Kickin’ in Al Qahira
Oct. 18, 2007
Cairo, Egypt
I’m as inconspicuous as an ostrich, walking around Cairo. I march around for a few hours and am the only Westerner in sight. Where are all the tourists? This is supposed to be one of the biggest tourist attractions on earth, and has been for 5,000 years.
After a visit to the Egyptian Museum, I discover that they are all in tour groups traveling in buses that zip straight back to their hotels. They haven’t the luxury of walking the streets and staying on a trash-ridden lane full of plumbing supply shops like the digs of my hotel. I track them to their lair in the Hilton, walking through the lobby and a metal detector to get to the Nile. That’s my brush with the tourist world -- they are pretty well insulated against Cairo, except for what they see on the bus.
No one gives me a hard time walking around though, and lots of young people say hi and “Welcome to Egypt.” One young guy tags along with me for a mile or so because he wants to practice his English.
“Be careful of the dodgy people who might try to take advantage of you,” he warns. “Not everyone is nice, like me.”
Yeah, yeah.
But I cringe is when I see a movie theatre playing The Kingdom, starring Jamie Foxx as part of a team of scared-silly American FBI agents who shoot it out with some uppity Arabs in Saudi Arabia. Some young men gesture angrily at the movie poster, and I tip-toe on by, unnoticed behind them... I hate that kind of macho shit that feeds xenophobia in America -- and hatred of us overseas.
It’s a shock to see people dressed like out of the Bible. I round a corner this morning and here is a young man in a full length robe with the cap of a devotee, accompanied by his girlfriend in a head-to-toe black bedsheet with only her eyes showing through a narrow slit. It’s like a scene from the bar in the Star Wars movie... The women in black take care to make up their eyes with extravagant care -- it’s the only way they can show off their charms.
Later, I learn that especially beautiful women choose to wear the all-black shroud -- even adding gloves -- because they are considered simply too good-looking to be seen in public. Imagine that attitude in America or Europe.
But many women in traditional dress are gathered in front of the store windows full of Western clothes on manikins which are bereft of shawls -- obviously, these are infidel manikins. Also, there are many sexy lingerie shops (what kind of kink goes on under those robes?) and just a jillion shoe stores. This makes sense, since shoes are the only apparel that’s allowed to peak out from under their dowdy robes.
The women take care to wear hijabs decorated with bangles and bright colors, but these scarves don’t do anything for their looks. Yet there are many young sweethearts showing affection and hugging each other down by the Nile, so Egypt doesn’t seem to be prone to all of the nasty hardcore Muslim stuff, like you hear about in Saudi or Afghanistan.
In fact, I walk by a mosque and hear the call to prayers which is issued from a loudspeaker five times a day -- including around 4:30 a.m. Although I don’t speak Arabic, I can easily translate the message: “Get your ass to pray-ers, all you sinners and de-vout be-liev-ers!!! It’s time to say your p-r-a-y-e-r-s!!!!” I don’t see anyone diving towards Mecca in the park next to the mosque, however. Being no fan of organized religion, especially one where people have to be reminded five times a day to say their prayers, I find this ambivalence quite cheering.
I wonder how long this women’s cover-up thing will last because the TV here is packed with a great many American shows with Arabic subtitles -- including the likes of Desperate Housewives. There are also plenty of sexy hip-hop music videos on the tube. And many of the Western women tourists have a habit of showing off their generous bazzooms in halter tops, which must surely be a scandal here. Perhaps it’s no wonder the Muslim radicals are so freaked out about our encroaching culture. Give it 20 years and I’ll bet the veil and hijab will be goners.
As for the guys, they are uniformly skinny and dressed in Western t-shirts and jeans. Most look bored out of their skulls, working at menial jobs. My modest hotel must have a staff of 40, with most of the employees moping around without much to do.
Then there’s the Tourist Police -- guys in white uniforms and black berets -- many sleeping in their cars on the job -- looking as bored as can be or zoned-out in the 90-degree heat. Funny, but for some reason, all of the metal detectors and guys with submachine guns in the tourist zones aren’t making me feel all that safe.
A Friendly Smile
In America, we’re taught by the mass media to be scared silly of the impoverished, virtually powerless Muslims. Walking through neighborhoods that few tourists will ever see, I wonder if anyone will hassle an obvious gringo, not to mention an American.
Far from it. Countless people stop to say hello, or “Welcome to Egypt,” with broad smiles. I feel safe just walking around with a smile and a “Hi, how are ya?” as my umbrella.
Many people ask if I’m an “Ozzie,” meaning “Aussie,” or Australian, those heroic world travelers you find everywhere on earth, especially the scruffy spots where prices are cheap.
“Are you an Ozzie? An Ozzie, yes?”
