Wanderlust

Egyptian girls are the red line!

2011-12-28T00:54:00.000-08:00

Egyptians returned to Liberation Square last Friday for yet another demonstration to voice disapproval of their military rulers.

Two prominent signs with the word kaathiboon or “liars” in bold red were displayed in the square. The epithet refers to the military junta or Supreme Council of Armed Forces (SCAF) which last week ordered soldiers to assault peaceful protesters in the square. In doing so, they beat a young, veiled woman unconscious on the pavement, her headscarf and shirt ripped off, revealing a blue bra against a pale chest.

A few soldiers surrounded her, dragging her limp body. They carried batons and one of them stepped on her half-naked body. This is only one of the various images that Egyptians have witnessed this week in their ongoing revolution as they struggle with a basic question of who will rule their new political system.

Even under Mubarak’s regime, such an act was never perpetrated. Many Egyptians feel a new boundary has been crossed. Taxi drivers now talk of going to the square to “restore her honor.”

I asked one of my Egyptian brothers, how does one go to the military council to “restore” lost honor? The question tripped him up a little.

In visiting Liberation Square this past summer, I witnessed a number of so-called debate circles, where Egyptians would discuss calmly and cordially different subjects. Now, these same debate circles are filled with venom. Men shout. Women shout. Men shout at women. Young men shout at other young men. They are angrier than before. I admit I am a little distressed at these images. Somehow, they frighten me a little more than the men with machetes who walk around the square.

I ascend the stairs from the metro station and am met by the civilian guards who ask me for my passport. I display my Chinese teacher’s ID from my year teaching English abroad in 1998—more than 13 years ago. I hope my youthful picture still matches my current mug. “China? You Chinese? We like China. Enter!”

Gamal, one gentleman in his 40s, was accompanying his colleagues in carrying a giant Egyptian flag. Sporting a Palestinian kufaya around his neck, Gamal first asks me to take some pictures of him. I oblige him. He then asks me to send him the pictures. When I ask him for his email address, he asks another gentleman on the side to write his address for him. I surmise that Gamal is illiterate.

Gamal invites me to a cup of tea and gently pulls me to the side where a tea lady has set up shop with a few bottles of bottled water, instant tea and a Bunsen burner on a piece of wood. I ask her, “how’s business?”

“Pretty good today. Pretty good,” She replies cheerfully.

As we talk, Gamal tells me that he works in a hammam, or bathhouse nearby in Boulaq, a working class neighborhood by the Nile. As he speaks, he reminds me of a Chinese monk with his shaved head, high cheekbones and long eyebrows. He even has a wide nose and piercing eyes. Yes, definitely Chinese monk from the Ming Dynasty.

Using hand gestures, he describes the bath house and the international clientele. They are open every day and he would like to invite me there to try it out. “We have all the best techniques!” In all my time in Cairo, I had heard of the bath houses, but only got close to one a few years ago, but it was closed at the time. So, this intrigued me.

Gamal hinted that perhaps, he could show me the bath house after we finish the tea.
I hinted to him that maybe we should walk around the square a little. He hooked his left arm in my right arm and led me forward.

Every few minutes or so, we stop and he would ask me to take a picture of him in front of a flag or sign or some other background. Then, he would offer to take my picture, even though I was not particularly interested. He insisted. Being polite to my new guide, I relented. When he stepped back to get a better angle, I had the momentary feeling that he would run off with my camera.

I stopped at some hand-drawn cartoons posted on the side and spent a few minutes trying to decipher them. He urged me to hurry up by saying, “yella?” or “let’s go?” I took my sweet time.

Sometimes, when I gave him the camera, he held onto it for an extended period of time, not returning it to me right afterwards.

Close to one of the main stages a man holds up a religious protest sign: “our revolution will not kneel except for one God.” A noose wrapped in the Egyptian flag is attached to the sign.

Gamal spotted a young lady and her mother with some colorful signs. He snapped a few photos and then climbed the concrete platform to take additional photos. The young lady held a home-made sign: “to the military council—we don’t want your service. Return to your barracks. Thank you!”

On her chest was pinned a black and white poster of three photos of women abused by the military police in recent days.

The young lady explained that these actions were simply unacceptable. She was present tonight to protest military rule.

One man on crutches and missing his right leg is on disability, but only receives 130 LE ($21) a month. I asked him how he could live on that small amount. “I can’t!”
A young student of about 14 in a crisp white shirt asked me if demonstrations like tonight’s were possible in China. I replied “no.” While China has economic freedom, there is no political freedom. Whereas Egypt is the opposite. The young boy asked me which one I preferred. I explained that ideally, both would be good.

While I was talking, Gamal stepped off the platform and disappeared into the cro—with my camera. My worst fear now confirmed, I ran after him and quickly caught up with him. It appears that he was simply following the crowd, taking pictures. My guess is that he’s never owned a camera before.

We followed the chanting protesters for the next 30-45 minutes down empty streets.

A mock casket draped in red bunting floats on the protesters’ shoulders. The words on the side read: “Martyr of the military rule.”

A car with a large sign displays the same image of the police battering the women protesters from last week: “Where’s the glory?”

A middle-aged man approaches me and asks me politely: “you are not Egyptian, are you? You don’t belong here. If the police see you, they will arrest you. You should go.”

The teenagers around me tell me that I can do anything I want and should ignore the man. We wait a minute or so for the crowd to pass before we head back to Liberation Square.

Voting night (12/22 Thursday)

2011-12-23T17:45:00.000-08:00

Voting in Egypt takes a little more effort sometimes.

I accompany my friend Hatem to go vote in Bulaq, a working class neighborhood. Hatem even warned me that the area is “very, very, very shaabee” meaning ghetto-like. Having visited Bulaq frequently before, I am unfazed.

Hatem is an aspiring actor who will join part of an Egyptian TV series next year. Having voted once already, Hatem is returning this time to vote in the run-offs between the candidates.

We take a tuk-tuk for about half an hour through heavy traffic. The driver, a young man in his late 20s, makes only 80LE ($13) daily. He spends 15LE on gas and maintenance, 25 LE on food, 20LE on his son’s education, 10 LE on cigarettes, and the rest for his family’s daily use. The next day, he begins at zero again.

Couple of times, we get stuck in a rut and our driver jumps out to push or pull the tuk-tuk in various directions. Though he appears thin, his arms are quite strong. I compliment him: “you are much stronger than me. I am weak.” Later, Hatem tells me that this compliment delighted him.

At one point, he bangs the dashboard when another car nearly hits us. I can tell this man is full of fire.

He blasts the music. The loudspeakers are right behind our ears. It feels like an earthquake going through my eardrums. I joke with him and say that the music is not loud enough and that he should turn it up. Unfortunately, he thinks I’m serious and complies.

The driver tells me that he is pleased with the elections and believes that there will be accountability in the new system. “When we vote, the politicians will know our pain. So, that they know that we need to clean the streets or build new roads.”
When we arrive at the school house entrance, several soldiers stand vigil at the doorway with brown AK-47s. Two clerks with uniforms and name tags around their necks greet me. They inquire about my identity.

Journalist?

Hatem explains that I am his friend. I try to insert some humor, saying, “Hatem is with me.” Initially, the clerks are reluctant to allow me entry and the soldiers tell me I need to wait by the door while Hatem votes.

As soon as I tell them that I am Chinese, their frowns turn into smiles. I explain that I am from China, the same place where their clothing is made in. I point to the soldier’s AK-47 and say, “and the same place that produced your gun!” After a minute or so, they let me in without checking my bag, which contained a camera. Or my person, which contained a digital recorder.

We climb the stairs to the 4th floor. There, in a small schoolroom are a handful of clerks. Hatem enters. I hesitate at first, but then enter the room. They welcome me and we chat for a few minutes. The first gentleman offers me a seat and then an orange. When I tell him I am Chinese, his face lights up. “Oh China! Old civilization. 5,000 years old!”

I agree with him, saying that it is just like Egypt.

I remain in my seat, not wanting to appear threatening in any way. I ask him a few questions about the voting process; he explains that the votes are delivered to a central place for tabulation and then reported to the media. He is optimistic about the immediate future.

Downstairs, before we climb into our tuk-tuk again, I thank the election clerks and the soldiers. The head clerk asked me with tongue-in-cheek, “You didn’t see any fraud here, did you?”

“No, of course not. Thank you so much for allowing me entry. I saw and learned a lot tonight and know more about the new voting system. May God be kind to you.”

On our way back home, the Tuk-Tuk driver engages Hatem in a long and full conversation. Once he delivers us to our destination, Hatem fills me in on their talk. At Hatem’s encouraging, I thank the driver with the new phrase, “May God protect you.”

Hatem is impressed by our driver, believing him to be both a possible criminal and also a colorful character.

“He knows the locations of drug dens, burglar hideouts and whorehouses. In fact, one time, the police asked him to become an informant, but he refused that and said he had pride. Another time, he took his sick brother to the hospital, but he did not receive treatment until it was too late and he died right then and there. So, the driver returned later and stabbed the doctor in the back of the head with a knife. He fled and didn’t know what happened to the doctor.”

I’m glad I complimented the driver when I did.

Yusuf the flight attendant turned revolutionary

2011-12-18T22:44:00.000-08:00

With a small radio in his left hand and a paper shopping bag with a helmet and some newspapers, Yusuf heads to Midan Al-Tahrir, or Liberation Square. It is early Sunday morning, about 6:30am and the streets are still empty. Yusuf, an elderly gentleman who sports a grey coat and a light sweater over his shirt, black pants and black loafers, has been a regular visitor to Liberation Square since January.

“I used to have money. Lots of it. I used to drive a Benz. Then a BMW 520i.” He speaks excellent English, having practiced it for years as a flight attendant in Saudi Arabia.

One day, President Mubarak destroyed his company. “I lost everything. Then, I became poor. Do you know why I am single? I never married or had children because I had no money,” he recounts his story. Deep wrinkles run across his forehead in waves.

Yusuf’s hair is a mane of silver. Bags hang from his eyes. He has a light salt and pepper mustache on his top lip. I interrogate him in Arabic; he responds in English.
Yusuf now works part time for a small company selling pharmaceutical equipment. When he was looking for work, most managers would say, “old man, you’re just too old! Why don’t you just work in a cafeteria somewhere?!”

Without prompting, Yusuf’s anger swells up against the previous regime. “Mubarak—that dog destroyed everything! He and his fellow dogs destroyed this country,” decries Yusuf.

As we converse on the street near Liberation Square, another gentleman with a yellow helmet and a large gauze bandage underneath his jaw passes by. Some of the protesters resemble construction workers these days with their blue or yellow helmets, which protect them against shooting soldiers and against machete-wielding thugs. He was injured two days ago.

I say “sorry” to him. He replies, “Alhamdulillah! Praise be to Allah I’m still alive.”

Wanting to hear more of his story, I invite Yusuf to breakfast. He says there are a few places nearby. When we walk to a café, they are still preparing for the morning customers, so we head to a second place. We find a food stand and order an Egyptian classic: ful (boiled beans) and one hard-boiled egg cut and mixed with the beans with a bit of salt and oil. Two other customers stand next to us.

Hatem, the ful vendor says that before the recent violence, he stayed busy daily; however, now he has few to no customers. ”Everyone is scared to come to downtown. So, they stay away,” he laments.

After the meal, I pay Hatem and leave 3 LE for tip.

Yusuf and I walk back towards the square. He gives me his phone number and asks me to contact his colleague later. “I’m usually by the KFC after 8pm, so you can find me around there.” I tell him that he is a book and I have only seen his front and back cover, but he has yet to reveal the content. He kisses me three times on my cheeks and tells me that he is sure of only one thing: God. He is not 50% or 80% or 90%. He is 100% sure of his faith in Allah, who provided him dinner last night and breakfast this morning.

Yusuf’s paper bag splits open, spilling his blue helmet out on the sidewalk. I pick it up and return it to him. I will look for him by the KFC later.

Ramadan Kareem!

2011-07-31T18:31:00.000-07:00

It is still an hour or so before dawn of the first day of Ramadan. I hear some fireworks outside. Do people celebrate the arrival of the Holy Month of fasting the way Americans celebrate the Fourth of July?

This month I am trying to fast, so I prepared a fairly large suhoor, or morning meal before dawn so that I will be able to withstand a full day of forgoing food or drink. You will see a bowl of beans (plenty of protein to keep the stomach happy); a bowl of cereal--corn flakes with 10 sweetened peanuts covered in sesame and honey, 5 dates and one serving of yoghurt; two fried eggs with one piece of bread; a serving of left over soup from two nights ago; and a banana for dessert.

Once I go to bed (about 330pm or so), then I should be ready for the day, insha' Allah.

An American friend who has lived here about 5 years or more recently told me that if I have no strong reason to fast, then I should NOT. She should know since she has fasted for two consecutive Ramadans, even though she is a devout Catholic. "Unless there's a really good reason, I will never fast like that ever again. One week will give you a taste, but really it's after two weeks that you really start to feel the effects of fasting. Which are not good, actually! lol"

That sounds like an ominous warning.

I now hear the Ithaan (or call to prayer) outside my window, and it's different from the regular call, which usually sounds like a recording.

Happy Ramadan!

Stay tuned...

A visit to Midan Al-Tahrir

2011-07-24T04:48:00.000-07:00

I wait for my friend Hatem at the Hardee’s Restaurant in Midan al-Tahrir, a common meeting point for demonstrators.

The flag salesman is doing brisk business. When I inquire with him about his sales, his voice is hoarse. Perhaps, from his participation in the demonstrations?

Hatem and I dive into the crowd of mostly young men. Three platforms have been set up. We proceed to the main stage where a dynamic young man is delivering a fiery speech that draws rapt attention from the audience. I remember him as the same man from two weeks ago who captivated the audience with his rhythmic and poetic slogans.

“Allahu Akbar” shouts a man behind us, as he passes by. “God is great!”

In what has become a typical scene from the square, a young man with a long paintbrush walks around painting the Egyptian flag on people’s hands or faces. Though it is free, he usually expects a tip of at least one pound.

On stage is a munaqaba, or a completely veiled woman, an unveiled woman, who turns out to be a national TV broadcaster, and a young kid with a white T-shirt with the Superman logo emblazoned on the front. The banner behind the speaker reads,
“We cannot match the blood of our young martyrs from the justice and freedom.”
When the dynamic speaker finishes, a patriotic song is performed.

At a second and smaller stage, Dr. SalaH Al-anany, a calligrapher, is pontificating on the difference between the army and the military council. “The army is on our side, but the military council speaks politics.” The speaker is a middle-aged man with curly hair down to his neck. Bespectacled, he holds the microphone with his right hand and punctuates most sentences with his left hand.

The banner behind him reads, “From administration of the country’s affairs, returning to an original position and forming a temporary, civilian council for the administration of the country’s affairs. And we invite general personalities to debate in the Square initially to agree in the square.”

Some are on a hunger strike.

While we chat with the medics, a man carries his younger brother to the parked ambulance. The young boy has fainted. Another patient is receiving some medicine inside the van, so there’s no space for the boy. Furious, the man screams at the medics, “he’s my younger brother. I will not abandon him or let him die!” Despite the medics trying to explain to him their limitations, he’s adamant. A few people in the crowd try to restrain him to no avail. Eventually, he is led away.

A young veiled woman, 19, next to us tells us that she arrived the previous day from a nearby town. She wanted to see what all the fuss was about.
She is playful and pinches me a couple of times.

However, some men in the square robbed her and now she needs to return home. Sadly, she is lacking the 35LE for the bus ticket. Hatem reached into his pocket and gives her three pounds.

I offer her the remaining bag of peanuts in my hand. She takes the entire bag and eagerly dives in.

As we turn away, I tell Hatem that she’s a con artist. Hatem is now embarrassed that he was snookered. However, I tell him not to feel too badly. After all, for three pounds, he now has a story that he can retell for the next few months or years.

The Mulid of Sayeda Zeinab

2011-07-11T02:26:00.000-07:00

Imagine a loud karaoke room, but set outside and turned up to the maximum with the subwoofers blasting a man’s voice and drumming and horns. Fill the streets with cars and Egyptians swaying to the beat to celebrate the birth of Sayeda Zeinab, the grand-daughter of the prophet Mohammed (PBUH).

