get married. I would accept. You can learn to love someone. But his nose is very big... hmm.. "

And so it goes. 




Tuesday, August 19, 2008

A fire in Garden City.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/europe/7571459.stm

Drama tonight in the city of sand! A half mile (or less) away from my apartment, the Parliament Building is engulfed in flames. At some point this evening, the 2nd story of the building (which is an old 19th century palace made out of wood with faulty wiring.... hmm... ) caught on fire, and it's now spread to the third floor. I went down the street to watch it, but couldn't see the flames, since it's mostly coming out of the back side of the building. On tv, though, it was unreal--the flames are arching out of the windows and pouring through the roof. Since I went down after the sun had set, I could only see the outline of the smoke against the dark sky. The smoke was stinging our eyes, though, and there were ashes falling. It's a trip! The traffic was gridlocked--even by Cairene standards. I mean, even the fire trucks were stuck in traffic! Apparently there's no "pull over" rule here, and even if they wanted to, the streets were so packed that no one could move. From what I understand, though, it wasn't a big problem that the firetrucks were stuck--there was a water shortage. From our apartment we could hear the helicopters overhead, which were dumping water from the Nile onto the building.
I sat at the female-friendly tea/hookah/coffee shop 2 blocks from my apartment to study Arabic and read for a while. It's not an outdoor cafe exactly, but the entire cafe is open to the street--there's no door, because there's simply not a wall along the sidewalk. So we could watch the traffic and the bystanders and the ambulances and all of that. The tvs were on and showing these really staticky images of the blaze. crazy, crazy. Right now they're attributing it to a short circuit--and for all we know, that's all it is. after all, parliament is on summer recess, so it's less likely to be politically motivated. the parliament's archives are destroyed, though, so that's an interesting part of it. We'll see what the independent news sources say in the next few days. Anyway! big news for the Garden City neighborhood.

Photos, again

or, try this link and see if it takes you to the pictures.
http://www2.snapfish.com/share/p=928181219128854043/l=414387730/g=119380323/otsc=SYE/otsi=SALB

Monday, August 18, 2008

Photos

My photos are finally online. The only problem--every other program I tried glitched out (facebook included), except for Snapfish. In order to see photos on Snapfish, I need to email you the link; I can't post it here.
If you'd like to see my photos, and I didn't send it to you already--let me know!

The cycle of life.

This has been a week that ranged from the ridiculous to the sublime, with comings and goings, deaths and births: the cycle of life in the cradle of civilization.

Ridiculous:

Last Thursday, my roommate Eunice was preparing to move back to the States. I came home from work at 10:30pm to find her half-dressed with suitcases and bags open all across the floor. Eunice, who came out of the womb with a blackberry, was efficiently and vigorously packing.
I hadn't slept the night before—I don't remember why. Late nights talking with my roommates in front of the a/c are usually to blame. I had just come back from a 13 hour work day. I laid down on my bed and closed my eyes.
Eunice pulled her iPod earbuds out and paused her packing ritual briefly.
"My Egyptian chain-smoking photographer friend knows a Sudanese-American guy who's singing at the Marriot tonight, do you want to go?"
"Eunice, my brain can't even begin to process all of the strange adjectives you just threw at me."
But of course, we go. How could you pass up watching a Sudanese-American singer at the Marriot (which used to be a palace) with an Egyptian chain-smoking photographer? Oh, and a co-worker of ours was going to meet up with us, and did so with a Russian model on each arm. Naturally.
We arrived at the Marriot and scanned the list of events that evening in their various ballrooms. Nothing that looked like a Sudanese-American singer. We call the chain-smoking photographer (who turns out to be an hour away, stuck in traffic—and never actually shows up that evening), who tells us it's in a pub connected to the hotel.
So we go to Harry's pub. We open the door, and try to squint through the smoky haze. We can just barely make out a man with a fro and a synthesizer, who's standing next to another man with a tambourine. This must be it. Only, "concert" would be a misleading term. More like, a one-man karaoke show. Still, he was good. The first hour was mostly an 80s love ballad/Bob Marley mix—the second hour were Arab pop favorites. The Russian models were nice enough. The Guiness was unbelievably good, but a whopping $11 for a can. And that was the cheapest thing on the menu, those Marriot cads. We left sometime around 1:30 in the morning, when a Sudanese woman and plump, white middle aged woman decided to get up and start dancing. They were quickly joined by a dozen or so old men. When the pub became uncomfortably amorous (not helped by the fact that we were sitting next to a table with three likely prostitutes), we decided to walk home. Bizarre, but hey—you've got to live a little.

Sublime: Cairo is hosting a free music festival this month, with outdoor concerts being held every night at Saladin's citadel. The citadel is, in reality, a whole complex of military museums, 19th century ruler Muhammad Ali's mosque, the remnants of Saladin's fortress, and exhibits of the former royal family. It sits on a cliff overlooking the entire city.
My roommates and I went, along with 2 visiting American friends and Muhammad, an Egyptian banker and former host-brother of my friend Kirsten. We smuggled in two cheese pizzas, which was an excellent choice.
We arrived at the Citadel just as the sun was starting to set. The view was breathtaking—smog and dust make for spectacular sunsets, but Cairo is so crowded that it's hard to get a good view of them. Shortly after we arrived, the concert began—it was a ten piece classical, oriental orchestra featuring a few soloists. They were singing the great ballads of 1950s Egypt, and the whole audience was clearly very moved. A man behind was singing along softly in a wistful voice.

Comings:
We're in the midst of greeting new friends to Egypt. Our 3rd roommate, Becca, arrived on the 15th. Our 4th and final roommate, Julianna, arrives on the 20th. Two friends from our study abroad program, Phil and Micah, arrived in Egypt yesterday. Unfortunately for us, they're going to be living near Beni Suef, an hour or so south of Cairo, working for the Mennonite Central Committee. As happy as we are for them and their work, we wish that they were closer! An hour is nothing, though—I'm sure we'll be seeing them often. And then my SPU friends Brittalisa and Emily will be arriving soon, too! I'm always grateful for how much Cairo has started to feel like home, and it has a lot to do with how many old friends are here with me.

