Cairo Culture Shock
Egypt 1983
An innocent abroad…
We drove through the outskirts of Cairo looking for somewhere to stay. The road was a dirt-track of compacted clay running along a muddy stream with piles of rubbish scattered alongside. We had to watch out to avoid drooping telegraph wires without slithering down the muddy banks. Periodically, Reinhold slammed onto the breaks to allow cattle or goats to pass the street. Deep-hanging branches whipped through the open top of the lorry. By the time we finally reached the camp-site, just after dark, we were shattered. Even the usually unfazable Reinhold wiped the sweat from his forehead and refused to get back into the truck for the next couple of days, leaving us to haggle with Cairo’s cab drivers.
The wailing sound of a Mu’azzin woke me at five o’clock. In the grey pre-dawn light I saw the shadowy fronds of a young date palm playing on the canvas of my tent, reminding me that we were in Egypt. On our way to the camping ground, we had spotted the pyramids from afar. I crept out of the tent and found that the call to prayer rung out not from the tower of a mosque but from a tape recorder somewhere among the small huts in the neighbourhood.
We went to explore Cairo and go find some culture. Cairo was overwhelming — confusing, bewildering, noisy, dusty and exotic. The traffic on Pyramid Street was moving along relentlessly, five or more lanes across. Wherever there was an opening the drivers scrambled to fill the space tooting their horns incessantly. In this chaos, cops and traffic lights had no effect whatsoever. Every now and then an overloaded donkey cart or precariously balancing cyclist emerged from the maelstrom; calm as if nothing was amiss, which of course it wasn’t. I was just a foreigner in a strange country.
At the pyramids, the throng of touts pressing up to us nearly made it impossible to get out of the cab. I could not face the clamouring crowds but some of us wanted to see the pyramids so we agreed to split and meet later at a nearby mosque.
After several hours of searching in vain for the National Museum, I gave up on culture and wandered aimlessly through the dusty streets. I had an 8mm camera which my sister had given me with the instructions to send home regular updates and was trying to get the filming over with, keeping a low profile because I was unsure how people would react. Most did not seem to take any notice, so I became bolder and focused on a picturesque view. Just as I was about to start rolling, a hand moved in front of the lens. Believing it a joke I grumbled: “Leave it out,” but the hand did not belong to any of my companions. A boy of perhaps 14 glared angrily at me and demanded I hand over the camera. I checked whether people around took notice and a few of them had stopped to watch. There was no point in causing trouble, so I slipped the camera into my bag and crossed the street. The boy did not follow, but I had become wary of filming.
By the time we all met up again, it was late. We went to search for a cab but without luck. None of the drivers seemed to know where the camp-site was. The arabic address was no use without a map which was no use because it was in English. When we finally found a cab and arrived back after driving around in circles for some time, we felt sorry for the driver and gave him a generous tip on top of the agreed fare. He took the money, counted the bills and held out his hand demanding three pounds more. After haggling for a while in suddenly fluent English, he settled for one pound. We did not give him any more money and got out of the car. The angry expression on the driver’s face dissolved into a pleasant smile and he bade us a cheerful good-bye. We had a lot to learn about haggling in Egypt.
Dieter told us that after a short ride through the city centre his driver had asked for 17 piastres. When he thought he hadn’t heard correctly, the driver pointed at the meter which was working and showed the correct fare. Happily surprised he tipped the driver generously.Quite a nice little scam, but the driver had been lucky not to have Reinhold as a passenger.
Some had found alternative ways of getting back. Lost after fruitlessly looking for a cab, Uschi and Ulrike were picked up by two police officers and driven safely back to the camp-site where one of them invited the whole group to lunch the following day.
Most did not want to come. In the end, just four of us agreed to go. Reinhold advised me not to, as a woman, but I figured with Udo, Roland and Dieter as chaperones I would be quite safe.