A wall of sound surrounds us, but it is really more of an assault on the eardrums than anything else. It is at this moment that I realize the Western ear is clearly more sensitive than the Egyptian one. Our hearing has been spoiled by regulations modulating decibel levels. We sell ear plugs; silence is observed on Sundays by banishing church bells; we have an “inside voice” and an “outside voice.”

Men are swaying back and forth on their heels, almost like they’ve been possessed by the Holy Spirit. Pendulum-like…Back and forth. Back and forth. We might as well be at a southern Baptist revival meeting, minus the preacher.

An elderly woman, veiled in black, to my left, sways back and forth, to and fro, aided by her companion, who greets my gaze and smiles briefly. I try not to stare.

I am with Tom, a 21 year old British wanna-be journalist. He ventures into the breach of the crowd with his blackberry camera to capture a photo or two. A few minutes later, an Egyptian man with a bottle of liquid – 7 up?—oil?—playfully douses Tom’s hair with the strange concoction. And then laughs, revealing his brown, tea and tobacco stained teeth.

We return to the cheap hotel of my Egyptian friend Mohamed Aly. It is now filled with visitors from upper Egypt. They can be identified by their crisp galabeyas (flowing robe) and headdress, which are not normally worn by most Cairenes.

One room is full of middle-aged men, seated against the wall, drinking tea, smoking sheesha and chatting. Each time a new visitor enters the room, he goes around the room and greets everyone with “Salaam Aleykoom” or peace be upon you. It seems to be a necessary ritual.

As we are invited to a meal next door, I notice charcoal in a metal tray outside the room. The local fire marshal probably is unaware of this. (or maybe he is aware).
Another room is reserved for food—a few large communal plates of pita bread and potato cubes, chunks of boiled beef with some bits of fat attached. A cross-eyed man with a cane and a galabeya approaches and welcomes us. Another man—perhaps a caretaker?—quickly ushers him away from us. (Is he afraid that the man’s presence will disturb us?)

The man across from me is from Suhag in Upper Egypt and greets me warmly as we share bread and boiled beef. Then, the perennial question, “deenak ey?” or what’s your religion? I try to be coy and quote the Qur’anic scripture, “In Allah yeHdee min yesha’!” or God leads those whom he wills. It’s a fairly nebulous statement open to interpretation for many people. However, for this gentleman, it is not enough. He presses on, “so, what’s your religion?”

We return to the first room with the sheesha imbibers. I sit first next to a gentleman who speaks basic English. He interrogates me in the King’s English; I respond in Egyptian Arabic. He asks why I chose to study the Egyptian revolution, of all the revolutions.

I then sit next to an Arabic teacher who works at a local high school teaching girls. He asks me for my opinion of the Jan. 25 revolution. Odd. I tell him, “I should be asking you the same question!”

Every few minutes, another attendant asks me if I want tea. Or food. Or a sheesha. Or a cigarette.

“La…shookrun!” No, thanks!

On the last night of the Moulid, we visit the Sayeda Zeinab Mosque.

The Crowds, elbow to elbow, body pressed against body, arm on shoulder, flows forth like a small river. There is no turning back. Pilgrims remove their shoes at the door, but are given only a split second.

Several bowabeen or doormen take the incoming supply of shoes, and hand each pilgrim a small tag with a number. Wait—is this an actual system?! I hold onto my shoes, despite their protests, not wanting to lose them in the confusion.

The crowd is mostly men, upper Egyptians of galabiyehs; they are pilgrims here to worship Sayeda Zeinab, the granddaughter of the Prophet Mohamed. As I enter, a man grabs my hand and asks if I am from Malaysia. Indonesia, I respond. (not really, but I am playful). He then introduces me briefly to an Indonesian pilgrim before I am conducted forward.

As we approach the exit, a small group of men – seated on the carpet, begin talking with Peter, my American classmate from MN. The usual questions pepper him: where are you from? What do you do? Your religion? I serve as the informal interpreter. The men—mostly in their late 20s and early 30s, are a chocolate complection, with a mustache or two, and a working class flavor. They are from Assiyut and arrived two days ago. They have stayed at the mosque ever since, praying and sleeping and resting.

“Why are you here?” Peter asks them.
“For the Mulid of Sayeda Zeinab,” They respond.
“What do you hope to get out of this?” Peter presses further.
“To honor Sayeda Zeinab,” they explain.
It is that simple.

Walking with Dr. Yasmin

2011-06-24T02:55:00.000-07:00

“look at the fingernails—see how black they are? That’s Fungus in there!” exlaims Yasmin, an Egyptian dentist living in Dubai.

Sure enough, at the end of the old man’s wrinkled fingers were blackened fingernails, like a character out of the Lord of the Rings. He grabbed a few used glasses on the countertop and asked me what I wanted. “A cup of sugar cane, please!” While I heard Yasmin’s words, my thirst was stronger than my repulsion or disgust at the fungus in the fingernails. I put the glass to my lips, said a quick “Bismillah” or “in the name of Allah” and began drinking.

Ohhhh…the sugar rush was so satisfying; the sweet, sweet, sweet sensation of sugar cane on the tongue and down the esophagus was simply too rewarding to think about the warning of the dentist. I thought of the old adage, “what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger.”

Preachers and Protests

2011-06-07T16:45:00.000-07:00

On my way to work, the Imam’s voice from the nearby mosque was delivering a Friday-like sermon, yet today is not Friday. I caught the words “Bin-Laden” peppered intermittently. The vendors and a few seated men were paying rapt attention. As I approached my office, I asked a few men outside about the voice broadcasting on the speaker system. They explained that sometimes, the Imam teaches students about the Qur’an or religion, so was simply practicing a sermon.

When I arrived at the non-profit office upstairs, the door was closed. Apparently, they had moved and did not notify me. Oh well.

Below in the quad, one of the men I had asked earlier about the mosque broadcast approached me. It turns out he is deaf and mute. With only a few signs, he explained that he was married (pointing to his wedding ring), had four kids—two boys and two girls, who were all grown and out of the house, leaving him and his wife (he made the sign of a person with breasts) alone in the house.

I wrote my name in Arabic for him and he wrote his, Azmy. A middle-aged man with some missing teeth and short cropped hair, he signed that he has seen me walk back and forth a couple of times in the last week. As I left him, I wished him peace. I have a feeling I will see him again soon.

Protests in the metro system
A group of maybe 50-100 metro workers staged a boisterous sit-in inside Sadat metro station, starting yesterday. Not knowing what was going on, I asked a man near me for an explanation. He said the workers were demanding that the metro system director leave his post because of corruption.

The protesters had a few signs, but kept their protests civil and to chants. A young metro worker to the side explained that before Jan. 25, this kind of protest would not have been allowed or tolerated.

How much for a fridge repairman?

2011-06-03T15:55:00.000-07:00

How much do you pay the repairman? In the US, it’s fairly straightforward. He quotes you a price and you take it or leave it. In Cairo, usually, you don’t ask for the prices before a visit. The repairman does his work, then quotes you a price. If you ask for the price before the visit, this means you are a foreigner who deserves to be screwed.

Typically, a plumber who comes for ½ an hour to an hour to repair your kitchen or bathroom pipes will usually get between 5-10 LE ($1 to $2). However, several other variables can also complicate the final price. For example, where do you live? Are you in a working class neighborhood? Or in Zamalek, where most (rich) foreigners live? How good is your Arabic? Are you a fresh arrival? Does the repairman come with an assistant? Do they take more than an hour? Are the repairs complicated?

Now, fast forward to yesterday when Showky, the fridge repairman came to fix our refrigerator, which has been acting up for the past 2 weeks or more. The freezer does not freeze and the rest of the appliance is lukewarm, causing much of our food to spoil. Before Showky arrived, my good friend Mohammed Aly’s mother had told me to pay between 80-100LE and not a guinea more. I also repeated this very statement to my Korean roommate, who has been in Cairo for a year. However, when the repairman arrived and quoted her 250LE, she asked him to drop it only 25LE to 225LE. When I arrived, I didn’t argue with him, as I thought we could renegotiate after he finished. He spent a good hour or two replacing the Freon gas, making loud knocking noises here and there during my Arabic lesson. When he was finished, he asked for his money.

When I tried to renegotiate, he became furious. The smile turned upside down. Even my tutor Mustafa tried to intervene to say that our roommate did not have the right information and had made an ill-informed decision. They spent a good five minutes or more back and forth. I decided that it was all a big waste of time, so just paid the man.

When I asked him If he would return if the fridge acted up again, he said non-chalantly, “who knows?”

He was starting to irk me, so I wished him peace, “Salam Aleykoom” and ushered him out the door.

My tutor Mustafa and I agreed on this: much of life in Cairo is like buying a T-shirt at the Khan Al-Khalili Bazaar. There’s some give and take, and no price is ever set firmly.

Return to Tahrir: Second Day of Rage

2011-05-28T17:59:00.000-07:00

Friday was the second day of rage in Midan Al-Tahrir or Liberation Square. The army, fearing violence, protested the protest by staying out. Police were mostly absent as well. Despite fears, the protest remained peaceful and people governed themselves accordingly. Here are some images from the event.

To enter Liberation Square, we first had to show our IDs to pass through this volunteer security line.

Fishing for freedom.

A number of improptu debates formed within the Square. Men were debating men; men with women; young and old; most were heated, but civil. One or two turned into shouting.

"Mubarak was president for 30 years. What did the people have to eat during this time? Nothing but chicken feet!"

Martyrs of the revolution are honored on a poster.

A painted Egyptian flag was quite popular for the protest.

How did they get up there?

Revolution is all around us

2011-05-26T05:32:00.000-07:00

Midan Sayeda Zeinab is a working class neighborhood close to downtown Cairo.

After a koosharee dinner next to my hotel, my friend Mohammed Aly, his friend and colleague Ismail and I walk to the burned police station around the corner. During the revolution, more than one half of all Cairo police stations were systematically burned by the people. As we approach the burned out edifice, I see a vendor on the side. His wares are covered and tied up for the night.

Amr, the youthful vendor, is perhaps in his mid 20s. He sports a scalp of short, curly hair drowned in gel. He is in a dark T-shirt and slippers.

“See, this WAS the police station. NOW, it’s the WC (toilet),” he explains as he unleashes a loud laugh. He seems delighted. A little too delighted. Like a man who had exacted his revenge and now was experiencing shadenfreude.

Amr points to his head and shows me a gash the size of a quarter. A scab has formed already, but it is recent. Amr spent a year wara al-shams or behind the sun. Street slang for prison. For what? The police saw him as a trouble maker and arrested him one day.

“The police wanted to buy a small item from me for 4LE, but then return it the next day and demand their money back.” If they do this repeatedly, “How do I eat?”
He laments his run-ins with the law. “My luck is bad.”

With six sisters and his widowed mother to support, Amr is at the stand daily. In the evenings, he and his younger brother take turns keeping vigil for thieves. He puts his hand underneath the blanket and shows me a knife about a foot long—Crocodile Dundee size.

When he learns that I am originally from China, he wants to do business with me. I quickly explain that I know nothing of trade or business. Amr then offers me Hasheesh, or marijuana. He then requests a gift from me—a machine that can roll joints. I tell him that I’ll look into it.

Amr shows me two tattoos; a coiled snake on his arm. The second one on his shoulder blade is a woman. Who is she? A former lover? A pop star?

As we leave, my friends walk a little faster than me. With the concern of an overprotective den mother, my Egyptian brother Mohammed Aly warns me, “Take care! There is no government now, no police. He deals in drugs. He is not a educated man. Take care!”

President Hosny Mubarak is being erased from all around Cairo, starting with the eponymous Mubarak Metro Station. The station is now being called shoohada "Martyrs Station" after the brave souls killed by Baltageya (government thugs) during the revolution.

Mohammed Aly, my Egyptian brother poses next to a sign in the metro station that declares, "We build the future."

Summer in Cairo, part one

2011-05-26T05:15:00.000-07:00

I have arrived safely in Cairo. Simsim (Sesame), an Iraqi refugee who has been here 7 years, and a friend of a friend, picked me up. He must have done this before since he had a piece of paper with my name scrawled on it, like the other chauffeurs waiting for their guests. He is about 30 and has an Egyptian girlfriend.

After we placed my bags in his car, he asked me if I wanted to stop by the duty-free shop. I didn’t really need anything, but Simsim needed alcohol. So, off we went.
As we re-entered the airport doors, the metal detector seemed abandoned, so we proceeded. Of course, our cell phones set off the magnetometer, but the security guard on the side – half asleep, waived us through.

As we pull out of the parking lot, the wooden traffic arm barrier slams down on his windshield. No damage is visible. Simsim speaks politely with the parking attendant, “hey man, please be careful!”

“Welcome to Egypt!” I reply. On the drive to downtown, Simsim tells me he’s a manager at Cook Door, a fast-food restaurant in downtown that’s known for its Viagra Sandwich. I tell him that I will have to stop by for a bite later. We are in a Honda 4 door. “In Iraq, there was a system for driving. Here, no system.” It took him a year to get used to the fluid traffic of Cairo.

We pass a large mosque for the police with twin minarets that reach for the sky. A few minutes later, we pass another majestic mosque. It is also for the police, but for special occasions such as weddings and celebrations. (Are there any more occasions for the police to celebrate these days?)

The roads are clean and smooth. We are still in Masr Gedida, or New Cairo, northeast of downtown. A white van speeds past us and cuts in front without signaling.

When we park close to my hotel, Simsim says normally, we would not park here; however, now the police do not monitor the parking so much. Perhaps, this is one unintended benefit to the revolution.

I'm now at a cheap hotel in Midan Talaat-Harb for 85LE / night (or about $15). I had to bargain them down from $35 / night or 210LE. I think speaking Arabic helped somewhat. I don't see anyone else here on the floor. Tourists have been scared away in the last few months.

I am searching for a simcard so I can reconnect with a few friends. I stop by Midan Al-Tahrir, Liberation Square, which is just a few minutes away. Several dozen young men are milling about in the middle, surrounded by taxis and the regular flow of traffic. Many of them still have protest signs. Gamal, a middle-aged vendor explains that there was a demonstration today and next Friday another large protest will take place. Is it about human rights? The elections? “About freedom!” explains Gamal.

It is good to be back.

No Longer About Bread—Egyptians Want Mubarak's Head

2011-02-01T22:29:00.000-08:00

New America Media, Commentary, Andy Lei,
Posted: Jan 29, 2011

The last time Egyptians took to the streets was spring 2008, to protest the rise in food prices, especially bread or aish, also the Arabic word for life. For Egyptians, the two are synonymous. A dozen died, becoming “bread martyrs.”

Before then, Egyptians rioted in 1977. Again, over bread. Their popular slogan: "The people are famished." About 800 perished before the army crushed the protests.

On Jan. 25, 2011, Egyptians took to the streets once again. Not for bread, but for Mubarak’s head.

To continue, click here No Longer About Bread—Egyptians Want Mubarak's Head

Nien Cheng, 1915-2009

2009-11-06T06:24:00.000-08:00

A great lady has passed away this week. I was fortunate to have met her in 2006 in her living room over tea. Here are 3 wonderful obits:

Charles Krauthammer

washingtonpost.com

The spirit of Nien Cheng

I like your ride, Mr. President!

2009-08-20T07:45:00.000-07:00

I was escorting some friends around the East Wing of the White House on a public tour last month when serendipity hit us: the Director of the Visitors Center, a woman of salt and pepper hair and a commanding voice, greeted us from behind.

“Are you giving a tour today, sir?”

I thought that perhaps I was in trouble.

“Yes, ma’am.” I responded.

“Would you be interested in participating in a departure ceremony?” she asked.

Having visited the White House just a few times over my six years in DC, I’ve learned that when the President departs the White House for Camp David or any appointment via helicopter, a small group of people – usually close friends and special guests – are gathered on the south lawn to greet the president. Surely, this lady wasn’t asking us regular folks to join her in this special event?

“Yes, that would be nice.” I chirped back enthusiastically.

She then led us outside the hall, through a small garden and onto the circular driveway. There were a few dozen other guests waiting by the South Portico. To our left was the South Lawn and in the far distance, the Washington Monument. The weather was quite warm and humid—typical Washington DC summer weather.