Goings:
Unfortunately, as we've been welcoming so many friends to Egypt, we've also had to say goodbye: Eunice left literally 15 minutes before Becca arrived. Our airport drop off/pick up was a pretty spectacular display of efficiency. Farek drove us, and didn't disappoint in reminding Becca how great Egyptian hospitality can be—even if it seems bizarre and a bit misplaced at times. We picked Becca up around 4:45am. Kirsten and I hadn't slept at all, but were being carried along just fine by the adrenaline. Farek and I were engrossed in a conversation about the importance of virginity within Egyptian culture, when he suddenly pulled the car over. Remembering that during our first taxi ride with Farek he had also pulled over in order to wake up an old woman to try to show us her apartment, I wasn't so shocked, but was waiting to see what he was up to. He motioned us out of the car. We were apparently in front of a 24 hour juice shop. Even though it was 5am and the streets were empty, some 6 or 7 employees were milling around. Farek ordered all of us Mango juice (I'm sad to report that I still don't like Mangos, though with so much practice, am getting better at gagging it down) and Pomegranate juice for himself. The employees pulled up some plastic chairs for us, and before the sun was up, we were sitting at an outdoor café in Cairo drinking fresh juice. Like I said, the hospitality can be a bit strange at times, but lovely all the same.

Deaths: As I wrote my brief eulogy for Daisy below, I won't repeat it again. My little sister seems to be doing a bit better, but I'm glad I don't have to be home to see the empty water dish. It's always sad to see a thoroughly pleasant phase of life come to an end.

Births: The blessed day finally came. Nope, no brown babies for me—I know some of you have already cautioned me against babysnatching here. Rather, Gigi gave birth this morning to a beautiful baby girl. The saga of Gigi's pregnancy had been growing more complicated by the day. Her blood pressure was dangerously high, her medical bills growing, and her husband increasingly evil. She wasn't due until the end of September. Nevertheless, they were talking about inducing labor at the beginning of September, worried about Gigi's health. She was going in for a new test or ultrasound every week. They monitored her blood pressure almost daily.
Finally, they couldn't wait. They said that they would need to do a C-section, and soon. Unfortunately, a C-section costs $1,000 USD—nearly a year's salary for the family. They called her shithead husband (the one who was beating her and starving her to make her lose the baby (he wanted a boy) and is the cause of her high blood pressure and the baby's poor health) to see if he would pay for the C-section. He said that he didn't care if Gigi or the baby died.
Right. So the family pooled half of the money together somehow, which is the amount that was due before the procedure. The other half is due sometime later. Everyone was scared. The baby was on the 3rd percentile for size and weight, from what they could tell from the ultrasound. Gigi's blood pressure was so high. There was a lot of room for complications.
5 doctors ended up in the operating room with her—a heart specialist, the surgeon, an ob/gyn, an anesthesiologist, and her primary care provider, who's been seeing her through this whole difficult ordeal. I spent the night with the family last night, bringing some gifts for Gigi and the baby. We left the house at 7 this morning. 6 of her family members were with her. Her sister, who's her best friend, wasn't coming however. Why?
Because there's a superstition that if a menstruating woman is near a woman giving birth, that woman won't be able to breastfeed, and poor Sara had her period. Strange! But hey, you just roll with it.
Of course, the husband wasn't coming, though she needs him to sign the birth certificate later. We'll see what happens with that drama. Until then, the baby doesn't have a name—not that they agreed on what to name the baby, either. Gigi decided that she'll put whatever he wants on the birth certificate and then call her baby a different name anyway. Smart lady.
Anyway. At the hospital, everyone was a bit nervous. Her dad was crying. Her mom was praying continually. We sat outside of the operating room for an hour. The heat was making me drowsy, and my head kept dropping. Outside the operating room, there was a row of white shoes, presumably for the surgeons or nurses or whomever. Some of them had blood stains on them. I wish they hadn't been there.
After some time had elapsed—I'm not sure how long—at a very inauspicious moment, a nurse emerged with bundle wrapped in a green blanket. It was Gigi's baby. The baby turned out to be perfectly healthy, weighing in at 4.5 pounds. It was better than anyone had expected, and she wouldn't need an incubator. I had to leave before Gigi was awake from the anesthetics, though she woke up for a few groggy minutes and I spoke to her then. I sat with the baby for 2 hours or more, watching Gigi's mom expertly taking care of it. She was beautiful. If all goes well, Gigi and her baby should be going home tomorrow—thank God, thank God.

Thursday, August 14, 2008

Daisy Potato


I have often said that if I were a dog, I'd be a lot like Daisy--or, at the very least, that we'd be best friends. Thoroughly idiosyncratic, a little bit awkward (what other dog has such bad rhythm and coordination that it can't catch a bouncing ball?), a touch mischevious, but thoroughly proud--she was an endearing gem of a dog.

She had been showing her age in the last few years, but I found out yesterday that a large tumor in her abdomen will bring about the end sooner than any of us expected. My family will be putting her down tomorrow. So today my sister is pampering her: one last day to trot stolen socks to her under-the-table lair, eat ice cubes off the floor, and sleep at the end of my sister's bed. Tomorrow morning, my family will go together to the vet.

My little sister and I shared a rather tear-filled phone call this afternoon about it today. I haven't had to say goodbye to a pet since our dog Noel died when I was 7. It was enough to make the Christmas carol "The First Noel" odious to my ears for years afterward. Granted, I was scarcely out of the womb at the time and lacked some of the emotional maturity I have now. But still, saying goodbye to Daisy--and from 8,000 miles away--will be hard to do. 

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

A few thoughts on good-natured watonness.

I began a Dickens novel last night, one which promises to have its share of intrigue and vice in the way only the gloomy streets of Victorian London can deliver. While the novels began to pull me into a world of corruption, of scandalous and mysterious parentage—I suddenly started laughing.