“No, I’m from northern Michigan in the United States of America,” I say, which gets a puzzled response. It turns out that there are few American tourists wandering the streets here, if any, so the people don’t seem to know what the “United States” is. “It’s America,” I say, and they nod. The folks on the street know about America.
What is dangerous here, however, is the murderous traffic. Cairo’s streets are mired in a fierce gridlock with hundreds of Fiats and buses fighting to get through the intersections, leaning on a symphony of horns. You just walk straight into the oncoming traffic and weave through the cars. No one seems to be getting run over, however, and the only one I see scooting a bit more than the rest is yours truly.
The Egyptian Museum is an unexpected treat. I expect thousands of dusty old relics, of which there are plenty -- but the entire second floor is given over to the treasures of the boy king, Tutankhamun. The artifacts include golden war chariots, a fleet of model ships to carry Tut through the afterlife, his three golden coffins, and a mask of gold which was placed over the linen wrappings of his embalmed head.
Tut ruled Egypt for about three years, starting in his teens. Some believe he was murdered -- a common occupational hazard for pharaohs, kings and such all through the ages.
The death mask was made as lifelike as possible so that his soul -- ba -- would be able to recognize him in the afterlife and help him to become resurrected. Can only imagine that Tut must be rather freaked by now, because all of his servants and goodies are in the museum, yet they left his mummy at his tomb in Luxor, a couple hundred miles south of here. The guy’s been in the afterlife for 3,300 years and all of his bling has been blown.
Dingy Dog
Oct. 19, 2007
Cairo, Egypt
Cairo is a whirl of color at night -- tens of thousands of people walk the streets, having a good time. This is a 24-hour city: Men smoke hookah bubble pipes of tobacco flavored with apple and bananas - kids dream at the huge display of dolls in store windows. People dine out on falafel and shish kebab at packed restaurants...
“It’s funny, but at this time of night in America, everyone is home watching TV and no one would be out on the streets like this,” I say to Esam Abd Elsalam, the leader who will be guiding a group of 11 of us backpackers through Egypt.
“Yes, I found the same thing to be true the time I went to Europe for a visit to Denmark,” Esam responds. “No one was out on the streets at night and it felt very lonely and scary. You would never have such a frightening situation in Egypt -- the people all come out at night to visit.”
Esam is a guide with Intrepid Travel, a backpacker group that specializes in cultural immersion. You ride on the rickety local buses and cabs, eat in local restaurants where most tourists would never dream of going -- and stay in budget hotels and guest houses favored by the locals.
Esam seems to know everyone in Egypt -- all of the police chiefs, mayors, cops and merchants along the route. Everyone high-fives him wherever he goes. A diving expert from a small town on the Red Sea, Esam is blessed with a welcoming smile and an open face -- good properties to have for putting up with whiny tourists -- bitching about their missing towels and such.
Our party is a snapshot of the backpacking circuit -- people who seem at home almost anywhere on earth:
Jason and Helen are nurses from Massachusetts. Jason is my roommate and has a wry, dry sense of humor and a wandering spirit. Little do I know it, but Jason and Helen will turn out to be among the very few Americans I’ll meet from here on through Asia.
Olan (nicknamed Habibi, Arab slang for “baby” or “darling”) and Imari are Londoners with ethnic origins in Pakistan and Sri Lanka respectively. They are software specialists in their 20s who have taken time off to travel around the world. So far, they’ve been all over South America, and are planning to head for Kenya and Tanzania after Egypt. Then, on to Pakistan and other horizons.
Charlotte is a Londoner with a veddy proper British accent, and the ethnic heritage of southern India. She’s planning to go skiing in Romania after wrapping up Egypt. Like the other backpackers in our group, Charlotte thinks nothing of skipping from London to south India or Australia.
I find kindred spirits in Steve and Andrea of Melbourne, Australia. Steve is a chef at a posh club that caters to government officials and businessmen, while Andrea is preparing to become a lawyer. Andrea is a tall, green-eyed goddess in the looks department, earning Steve many offers to trade her for “one million camels” (or more) from appreciative Egyptian men.
Steve and Andrea are practically in a state of mourning over the fact that their nine-month trip is half over.
“I can’t stand to think about going back, we’ve been having such a good time,” Andrea says. “It’s seems like we’ve just gotten started and now we’re halfway done.”
“What will you do when you get back?”
“I’m starting a new job at a law firm,” she says, adding that she’s worked her way through law school as a waitress, which is how she met Steve.
“Well, I can’t say that I blame you for not looking forward to that,” I say, imagining the notorious hours that lawyers have to work. What a turnaround from nine months of backpacking around the world.