After about 10 more minutes of waiting, the Presidential Helicopter arrived.

Toot-toot-toot…Toot-toot-toot…
Toot-toot-toot… Toot-toot-toot…

As it approached the landing area, it created a wind that pushed us back a few inches.

Toot-toot-toot…
Toot-toot-toot…
Toot-toot-toot…

We were instructed not to yell anything to the President. However, waving was acceptable.

A few minutes later without much fanfare, the big “O” -- President Obama exited the White House and strolled along in his suit. He waved calmly at us and then strode onto the helicopter. His aides followed behind him, toting some bags.

After we left the White House, and reflected on this special experience over lunch, we thought how luck had played a large part in all of this: first, one lady in our group carried her purse, which was prohibited on all White House tours. I had to return to the hotel with the purse, causing at least a 10-minute delay.

Then, when we tried to enter the gate, the Secret Service man told me that the person who requested the tour had to be present; otherwise, we could not enter. Another 15 minute delay.

Finally, when we entered the White House, I gave our group a very extensive and detailed tour, trying to explain each and every photo on the wall. By the time we got to the White House bowling alley area, the director of the Visitors Center found us.

A room with a view

2009-08-05T11:37:00.000-07:00

I am in Dupont Circle now. Actually, in a room in a house in the Dupont neighborhood. As I peer outside my window, a bird (pigeon?) is perched on the windowsill of the bathroom. She is incubating some eggs. The owner of the house has advised me to be extra careful not to disturb our feathered friend as I take my shower.

Ah...what a life. To not have to worry about finding a job or apartment.

ANSWER TO letter to Nathalie Berard--an unwanted French houseguest

2009-07-19T20:37:00.000-07:00

After some hesitation and some serious consideration, I have decided to post Nathalie's response to my long letter from April. I welcome your feedback:

* * * * *

Saturday, May 9, 2009 8:33 AM

"Dear" Andy,

Now that i'm back home, i came to read your email with attention.

I just cant believe what i just read.

This is not a letter or a complaint about my behavior. This is a trial !!! You missed your vocation.

A trial, i dont know how to say this in english, a trial with 100% charges. I forgot : there is two sentences with good feelings u had about me and then there is, let's say, four pages of charges.

Four pages in which you dissect every move i made, every word i said, every minute we spent together. You wanted to make a 100 % charges trial and u did it.

How come u felt so hurt that u come here to say such horrible things - this is just beyond my ability of comprehension.

I dont feel like saying bad things to u. I dont have any anyway. I liked you. I liked you when we were writing to each other before we met ; i liked you after we met. I enjoyed your personality.

Now, lets make a nice resume about me : i am a liar, i am a thief, i am a french white trash (nice thing to say),

None is this is true. I have been speaking to you as a friend. When i meet people that i appreciate i dont bother asking myself if i should say this or not. U use everything i ever told u in your trial. Why ? I cant be a liar, Andy, because i am a very straightfull speaking person, i dont even know how to lie.

You have the nerve to write things about that man i told you in Paris (telephone and so on). Up to you. Still your trial.

Anyway, i am not going to take every of your point and answer it. What's the point. I dont have to defend against an somewhat obsessional accusation from a somewhat obsessional guy.

Why are you obsessional ?

So, some things i remember from your CRAZY email.
I didn't steal anything from you or from anyone. This is absolutaly insane. I didn't steal anything to anyone in my whole life. $
I didn't lie about anything or to anyone. Didn't do it in my whole life.

About that guy Meher : And about you by the way. Maybe living in Cairo, being away from home and so on drive you to be paranoïd about people that you meet, i dont know. You really believe that i stole an AC REMOTE CONTROL ?!!
It was decided from the beginning that i would stay there a night to see whether i like it or not and whether i decide it or not to take the room. I decided not to. I didn't like the behavior and the manners of this man. Point.

About Iman : you werent the last one to complain about her and think that she is maybe not the best girl in town. I met other people who happened to know her and none of them liked her. Related me some kind of strange and not so good behavior of her with people.
Iman literally persecuted me with her requests of papers, contract signature and so on. I dont like that kind of behavior (even thought asking for papers, contracts and so on might be normal). Iman gave me a hard time while being in her flat. Now you dissect everything you saw from me and her. I could also dissect everything that happened from her and relate it to you. But what's the point ?
Yes, after the last night, after waiting for hours that she goes out of her bedroom, after telling her that i had to go out, so would she be nice enought to give me a key or confirm that she would be here when i would be back, after hearing her from behind her keylocked bedroom (thing that she has been doing with everyone and that hurted everyone) that she was soooo tired (at 3PM after a 14 hours sleep), i decided it was enought, went to the room, pack my things and told her i was leaving. Then only she went out of her bedroom.
I had a 50 LE note in my purse, i throw it to her (yes, i admit it).
I should have been more patient ; maybe she should have behave another way. She behaved this way not only with me and not only me disliked it. Was it normal that she didn't return my phone calls ? Would have she done it and i would not have spend another night at your place.
About the money ; Iman asked for more than anyone will ever asked for a week's stay.And what she asked for was not, in any case, justified. Iman and i agreed on a more fair price.
Ah yes, Iman invited us to a sudanese restaurant : great. You are so mean in your writing about me, Andy, that the only way to answer you is also to be mean. But do i feel like it ?
I'm not sure. So i will not say anything about the invitation of Iman to a restaurant. But everything u say about my terror of spending money can be said about her.

Your email is dishonest. This is what happens when we decide in advance that we are going to "kill" somebody. This is what happens, and what is the aim, of a 100 % charges trial.

Now, you assume all the worst about me. Shall i have to persuade you of the contrary ? You perfectly know that i was going to treat you all to thank you. Probably not in a sudanese restaurant. I didn't have time and you would then refuse my attempts to clear up things. This is normal. You do that when you just ENJOY doing a trial to someone.

Now, here is my point of view. What u say about the way i handle money is not completely false. There is truth in it. It has nothing to do with a supposed to be devilish nature of mine or a supposed to be "bad" nature of mine. It has to do with lack of money. But it also has to do probably with other things and yes, i should work about this with a psycho analyst. As it comes to you, you, also, have probably things to work out and things you could work with a psychoanalyst. It would not be the same things as me but i guess there would be a bunch of things you could work about. This email of yours for example. Think about it.

What else, my god ?! Ah yes. By the way, thank you for making me such a reputation in town ! Never mind. I wont do the same about you. Again, what's the point. But you see, everything you say, and the fact that you have been talking to as much people as you can about me remind me of something : i did exactly the same thing with my "story" with the egyptian guy of Luxor. So i guess, something really disturbed you about our meeting. Exactly as something really disturbed me about that guy. Again, think about it, "sweetie" !

Yes. My whole point of view about my "stay" with you. My point of view is you made a big deal out of nothing. Here you are, dissecting every of my move and word when we were together. As for me, you put me up during, what, 3 nights ? What is the big deal about it ?
We got along well, had nice talks together. Every of your reproaches to me, let me tell you, has very little to do with my stay in your flat, do you realise this ? Ah yes, i "stole" your lonelyplanet... Did i ? Isn'it on your shelf ?

I let my luggage in your place. Didn't know it was such a big deal to let luggage in your place, my god !! I did this not because i wanted to invade you, guys, but because it was more convenient while i was looking for a place. I, myself, would never be shocked by such a thing if somebody was leaving its luggage in my place in Paris, even for weeks !

You let me your bed. Next time, dont do it. If it has to traumatize you to this point !

On the whole again, you may have some points in what you say. I say this assuming that you will understand it, as an intelligent person. You should just try to be less dramatic, less insulting and less final in your conclusions.
You should also try to be less arrogant, less violent. Some questions about yourself would also be useful for you, my dear. I hope you will not become that horrible guy that sometimes show up behind your intelligence.

Chinese-american guy.
Bye.
Nathalie

Wow! You speak Arabic!

2009-07-15T21:36:00.000-07:00

The Arabic proverb says, “He who knows the language of the foreign people--may God protect him from their evil ways.” In some ways, the ability to speak Arabic is like possessing a magic key that opens doors. I noticed a few examples while in Cairo:

• In the Mari Girgis neighborhood—as I was walking towards the Art Museum Darb 17-18, a security man tells me in simple English, “Sorry, closed. This area not open.” I tell him in Egyptian Arabic, “ya amm.” Or Hey Uncle—I want to go to the museum. It’s open daily except Friday and it’s very close.” He replies, “You speak Arabic? Ok, come in, please!”

• Even at the market when I purchase postcards, the vendor tells me, “you get a discount because you speak Arabic.” Of course, he says this partly in jest, but I understand his intention.

• At the Cairo Airport, a security man asks me to remove an item from my bag. I ask him in Arabic, “small or big bag? Is my water bottle a problem?” “Hey—you speak Arabic?! No problem at all. Please just go through!” I sometimes think that maybe one day I can show up with a small gun, but as long as I speak Arabic, the staff will waive me through.

Earlier this week, I was in New York. I passed a hot dog stand in Battery Park and overheard the vendor speak Egyptian Arabic on the cell phone. I stopped and thought I had to speak to him. He never got off the phone, so I asked him in Arabic, “I’d like a bottle of water.”

He replied, “$1.50” in English.

I had just bought a bottle earlier in Flushing, Queens for $1.00, so told him in Arabic, “Hey uncle—that’s a bit expensive. Can you make it cheaper? Maybe $1.00?”
He replied in English, “ok.”

This morning, while in Jersey City, New Jersey, I entered an Arabic corner store and asked the vendor in Arabic if he had “koosharee” the famous Egyptian dish of macaroni, rice, lentils and grilled onions. He replied, “insha’ Allah” or God Willing or “yes.” We spoke for a few minutes. I then asked him if he had Molokhayeh, or Jew’s Mallow, a thick green soup popular in Egypt. Again, he replied, God Willing or “yes.” And proceeded to pull out a small tub from the fridge. “I give it to you—free!”

“Allah yekhaleek!” May God Keep You, I thanked him.

I somehow doubt that he would’ve done the same had I simply asked him in English.

Come home!

2009-07-07T22:22:00.000-07:00

First conversation with the parents after my return from Egypt:

My Father: we’re worried about you. The economy is hard. Come home!

Learn about computers. When the economy improves you can find a job in any store.

You can take a computer course. If you don’t have a degree you can’t find anything.
Our door is always open to you. After all, we’re one family.
Don’t think like Americans – and not living with the family.
If you have any difficulty, tell us. These are my thoughts.
Of course, my hope is that you come home.”

My Mother: If you can’t find a job, then come home.
Go to a San Jose computer company to find work!

Perhaps, my parents know that I have no intention of returning home to live with them or to find work. However, they persist in inviting me home. I simply say "un huh..." and don't argue.

There is no acknowledgment of the study of Arabic, or perhaps, how valuable this new skill may be. No questions about whether I want to return to the Middle East. My mother does ask if I want to return to Egypt specifically. I say not for now, although I don't rule out a future return. Both of them are more concerned about my future than even I am. Perhaps, this is a natural aspect of being parents.

Yvonne and Mahmoud: a vignette of an Iraqi refugee and her son

2009-06-29T15:29:00.000-07:00

On our walk to Nasser Metro Station tonight, we ran into Yvonne, an Iraqi woman and Mahmoud, her four year old son. She asked Lee and me for directions. At first, I thought she was a beggar when she approached us as a mother and child are quite common sights in the streets of Cairo.

“Where are you from? Where do you live?”

She was dressed in normal clothing meaning pants and a shirt; uncovered—with no veil. Yvonne used to be a police woman in Baghdad. I stared at her face. Somehow, the mascara in her eyes made her claim a bit incredible, but I had no basis to believe she was lying. She has lived in Cairo for a year in the new neighborhood of 6th of October. Neither she nor her husband has any work. “There are not many opportunities here.”

She revealed that she used to live in Kurdistan. (Is she Kurdish? We wondered)
In the 10 minute walk to the Station, Mahmoud had a big smile and was full of energy. He jumped, skipped, hopped, ran ahead. And did everything a four year old does—explore and see the world with fresh eyes. I offered my hand and he grasped it as if I were his older brother. Lee did the same. At times, both Lee and I held his hand, so that he would swing temporarily between us. His mom seemed more focused on talking to us in Arabic. She was on her way to a market to get some things. “They are really cheap here,” she explained.

When the name Saddam Hussein came up, Lee uttered, “Allah yarhamu” or may God rest his soul. Yvonne objected. Vehemently. I could not understand all the words, but it was clear she was upset at any mention of the dead dictator.

As we approached Nasser Station, I mentioned that I teach English at the St. Andrew’s Church and if she ever wanted to improve her English, she could register for classes there. She replied that she once stopped by, but there were just too many people.

We arrived at the Square. Mahmoud spotted a ballon vendor on the side of the road. He seemed captivated by all the figures, and kept returning to it, even though mom insisted that he not stray from her side. Before she could utter good-bye to us, I asked her to wait for one moment as I returned to the balloon man. A minute later, I bought an inflated airplane balloon and handed it to Mahmoud. He seemed ecstatic with the new toy. Mom thanked me.

We parted ways: Salaam Aleykoom!

Give me your bag, please!

2009-06-24T14:38:00.000-07:00

I am in my last week here and have yet to depart Cairo, yet I know I will miss it already. Can this be possible?

Yesterday, I took the microbus to my afternoon tutorial of Ahmed, a 7 year old child prodigy. There were no available seats, so I became an Egyptian for about 10 minutes and simply contorted my body and leaned over the contours of the seat backs, with my head bumping lightly against the ceiling. I had my backpack with me, so the gentleman by the window seat motioned to me to hand my bag to him for safekeeping. I complied.

While riding the buses, I have observed that it is quite common for strangers to offer their laps as temporary storage areas for other passengers’ bags or heavy items. After 10 minutes or so, a seat opened up in the back. I finally sat down and my bag returned to me. I fished for the small bag of apricots and offered them to the gentleman who safeguarded my bag. He refused, of course. So, I insisted two more times. He finally relented, as I expected. I then offered every passenger around me the same bag. They all refused politely.

After this gentleman left the microbus, I commented to the man next to me: “Did you see that? That’s what I love about Egypt—it really feels like a big family within one community. In my country, we don’t have this.”

He expressed surprise.

Can you understand now why I will miss this country and its people so much?

Mormons in Ma’adi

2009-06-20T06:18:00.000-07:00

For the first time in a while, I got up early on a Friday morning. I put on a white shirt and slacks. And I accompanied Joseph, my Mormon roommate to a service with the Church of Jesus Christ, Latter Day Saints. In Cairo? Well, yes, of course. It seems these days that Chinese businessmen and Mormon missionaries are becoming more common in these parts of the world.

After a 20 minute metro train, we walked toward the church, or ward as Mormons call it. We bump into Kevin, Joseph’s friend, who is now in Cairo studying Arabic intensively at AUC. He served a two year mission in Brazil recently and recounted days of being stuck in traffic in the middle of Carnival celebrations, with scantily-clad women or nearly naked bodies running around. “It was a challenge,” he remarked.

The ward is really a house with a large community room, plastic chairs and a podium on a low stage. Two ceiling fans work frenetically above us to cool the room. Parishioners numbered around 60 or more, but now that summer has arrived, and many have left Egypt for home, attendance has dwindled to about 30 or so. One woman has come from Alexandria, a 3.5 hour train ride. All the men are in ironed white shirts with ties, except for one in a pink shirt. I am the only tieless man. Somehow, the formality of Mormon services always reminds me of business meetings. One couple is visiting from California. Another man is working out of the US Embassy temporarily.

We begin promptly about 9:35am with a hymn. Thereafter, some announcements and then a testimonial from a missionary mother about the difficulties of living abroad. “I was getting used to life in Utah when Jed took me around the world.” The theme of today’s service is the Temple and Ordinances. She speaks of “exultation in the celestial kingdom.” And how building temples is one way of being Christ like. “Have the temple be an example for us.” She ends her talk with “in his name –Jesus Christ -- we pray, Amen.”