For the past four years, while living in Seattle, I surrounded myself with friends who had cultivated a fine appreciation for deviance. Perhaps there's no better place to find this than on the margins of a small Christian college—where the mainstream culture sets standards that are lofty and rosy and all too easy to violate. The temptation for good natured rebellion is simply too tempting. There are too many forbidden fruits—and the faux-scandal created a bit too enjoyable to see. For better or worse, my friends and I enjoyed ruffling the upstanding citizens around us with our preference for the mildly profane and sacrilegious.

It seems that Egypt has subtly started shifting my world view around without my noticing. In the culture here—which I find myself increasingly internalizing, which is perhaps the key problem at hand—ankles have recovered their Victoria era shock value, along with handholding, collarbones, and girls smoking cigarettes on the street. Maybe I'm just "growing out of" a college phase, but my own lifestyle has become more cautious—mostly because I'm worried about what the neighbors will think. With so many windows, and so many prying eyes, any vice (and this is a setting in which baring my elbows in public is pushing the envelope, so "vice" here is terribly easy to accrue) can be cause for a stained reputation.

But that's not it, exactly. It's the moral dichotomy—in the cultural mindset prevalent here, everything falls into categories of good or bad. Mostly, those categories are pre-established, which grates on our pioneer-wagon American notions of discovering the truth for yourself. So sure, I have Egyptian friends who drink, but it's in a different spirit than we did it at SPU. Ours was mischevious. Our Muslim friends who choose to drink seem to do so with a blatant and careless disregard—or with contempt and condescension for those who would condemn them for it.

With both my Egyptain and American friends, I haven't found many people to sheepishly recount stories of past rebellious moments to who would laugh and commiserate with me. I asked two of my Egyptian students in English class last night if they had ever done something rebellious. One offered up that she once, in defiance of her high school teacher, copied something from the chalkboard before the teacher had explained the lesson.

But what made me laugh last night was that I suddenly realized that I had begun to swallow this cultural framework wholesale--and hadn't even noticed. Gone was any sarcasm or criticism of anything around me. Gone was any good natured complaining or slight bending of the rules. I had become a veritable Pollyanna, always looking for the positive and accepting the culture for what it is.

Granted, such things are different for outsiders and insiders. As an outsider, to strongly object to the culture I'm living in is the raise the question of why I chose to live here in the first place. There's a certain logic to "Get on board, or go home" for foreigners. I don't have much respect for those who insist on living exactly as they would in America. It seems pointless to me. No, it's something in between the two extremes that I'm searching to reclaim.

My friend Nagla—the 40 something culture writer for an Egyptian newspaper I wrote about before—is one stark exception to all of this. She will smoke and leave her hair uncovered and socialize openly with men, and she will not apologize for it. She has a certain gutsy spark that I admire in people whenever I see it.

Reading this Dickens novel—which relishes in the suspense created by immorality and indiscreet behavior, and was given to me by a friend who, more than anyone I know, has an appreciation for wantonness—I was suddenly reminded of the mischievious mindset I had left behind in America. I was made aware of what a pure and uncomplicated worldview I had begun adopting here. That's not a bad thing—in some ways, I appreciate the changes a lot. But in order to protect against getting lured in by the comfort of simplistic moral thinking, I'm glad I have Dickens to remind me of my roots

Sunday, August 10, 2008

Midnight tea.

My last blog post was written from the luxurious comfort of my own lovely (if lumpy) bed--my favorite place to email from. As many of you know, my laptop lives beside my bed, and often the last thing I do before shutting my eyes, and the first thing I do once I open them again in the morning, is check my email. I won't pretend otherwise--I love to check my email. Mostly, my gentle readers, because my inbox gives me access to all of the people I love who are so far away.

Tonight, however, I'm emailing from what may easily become my new favorite spot--my balcony. It's nearly 11 at night, and it's the perfect sleepless summer night. I always loved this growing up in Chicago, too--the nights that were so hot that you can't sleep, but don't even try to. Instead, you listen to the sound of the insects or traffic, read until the early hours of the morning, enjoying the blessing of a few quiet hours to stop and think.
My evening chi is getting thrown off slightly by a family that lives somewhere downstairs, in the next building over, I think. They're arguing loudly, but the only word I can understand is "engineer." That's not too illuminating, I guess. Sometimes I have a hard time telling if Egyptians are arguing or just talking--they might be one of the few cultures that actually talk louder than Americans. When they get really excited about something, good or bad, it all comes out at a yell.

I spent the evening in an outdoor cafe inside the Cairo Opera House complex. The middle of this large complex is wide open and grassy, with various performance centers lit up and surrounded by palm trees and flowers. It's beautiful, and the tea is cheap. I was there with my friend Nagla, a 40 something woman who is a culture writer for Egypt's famous newspaper al-Ahram. I met her through an American friend (here's a little shoutout, Pat) who was in Alexandria teaching last year. She's a small, feisty woman who smokes her cigarettes hand-over-fist and drinks her body weight in tea. She had invited me to have tea with her and her equally brilliant, artsy friends--tv show directors, poets, journalists. The evening was all in Arabic (I hung in ok thanks to lots of hand motions, occasional translations to English, and by having them talk as fast as you would to a fairly stupid child) and centered on Arabic grammar and various aspects of Islam. When we had sat there for 2 hours or so, I walked back home across the Nile. In all, a very pleasant evening.