Andrea and Steve have already toured east Europe, motored around France, and are fresh from Morocco, where they spent several days in the Sahara on a camel trek. Like many other backpackers, they’ve traced a crazy-quilt route across the planet. I can only imagine they’ve spent a boatload of cash to make the trip, especially considering the Australian dollar is worth only a little over half of a euro. But it turns out that Steve has made a killing in real estate with the sale of a house -- apparently, the real estate bubble of the early ‘00s has been percolating even Down Under.
“Where was your favorite stop so far?”
“Turkey,” they answer with a single voice.
“We loved it,” Steve says. “Especially Cappadocia. It’s a place with all of these caves carved into the side of the hills where the people live. Our hotel room was a cave with a beautiful view.”
They rave about Turkey’s fabulous bus system, with comfy palaces on wheels plying all corners of the country. Their description of the mammoth, multi-level bus station in Istanbul makes it sound like one of the Wonders of the World.
Turkey is a sweet spot for many Australians because it is where the Battle of Gallipoli was fought in December, 1915, which claimed the lives of more than 7,500 of their countrymen. Mostly forgotten by the rest of the world, this battle of World War One was the first major military action for both Australia and New Zealand, which took part in the allied invasion of Turkey. Unfortunately, the incompetence and arrogance of British military leaders resulted in the massacre of the troops from Down Under. The Australians and Kiwis were pinned down on an indefensible beachhead and shot like dogs on a leash. Today, many Australians visit the beach at Anzac near Gallipoli and cry their eyes out over events of nearly 100 years ago.
The anti-war song, “And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda,” is about a hopelessly crippled soldier returning from Gallipoli, thankful that no one is there to greet him at the dock in Australia because he is mangled beyond recognition and couldn’t stand the shame of being recognized.
Up the Vent Hose
We take the dank Cairo subway and a junker bus to the pyramids at Giza. These are the biggest in Egypt, with the tallest at 450 feet, built for King Cheops as his final resting place.
“It took 20 years to build, and rather than slaves, it was local farmers who built this pyramid in the off season,” a local guide says.
“Why would they do that? Didn’t that make them slaves?” someone asks.
“No, they were told that if they built the pyramid, they would be able to join King Cheops in the afterlife. For them, it was an honor to build the pyramid, and a chance to live forever.”
A long line of tourists crawl into the heart of the second largest pyramid through a 3.5-foot high tunnel -- it’s an extremely hot and airless sluice with people gasping for breath all the way. It’s a wonder some of the fatsos don’t have heart attacks... they probably do, but that sort of thing gets hushed up, just like all the rip-tide drownings at the resorts of Mexico. Oh well, it is a tomb, after all. It’s like crawling up the vent hose of a working dryer.
Then we were squeezed like jello through a frosting funnel into another temple, the walls of which serve as a frame for photos of the Sphinx. Riddle me this: why subject yourself to this bit of nastiness when you can see the critter plain as day just outside the temple?
How the Sphinx Lost Its Nose:
The face of the Sphinx is a mess, with its nose chipped away. Yet our guide says its all bunk that the Sphinx was used for target practice by French artillerymen during Napoleon’s invasion of Egypt. This was just British propaganda.
What really happened was this: After Alexander the Great conquered Egypt, the country fell into a long period of decline under successive invaders. The Sphinx was neglected and was slowly buried up to its neck in the desert sands.
Gradually, the locals forgot the old gods and drifted into paganism and idolatry. The Sphinx was a frightening presence in the desert outside Cairo and some of the nomads and locals started worshipping it as a god.
This irked the hell out of a Coptic Christian monk. To prove to its worshippers that the Sphinx was not a god, he took a hammer to its nose and defaced the statue. Rather than rousing herself to bite his head off, the Sphinx just sat there and took it.
And that’s why the Sphinx needs a makeover today, because another religious busybody couldn’t resist taking a stab at someone else’s beliefs.
But is this what really happened? Only the Sphinx knows for sure, and she’s not talking.
***
I appreciate the pyramids -- ‘mighty’ is the word that comes to mind, but when all is said and done, they are just a pile of rocks in the desert. Of more interest is walking the backstreets of Egypt at night, seeing the local people out having fun, going to restaurants, talking with their friends -- there’s even a wedding party with a loud band playing drums and chanting. Forgetting the dirt and the noise and the oncoming traffic and just trying to fit into the scene -- saying hi: “salaam” -- and thank you: “shukram.”
I’ve become a dingy dog o’ the desert -- my only other t-shirt is white cotton and it’s as gray as the Cairo smog, earning me weird looks and wrinkled noses from the women in our group. I look for an “I Partied at the Pyramids” t-shirt or something on that order in vain.
By the way -- don’t ever get bit by a camel -- those ridden by the touts at the pyramids seem to have wicked tempers and nasty horrible tongues with long, yellow-brown teeth to match...
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