A young man named Hayden speaks for a few minutes. He will serve his upcoming mission in the Ukraine. “We must follow the counsel of the Prophet (Joseph Smith). There is a three-fold purpose of the Church: 1. Spread the Gospel 2. Perfect the Saints 3. Redeem the dead” Apparently, it is a Mormon practice to convert dead souls into the Mormon faith.

The President of the ward – a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair -- makes some brief remarks: “Can we be as good as the Lord expects us? In sports, those who are most successful in baseball can fail 70% of the time. And fail 50% of the time in basketball.”

After the service, the study session focuses on the Temple and Ordinances. A young man leads the study session. He comes from a mixed background: His grandfather worked in the Auschwitz concentration camp as a SS officer. His grandmother was an inmate at the same camp. Somehow, years later, they met up and married, producing his father. But, through rehabilitation of the dead, he has managed to reconcile and heal the wounds, so to speak…

He reads from the Book of Mormon, which is the size of a fat brick with gold trim. It’s really the Old and New Testament, the Book of Mormon, the Doctrines and Covenants, and the Pearl of Great Price all in one edition.

When it concludes, we mix and mingle a bit. I spot Bertram, my Nigerian teaching colleague from St. Andrews, the Sudanese refugee ministry. A member of the Ibo tribe, Bertram’s last name is Anyaegbudike, which means “someone’s look who does not frighten a warrior.” In other words, a gentle man with a kind disposition. About 5’ 5”, he is perhaps in his mid 30s and speaks with the warmth of a high school guidance counselor. He only joined the Mormon Church about a year ago. Bertram said that while he was an ecumenical Christian before, he was attracted to Mormonism because of the “clean lifestyle” that it offered.

“They are very honest and straight people. No drugs, no smoking, no non-sense.”

He has been in Cairo for more than a year and will be here for four years altogether before he returns to Nigeria. He pulls me in for a warm embrace and smiles from ear to ear. He is quite surprised to see me. We chat for a few minutes. He hugs me again before he takes off.

Just another morning at a Mormon Ward in Cairo.

Late night visit by the Egyptian Police

2009-06-15T13:55:00.000-07:00

The door bell rang. 11:35pm.

Two men entered. Rabiyeh, our doorman arrived with Mohamed, a plane-clothed police officer, who said he wanted my name. So, I said “Andy.”

He had a blank piece of paper and proceeded to write it. I dictated it to him slowly, “ أ ن د ي Alef Noon Dal Yeh.” And then my last name: “ ل ي هLam Yeh He Marbuta.” He seemed to hesitate for a moment. Did he want it in English? Did he expect me to hand him my ID?

“Why do you need my name? What is this about?” I inquired.

He didn’t explain himself except to say he needed it. I was very suspicious. Swine Flu?

My roommate Joseph followed my lead and simply gave his name in Arabic. “Yusuf.”
“What is your passport number?” he continued. I had given a copy of my passport to the supervisor when I first moved in last November, as I’ve always done with my previous landlords. So, instead of fishing out my passport, I simply told him, “you should ask the manager for it. He has it.”

Then, suspicion turned into annoyance turned into anger. I pressed him again: “why do you need this information?!”

“We are afraid for you,” He responded cryptically.

So, I responded matter of factly: “If you have no good reason, then go. It is very late now and I have to go to class in the morning. Salaam Aleykoom. Peace be upon you. Good night.” I shook his hand as he left. He had an unfulfilled look in his face, perhaps surprised by such unanticipated resistance for such a simple piece of information.

I am no civil libertarian, but the longer I live in Egypt, the more I feel like I need to protect my privacy, avoid the police and get a gun.

A night of Belly-shaking in Cairo

2009-06-13T13:33:00.000-07:00

If belly dance is anything like we saw last night at the Sherazade Hotel then it is very much dying and rippling to a deafening demise.

The man at the door promised us young, vibrant things shaking their goods. “Are they fat and sweaty?” I inquired? “No, they’re sweet!” With that, we paid our 10LE admission into the seedy place.

My German friend Martin and I talked about how it would be a shame to leave Egypt without ever seeing a belly-dancing show. So, he checked out a few hotels and settled on the Sherazade. He, his girlfriend, and my friend Anita ventured into the house of ill-repute.

High ceilings and red light bulbs greet us. Surrounding us are oil depictions of past dancers in their former glory. We are the only customers present, except for the wait staff and the band, waiting listlessly. Smoking and banging on their drums. The stage before us is a square platform about a foot from the floor.

I speak to the first drummer, Sayed, a man in his mid 40s with a mustache and band-aids covering most of his knuckles. He tells me that he has been at the hotel for four years now. He’s traveled from Alexandria to Upper Egypt beating his drum to the swaying dancers. “The shows on the riverboats are generally much better,” he confided in me.

I tell him that I look forward to the music. The second drummer waves me over and says that they would appreciate 50LE for “tea money.” This is the Egyptian euphemism for tips.

We arrived about midnight, with the promise of dancing lasting until sunrise. One girl per hour until Fajr, the first prayer.

The first dancer is young, but shows more flesh than vigour. She shakes her behind, but my guess is that she has never taken a single bellydancing class in her life. She arrives with a pink skirt above the knees. Heavy mascara. Semi-dyed brown hair. At best, she is between skanky and West Virginia strip-club material.

I scrawl a hasty note in Arabic, “Are there tomatoes or eggs to throw at this girl?” and pass it to the man at the next table. He takes the note, and asks me to follow him to the back where there is more light. He reads it and asks me what’s the matter. I show him my displeasure. He assures me it will get better and chuckles. Apparently, he’s a regular patron and says he comes nightly.

When the second girl comes on about an hour later, she tries a little harder than the first. She actually moves around the stage to entertain us. At one point, a patron—I suspect he was a plant—approaches her and unleashes about 10 bills in front of her body as she sways. Another man—the busboy—picks up the bills and hands them to her. Is this meant to encourage the rest of the patrons to shower her with bills?

The “dancing” became so dull that Martin and I started writing Arabic sentences to each other and diagramming them grammatically. I fell asleep half-way through her “dance.”

We stayed until about 3am and then left. After we paid the bill and walked down the stairs, one man accosted Martin for additional tips. Business is slow. And it looks like it’ll remain that way for some time to come if these dancers continue to underwhelm the audience.

A Car ride with Rania and her girlfriends

2009-06-07T00:28:00.000-07:00

Rania is one of those people who seeks movement. She grew up in Dubai, lived many years in Cairo, and studied seven months in Winona, Minnesota, but attended more parties than classes. “My dad got upset at me because I wasn’t doing so well in my studies.” She sports a nose stud, exudes warmth like the sun and for a 21 year old Muslim girl, drinks on a regular basis. We met at Horreyya, the local watering hole for expats and lapsed –or rather, liberated—Muslims. At the time, she was with her Egyptian boyfriend. She kept looking my way, smiled at me and asked me the standard questions Egyptians usually ask:

"Where are you from? What do you do here? Do you like it here?"

I tried to ignore her as her man was glued to her hip and I was with my two roommates at the time.

A month later, I met her again at a local jazz club. She was alone, so I asked about her boyfriend, thinking that if he were present, I did not want to take a chance talking to her. “Oh him? He is no longer my boyfriend as of 3 days ago.”

“I’m so sorry to hear,” I tried to console her. Secretly, I was quite pleased.

“However, since I’m drunk now, I want to call him. I really miss him,” She confided in me.
“Wait one day at least,” I advised her.
“Why?” she inquired.
“So you can give him the gift of missing you!” I explained.
She then turned around. She was wearing an outfit that was open in the back. On her lower back was tattooed the word A M I R A, Arabic for Princess.
“And if a man can’t see this clearly, can he come closer for a better look?” I joked.
She punched me lightly on my arm.

Thereafter, we traded emails by Facebook. More than a few months passed.
We finally met up last week in Midan Tahrir in front of Kentucky Fried Chicken (KFC), a big landmark in downtown. In her four-door, Honda-like car, were two other girlfriends. Rasha, 21, the first girlfriend, was driving the car, and in her senior year of college. Long, black hair flows from her head.

The second girlfriend, 22, also wore a nose stud. She just graduated. “My dad, an investment banker, has been in prison for 20 years, since I was two.”

Understandably, she hates President Mubarak and the Egyptian government.

“Does it seem like we are ‘high’ now? Don’t you smell something?” She asked me, with a mischievous smile.

“Sorry, my sense of smell is very weak. I generally can’t smell anything,” I explained myself, but understood her question quite well. I did grow up in Berkeley after all (!)

Rania explained,

“everyone here smokes hasheesh or uses it in some form, but the government doesn’t care.”

Rania was wearing gold jewelry on her left hand that includes a gold watch and bracelet. With a strong sense of nostalgia, she declared, “I’d give anything to return to Minnesota, because I love the people there. I’d give anything to see my last boyfriend, who was from Ethiopia.” Despite her studies abroad, she does not believe in America as an extraordinary place. “I see America and Egypt at about the same level. Neither one is better than the other.”

We drove around and around for nearly half an hour. I tried to give them directions to find parking, to no avail. Their sense of direction was like that of a blind man’s.

We stopped at a juice stand. Thereafter, we had a long, drawn-out discussion about religion and Islam. When they asked my religion and discovered I have none, they were surprised. Shocked.

Rania’s two girlfriends apparently have never met anyone secular, or who has no religion.

When they asked about Buddhism, they were disgusted that anyone can worship the Buddha—a man.

Dad-in-prison-girlfriend declares, “The Quran is perfect, with no mistakes.”

In my most diplomatic way possible, I tried to tell her that the Quran is full of mistakes, factual and scientific. However, the Quran is not alone in this. So is the Bible and the Torah.

Dad-in-prison-girlfriend: “As you know, men cannot wear gold because it is forbidden in Islam. Science has now proven that there’s something in gold that harms the skin and the health. Also, many women pluck their eyebrows, but Islam forbids this. And now science has shown that by plucking the eyebrows, it is harmful to the health. So, Islam makes a lot of sense.”

I listen attentively and do not respond.

After a while, Rania gets a call from her brother, who says he wants his car back. So, we return to Tahrir, where I am dropped off. Somehow, I don’t think I will see those girls again anytime soon.

An argument on the Nile River

2009-06-05T14:22:00.000-07:00

Last week, my friend Yenie and a couple friends cruised the Nile River on a Felucca, a small wooden vessel that transports hapless tourists back and forth.

A motorized boat approached us. Our skipper yelled something to the other captain to the effect, “hey, you’re too close. Get away.” That was enough to anger the man, who responded, “Anta mish kwayyes!” or “you’re not good!”

Our skipper, a proud man from Upper Egypt, shouted back, “Ana ahsan min abuk!” or “I’m better than your father!” a polite insult equivalent to the English phrase "you're a big, bad man."

For a moment, I thought we were going to see blood. My friend Lee joked that they were river pirates, ready to board. I told Yenie that they wanted the woman—her. She was not pleased with my joke.

Fortunately, for everyone, they left as they came—suddenly.

Down and out in Cairo

2009-05-31T11:12:00.000-07:00

I just saw a young Egyptian girl in the street next to the AUC campus gate. She seemed to be passed out. About 8-10 people surrounded her. One person was trying to wake her up by patting her cheeks gently. I asked one bystander “hussle ey?” or what happened. He had no idea.

I looked around me for a police officer. None. So, I quickly walked over to the AUC gate and greeted a police officer and asked him to contact the ambulance for the girl. As soon as he saw the commotion, he thanked me and walked over to her.

This incident reminds me of last year when I fell ill and lay down on a bench in the metro station. Ten people surrounded me within a minute. It is this strong community and caring which I will miss dearly when I leave Cairo in about 30 days. While people do help strangers in the US, my sense is that it doesn’t happen as quickly or in such numbers as it does here in Egypt. I could be wrong. I hope I am. In either case, I hope the ambulance came for her and she is resting in a hospital bed tonight.

Rabina yakrimha. May God be kind to her.

Obama to visit Cairo University next week, June 3

2009-05-30T12:13:00.000-07:00

There’s a buzz in Cairo about President Obama’s visit to the city next week.

Already, Ahmed, the local shop keeper asked me about the upcoming visit. I asked him if he plans to attend. He said that he is not allowed.

Here’s the conversation with a 63 year-old taxi driver on my way to the airport:

Taxi driver: Obama is a man of peace. Unlike Bush, and his father, who were both men of war.

What do you want Obama to say when he comes?

Just to talk about peace. Clinton was a man of peace. And his wife. She came to visit Cairo and went to the Khan Alkhalili Market and Al Azhar mosque.
Obama speaks Arabic and his mother was a Muslim

His mother or father?

His mother.

Is life in Egypt better now than before?

Before! Everything was much cheaper. Mubarak—what has he done in 30 years?! Nothing.

Brawling in the streets

2009-05-10T22:59:00.000-07:00

I witnessed my first real street fight two nights ago.

A commotion broke out close to my apartment. Two women were yelling at each other. A small crowd gathered around them. I tried to listen, but could not make out the jist of the fight. Soon, a rock was thrown. The shopkeeper at the corner quickly shuttered his gate. People started running, including this observer. It resembled the beginning of a riot in Los Angeles.

“What happened?” I asked a few people. No one knew. “A fight” one man responded.
Obviously. But, why? Over what? Honor? Romance? Football?

The next day, my Arabic teacher commented that this behavior is very common, especially during the summer months and in the Holy month of Ramadan, when people are fasting. And sometimes, Egyptians use whatever is available to them, including empty pepsi and coke bottles. At these moments, I’m glad that the people here generally don’t drink and have no guns. Alhamdulillah!

A murder in Upper Egypt causes delayed pay

2009-05-07T13:27:00.000-07:00

There was a murder in recent weeks. The uncle of Mr. Esam, the director of the language center where I’ve been teaching English, was killed last week in Upper Egypt. The details are not clear, but it seems that it may have been a family feud. So, now it’s time for revenge…

My friend Yehia, who is from Upper Egypt, observed, “Taking revenge depends on their education. They might refuse to avenge their relative`s death if they are open-minded people. But this is a weak possibility because it is a matter of culture. They think that it is a shame if they do not avenge his death. As for how long, they will keep waiting until they get a good chance to kill the murderer. This period might last for days, months, or years.”

What does this mean for me? In practical terms, it means a delay in my pay. Mr. Esam has always been 3-5 weeks late in paying my wages. This time, I gave him a month before contacting him. When I didn’t hear from him, I decided that I would quote the words of the Prophet (PBUH) to him: “Give a man his wages before his sweat dries.” However, once I discovered the bad news, I had to delay my pent-up anger, so I simply said, “May God make this the last of your griefs.”

When I arrived at the office, Mr. Esam did not have my money ready. He tried to explain about account numbers and went into extraordinary details about delayed payments from the Bank of Alexandria. The point was--there was no money. I had travelled 45 minutes through heavy traffic to be told that, “sorry, I can’t pay you tonight.” A simple phone call would’ve been sufficient to tell me not to come. Yet, Mr. Esam is incapable of such a civilized act. To make up for his delay, he invited me to dinner the next day. I politely declined. He said he would give me the money at Tahrir Square by Hardee’s restaurant at 9pm.

Now, I think I will have to set pen to paper in my best classical Arabic to rebuke this wayward man. He should be so glad that I don’t practice revenge in the way of those from Upper Egypt.

Ala’s engagement reception

2009-04-27T12:42:00.000-07:00

Last week, my student Ala invited me to his engagement reception at his fiancee’s house. So, I went with my next roommate Joseph. First, I bought a basket of flowers with a card. After we left the metro station, we walked 15 minutes. Along the way, I bought some apples and melons as housewarming gifts. We arrived at Koosharee Abu Rabia, or Father Spring’s koosharee shop. I called Ala, but no answer. We waited for another 10 or 15 minutes. Joseph and I decided to enter the koossharee shop and get something to eat while waiting. A few minutes after we began eating, Ala called back and said a 12 year old relative would meet us in a few minutes to lead us to the house.

Imagine about 40-50 people stuffed into a small living space, with loudspeakers the size of a small closet at either side, blasting obnoxious Arabic music, and everyone bumping and grinding to the music.

This is the first time I’ve been to a party when a man comes up to me and says, “Andy, come with me. I want to dance with you!” Well, when in Rome…

Ala’s cousin Fady, who speaks good English, plays in a band and asks if I am Japanese.