We've been amazed at what kinds of friends we've made over the past month--from every level of society, every religious persuasion, every occupation. The diversity of our friend group backfired on us slightly when we threw ourselves a house warming party on Friday. We had invited nearly all of our Egyptian friends, plus a few British guys who teach with us in the evenings. We figured that if we invited enough people, everyone would have a few people they'd feel comfortable with. A few people weren't able to make it at the last minute, however, so we ended up with a fairly stark dichotomy.
On the one hand, our friend Farek (the taxi driver I've introduced you to before) came, along with his aunt, sister, a 10 year old nephew and 9 year old niece. The women in the family were veiled. We'd met his family before, and love them. Since they were the first to arrive, we filled their plates with food and kept the tea and fanta flowing. I taught the kids how to play "Pass the Pigs" (thanks, Lauren) and it was an instant success--even despite the fact that pigs are unclean in Islam.
A little while later, however, our co-workers from the language center started arriving. They're all single guys, maybe aged 17-24. Most of them have a penchant for drinking, and all of them love smoking hash. We made a very firm "no hash" rule before they got there. When they arrived and saw the family, they got really squeamish. "When can we drink? When can we drink?" They kept asking me. I could understand where they were coming from, but I was disappointed that they didn't have the decency to sit and talk with Farek and co. first.
In any case--the evening turned out well, and I think everyone enjoyed themselves even with some strange social dynamics. But it's been repeatedly impressed upon us over the past 6 weeks that class differences matter here. As outsiders, we have friends from every segment of society. But for them--as it would be in America, to be honest--it's not entirely comfortable to mix together.
Mm. I just finished my tea, which means I should bring this post to an end. Just an informal little update from my balcony in Cairo.

Friday, August 8, 2008

I am not your monkey.

Those of you from SPU recognize this as one of my primary guiding principles through that institution—even if it was occasionally threatened by my tendency to be too nice in the moment, requiring me to backtrack later out of commitments I never wanted to make in the first place.
Nevertheless, at the end of the day, I have always been able to sleep well, knowing that I answer to no one else. I do what I want.

Today, I restate my claim to all overambitious Egyptian mothers, would-be wallet thieves, and opportunistic boys in alleyways: I will not do your bidding, I will not be swayed, I am a fierce, independent woman. I am not your monkey.
----------------------------------------------
Overambitious Egyptian Mothers

Allow me to introduce you to yet another stock character in Egyptian society: overambitious Egyptian mothers. I had encountered them a few times already, but had escaped unscathed. Example:
Once, I was walking home to the host family in Maasara, looking all business in my suit and shades. Only a few meters from my building, a neighbor woman holding a baby stopped me. She wanted to introduce me to her baby. “Uh, hello there, child.” She then introduced me to her 8 year old son standing beside her. “Good evening, little boy.” I waited for a moment, trying to see what it was that she wanted. She didn’t leave me hanging. “And these,” she says with a dramatic sweep of her arm, “are my two other sons.” Standing across the alley were two guys, maybe in their late teens or early twenties. Ah.
Now, I can appreciate that for a poor Egyptian woman, I represent a walking Green Card and infinite bragging rights for her family. I nodded politely but a bit coldly toward the teenage sons, bid farewell to the mother, and continued walking home. Nothing ever came of this little encounter, except that the 8 year old boy would yell my name whenever I walked by. No harm done.

Yesterday, I met a much more formidable match who promises to complicate life for the coming weeks. I was sitting at my computer at work, putzing around on the internet as both of my directors were out of the office just then, and I hadn’t been given anything to work on. In fact, my whole office was empty—only another intern was with me, and she was messing around with a sudoku from the daily newspaper.

A woman in her late 40s, with bleach blonde hair, gobbed black mascara, and bright pink nails came to the door. She greeted us in timid English. Now, people stop by our office all the time to socialize or discuss a point of business with my other co-workers. I always smile, greet them, and turn back to my work. I did the same with our new visitor, whom I had never seen before. She kept hanging out in the doorway, though, trying to start some chitchat. My fellow intern was feigning intense interest in her Soduko and left me to face her alone.

As soon as I turned back around, her heavily make-up’d face lit up. Apparently, she had seen me in the building before and had asked around until she found out which department I worked in. She was so excited to meet the American intern. She loves America. She rattles off a list of relatives living there and the cities that she’s visited. She shows me pictures of America on her camera phone.

The other intern raises her eyebrows in concern. What is this woman doing here? She knows better than to attract attention around a crazy person, though, so she pretends to go to sleep on her desk. I’m not sure exactly how to get rid of this woman, who works in another department upstairs and is definitely my superior when it comes to the pecking order. And aside from being an American stalker, has yet to state her purpose in tracking me down--though I suspected I knew exactly why she was here.

“And you know, my son works in America—he works for Boeing in Seattle.” Bingo.
She shows me a picture, which was taken somewhere near south Lake Union. Seeing a picture of my beloved gloomy city lowered my defenses a bit, I’ll admit.
“He’s coming back to Egypt tomorrow for a two week visit. He’d love to meet you.” I’m sure he would.
“He loves American girls, with their blue eyes, but he’s too shy. He wants to marry an Egyptian girl, but he’s never here very long.”
I see. With blue-eyed Egyptian girls in short supply, I see that I’m the next best thing.
“He would love to meet you. Perhaps you can give me your phone number?”
Over my dead body I can.
But what to say to another employee at work? Plus, she has me trapped in my own office—I can’t very well invent an excuse to get up and leave.
I settle by giving her my email address instead, claiming (as is true) that my Egyptian cellphone generally gets terrible reception.
“By the way, you’re not engaged, are you?”
I groan inwardly.

It took me going upstairs with her to her office and drinking a cup of tea to finally be able to shake her off. During the latter part of our conversation, she sensed my unease and decided to start talking up the other fine points of her family—a family she seems to hope I’ll want to marry into. She started insisting that I meet her daughter, too—as well as inviting me to travel with her family to Sharm el-Sheikh over the weekend.
Her daughter looks like an Egyptian Paris Hilton and apparently does advertising for all of the major designers in Egypt. This woman apparently fails to realize that her daughter—who was educated in the states—would take one look at me and realize that I was hopelessly middle class. What would I possibly talk about with someone like her?

As with all of my co-workers, being American has launched me into an Egyptian social stratosphere that I don’t actually belong to. My friends at work regularly vacation in southern France and have an entirely designer wardrobe financed by their parents. Living on a budget of $200 USD a month here (which includes rent), as I am, is outside of their comprehension.