Mohamed arrived on the dot of eleven, hooting a cheery melody as he pulled up. He had fitted his car with (an early version of) a musical computer and when that wasn’t enough to get through the traffic, he sounded the siren. He took us on a tour of the city. Once I had stopped closing my eyes in terror of the traffic and started to relax I found it fascinating. We passed the silverdomes and sandstone minarets of the citadel and drove past mountains of rubbish through wich we glimpsed the city of the dead, houses on top of tombs where relatives would come to live with the deceased at certain times — now home to thousands of people all year-round, a city of the living. The past and the present irrevocably intertwined.
Mohamed drove us up a quarry from where we could see the whole city stretched out before us, the green Nile valley beyond and the desert, grey and endless, surrounding it all.
When we arrived at his home, Mohamed voiced his disappointment that so few of us had followed his invitation, although not many more would have been able to squeeze into his car. I was slightly ashamed on behalf of the group.
We were served by a soldier of the Egyptian army who worked in his household — one of the priviliges of a high-ranking police officer. The food was clearly intended for more than five people, even allowing for the lavish generosity of the host and soon we were full. Mohamed encouraged us to eat more and fed us choice bites by hand. Surprised, I glanced at Roland who smiled and nodded. Back in camp he told me that being fed by the host is an honour. We did not know what to do to indicate that we really were full and I have no idea how we managed to wiggle out politely. The right thing to do, I found out later, was to say “Hamdulillah” – Praise be to Allah – to indicate that the meal is at an end.
We spent the afternoon exploring the National Museum which we had at long last stumbled across. Afterwards we took a stroll through the soukh enjoying the smells, colours and gentle buzz. Hundreds of tiny shops and a plethora of stalls lined the alleys offering spices, pottery, clothes, shoes, sweets and fruit and vegetables in large piles. The cloth-market alone stretched across several streets.
A local in European dress called to us in German and offered his services as a guide. We agreed (we were green!) willing to part with baksheesh for the services of someone who knew the way. He led us back through the spice-market, past sacks of chillis, peppercorns, coriander seeds and dried mint. The stall holders sprinkled samples into our hands, making us rub and smell their wares.
Before long we were among the parfum shops and our “guide” waved us into the one he owned. Thus ensnared, there was no escape. My companions managed to haggle a few tiny bottles of fragrance down to about twice of what they ought to cost. I was lucky that I had hardly any money on me, so I escaped — that time.
On the way past the household stores, we met up with Udo and Dieter who had only just arrived at the bazaar and I decided to hang out a little longer. Once again we walked through the spice-market, sniffing at samples of red peppercorns and frankinsence. Back in the alley of the perfume traders, my new companions proved more resistant but were soon spun into a conversation with one of the shop owners. (Only tip: ignore them, no matter what!) who said that the shop had been in his family for three generations which is doubtlessly where he honed his salesmanship from toddlerhood. He told us about his travels to Europe, showing us addresses and photographs. He might have squeezed blood from a stone but he made the mistake to concentrate on me and despite all this pontifications, I had no cash to speak of on me. He let me choose a small bottle of fragrance as a present and I cherished it as a souvenir from Egypt: earnt, not bought!
In a quiet corner a small boy offered us some hash in a whisper. My companions lightened up. We followed the urchin up a steep, dark stair case into a musty room where several men sat around a stove. The boy bade us to sit on a wooden bench and said something to the men, one of whom removed a glowing piece of charcoal with a pair of prongs and placed it onto a shisha whereupon they all left the room. Two young men emerged from the shadows and stood between the boy and us. My heart was pounding. Was this a trap? Didn’t Egypt have the death sentence for possession of cannabis? But Udo was as cool as a cucumber.
“How much?” he asked.
One of the guys produced a tiny clump of hash: “Ten pounds.”
Udo gave a little laugh until the guy doubled the amount of hash and added a bit extra. Then he nodded, handed over the cash and everyone shook hands.
Soon we were back on the street, looking for a cab back to the camping ground.
Denni