“Sorry, Chinese.”

I notice more than a few attractive ladies in the room and ask him who they are.
“Oh…are you looking for a one-night stand?” he asks me matter-of-factly. “Because if you are, then this is not the right place--too close. Everyone knows everyone else.”

“Fady—in your future dealings with foreigners, especially Westerners from the US or Canada or Western Europe, you shouldn’t assume they they are all looking for a one-night stand. Only about half of them are loose. The other half are VERY loose,” I explain.

He laughs.

“Where do you go to look for a nice Christian girl?” I inquire.

“Church, of course! I’ll take you,” he responds.

After more than an hour or so of dancing, the side room opens up for food. Most people rush into the dining room and take a position next to the table to fill their plates. However, they don’t move. They stand there to eat piece-meal from the plates.

I see turkey, chicken, beef, and pork passing around. Dolma, or grape leaves stuffed with rice and sausages. MaHshe, or cucumber stuffed with rice and meat. Lettuce, tomatoes on the side. And lots of Stella beer.

After some food, Joseph is dragged back onto the dance floor. As he and I are the only non-Egyptians at the gathering, we are dragged into the concentric circle of dancing fools for a few minutes of flailing arm movements.

Shortly before midnight, we leave the party and amble slowly back to the metro station, our ears still ringing from the loudspeakers.

The secret habit

2009-04-24T04:17:00.000-07:00

Last week, I helped my Egyptian friend Mhmd to prepare for his English exam. During a break, he casually brought up the subject of the secret habit. He didn’t know the English word for it, so using his right hand, with his thumb touching his fingers to form an “o”, motioned up and down. I asked for the word in Arabic, but he hesitated, saying it was very vulgar. He was reading from a document in Arabic about the subject. It warned that those who conduct such an activity will suffer from backaches and knee aches. (This is the first time I've ever heard of such a side effect, but not so different from going blind or having hair grow on your palms).

I told him to look up the subject on Wikipedia. Once the page loaded, I asked him to read the “benefits” section. He was a bit surprised. I encouraged him to read more and get more information from various sources, and not just from his Imam.

Dating or the lack of
Mhmd has a girlfriend. Or rather, a lady friend whom he sees once a week. He wants to marry her, but has never kissed her. Or been intimate with her. He doesn’t even greet her with a hug, let alone a handshake. He cannot invite her over to his house for dinner. And she cannot invite him. Because they are not engaged yet. If he wants to take her to the park, he must go with other friends in a group. And of course, the movie theater is out of the question because it’s in the dark. Too much temptation. However, it seems the only quality time he has with her is attending religious lectures with her and his family. Such is life for a single person in Egypt. So, it is rather surprising that the secret habit is not practiced more often.

Nathalie's Response

2009-04-21T04:31:00.000-07:00

Oh my god andy, i just found this. I did nt read it, this is too long for my little brain and i think this is completely inappropriate You make a fuss and such a long and precise story out of what. We talk nicely throught internet, met, liked each other. i slept two days in ur bed. let my bags in ur flat guys for what, five days, or something, hand around during the day, talking with u, chech mails... And so what, what is the big deal.

You are young, already you are making a fuss for such a natural and informal thing...
khalas.

about meher : thanks you for the pity of this pathetic guy about an old lady. just by the way.
and thank you for relating this to me. by the way.

THIS guy is pathetic, believe me.
He called me today about the ac remote control. Sure i do ac remote control traffic, u didnt know about that, ion fact i am not a journalist but a big dealer of remote controls. i sell it 1 euros in the black market in france.

THIS is pathetic. Poor guy and poor you. You should have send him to hell when he called u but obviously u didnt.

His room was perfectly neat, everything was just like i founded, never saw any ac remote control, never put any ac, it was cool enough, cant even remember where was this ac machine. PATHETIC i am telling u.

Also andy, relax and dont be obsessionnal out of nothing
If things had been different, of course i intended to treat u, guys, to restaurant, and have a nice party the three of us, OF COURSE.

but since u think i am a greedy shit i would disturb your convenience
more seriously you disappointed me so much and i felt so insulted by your behavior and attitude last hours that to tell u the truth i dont have the courage to just pretend i am still happy with you and spend an evening with you.

if you would like anything i could buy for you of if something would please you, just tell me i would be happy to make a present to thank you for your hospitality. but i dont really feel like spending time with u right now. This long letter with the also insulting title u sent me now i didnt read it as i told u, but i already can feel that only the principle that this is so long and so is already wrong and something is crazy about it.

just let me know if you would be pleased with something, ok

Nathalie

A bone in the soup:

2009-04-15T16:25:00.000-07:00

The story of Nathalie Berard, a random houseguest who just wouldn’t leave

Dear Nathalie,

First, I must say you have been a ball of fire in my life this past week and for that—I thank you. Because balls of fire do two things at least:

1. They bring light to the darkness and heat things up.
2. They upset the usual routine and cause some excitement. And now, you have given me something to talk about for the next few months. Or years.

Second, you are a charmer (on your good days). And I really enjoyed getting to know your colorful past (especially the sex with the Egyptian brothers in Luxor) and character. I enjoyed your humor, observations about people (especially the one about those who are young and stupid become old and stupid, not necessarily old and wise), and flirtatious nature; disagreed with your politics, your cynicism, and your constant moving from one place to another. However, you made up for many of your weaknesses with your cooking and humor. And kudos to you for squeeging the bathroom floor after showering (David never did this!). And even though you forget your dish of courgettes and yoghurt, they were the finest I’ve had in a while. So, thank you for all of that!

Had we known each other as friends previously, you would’ve been more than welcome to stay at my place for a week or more. However, we DID NOT know each other before this past week. And that’s precisely the point!

So, that’s the positive. Now, the negative…

April 7, Night 1: When I welcomed you into my apartment, I should’ve been much clearer with you about the limits to my and David’s generosity. I should’ve clearly said “one night” only. And then, on your way. As you remember, I gave you my bed. I don’t do this for just anyone. I do it ONLY for close friends and family. You were none of these. Yet, I felt a natural compulsion to offer you my bed. You can psychoanalyze this later on and perhaps ascribe it to my Chinese background or perhaps, my one year of living in Egypt and learning from the kindness of Muslims. Whatever the reason, both David and I were too polite to say anything to you such as: please leave after one night. After all, we are not Germans.

After that first night, you thanked me for my hospitality, but complained that my room was the noisiest you’ve stayed in for a long time. And you gave me the impression that you wanted to find another, quieter location. And that’s when you went to Zamalek.

At breakfast, you asked me “can you spare me some breakfast?” And then you asked me if that was correct English. I explained to you that if you use the word “spare” in English, it means you are begging. At the time, I thought you had made a simple mistake. Now, upon reflection a few days later, I think the mistake was a true reflection of the person who spoke it. And that’s precisely the point!

April 8, Night 2: you stayed in the Zamalek apartment with the Indian. We thought that would suit you well. You may remember that after I returned home, you complained to me via text about the Indian guy--how he wanted an exorbitant amount from you: “U too cute! Noticed the bastard asked for 150LE a night. Now wants my id. Yaky!” I even asked you if you would like to return. And when you did return the next day, I welcomed you with open arms. You told me that you could not find quiet in that place. While the room was quiet, the work site below disturbed you.

The point is: To have some workmen below while you are on the 8th floor is normal. Yet, you abandoned that place and did not pay. Granted, Meher said that he felt sorry for you, and offered you the room as charity only for one night: “i cant let an old lady roam around without shelter at night.” Furthermore, Meher wrote me and informed me that the A/C was on and the window open. Also,

“the ac remote control is missing. she didnt inform me

i dont mind the rent, i mind tht she didnt inform me

if u catch her, pls ask her abt my ac remote”

Perhaps, Mr. Meher is mistaken. Perhaps, he just misplaced it in the flat or the German girl took it; however, if you took it then, that shows another side of you.

The 2nd point is that if you took it, then to repay his kindness with your a) carelessness of leaving the window open and b) spite by stealing the remote control demonstrates your wickedness. Meher showed you kindness with one free night’s stay and this is how you repaid him. Oh…how you would’ve been a memorable figure in one of Shakespeare’s dramas or tragedies, my dear.

April 9, Night 3: you stayed with us again. And again, I gave you my bed. And I took the floor. This time around, you tried to be considerate and wanted to sleep on the couch cushions in the living room; however, as David was working all night and would go back and forth, thereby disturbing you or whoever was sleeping there, you decided to take my bed offer after all.

I was kind of puzzled that you returned, especially since you didn’t like the noise level of my apartment. You could’ve easily gone to a hotel; any hotel until you found your ideal room.

April 10, Night 4: David kindly took you to see Iman’s apartment.

I know that Iman asked for 550 LE/7 days. You wanted less. However, you stayed there 2 days. To give her only 50LE is unacceptable and very close to theft. Even at 350LE/ 7 days – a price closer to your ideal -- that would still be 100LE for 2 days. Your action here shows me several things:

1. Not only are you cheap (read: cheapskate, tightwad, skinflint, “bakheel” in Arabic), but you are not classy. You are what I would call “French white trash.”

2. You do not know how to thank people properly for their kindness. Iman treated you to dinner at a local Sudanese restaurant. She took the time and trouble to show you around and to offer you quality cuisine. She paid for your meal. Did you even offer to pay, as I did? Did you reciprocate? Ah yes, you said that you paid for her two taxi cab rides.

3. The pattern is getting clearer now: you stayed a night in Zamalek free. And then left. You stayed in Manial 2 nights free. And then left. Is this called “sleep and run” in French?

The point is: you embarrassed both David and me by NOT PAYING anything for the use of her room for 2 days. Granted, she returned to you the 50LE you offered her; but, if you have any sense of decency about you, you will understand that she was offended by you more than anything. As you leave on the morning of the 19th for Luxor, you still have the chance to correct this glaring mistake by paying her at least 100LE. You could easily leave it with David. I doubt you will, as you either don’t have the money, or are unwilling to pay. I hope you prove me wrong.

And finally, Iman will think twice before she accepts any referrals from either David or me in the near future. This nasty incident will definitely strain our friendship. And I have you to thank for this, my dear!

April 11, Night 5: You returned to our apartment to use my computer and stayed with us again during the day. I was very sympathetic to your plight; after all, you were unable to use the computer or have internet access in Manial. And you needed to be close to your interviews with belly-dancers in downtown. That night, when we dined at the restaurant cook door, I learned a little more about your personality. You were unwilling to pay for even a 11LE salad (less than 2 Euros). That’s why I bought you the salad, because I pitied you and saw that either you didn’t have the money or were unwilling to shell out the money. And of course, I remember that you insisted on giving me back 11LE exactly for the salad, as you quoted a French saying to the effect, “good accounts make for good friends.”

Before our visit to the restaurant, at Stella Bar, you gave out your phone number to the two Egyptian men next to us. Remember that the first one offered to accompany you on your trip down to Luxor? And then he paid for your beer? As soon as you gave your number to him, he automatically assumed that you were a whore, ready to service him. Of course, since you are so ignorant of the culture here, you thought nothing of this particular action, which is quite commonplace in France.

Again, you stayed with us because you didn’t have the key to Iman’s apartment and she did not return your phone calls. And I gave you the bed, and I took the floor.
The point is: you should’ve gotten the house phone number of Iman. And the address. Very irresponsible of you.

April 12, Night 6: Return to Manial
I accompanied you to Iman’s place in Manial because you had no idea of how to get there. You offered to pay for my taxi ride back home. So, after our tea by the cornice with Iman, I asked you for 5LE. Iman, without even thinking—gave you 5LE from her pocket. Granted, you did resist several times, but I was a bit surprised that you took it at the end. Again, this shows me that not only are you low on funds, but you are not a proud person.

The point is, it was not you who really paid for my taxi home; it was Iman. If anything, you try to avoid paying for others if possible. You are a true Westerner and you give the French people a bad name. My Arabic tutor called you selfish today after I told him about your charming ways. In fact, I have told your story to two friends now and both have laughed their heads off at your behavior.

April 13, Night 7: you returned after noon and stayed until about 11pm. I was not angry at all; rather, I was pleasantly surprised that you returned. You asked me if I was upset at your return. You may remember I replied, “You bring the light.” On one level, it is a compliment that you are so comfortable with me and David that you returned to us. Almost like a pigeon that returns to its sender. However, you spent the entire day here, without any urgency in finding a hotel for the evening. In fact, as you were ready to step out the door, you did not even have an address for the hotel. How, my dear, were you going to find the hotel if the taxi driver did not know? Or if I didn’t go with you? Or for that matter, you did not have plan B – the name and address of a second hotel. You said you had one in mind in downtown, yet you did not have a phone number or an address written down somewhere.

Also, I noticed that you took the Lonely Planet (LP) Egypt guide book from my bookshelf and placed it into your purse. I’m confident that you would’ve returned it to me before your departure to Luxor. However, it would’ve been nice to ask me. To give you an idea of how most people approach this concept of borrowing items, whenever David needs to borrow a book from me, he will usually knock on my door gently, ask if he can enter and borrow my LP Egypt book. This is the man I have lived with for 4 months and have had countless conversations about nearly everything under the sun. In other words, he is a very good friend. And yet, he STILL feels the need to ask me! Again, the points are these:

A. You are seriously unprepared for contingency plans. You’re not a planner and you go by the seat of your pants, which gets you in trouble.

B. You take without permission and take as you like; perhaps, this is what you do with your close friends, but remember we are not close friends. Please remember this point in your future dealings with strangers and new people in your life. Yes, you are a big girl, but this is important.

C. “The trick is to get as much as you can out of the place while paying as little as possible.” You told this to me on the couch. This seems to be your driving philosophy in hotels and travel, and perhaps in life as well. It strikes me as odd that you talk constantly about spending good money on a luxury hotel room, but not willing to pay for it. In English, we call this the “freeloader.” You, my dear—are a freeloader. Say it. Repeat it until it rolls off your tongue. It’s a good word and will contribute greatly to your vocabulary and understanding of the English language. Perhaps, you have a word in French for this as well?

It pains me to say this, but you have problems. BIG problems. Perhaps, your therapist can help you with them when you return to Paris. Then again, can you afford one? Does that French government subsidy (for American readers: read “welfare”) help you beyond eating and drinking monthly?

Strategy of leaving behind your things so you can return.

I saw this strategy once on Seinfeld. The character George Costanza would always leave behind an article of clothing (hat, scarf, gloves) at the house of a new woman he was dating so he could return and therefore see her again. While I can’t be certain of this with you, it does seem awfully similar. So, it was not terribly surprising that you always seemed to leave your two large bags at our place, along with a travel bag in our bathroom; that way, you always had a good reason to return to us.

Question for you: how many days did you expect to stay with us? 3, 4, 5 or the entire duration of your 12 day stay? Each step of the way, it seems that you were not concerned about finding a hotel room; rather, you waited for us to find you a place; first, the room in Manial. Second, the Mayfair Hotel. You may be 47, but you behave like a 17 year old. Excuse me, a 7 year old. No, my dear, you are not old. You are young at heart and irresponsible and inconsiderate. And ungrateful. What a combination!

Finally
I recognize that you’ve had some medical and mental problems in recent years; your insomnia of 9 months perhaps contributed greatly to your stress and current difficulties. And for that, you have my sympathies. I cannot even begin to imagine your world or your constant headaches. So, I feel for you and pity you more than anything.

The old English adage says

houseguests are like fish and cheese: they begin to stink after 3 days.

Such a wise maxim. And had you simply stayed away after you moved over to Iman’s house, I think that we would have been able to maintain at least a friendship or professional relationship. Unfortunately, even this is not possible now.

Also, remember my thought about friendship? Well, I’ve decided to drop you as a friend and contact for these reasons:

-You’re a user. Your cell phone for example. I find it appalling that you benefit from the use of a nice cell phone from your male friend in Paris, whom you find repulsive. While he thinks that he may have a future with you, you are simply using him for his phone, his car and who knows what else he may offer you. You are what Immanuel Kant warned against: never use people merely as a means. Unfortunately, I don’t think you ever benefited from your education. Ah yes, you never even read Voltaire’s Candide—your own literature!

-You’re a liar. From day one, and from the first time you advertised on CS to the time you called me, you lied. At least you’ve been consistent.