In any case. I can tell that our blonde, opportunistic friend is going to give me a run for my money on the “not your monkey” front—if for no other reason than that she can stop by my office any time she damn well pleases. Agh.

Speaking of engagements—hardly 24 hours after my conversation with our blonde, conniving friend, I received another serious marriage proposal. This time it was from a co-worker at the language center where I teach in the evenings. The office staff there is all very fun—young, lively, with a wicked sense of humor. I don’t have that much time to hang out with them though—I teach for 6 hours straight the evenings when I’m there, with no breaks in between. So aside from a few minutes before and after my classes, I’m mostly with my students.

The fact that I’ve interacted with him for a whole of 20 minutes in my life hasn’t deterred the office manager, however. He told another one of my female co-workers that he wanted to get engaged with me. She asked him if he was serious—he said he was. She told him he was crazy—he said ok, but that he wanted her to talk to me right then and there.
I was in one of the classrooms, frantically prepping for 6 hours of class and trying to soothe some vicious stomach cramps I had been afflicted with all day (so much for my experiment with drinking the local water!). I had about 15 minutes or so until class.

My friend sat down. Ahmed wants to marry you. What?? She asked me what I thought. Framing my question in a way that would make sense to the culture, I told her that my parents would not approve of the match. Ah, she said. No problem. I will tell him.
Right then, Ahmed knocks on the door, bringing me a cup of Nescafe that I had asked for. He looks breathlessly at my friend, who shakes her head no. He looks back at me, smiles, and leaves the room. He didn’t seem shaken in the slightest.
“Is this going to be awkward between him and I now?” I ask her. “Oh no, don’t worry about it,” she assures me.
True enough, when I leave that night, things seem normal as normal can be.

At home later that night, I relayed the day’s strange events to my roommate E. E. started laughing—she had been proposed to that night by one of her co-workers at another language center, too. While popping the question, he had apparently also asked her if she was a virgin or not. E. balked at the bluntness of the question—especially since she had already made it very clear that she would not be marrying him anyway—and they ended up arguing and spending a good half hour in total silence.
i'm glad my proposal was at least less awkward than that!
---------------------------------------------------
Would-be Wallet Thieves

Hardly an hour after I had finally escaped the overambitious mother’s office, I left work for the day and headed to the neighborhood of Maadi, where I have Arabic class. I went to the downtown metro station, which is only 50 meters from the front door of work. I opened my purse—which was stuffed full, as usual, with papers, food, water bottles….anything and everything. I paid the 1 pound ticket. I went over to the wall to get my iPod out and put my money away, safely away from crowds who might reach into my purse. Egypt is extremely safe—but precaution never hurts, right?

I go through the turnstile and wait for the metro. Now, at this point, I can’t remember if I zipped my purse shut again or not. By the time I boarded the train, though, I know that my purse was zipped shut. It was so crowded that I actually ended up hugging my purse to create more space for people to stand around me.

6 stops later, I got off at the Maadi station. I had forgotten my pencil at home, and my Arabic teacher always throws a fit if I use a pen. So I mailed off a letter at the post office next door and headed to a stationary store to buy a pencil. It was then that I opened my purse… and realized that my wallet was gone. Gone. I began tearing through the contents of my purse, emptying them out on the floor in the vain hope that it might have been tucked underneath something else. Nope, it’s not there.

I contemplated throwing an inner temper tantrum, and check myself—getting upset won’t help anything. I sigh, and ask the employees what the best thing to do is.
I went back to the metro station, where a police officer is always stationed. Maybe they can see if I just dropped it at the downtown station, or if someone has returned it. I meet a man in the police office named Ayman—he speaks pretty good English, and takes on my predicament with interest. After calling around to a few different metro stations, he says that we need to go to the police station to file a report.
Really? The police in Egypt are famously 1. Inept 2. Corrupt and 3. Inefficient. Whoever has my wallet is long gone, I figured. How could the police find it, even if they wanted to?
Ayman says it will be good anyway to have a police report, just in case later problems with identity fraud or the like arise. Alright, alright. So we get on the metro, and ride two stops to the Tura police station. I’ve never seen anything like this: once we arrived at the Tura station, we didn’t exit—we more or less jumped off of the platform and walked in the sand along the tracks for 200 meters or so, over garbage and broken glass and the like. To our left was a brick wall with tree branches growing over the top. The trees were hiding the entrance to the police station, which suddenly appeared behind a tall black gate in the wall.

A guard was standing behind the gate, and at first, didn’t look like he’d let us in. Ayman talked to him and after a few minutes, he reluctantly opened the gate. Inside this small compound, police officers are milling around, looking at us curiously. I hold my head up high and walk in (wearing heels and my whole daily work getup) like I’m about to give orders, rather than file a report. Whatever happens, it’s going to happen with confidence.

We found an officer sitting in an office; I told him what happened through Ayman’s translation. After 15 minutes or so of questions back and forth, he sent us upstairs to a second office. The man here was definitely higher ranking than the first. He reads English well enough but can’t speak it with much proficiency, so he has me write my statement out in English. We spend at least 45 minutes with him. Then he sends us upstairs to a third office. A man was sitting behind a dusty, cluttered desk, not wearing a uniform. I really have no idea who he is—if this were about anything more important than having $15 and my drivers’ license stolen, I wouldn’t be trusting much of anything to him.
There was a poster for some American muscle car on the wall behind him, along with an evil eye and verses from the Qur’an. He had Ayman help him translate my statement and took all of my contact information.
In all, it had turned into a 2 hour ordeal. Aside from Ayman being a fairly pleasant assistant, I felt that it’s mostly been a pointless exercise.
Nevertheless, I did what I could—found the police, filed a report. If I got my wallet stolen, I’m not going to take it laying down.
-------------------------------------------
Opportunistic boys in alleyways

As soon as I left the police station, I got on the metro to head to Maasara, where I would be attending a wedding with my host family. I was still keeping an even mind about the whole wallet thing—there are hardly any places to use credit cards in Egypt, and I can cancel them, anyway, so that’s not much of a risk. I’ll need to re-order my drivers’ license and health insurance cards, etc. And I was sad to lose the wallet itself, which I bought from a market in Madrid and have a special affinity towards. But my passport was safe at home, and there was no permanent harm done—just inconvenience.

