The four of us (unlike all of my hipster friends in Seattle, my roommates and I have yet to name ourselves [G8] or our place of residence [drama house, the barn, our house--I'm looking at you]) took the metro an hour south to go shopping at some very local (ie, cheap) stores in the neighborhood of Helwan. While our fashion sense may be eroding, our Middle Class American penchant for sales racks has not.
Egyptians dress to the motto of "Go big or go home." As I have mentioned before, headscarves are one outlet for their affection for all things multi-colored, sequined, and hyper-coordinated. But clothing takes this principle and carries it out to the nth degree: shockingly tight low-cut shirts to be layered over turtlenecks, super-ruffled dresses worn over matching pants, tunic shirts with beads and embroidery, wide skirts that touch the ground, sequined jackets to match a sequined flowery pant suit. If you want a piece of flair, you've got it.
The other catch: nothing comes in a size small. Nope, not a thing. At first, my roommates and I assumed this was for modesty--and I think there's something to that. Even really skinny girls here generally wear things a little bit big (unless they're doing that tight-shirt-over-turtleneck trick, which is a big hit with high school girls. Extra gutsy if you're we
aring a skin-colored turtleneck).
Then we realized the other truth: most Egyptian women are not size small. No, we are in a country of healthy eaters who prize round (and as pale as possible) faces. Not too many petites around. Having lost 7 pounds or so since I arrived, this has fated me to look a bit frumpy in slightly over-sized clothing.
But it was as we were picking through the rows of fluttering skirts and rayon tunics, we found ourselves drawn to clothes that were uncomfortably limboed between fashion sensibilities.
At one point, I spotted a tunic shirt with brown embroidery on it. Love at first sight.
"What do you think of this?" I excitedly asked K. She burst out laughing.
"Uh...well, I would never wear it."
"What do you mean you would never wear it? It's beautiful!" I protested.
"In that 'I'm an American student abroad trying to pretend I'm an African' kind of way."
I bought it anyway.
After our shopping trip--complete with a few other similarly awkward purchases--we spent the evening in Maasara to attend a two-week festival at the local Orthodox monastery. While relaxing with the family at their home and waiting for the weather to cool off a bit, I tried to teach the host mom how to thumb wrestle. She didn't really take to it, but 16
year-old Sara was a natural.
The mom then challenged me to arm wrestle. I should mention that she was arm wrestling me laying down, which should have given me an extra advantage--and, as a former power lifter and avid swing dancer, I'm used to having a bit better upper body strength
than most women.
She had me down in one second flat. Raising 4 children and 3 grandchildren, washing, cleaning, and cooking by hand--and outweighing me by a solid 50 or 60 pounds, she is
a force to be reckoned with. Kirsten captured the moment:
The monastery was beautiful. Hundreds of people were streaming into the large church complex, which would make it the largest group of non-Muslims I've ever be
en in within Egypt. It was strange to suddenly feel a bit in the majority (though as a white foreigner, that feeling wasn't quite complete). Along with rows of stands selling homemade candy, fresh roasted peanuts, dried fruit, and monk-made artisan crafts, we were also serenaded by the loud buzzing of 3 tattoo stands. Could you imagine that at an Evangelical mega church? Maybe at Mars Hill, just to show that they were, you know, tough and edgy. But hey--want a tattoo of Mary, or maybe the Orthodox Archbishop? Walk right up.
We staked out a patch of the dirt road as our own and laid out a blanket to sit on (bits of garbage blowing by not bothering us in the slightest) and set ourselves to enjoy an evening of people watching and browsing the monastery gift shop (i bought a nice icon for 85 cents). The family was deliberately trying to keep a low profile, though, knowing that 4 American girls were going to attract a bunch of attention. (Think Midwest 4th of July street fair, and you'd have a sense of the atmosphere. Lots of families enjoying a pleasant evning, but also lots of packs of adolescent boys wandering about free from adult supervision)
Despite our best efforts to stay out of sight, however, a man wandered over and approached Um Hani. "Where are they from?" he asked. Now, I couldn't follow all of the conversation, so I can't vouch for the accuracy of what I'm about to say. But after a few exchanges, he began to cross himself repeatedly. "This is a holy place," he said--seemingly implying that the presence of wanton American women was polluting the monastery.
Now, if I actually had the power to defile an entire monastery complex--which fills up a half mile x half mile area and houses several nuns and monks--I'd be pretty impressed with myself. Somehow, I don't think my sins are worse than anyone elses in the area, blue eyes and an American flag or otherwise. I was a bit amused.
Today I proudly wore my brown embroidered shirt and did our weekly vegetable shopping at the Saturday markets with my roommate J. Since I don't do much cooking, I haven't actually participated in the weekly ritual yet. Toting around a few kilos of tomatoes, rice, and eggplants, I felt pretty BAMF. That is, until I couldn't understand the zuccini vendor when he asked me to grab 2 more zucc's to make a kilo, but whatev. Can't win them all.
1 comment:
Funny you should mention it, actually. Just before I left, Mars Hill had an event, and I got a tattoo on my lower back of Mark Driscoll and Jesus giving each other a terrorist fist jab. Classy.
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