You said in your ad,

“Willing to pay for a month of course but it has to be cheap.”

Did you ever pay one month for any place? Did you ever intend to do this? I highly doubt it. You found out at the end of March that the Frenchman would not be able to accommodate you; yet when you called me last week, you gave me the impression that while he was wishy-washy, you still intended on staying at his place, most likely. Then, you told me there was “a bone in the soup” meaning, it didn’t work out. If you were more truthful and honest with yourself and me, you would have told me simply that he had guests, and that you could not stay there. Instead, you misrepresented yourself to gain sympathy from people who would be open to an old French woman who was turned out on the streets at the last moment by a heartless landlord. You should enter politics. I think you lie better than most politicians, my dear.
-You’re inconsiderate and selfish

Unfortunately for you—the potential for friendship ended as soon as you arrived at our apartment. As inconsiderate as you became, I was still willing to accompany you to the Mayfair Hotel. Why? I don’t know.

As you recall, you only wanted to take your purse and overnight bag to the Mayfair Hotel, hoping to return to us the next day or so. You may remember—I said nothing. While puzzled about this particular action, I did not object. (Maybe I really am a pushover, after all?) David, in the most polite and diplomatic way possible, told you that you should NOT leave your two large bags with us, because to go back and forth so many times would cause you stress and not be easy. Instead of taking his advice, what did you do? You stormed out of our apartment, almost like we had insulted your mother’s grave.

And even when I still offered to help carry your larger and heavier bag, you told me to stay away. I followed you downstairs to hail a taxi.

However, do you know the straw that broke the camel’s back? After the taxi driver put your bags into the trunk, I tried to open the backdoor and sit next to you. You told me, “no, you sit up front.” Almost like I was the help. Or a servant boy to serve you at your call and beckon. You insulted me at that point. You insulted my intelligence and honor. I decided at that point, that you were going by yourself. And yet, strangely enough, you still wanted me to go with you, saying “Get in. Go with me.” How desperate of you. How sad. How pathetic to see a grown woman like you – 47 years old – to beg me, a total stranger to accompany you to a hotel. Were you that lost? Or lonely? Or deprived of company?

There was a man downstairs who was resting in the car. He was a Ministry of Interior military man—I told him about you and he wanted to get to know you right away and offer you a free room in his house. At hotel “Mohamed”. Perhaps, you can guess the reason for his generous offer? He’s married, but he’s always ready for a French fuck. He asked me about your preference for sex. I told him that you were French and open. Need I say more? He wanted me to call you right away to offer you his hospitality. I was tempted, but decided that you would be better off at a quiet hotel than to have Mohamed chase after you.

Suggestions for your future trips to Egypt or travel abroad in general:
-www.couchsurfing.com (Free. The Egyptians say Abu Balash, katar minu, “If it’s free, take more from it!” I think this fits you) I plan to use this site when I visit Lebanon / Syria next month. Who knows, maybe we will have the same hosts one day and can compare notes on who has the softest couch and which flat is the quietest. This will save you loads of money for hotels. And with that money, you can finally buy yourself some decency and honesty.

-Youth Hostels. There are some fine ones here in Cairo.

-Arrange a free stay with Hotel Mohammed of the Interior Ministry. I can give you his phone number and I’m sure he’ll pick you up at the airport.

If I don’t hear from you, then I will assume that you’ve received my letter, but choose not to answer; which is fine. But, I do hope that this letter gives you some things to think about; perhaps, even try to change your ways.

If we lived in the same city and had mutual friends, I would avoid you like the plague. However, it is better for me to simply say, good luck with your journey and search for peace and tranquility. I think I understand just a little more why you are on this journey.

السلام عليكم

Peace be upon you, my dear.
Andy

Meowww! Mish-mish is hungry

2009-03-30T15:14:00.000-07:00

Meowww!

Meet Mish-mish, (Arabic for Apricot) a three-week old kitten who lives by my doorstep. She belongs to Mahmoud, who works in the car parts shop next to my apartment building.

“Her mother died, so she is alone,” he explained.

As I returned to my building this afternoon after an errand, I heard the cry of a small kitten. Meowww! I looked down and saw the smallest thing crawl around, next to a plastic container of roos bilaban, or rice pudding, a popular Egyptian dessert.

I watched her for a few minutes. She crawled and then clinged to the hem of my pant leg. Mahmoud came to the doorstep and offered her to me. He proceeded to place her in a plastic bag. While I nearly became a cat owner, I politely declined.

I asked him, “is she a wild cat from the streets?” No.

He said that she likes to eat the dessert. Remembering that I still had roos bilaban in my fridge, I offered to give him some. I quickly went upstairs and returned a few minutes later. Mish-mish stuck her face into dessert heaven. Meowww!

Will Teach for Beer!

2009-03-25T11:21:00.000-07:00

So, I think I have found my ultimate justification for staying longer in Cairo beyond the end of my Arabic studies—beer! To be more precise, it looks like I may begin a new stint as tutor to some managers at a beer factory outside the City. Rafat, the gentleman who contacted me this week, is the brother-in-law to Barsoum, my former student who sells jewelery.

In fact, Rafat and I met a year earlier at Baroum’s house during dinner celebrating Coptic Christmas. He and his wife gave me a lift home that night. At 32, he is married to Barsoum’s sister Hala, but has no kids yet. He has a smooth, chubby face with a caramel complexion. He is easy to laugh and about my height with short-cropped hair.

As he drives me to the factory, Rafat and I speak in Arabic. While he has a basic understanding of English and speaks it conversationally, he’s more comfortable speaking Ammeyya, or Egyptian Arabic. I manage to say a few statements about life and my experience in Cairo this past year that make him laugh. For example, I share with him the tale of the Muslim taxi driver begging me for a can of beer when I was going to a Halloween party. Never mind that the Holy Koran was above his steering wheel.

Rafat tells me that he loves Chinese people. “Just love them! They are so industrious. They work very hard -- night and day. They never stop. And they are so nice. There’s a time and place for everything. When they work, they work. When they leave work, they rest. However, in Egypt, They don’t like to work. The people take long breaks to smoke, eat or fool around. There’s no system for anything here.”

The factory is located about 45 minutes southeast of downtown in the countryside. We convene in the conference room. As the men gather, everyone lights up. They offer me tea and beer. I ask for tea, but they keep insisting that I have some beer. It’s still not yet noon. I decline politely.

Rafat and five of his colleagues mainly want to improve their spoken English. They must deal with their Belgian boss and sometimes with English-speaking customers. After assessing their reading, speaking, listening comprehension and writing abilities, I determined that they are all beginning speakers, with the one exception of Rafat, who has the strongest English skills.

After several hours of chatting and assessment, we decide to begin classes in about one week. We agree to a price that will pay for my rent and bean sandwiches many times over. To give you an idea of my wages, every time I visit them for a 2 hour session, I will make more money than most Egyptians make all month.

Rafat drives me to Monib, the nearest metro station and I return to make preparations for the upcoming class. Just as the economy in the US and around the world is in a slump, it may not be such a bad idea to remain in Egypt for a little bit longer as a tutor to beer manufacturers. As the economists say, the desire for beer is an “inelastic demand.” In other words, people keep drinking booze no matter what. Alhamdulilah! (Praise be to God!)

Serendipity

2009-03-12T15:42:00.000-07:00

Tonight’s English class at the Haram street center proved interesting. Alah, or Alan-his English name-is an advanced speaker of English. As he should be, considering his 6 months spent in Australia as a 17 year old. That was 10 years ago. Tonight, he served as the class interpreter, explaining terms that were unknown to the rest of the students, including the four girls from Djibouti, who seemed hopelessly lost.

After class, Alah offered me a ride home, practicing the idea of “doing a favor” that we covered in class. His car, a four door from Korea, still has that new-car smell. He is on his way to his Fiancee’s house, but said he could drop me off. Despite my protests, he insisted on giving me a lift.

A Coptic Christian, Alah is extremely outgoing and speaks with the enthusiasm of an American or Aussie. He stops momentarily at a coffee shop for some Egyptian coffee, which is really repackaged Turkish coffee. He gives me a bag. He tells me of his fiancée, whom he met 20 days ago at Khan AlKhalili, the infamous bazaar and tourist trap. He thought about the appropriate word for a moment to describe his initial meeting with his current fiancée, then uttered “serendipity.” When he first saw her, he said, “she stole my heart.” He told his father, standing next to him, that he wanted to talk to her.

He recalled, “I asked her if she had a boyfriend. Then, I asked to talk to her father later.” I remarked how this one question saved him a lot of time in his search. Soon afterwards, he made an official visit to the father, who gave him the customary grilling about his education, background, future goals and ambitions. He passed. He has spent each night with his beloved, learning about her as a person and future wife. She currently is training to be a tour guide for German tourists.

Alah pulls out a photo of her from his wallet. She looks to be in her early 20s. I comment to him, “if she were a Muslim girl, I’d put her in a niqab (black veil covering her entire body except the eyes).” He laughs, agreeing with my sentiment.
Alah says he hopes that I will be able to attend his wedding in 3 months time.

“Insha’ Allah” or God Willing I say.

After 10 minutes of weaving through alleyways and turnabouts, we make it into lighter traffic. Alah plans to immigrate to Melbourne, Australia within the year after he takes the IELTS exam, similar to the TOEFL (Test of English as a Foreign Language). After a year or so, he will then send for his wife. Expressing both angst and hope, Alah remarked, “Sometimes, I wonder if I know what I’m doing.”

When we arrive at my building, we trade phone numbers. I wish him a good night. After watching his smooth handling of a large four door car in Cairo traffic, I have no doubt that Alah will be able to handle Australia.

An early phone call from Irving, TX

2009-03-08T22:29:00.000-07:00

I was awakened early this morning by a call from Irving, Texas. Most people – me included – cannot find this hamlet on a map. The voice at the other end of the line was weak and hesitant, but clearly the voice of Hisham, my former Sudanese student now living in Texas with his sister for a year. I had met with him over tea back in November before his move. He was terribly excited. I had advised him on the nature of Texans: They’re very friendly, but proud people. Good barbeque. They see themselves as an independent people and state and more unique than anyone else in the country.

I offered to connect him with some of my Texan friends, should he need connecting. After he left, I never heard from him again…until a week ago or so when he called me early in the morning. We spoke only 5 minutes, like this morning.

He reported that life in the United States was not what he had expected. For one, he was in a small town called Irving, which was far away from the big city. It sounded like he was in the countryside and away from civilization, computers, the internet, even the phone.

-He had met some friendly Mexicans and migrant farm workers

-He had not really made any new friends and seemed hopelessly lost

-He asked me for contacts and promised to call back the next day; he didn’t

In this morning’s talk, I asked him to email me. “I have no internet access,” he replied.

Are you close to a library? “No, not really. And I have no car.”

Is there a bus? “No.”

Can you walk there? “Yes, but the closest one is about 40 minutes away by foot. And my laptop is broken.”

Hisham—spend all day at the library, ok? Go in the morning and come back in the afternoon.

“What jobs can I do? You said I can teach Arabic. How?”

Go to a University--Any university and see if they have a Middle East Studies program. If they do, then teach Arabic there.

“Do I need qualifications?”

If you do private tutoring, no.

“How much should I charge?”

Between $20-$30.

I gave him the website craigslist.org as a helpful resource. “Everything is by email now. What is your email account?” I asked.

“Ah…I don’t remember. I think it is inactive,” he explained.

Then, open a new one. Here—take my email address. Andylei98@gmail.com

“gmail? What is gmail?”

Google. Google!

“Ah—yes, google. Thank you. I am afraid you are busy?”

If I am busy, I would not answer you. If I am busy, I would tell you I must go. If I am busy, I would say to you—never call me again. You are too polite.

“I learned politeness from my Japanese friends.”

Then, you learned from the wrong people. You cannot afford to be too polite in America. You must be persistent and push, push push!

“Ok, sorry, this line will be cut off in 1 minute.”

Email me and I will connect you with my friends in Houston, Austin and San Antonio. Unfortunately, I don’t know anyone in Irving.

No response. The line went dead…

You can’t cheat him – he’s a Muslim!

2009-03-08T06:55:00.000-07:00

I went grocery shopping at the outdoor market a few days ago. I picked up the usual items: some strawberries, tangerines, carrots and eggplant. When I got to the lettuce man, I bought two heads and asked for some cilantro. He gave it to me the last time and didn’t charge me, so I was pretty sure they were complimentary. To be sure, I asked him, “how much?”

He replied, “gift.” I was right.

At the same time, another man next to him asked me for 10LE (about $2). I suspected he was joking, of course. And the lettuce vendor chided him with a wag of the finger. “You can not cheat a fellow Muslim!” And to confirm that I was Muslim, he asked me, “you are a Muslim, yes?”

“Insha’ Allah!” God Willing!

“Thank you Eid,” I said.

“What’s your name?” he asked me. He had forgotten my name even though we met each other some weeks earlier and had exchanged names.

“Khelid,” I replied, giving him my Arabic name. (Khelid is Arabic for the immortal)

Opening the door -- the Islamic way

2009-03-07T10:07:00.000-08:00

Last week, I arrived at the home of my student Ahmd 5 minutes early to teach him and his friends English for our weekly English class, in the working class neighborhood of Bolaq. Working class means few to no foreigners ever step foot in this neighborhood. And the residents tend to be poor or of the lower class. After a few knocks, I called him on his cell phone. The mobile rang in the living room. Hmmm…Perhaps, he was out visiting with neighbors for his nightly round of religious talks a la Mormons or Jehova’s Witnesses. Ahmd spends 2 hours each night walking his neighborhood and knocking on doors, on behalf of Islam, to answer any questions neighbors may have about God.

A few minutes later, the door opened, but only a few inches. I could see a light inside, but no voice. Perhaps, the 3 year old nephew opened the door, but was too shy to poke his head out the door. I tried to push open the door a little, but I felt a slight resistance. Ah…perhaps, it was his sister.

At that moment, Ahmd arrived and greeted me. A 27 year old computer engineer, Ahmd is warm and always has a friendly smile. He wears a galabiyeh and slippers. A bespectacled believer, he wears his beard long—in the tradition of the Prophet Mhmd (PBUH). When I first met him months ago, he reminded me very much of an Orthodox Jewish man. Ahmd explains his tardiness: he was praying the Asha prayer at the mosque. Once we entered the living room, Ahmd explained an interesting custom for traditional Muslims. When one knocks on a Muslim door, one should

A) knock 3 times at the most. During his wait, he must stand three feet back. If there is no answer, then he must leave.

B) One must look at the floor and present his right shoulder to the door. This way, if a woman answers the door, then he will not be distracted by her appearance or ever be in the position of accidentally brushing up against her, should she be rushing out the door.

And finally, if a man answers the door, then he can look up from the floor, greet his friend with a handshake and kiss him on the cheeks.

Ahmd also informed me that his sister opened the door a crack for me to tell me that he was not in the house at the time. Unfortunately, I did not hear her voice--at all. Perhaps, the door was not the only barrier to her being heard by a man.

In search of a good eggman

2009-01-30T08:13:00.000-08:00

Ever since I’ve moved to my downtown apartment next to the Interior Ministry—reportedly a place of government work (read: bureaucracy) and Egypt’s domestic black site for its political dissidents—I’ve had no access to a supermarket where I can do all my shopping at one time. So, I usually have to journey to no less than three separate places for my food: the mom-and-pop corner store for juice, canned tuna and noodles; to the outdoor market for vegetables; across the Nile River for cookies and brownies; and finally, to the corner for eggs in a hole-in-the-wall where Hisham, the middle-aged vendor runs his operation.

When we first talked, Hisham asked me the essential Islamic question: what’s your religion? And when I told him that I was “kafir” or infidel, he was shocked. And Chinese people in general? “Kufar”—infidels. He was jolted! 1.3 billion infidels? How can that be? I tried to explain Confucianism—the philosophy and demi-religion of China. He couldn’t really understand it and encouraged me to explore Islam. And with that, we exchanged phone numbers. He told me, “if you ever need eggs and I’m not here, just call me and I’ll come down.” As he lives close by, it’s not much trouble, he swears. While I’ve not yet had an egg emergency, it is certainly comforting to know that my eggman is at my disposal—merely on the other side of my mobile. Earlier this week, Hisham called me on my cell phone. A pleasant surprise, indeed. He just wanted to check in with me and say “hi.”