I was musing over all of this, trying to think of the exact contents of my wallet to think through what I would need to replace. I was deep in thought. I wove through the dusty streets in Maasara (no wonder I had the black lung, I thought—Maasara really is much dustier than the rest of Cairo) and through a small alleyway that connected me to the street my host family lived on. In this alleyway, I passed a 10 year old boy and his older brother. As I passed them by, the 10 year old boy reached out and grabbed my arm.

I stopped. Men are NEVER supposed to touch you here, and really, never do. Even in the most crowded metro cars or sidewalks, men and women take special care to navigate around each other—even if the men have no problem catcalling at you at the same moment. I’ve never actually been grabbed in Egypt before—on my arm or anywhere else. And he picked a bad time to do so.

Now, I fancy myself a born-again pacifist—but, as my critics will readily point out, the label doesn’t mean much since it really has never been tested. And in that moment, as I whirled around to face this wide-eyed little boy, I swear that if he had been a few inches closer I would have smacked him upside the head. Luckily for all of us, he had already scooted past me. “Go away!” I yelled in Arabic, the fiercest phrase I have in my limited arsenal. I didn’t feel any better.

The wedding took place on a tiny dirt street a few blocks away from the family’s home. Green, red, and yellow light bulbs were strung between the building, and a velvet throne had been placed on a platform for the bride and groom. Um Hani, our host mom, had done all of the cooking for the event. We were very excited. As the men were dancing and the women trilling, my phone rang.

It was my boss. He said that a woman called him, saying that she had found my wallet. His business card is the only thing in my wallet in Arabic, which is why she had contacted him. She was going to bring the wallet to work in the morning.
Praise God. Now, if only I could find a way to un-cancel my credit cards…..

Midway through the wedding, after we had all stuffed ourselves with Egyptian-style lasagna, kofta, and some half dozen bottles of fanta, the women all went inside to have our own dance party. My host sisters pushed me into the middle of the circle. “Watch the American belly dance!” And—alright, for a good cause I’ll do it—like a good little monkey, I performed my role as my family’s show-and-tell.

Whew. Holding your own in Egypt is not easy to do.

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

A village wedding.

Before this week, there were two things in Egypt I had yet to see: a wedding, and an Egyptian village.
Now, some of you may remember that I was supposed to go to a wedding several week ago—I may or may not have misunderstood the time of the wedding and caused my entire host family to miss it. Whoops.

When we first arrived in Cairo, my roommates and I spent a week living at the Desert Safari Hostel downtown. Consisting of 4 rooms on the 7th floor of an apartment building, it was also the second home of our first Egyptian guy friends: Farek, Amir, and Ahmed, all on staff at the hostel. Egyptians are famous for their sense of humor, and these 3 men are at the top their game. Long after we moved in with the host family, we continued to stop by the hostel after work, drinking tea and laughing until the tears rolled down our faces.
These three are quite the characters, too: Farek, the sensitive taxi driver featured previously on the blog, has learned all of his English from hostel guests and therefore often bursts out with random phrases that don't quite fit the situation. Yelling "Life is delicious!" is one of his favorites. Whenever I see him, he says "Pasha, I swear by God three times, I love you very much!" He supports his entire family with his severely dilapidated taxi, and is getting married in October.

Amir lives in the Delta, and commutes a few hours to and from work. He graduated with a degree in English literature (having studied Latin and politics, too), but spends most of his time giggling and making fun of Asian tourists, as well as trying to marry my roommate E.

Ahmed is also from the Delta, and is Amir's partner in crime—it's impossible to talk about anything serious when the two of them are together. By himself, though, Ahmed is a perfect blend between Amir and Farek—as funny as Amir, as sensitive as Farek.

And Ahmed was getting married. He insisted that we all attend the wedding, which was going to be in his village an hour and a half north of the city limits. A wedding and a village. We were pumped. There were 8 or so of us who drove together—including Farek and some of his relatives, an American college student teaching English in Alexandria, and a Turkish sociologist who had been a guest the hostel for the past two months straight (who showed up with an Egyptian lady friend, despite having a family back in Turkey—quite the intrigue). It was a little bit like Gilligan's Island.

As we drove north of the city, concrete buildings eventually gave way to plots of corn. The banks of the Nile were marshier. The roads ran straight and the traffic thinned. And—ahh, when we opened the windows, the air smelled sweet again.

We couldn't just drive straight to the wedding, of course. First, Farek wanted to borrow a car from a friend so he wouldn't show up driving a taxi (plus, it's possible that the car wouldn't make it). We stop for a half hour or so to do this. Another man coming to the wedding, Tamir, had been joking a little too frequently in the car ride about how it's possible in Islam to take a second wife. "Where is your wife now?" we wanted to know. "Ah," he said. "Let me call her." It turns out that, due to our questions, he decided right then to bring her along. Another detour. We wait twenty minutes. Finally a woman emerges from the apartment building, a little harried with make-up freshly applied. She had a very chubby 10-month old boy with her.
"Uh, Tamir, there are already 5 of us in the car. Where will she sit?" He popped the trunk and for one very alarmed moment, we thought he was going to stick the baby there. Nope, just the car seat.
So mom and baby sat in the front seat, while 4 of us jammed our hips into the backseat and just barely managed to shut the door.
NOW we were off to the wedding. An hour and a half later, the sun had finally dropped behind the corn stalks, and we could drive 20 minutes at a time without seeing any buildings. From Cairo, one of the densest cities on the planet, it was a striking change.

Now, the term "village" might be a bit misleading. Yes, the donkey-human ratio was high, and animals were clearly a means of local transportation, too. There were also some fields around us. But people still lived in apartments in the same 3 story brick-concrete structures that dominate most neighborhoods in Cairo. This wasn't a "hut" kind of place.