The other day, while picking up some vegetables with my roommate, we spotted another egg store. To our amazement, the eggs were bigger and cheaper than Hisham’s eggs. They were also clean—that is to say, there was no chicken shit on the egg shells. This eggman, named Khelid, seems to be busier and more diplomatic than Hisham. Perhaps, in his late 30s, he has a earpiece and seems to be conducting business deals at the counter while selling eggs. When my roommate Andrew asked him whether he liked China or America better, he said “the two are brothers.” He could’ve been straight from Foggy Bottom!

While I like Hisham, I like cheap eggs even better. So, while it saddens me a little to leave Hisham for Khelid, my new eggman, perhaps I can visit Hisham every now and then. Will Khelid and I exchange numbers? We’ll see about that…

Islamic Prohibition: notes to women and music

2009-01-11T14:51:00.000-08:00

On Christmas day, David’s Palestinian friend Meliha gave me an Arabic children’s book, which she wrote. To thank her, I wrote out a short thank you note—in Arabic. Of course, as my grammar is not perfect, I asked Mustafa, one of my 5 language exchange partners, for help. He is a Mutadayyen, or devout Muslim with a big beard. The Arabic word Mutadayyen translates into “one who lives by religion.” When he read the short note, and noticed that it was addressed to a woman, he said, “I’m sorry. I cannot help you with this note.” I was a bit puzzled at first. He explained that he could not assist me in writing a note that would facilitate a relationship with a woman.

So, I asked him, “you mean, it’s too close to zina (sin)?”

“Yes! Exactly,” He replied, with a smile.

I looked at him for a moment in disbelief.

Then I asked him for the exact sura and aya, or chapter and verse in the Qur’an, which addresses such practices. Mustafa could not give me an exact reference, but explained that Islam frowns on such practices. These guidelines are intended to protect women—and men, for that matter.

“Are you angry or upset with me, Andy?” Mustafa inquired.

“No. I have 4 other Egyptians I can ask for help on this. If you were the only one, maybe I would be a little upset. I understand that the world is big and there are many different peoples with different cultures. Islamic culture is extremely different from Western culture, especially that of the USA. So, I can respect these differences and I want to respect your beliefs. If you don’t want to help me with this note, that’s fine.”

He seemed pleased with my diplomatic answer.

After our language exchange, I told him that I was off to the Opera to meet a friend. Although the Mohamed Mounir concert had been cancelled, I was going there for some coffee. Mustafa said matter-of-factly, “Mounir is not good.”

“You don’t like Mounir? How about Um Kalthoum?”

“Music is not good,” Mustafa replied.

“Some music, or ALL music is not good?” I pressed further.

“All music is not good.”

“What sura and aya?”
He went to his Qur’an and referenced Sura Luqman, aya 6. He asked me to show the sura to my friend at the Opera and he would explain.

Sura Luqman, aya 6 reads:
“And of mankind is he who purchases idle talks (i.e. music, singing, etc.) to mislead (men) from the Path of Allah without knowledge, and takes it (the Path of Allah, or the Verses of the Qur’an) by way of mockery. For such there will be a humiliating torment (in the Hell-fire).”

My Egyptian friend Hatem explained that when Prophet Mhmd (Peace and Blessings of Allah be Upon Him) arrived in Medina, he was greeted by his supporters with songs. Furthermore, this literalist reading of the Qur’an is most common among Mutashaddid, or “fundamentalists.” I now realize that Mustafa and I live in very different worlds.

Working haaard for my money

2008-12-01T15:04:00.000-08:00

Everyone owes me money this week:

-The Golf in Egypt Magazine for my last article

-Egypt Today (from May). They suck royal donkey. Don’t ever work for them.

-The English language center where I teach. The director pays me only when I nag him.

-Barsoum, my diamond dealer student who’s escaped to Dubai for a business trip. I forgive him.

The only saving grace is an Italian engineer who’s visiting his girlfriend for the week and needs English tutorials for the week, so I’m able to stay off the streets for now…

Oral Assessment at St. Andrew’s

2008-11-29T05:36:00.000-08:00

My former student Mohamed Hussein Mohamed asked me to come by St. Andrew’s today to help with the Oral Assessment of the new students. So, I became an interrogator of refugees asking impertinent questions:

What kind of food do you like?

Are you married?

How many brothers and sisters do you have?

Some questions elicit pain: When do you go to work?

I have no work.

What is one of the problems in Cairo?

There is no work here for me.

I interview about five students. The first two are young men from Sudan in their late 20s. The next three are Iraqis from Baghdad. First, a veterinarian who would like to open up his own practice. Alas, the Egyptian government will not allow him to do such a thing. Second, an articulate woman who practiced as a gynecologist. Unfortunately, she does not have much to do here in Cairo except to make sure her kids are studying in school and they have enough to eat. “The money is running out,” she says matter-of-factly. I mentioned to her that someone on the Cairo Scholars listserv for expatriates was in need of a gynecologist recently. She asked me to forward her the email.

Finally, a dignified and well-spoken man, perhaps in his late 40s, who fled Iraq and is now looking to resettle outside Egypt. His daughter recently found refuge in “Missery” in the middle of America. Missouri, this is. I told him to be careful of the pronunciation, as Missourians are very proud people. I decided that he and the doctor both are advanced. I hope to be able to have them in my class in January, insha’ Allah! (God Willing!).

Shanghai Sojourn, the sequel: A week in China (11/4 to 11/12)

2008-11-24T14:04:00.000-08:00

(Background: I was invited by the Shanghai International Strategic Studies Research Institute to give a talk on the US Elections in early November.)

As I arrive at the Cairo Airport for my Qatar Airways flight, I place my two small bags on the conveyor belt. My cell phone and watch cause the metal detector to beep. Mr. Security man comes to me and takes my right hand with both of his. With his right hand, he holds my fingers. With his left hand, he feels my pulse, making me slightly nervous.

“Where are you going?”
Shanghai, China.

“What airline?”
Qatar Airways.

“What time is your flight?”
About 5:30pm.

He looks me in the eyes the whole time. He smiles and lets me go. Apparently, I pass the Cairo Airport human security screening!

Doha airport / layover
In the waiting room are mostly Chinese passengers, who are listless. They play with their loud cell phones belting out lively, Chinese pop songs. One is wearing a NY pink cap and yellow T-shirt with red stripes. Each man wears the standard Chinese businessman outfit: dark, leather shoes, khakis, black shirt, short, cropped black hair, and an aloof stare coupled with impatience. The man facing me is bouncing one leg up and down; when I look up again, both legs are now bouncing. One man suddenly walks away briskly and announces, “smoke!”

Arrival in Shanghai
Johnson says, “I hear that you’ve been working in Iraq? In what capacity?”
I can’t talk too much about it.

“Is it working with local government and city administration?”

Yes, something like that. (In some circles, I’ve come to be known as the secret Agent Man.)

Shanghai is clean, bustling, and building…constantly building…

Bound for Beijing
Friday night, I depart Shanghai on the night train, soft sleeper. My cabin mates are three Chinese businessmen who are not very talkative; the only thing I get out of them is the next morning when they explain their trip is both business and pleasure.

Upon arrival, I look for a phone to call the hotel, but see none. I notice a gentleman on a cell phone with some bags at his feet. I ask him if I can give him one yuan for a phone call. He gives me his phone, but does not take my money. I try a second time, but he adamantly refuses. His behavior surprises me a bit. I am so used to being spit upon when I ask for directions in China. He is from Jiangsu province and visiting the capital. He explains that Cantonese people are especially notorious for being mean to anyone asking for directions.

It is about 7am when I arrive. The air is crisp and cold. The Chinese Authorities have installed x-ray machines at the entrances to all the metro stations. Any Al-Qaeda terrorists will be hard-pressed to plan a successful attack against Beijing infrastructure!

A visit with Mrs. Xie pei pei
Mrs. Xie is a dear family friend. Her husband, Mr. Gu passed about four years ago from stomach cancer. Their friendship with my family spans three generations, going back to my grandfather who first befriended her husband in the early 1980s. Mr. Gu was among one of the first groups of government scientists and students to be able to work and study abroad after the US and China first established diplomatic relations in 1979. Somehow, he wound up in Berkeley, California. As fate would have it, he was trying to buy a metro ticket in the local train system, but the ticket machine proved to be too confusing. My grandfather, who was always a helpful man, especially to fellow Chinese travelers, approached him and tried to help. Perhaps, his first question was, “Are you Chinese?”

Mr. Gu was invited to dinner at some point. I wouldn’t be surprised if grandfather invited him right after Mr. Gu bought the ticket. For the year that Mr. Gu was in Berkeley, their friendship developed. After Mr. Gu returned to Beijing, grandfather wrote to him and asked for his help with his daughter—my mother—and family, who would visit the capital city later to apply for a visa to immigrate to America. And sure enough, when my family traveled to Beijing in 1982, Mr. Gu and his wife proved to be invaluable in helping us navigate the metropolis.

When my mother last spoke to Mrs. Xie, she reported that her health was not good. I felt it was time to visit. My last visit was in the summer 1999, after I completed teaching English in China.

When I arrive at the apartment, Mrs. Xie greets me at the door. She has a thick shock of grey hair. Glasses. At her side is a little dog. It is becoming a common sight to see Chinese with dogs and cats as pets. Her older son, Gu Hong is also present. Although he is in his mid 30s, he has the face of an old man.

Mrs. Xie’s main demon these days is a chronic cough. It gets much worse when she is around fumes or smoke, so she avoids cooking with oil. She has difficulty sleeping, so she must rest in a sitting position.

When I take some photos with her son, she politely says, “No photos, please!” I honor her wishes.

She feeds me some “jiao zi” or Chinese dumplings. I gobble them up, after not eating dinner the previous night or any breakfast. I giver her the live crabs that I had bought in Shanghai. I was told that these crabs are only in season for a short time and are renowned in China for their taste. She steams them for a mid-afternoon snack.

That night at my youth hostel, I meet a gentleman from Ha’er bin, in the North East part of China, who has visited North Korea four times. He speaks very fast and with the accent of the Northeastern Chinese. All his visits to the Hermit Kingdom have been for business. He says the city is very quiet and uniform. People get up about 6am, attend political sessions to praise the Dear Leader Kim Jong Il, then go to work. The farmers till the fallow fields for a few hours, then break for lunch. They praise Kim Jong Il again and then return to the barren fields for a few more hours; then they return home.

When I tell him how impressed I am with Shanghai and Beijing, he explains that 10 years ago, China was like a man “who hadn’t washed his face yet.” However, today, China’s goal is to have its infrastructure and facilities at the same level, or surpass that of the West.

Loaf Bakery and Café
On Sunday morning I move over to Chao Yang district, which is in the North East of Beijing, to an empty studio, belonging to a friend of Gu Peng, Mrs. Xie’s son. Gu Peng is in his early 30s. We first met as children when my family visited Beijing in 1982 for our visas to leave the country. I took his toy and hid it somewhere. Unfortunately, it was never found. My mother always tells this story when his name comes up.

His wife studied three years in New Zealand, so has fluent English. She worked six years as an X-ray technician, but was bored silly. She soon dreamt of opening her own café. With plenty of foreign students living in the high rises, there would be plenty of customers. So, a few months ago, she finally opened the Loaf Bakery and Café, which serves an American menu of sandwiches, pastries and coffee.

The customers consist of students from Canada, New Zealand, Russia and Angola. The men from Angola seem to stay the longest and order the most amount of wine. They chat with the Russian gal in English and amongst themselves in Portugese. I try to strike up a conversation with them in Chinese. They tell me they are from Angola, but not much more. I return to my table, with my banana milkshake in hand.

The staff are young, mostly in their early 20s. A few are still teenagers. They come from the neighboring cities where educational opportunities are limited. None of them has attended college. Many of them have not even finished high school. Xiao Hao is one of them. He works as a waiter, and sometimes, the fill-in cook. He is trying to improve his English by meeting with an Australian customer weekly for language exchange.

798 art district
Gu Peng takes me to an art district called 798, which is a renovated area of former warehouses, but now serves as a venue for artists. As we walk by the store fronts, we see an old, faded slogan on the walls: Long live the great Communist Party. Graffiti cover some of the walls. Artistic expression exists! Rebellion is in the air. Not so fast. Gu Peng explains that the graffiti is officially sanctioned by the government and carefully painted to look natural. Welcome to post-Modern China.

Zhou Ying lunch at the World Trade Center
I met Zoe Zhou in Spring 2007 through my friend Sophal. She was a student at Syracuse University in New York state. She tried looking for a job in the DC and New York areas, but found more opportunities in China. The recruitment process took her more than 7 months, with 5 interviews, including several panel interrogations. Now, she works as an operations analyst with the International Finance Corporation (IFC), a subsidiary of the World Bank. Zoe has traveled to Jakarta, Indonesia and within China for her work. She may have the chance to visit Cairo, Egypt early 2009.

She is in her late 20s and has a warm demeanor. Large eyes accompany a big smile. We dine at a restaurant with a Taiwan flavor. Afterwards, two women stop by to administer a questionnaire on the service quality of the restaurant. They ask her question after question about the lighting, the food selection and the atmosphere. They thank her with a little plastic food storage box.

After lunch, I make my way to Tiananmen Square. Seven cranes surround the square. The building projects in China are ongoing and omnipresent. Toward the bottom of the square is the Mao Mausoleum, his final resting place. The shrine is open 8am-noon, Tuesdays to Sundays, so I must return tomorrow morning. A friendly proletariat behind the fence tells me that people start lining up after “sheng qi” or the flag raising ceremony about 6:40am. He notices my flag pin, with the US and Chinese flags. I tell him that I live in the US these days and last visited 9 years ago, but never had the chance to visit the great Helmsman. He tells me that even if I arrive by 7 or 7:15am I should still be able to secure a spot in line.

As I prepare to leave the great square, I see a throng of people surrounding the main flag post opposite the portrait of Chairman Mao. They must be waiting for the flag lowering ceremony at 5:04pm. While not as exciting as the flag raising ceremony, I decide to stay until the great anti-climactic event. No music, no horns. Only a column of green troops with their rifles march silently from beneath Chairman Mao’s portrait to the flag post, retrieve the red flag and return to their post.
Let’s see if I can survive Beijing’s morning rush hour traffic to pay homage to Chairman Mao tomorrow before my flight back to Shanghai…

Mao Mausoleum
I arrive about 7:45am. It is still fairly chilly—about mid 40s, perhaps. Maarten Troost in his book Lost on Planet China warns his readers that the line is long. Extremely long. He should’ve written great-wall-of-china long. The line snakes back and forth several times. There must be several thousand people in line already. Most of them are middle aged or elderly tour groups from interior China. Line Monitors are spread every 150 feet or so with bullhorns and a nametag. Little else to keep people in check except an official voice and a stern look. Surprisingly, the line moves at a steady pace. At some point, two men try to sneak into line. They are quickly discovered and ejected by the line monitor, who admonishes them with a disparaging sneer, “what are you doing?! How dare you! Go towards the back of the line!” Everyone else laughs at the pathetic fools. How dare they cut in line to see Chairman Mao! They have to line up like all the other comrades!

The recorded voice announces in both Chinese and English: no spitting or improper attire such as sandals or shorts.

As we enter through security, people begin to throw their cigarette lighters onto the ground. Right before the metal detectors, the line behind me ebbs forward, pushing into me. I politely tell the lady behind me not to push. She responds in a nasty way, saying that I shouldn’t complain as I’m too slow. I feel like giving her a karate chop across her Adams Apple, but I refrain, as I don’t want to wind up in a Chinese gulag anytime soon for battering a Chinese citizen.

Before we climb the stairs, there’s a fresh flower stand to the side where admirers can purchase a bouquet for only 3 Yuan (about 50 cents) to honor the Chairman. One wonders how many times these flowers have been recycled during the week. On the stairs is a woman hawking Chairman Mao Mausoleum brochures for only 1 Yuan (about 15 cents). I ask to see one before I buy. She is annoyed that I’m even asking her, saying, “it’s only one yuan!” I persist and she forks over one copy. After a perusal, I hand over one Chairman Mao bill for a Chairman Mao brochure.