Finally, we saw a big outdoor tent covered in Christmas lights. We had found the wedding.
Despite the delays, we still managed to be quite a bit early. Some 200 chairs were under the large light displays, and at the front, there was a stage with two red velvet thrones, where Ahmed and his wife would eventually sit. Someone ordered tea—and with it came an entire dining room table, pulled out from someone's house nearby, God knows where. Farek started taking sugar orders. "Two spoons or three?" Knowing that when Egyptians put in sugar, "two" always means something closer to "four," I stick with only two. I start passing the tea out to the women next to me. "No, no, honey," one tells me. "That one doesn't have enough sugar in it. I'll have Farek make mine."
As soon as we drank our tea, however, we realized that they had delivered it to us sweetened already--Farek hadn't needed to put sugar in at all. I'm sure there was now nearly a half cup of sugar dissolved in 8 ounces of tea—even the Egyptians were gagging on it slightly. But, down it goes! Type II Diabetes can always be treated later.

More guests start arriving—all of the men are wearing galibayyas, which are like ankle-lengthed button down shirts. I spotted two western suits in the whole place--one worn by Ahmed, one by Amir. Some of the women arrived in taffeta prom dresses (with long sleeve shirts underneath). Some arrived riding astride donkeys, one came on a horse. The boy on the horse rode it into the crowd, which spooked the horse and threatened to bring down the entire tent and back rump-first into our table. Thankfully, we were able to jump up and get out of the way before a tragic horse trampling occurred. The boy kept bringing the horse back in the crowd--I think he was actually trying to make it "dance", if any of you have ever seen Arabian horse shows. But having 200 people crowded around it mostly made the horse--and us--nervous.

The requisite DJ repeating the same 3 songs was there, and the children and men started bellydancing (adult women don't dance in public often, especially in this more conservative environment). It was at this point, sitting around the table talking to Amir and Farek, that I learned that Ahmed didn't even know his wife before he got engaged to her. He had heard about her from a friend, called her father, and asked to get married to her. That's how things are done in the village, I'm told. What? Over the past year, they've been going on chaperoned dates. Now, they're beginning a life together.

Hind and Ahmed finally arrive—the women started trilling and the men danced. We got invited up in groups to go up to the stage and pay our respects to the new couple. After that, they invited our group inside the house next door to eat. They had slaughtered an ox for the occasion, which was the first red meat I had eaten in a month! We stuffed ourselves, and were then invited to watch the wedding from the balcony of his family's apartment.

We spend the rest of the evening there, enjoying the dancing and laughing and the occasional firecrackers and blanks that people were shooting off, pleasantly surprised to find ourselves the guests of honor without feeling too out of place (thanks to the fact we were with Egyptian friends of the groom).

I'm having trouble uploading photos, but will do so as soon as I can. I'm going to another wedding tonight with my host family in Maasara—this one promises to be as crazy and colorful as the last.

New Address Info

I have a new line to add to the address I posted earlier. By the way, I am also now all set to receive packages, too, if any of you get the inkling to send some American goodness my way!

My address is now:
6A el-Diwan Street, Apartment 16
Post Office Number: 11451
Garden City, Cairo
EGYPT

French fries and eggplant.

My new favorite place in Cairo is the 10 foot by 3 foot concrete balcony in our apartment. At least half of the austere, dusty space is occupied by our clothes lines, which—despite the fancy hot water heater and a/c unit in our apartment—is still needed in order to dry our clothes. Two glass doors connect my bedroom to the balcony, along with two green shutters to give us privacy when we want it.

I've set a wooden folding chair out on the balcony and spend quiet, peaceful moments there, watching the sun create shadows on the buildings around us. From where I sit, I could see into nearly 20 other units around us. I couldn't reach out and touch the building next to us, but it seems close enough that I should. But even this concrete view is nice—below, neighbors have some potted plants, and there are a few trees sprouting up between the concrete, as well. A neighbor woman stood on her balcony last night, texting on her cellphone. We often watch the neighbors directly across us, who seem to have some kind of office in that unit. And every day, walking in and out of my apartment, I greet the doorman and his family. They live in a small room beside the front door, providing security and others odds-n-ends jobs for the tenants. Each of us pays $10/month to his family, and so the economy continues to limp along. And so we have the beginnings of a kind of urban community.

I finished reading "The Kite Runner" on the balcony after work two evenings ago, drinking cinnamon tea and propping my feet up on the railing. Now that I've finished Kite Runner, I've started reading an English translation of "Taxi," a best selling Egyptian book about conversations the author had with dozens of taxi drivers across Cairo. A literary social commentary, it was also written in colloquial Egyptian Arabic, which is hardly ever done. Arabic now is like Europe was before the printing press—when the people spoke French or Spanish or Italian, but wrote in Latin. People speak in colloquial Egyptian Arabic, but write in Modern Standard Arabic. "Taxi" has the same literary effect as Dante writing "inferno" in 13th century Italian. Because it is written in colloquial Egyptian Arabic, I have hopes to be able to start reading it by the end of the year. Inshahallah.

This morning, I drank my instant cappuccino—the best coffee you can get in this country—and spent some quiet moments on the balcony preparing myself for the day to come. I have big designs for this balcony—finding a small table to put out there for my books, coffee, and ashtray, buying a hookah. If anyone has Buddhist prayer flags from Seattle they'd like to send, I think those would make a nice finishing touch.

My latest discovery: a BAMF sandwich shop right across the street from our apartment. I was hungry and malnourished after returning from teaching English late last night (It may be true that I haven't eaten any fruit or vegetables in 5+ days. It's not entirely my fault, though. Inexplicably, all of the vendors stopped selling cucumbers and tomatoes. Last week, you couldn't take a step without bumping into a cuke and tomato vendor with carts spilling over with vegetables. This week, not a tomato in sight. People are obviously still eating vegetables in Egypt, though, so they have to be somewhere…. There is plenty of fruit—ok, ok, so I'm not off the hook, nutritionally speaking—but we're still on a quest to hunt down some cucumbers, without any success thus far).

I had spotted this sweet looking sandwich place, with plates piled high with falafel, roasted peppers, cucumbers and tomatoes (where did they find them??) and kofta. I had meant to buy a sandwich there earlier, but—don't judge me—had chickened out. Ordering food from local joints with no menu or prices listed can make me a bit bashful, afraid to say do something stupid. Now, this is completely irrational, I recognize—what's the biggest faux pas I could commit at a sandwich stand? I suppose I could try to order a ham sandwich, but I don't even know the Arabic word for "ham" (which wouldn't do me much good to know anyway!), so we're safe from that one. I also can get shy about shouldering my way into a crowd of customers, all of whom are a bit amused to hear the American girl ordering in Arabic.

But as I walked by last night, the stand was quiet. No customers around, no one crowded on the sidewalk near me. I almost passed it by, stomach growling, but made myself summon up a kernel of toughness (which has only ever been a façade, anyway). "Good evening," I said. "I would like an eggplant and French fry sandwich."
That was no mistake—eggplant and French fry sandwiches are delicious. 30 cents later, I was happily munching on my little half pita, stuffed with fantastically tasty vegetables. I'm not sure if vegetables bathed in grease helps me on my nutrition count, but hey, it's a start.

Sunday, August 3, 2008

Garden City.

This morning, I took my first warm shower in 34 days.
I also spotted the first tampons (and all the more shockingly, condoms) I've seen sold in Egypt.
Welcome to Garden City, a neighborhood of intersections. In the broad, even sidewalks along the Nile and the curvaceous tree-lined streets, you see the former elegance and enclave-culture of the days when Egypt was part of England's nightless empire.
In the coffee shops and back alleys, you see men in galibayyas playing backgammon and smoking sheesha. A pair of goats is tied up by stone doorways next to the fruit vendors and butcher, with cages of live chickens outside. A stray chicken foot pokes out of the dust in the street gutter.
A large, modern children's hospital dominates the busy streetscape, with countless small shops selling blood pressure gauges, scales and antibiotics instead of fanta and dorito chips.
Only a few hundred yards past some of Cairo's largest hotels, our apartment nevertheless feels worlds away from the tourists' Egypt. Our street is a kind of borderland between the two worlds, and is the beginning of a tumble into an Egyptian neighborhood with all the vibrance, color, and culture of anywhere else that we've lived—but, as the tampons and condoms showed us—a more worldly awareness, too.
Welcome to yet another slice of Egypt.
We packed our bags on Friday morning, spending our last hours in Maasara feeding a half dozen scrawny chickens and one very ugly duck on the roof of our family's building, then sitting on the laps of our host sisters and basking for a few more minutes in their home life.
A family friend, the videographer of one of their weddings, owns a large car and offered to drive us—for a fee, of course. His teeth were stained dark brown from tea and cigarettes, but his car was large and comfortable, and he was pleasantly courteous as we took the Nile-side highway north to our new home.
It occurred to me then that our family's building was only two blocks from the Nile, but that I had never seen the water while we lived there. To go those two blocks meant crossing through a sandy and dodgy alleyway and crossing the large highway. Even if I had done that, there were no parks or benches to go to on the other side. The whole neighborhood of Maasara is located so close to natural beauty, but with riverside property costing what it does, they all live inland.
As we drove those two dusty blocks and turned onto the highway, I was hit with conflicting pangs of guilt and relief, nostalgia and excitement. It had been hard to explain to the family why we were leaving them. Why were we leaving? For shorter commutes, for greater independence, for creature comforts and privacy. To live more as Americans, less like lower-class Egyptians. I still feel conflicted as I write this. We promised the family to come back and visit every weekend, and I'm attending their cousin's wedding on Tuesday (the mother is cooking, which means we're in for a good time!). That helps.
But I won't lie that I have fallen in love with our new apartment. One of the bedrooms has a walk-out balcony, with a clothesline to one side of it. The room is filled with light. On Friday night, after we had finished unpacking, my roommate E. and I split a Heiniken (another first for me in Egypt) and cigarillos, watching the sun set against the other apartment buildings crowded around us.
That night, my roommates and I walked along the Nile towards downtown, drinking lemon mint juice and coffee outside, smoking apple sheesha, skirting the leering men that congregate on the bridges at night. Settling into our chairs at the outdoor café, we spotted one lone star shining above the top of a palm tree. A fire breather performed with her child on the street corner, and throngs of Egyptians dressed in pink and yellow and sequins walked arm in arm with their loved ones down the busy roads. We came home to our air-conditioned room, read in bed, and shut out the lights. Now we were home, and it felt fabulous.
Yesterday E. and I went out to Islamic Cairo—the Medieval section of the city—to photograph the narrow streets, colorful street vendors, and the large, graceful mosques that project into the skyline here. Most of our evening was spent in the great khan al-khalili—Cairo's most famous outdoor market, where the vendors are fluent in 8 languages and can swindle you out of most any currency. E. and I arrived early in the day, however, when a soccer match between two of Cairo's favorite club teams were playing. The markets were quiet, except for a few scantily clad tourists. We took our time chatting in Arabic with the vendors, and left with some beautiful scarves and jewelry. As the sun began to set, the market began to fill up.
After drinking mint tea at the world's oldest coffee shop, we twisted our way out of the market's picturesque labyrinth to the local market, where Egyptians come to buy clothing still wrapped in their plastic packets, spices, plastic toys, and any imaginable household item. We found an Egyptian hair straightener for $4, but couldn't manage to find any nails to hang some of our new purchases at home with.
Soon the streets were packed to a suffocating level. We were already squeezed shoulder to shoulder as we tried to move our way past the market stalls, and were nearly crushed by a cart—exactly the width of the alleyway—that a boy was trying to pull through the crowds. We slipped through a backstreet and wound our way back to downtown. We had walked miles. But with each step, we were re-acquainting ourselves with a city that we were now navigating ourselves, without the meditation of our old study abroad program or the help of our host family. It's a different experience entirely.