The line rushes forth like a great river. I feel like a salmon returning to my roots, struggling to catch up with the others. We enter the great hall, where a row of flowers has formed already. At this point, I see the friendly proletariat from yesterday who patiently answered all of my questions. I quietly wave to him. He smiles back.

We approach Mao’s body, which is in a special glass case, with stargazer lilies beneath. A special light illuminates his face, which is very orange. It appears more plastic than anything else. Rumor has it that his nose caves in every year, so the whole body is sent to Cambodia, which apparently does an excellent job of embalming dead dictators.

Before we exit the hall, there’s a small gift shop where one can purchase various Mao paraphernalia. Glad to see the Chairman still contributing to the Chinese economy. The gift that keeps on giving.

Shanghai to Doha
In line at the airport, I meet Mr. FateH, an Egyptian businessman from Ismailia, by the Suez Canal. He’s done business in China for 4.5 years buying and selling restaurant equipment, especially plates and utensils. After a few minutes of waiting in line with several dozen passengers, he moves to the next line, which is for groups only. After a few minutes, I follow him. FateH is worried about his baggage weight limit, so I offer to take one of his smaller bags. He invites me to tea by the gate. In his heavily-accented Chinese, he belts out an order of “hong sa” or red tea. While he likes the Chinese people and has had mostly positive experiences here, he did convey a small reservation of sometimes being treated as the outsider. He wasn’t more specific.

On board the plane, my seatmate is a Chinese gentleman who is on his way to Khartoum, Sudan to work for one year; he appears to be in his 40s, which means that he could easily be in his early 50s. I ask him if he’s an oil engineer. He smiles and tells me that he’s in construction. He lived in Sudan a few years ago and even picked up some basic Arabic, but has forgotten most of it. He mentions the two Chinese oil engineers who were kidnapped and killed recently by Sudanese rebels. He then shakes his head.

I note that unlike America, China has developed great relationships with African nations in recent years. He explained that the Chinese government does not attach requirements to their foreign aid, like the Americans. While it would be wrong to say that the Chinese would eventually “control” the African continent, it would be more accurate to say that China would have a stronger influence with her African friends than the Americans. Certainly, time will tell.

I awake to the smell of dinner being served. Chicken or lamb? Mr. Construction takes a few bites of his meal before he falls asleep again. He must be more tired than I realized.

Doha Detour
With an 8-hour layover in Doha, Qatar, I want to leave the airport and at least visit the beach. Or try to get a tour of Al Jazeera. A young man in a flowing white robe sits at the Information desk. He is bespectacled and I greet him in Arabic: Salaam Aleykoom wa rahma Allah wa barakatu. “Peace be upon you and the mercy and blessings of Allah be upon you!” I ask him where I can store my luggage. He directs me to the side. It looks like I have to enter the airport and check my bags early. When I speak with the Qatar Airways counter clerks, they don’t have much to tell me about the sites of Doha. In fact, they seem to exhibit painful expressions when I ask them for suggestions on what to do in 5 hours. The lady just started about 2 weeks ago and has spent most of her time at the airport, so can offer me just a smile, nothing more. The Indian gentleman tells me that I should not venture too far from the airport, as it can be difficult to catch a cab back.

I return to the Info desk and ask my man for a map. “We have no maps here. Maybe you can go to the taxi and he can help you.” What kind of Info desk has no map? I notice the counter is clean. Very clean. It is utterly devoid of any maps, brochures, advertisements, post-it notes, staplers, paper, newspapers, books, rubber bands or pens. In fact, the only thing available is the young man, who is affable enough, but seemingly growing tired of my persistent questions. He tells me that I can go to the corniche, which is about 10 minutes away and not more than 20 or 25 Riyals (at a $US=3.65 Riyals, about 7 dollars)

As I sit down to check for a WiFi connection, two Filipina airport workers are chatting with each other. They tell me that they’ve worked here 2 and 4 years, respectively. They confirm what I just heard: there’s not much to do in Doha. Best to stay in the airport, where there’s Air Conditioning. Their ride arrives and they quickly scatter.

I hail a taxi. Rapig, the Bangladeshi taxi driver, has lived 2.5 years in Doha. He speaks some English and some Arabic. He must be in his late 20s. He says one Riyal is equivalent to eight Bengali Takas, which explains why he works here.
When I tell him that I’m from the United States, he smiles and says, “America—too muss money, too muss power!”

The roads are clean and there’s some construction of new buildings. The corniche is pristine. The water clear. The air fresh. Only a few people jog or walk by me.
From the Corniche to the souq or market, I hitch a ride with Ismael , an Iranian driver of a large van. He’s worked in Doha for a few years. He asks me where I’m from.

“Egypt. I’m Egyptian!”
No. Really. Are you from Philipines?

“I’m from America, but originally from China.”

He drops me off at the market and tells me that if I want to go to the airport in a few hours, I can call him. He leaves his number and I give him 10 Riyals for the ride.

As it is still early, the markets are empty. After nearly an hour of walking around, I decide it’s best to return to the airport.

I walk a few blocks, but see no available taxi. I cross the street, thinking that I can catch more cabs that way. No luck. I keep walking. And walking. Finally, I enter a travel agency and ask to use the phone to call Ismail, the Iranian driver. The man tells me to cross the street to the market area where I can catch plenty of cabs. However, when I arrive, there are plenty of cars, but no cabs. I walk a few more blocks and enter another store to call Ismail. He tells me he’ll come by in 30 minutes. As I wait outside the store on the curb, a random car pulls up and tells me to get in. I tell him that I have to make a phone call to Ismail and tell him not to come, if I’m going to the airport in this car. The driver tells me he’ll pull around. After I call Ismail for the second time, I don’t see the new driver.

So, I return to the curb. Two minutes later, Hassan, an Indian, picks me up. He has lived 20 years in Doha. Although a friendly man, he doesn’t say much as he drives me to the Doha Airport. We pass manual laborers resting on the sidewalks. They are mostly from Iran, Hassan tells me. I give him 20 Riyals as I get out of the car and check in for my flight back to Cairo. I am pretty sure this will be my last visit to Doha for a long time.

Adventure at the Cairo Airport bus station
Two young Egyptian men begin speaking to me—in very good Mandarin Chinese. Shihata accompanied his friend Ahmed, who was seeing his Chinese girlfriend return to China. He tells me he wants to marry her. The young men study Chinese at Cairo University.
When the bus arrives, they tell me it’s the 2LE bus, so they will wait for the 0.75 LE bus. I urge them to get on as I offer to pay their fares.

We take the bus and for the next hour or so chat about life. I ask Ahmed why he studies Chinese. He tells me because he likes Chinese girls. He asks me why I study Arabic. I reply, tongue-in-cheek, that I like Egyptian girls. We both laugh. Shihata gives me a wallet-size picture of himself. I feel the need to reciprocate and dig into my bag for a wallet-size picture of myself. I had brought a few with me for visa purposes. Later, when I ask my students about the picture exchange custom, they tell me that it’s an old practice and not very popular anymore. In addition, only girls still observe this custom. In either case, I think I have two new Egyptian friends who speak very good Chinese.

Installing a new sign--Egyptian Style

2008-11-19T12:22:00.000-08:00

The other night, Rabiyah, my quasi-doorman, caught my hand in a strong handshake and asked if some workers could come into the apartment to install a new sign above the entrance to our apartment building. They could’ve made an appointment, right? Well, remember—this is Egypt, where you play it by ear most of the time. Although I was expecting some friends over for a language exchange, I relented. And although they didn’t stay long, they were not the quietest workers. They finished in less than an hour and were on their merry way. Alhamdulilah!

Can you spare some juice, please?

2008-11-03T03:58:00.000-08:00

Free juice is a part of Islam, I discovered the other day at the juice stand. As I was drinking my pomegranate juice, I noticed two men come by the store to take a sip from a bottle of water on the counter, one after another. While I’ve seen water canisters on the streets with cups for thirsty passersby, I’ve never seen bottles of water set out for this purpose.

I asked Magdy, the owner why he provides the free water bottle. Why doesn’t he sell water and make more money? He explained, “well…it’s Islam. Our religion…”

“You mean, hasanat?” I interjected.

“Bravo alayk!” he replied. Bravo to you. He seemed to say that I understood. It’s a lot like Buddhist karma. The more good deeds you do for people, the more brownie points you earn for the afterlife.

Even if poor people ask him for free juice, he will not turn them away. In fact, Magdy revealed that every week about five or six people come to the store to ask for free juice. This number is much higher during the holy month of Ramadan. Magdy and Abdou, his colleague both explained how “sweet” Islam is and how I should study it. And God Willing, one day, perhaps I will become Muslim.

After we chat for a few more minutes, I tell them that I shall return on a regular basis now that I know where they are. “The next time you return, the juice will be free!” Magdy reassures me.

I tell him that I will buy his juice. “No, you are now a friend. So, free juice for you!”

Sweet!

Good bye 28B Abd Al-Raheem Basha Sabry St., apartment #1!

2008-10-30T16:38:00.000-07:00

So six weeks after I moved into this spaaacious apartment next to the Syrian Embassy, I am moving out, along with my two roommates David, the Buddhist and Carlo, the Italian. The main reason, unfortunately, is bed bugs have taken over the entire apartment. My main reason is that I have found a smaller apartment in downtown with cheaper rent.

Madame Nadia, the Kitchen Kleptomaniac
Tonight, David went to the kitchen with Madame Nadia, who scavenged the remains of his food from the fridge, which was a sensible act of diplomacy considering she still has his LE 3,500 deposit. She also took some cutlery and plates, and one of the saucepans.

David told me that she also wanted to go in and take the fan from my room, but he managed to hold her back, and explained that I would want the fan for myself. Clearly a clever lie, but now that he’s explained my false position, I actually want it. Dave wrote, “So you are welcome to it if you like, but be prepared for a fist fight with a small, rather creased old lady with only three remaining teeth. My money is on you.”

I will not miss Madame Nadia’s constant intrusion into our apartment. It has become so incessant that I asked my roommate last night if he knew the story of Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment, where a young renter murders his landlady. However, as I recall, that killing was for money, not for being a busybody.

I will miss a few things about living here: mainly, my current roommates; the amount of space and the three balconies with a lovely view of the neighboring ficas trees; the proximity to the metro and to my language center. And the daily calls to prayer (all 5) from the “mosque of light” (Masjid Al-Nour) below our apartment. Ironically, while many Westerners would go up the wall with such regular screams of piety, they were reminders to me of the time passing by.

Allahu Akbar!
God is the greatest!

La ilaha ila Allah wa Mohamedu rassolu Allah!
There is no God, but Allah and Mohamed is his messenger!

Hiya Salaah! Hiya Felaah!
Come to Prayer! Come to Success!

An Egyptian con artist

2008-10-28T01:54:00.000-07:00

As I approached home the other night, an Egyptian man accosted me. “Salaam Aleikoom! Welcome to Egypt. Where are you from?”

Hawaii.

“Honolulu?”

Yes!

“Wonderful. And you speak Arabic. Alhamdulilah!”

He is Ahmed, a 37 year old from Areesh, a border town between Gaza and Egypt. His hair is short, curly and black. He is wearing a short-sleeved shirt, with a checkered pattern that flows over blue jeans and a pair of leather shoes, apricot color. He has a warm smile and a clean look and an unusually upbeat demeanor. He says that he’s been in Cairo for only two days, but that he’s spent that time in a police station. He was in Agouza, the neighboring area when the police arrested him for no reason, beat him and took his money. I notice that we are in the middle of the street, in between the intersections where the police are stationed, out of earshot.

For a man who’s been beaten and suffered from police abuse, there are no visible injuries on his face or neck or hands. He flips his upper lip with both hands and asks me to take a look at his injuries. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to see.
“My bobba died. He’s now in jenna (heaven),” as he both looks up and points above. “Mumma -- she’s old and not in good health. I reeeally need to go home to Areesh,” he explains.

How? By train? Bus?

“There is no train. Only bus.”

The ticket is…he uses his right index finger to trace “55” on the car hood next to us. “You know the trip from Cairo to Alexandria is 30 LE.”

I think back to my trip to Alexandria in December 2007. My ticket was 20LE.

“As you know, prices have increased since the spring!” he justifies his statement.
Ahmed shows me his Egyptian passport, which is oversized and green. Inside is his photo and birthdate. He asks me how much money I can contribute to his return ticket.

I tell him that I am a student and poor, like him. I want to help him, but I have no money to spare.

I ask him, “are you hungry?”

He replies, “yes.”

“Then, come with me!” I command him. “I’ll buy you a sandwich.” We begin walking down the street towards the Cinema on main street.

“Where are we going?” he asks me.

“There’s a restaurant that serves schwarma.”

“And how much is a sandwich there? Five, six pounds?” he inquires.

“Yes. It depends on the size.”

“Mister--Instead of buying me the sandwich, can you just give me the money for my ticket?” he pleads with me. “I really, really need to return home to Areesh to see mumma!”

I stop in the middle of the street and turn to him. “Ya ahm! (Hey Uncle!) Are you hungry?!”

“No.”

“Ma Esalama! Good bye!” I turn away from him and head back home. About 10 feet later, I turn back again and say “Rabina Ma’ak! May God be with you. Or Good Luck!” Another 20 feet later, I turn back again and he’s still standing there in the darkness. Finally, another 50 feet or so later, I turn back. He’s gone.

A day at the golf course

2008-10-20T17:17:00.000-07:00

Tom Olson, the editor in chief of the magazine Golf in Egypt drives me to the golf course on a beautiful Friday morning. Originally a Minnesota native, Tom has lived the expat life in Cairo for 14 years. He is two years shy of 70 and has a tuft of white hair. A gregarious gentleman, he shares some of his numerous tales with me, including surviving a plane crash over Syria; witnessing a man drive over 100 mph to his death about 5 feet away on the highway; living through a civil war in Beirut, Lebanon. We arrive about 30 minutes later east of downtown Cairo.

Katameya is an oasis in the desert. A pleasant patch of green palm trees and grass surrounded by brown, it is home to 1500 avid golf aficionados. A moderate wind blows from the North. Bunches of yellow dates hang from date-palm trees. The scene is idyllic and a perfect backdrop for the 2008 BMW golf tournament, which played host to amateur golfers from around the world. It is here that I catch up with Sophie and Farid Issa, a golfing couple who have garnered attention for their recent successes in the Vodafone Tournament. I am here to interview them for a profile in the upcoming issue of Golf in Egypt.

The Issas sit comfortably on a couch in the Katameya Resort lounge for our interview. Sunlight floods the common area. Every so often, a friend or colleague stops by to greet the couple. Farid is very orange today: orange shorts, a T-shirt with orange and white stripes and tanned legs. He speaks with a soft, but clear voice, the result of a British education and a few years in the states. His salt and pepper hair is trimmed neatly. His wife Sophie sports a black T-shirt with an emblem of the Egyptian flag over her heart, perhaps a testament to the many decades she has spent living in the country. She speaks with a French lilt and punctuates her sentences with a gentle laugh. Sunglasses sit on top of her head. She wears shoulder-length blonde hair, with thin eyebrows above sleepy eyes and radiates a sunny glow. The arms of a white sweater criss-cross her shoulders.

Golf beginnings
Born in Buenos Aires, Argentina, Sophie left the land of gauchos, beef and red wine when she was only a few months old. Her father was a manager of the car company Renault, located in the Western suburbs of Paris. A traveler all her life, she eventually settled in Egypt. She started playing golf when her parents began taking up the game in Egypt. While her brothers and sisters also took lessons, she was the only one who really persisted with the sport. Later, when the Katameya Heights Golf and Tennis Resort opened, Sophie began to pursue the sport seriously. “Katameya made me play golf and that’s when I really started playing.”

Than, a Burmese gentleman, has a very dark complexion and big smile. He picked up golf in West Africa, when he was working in Ghana and Cameroon. He now consults for the Cairo Metro train system. He became friends with the Burmese Ambassador to Egypt a few years ago and says the diplomat always cheats. Mr. Ambassador sent his wife home and asked for the golf clubs to be sent to Egypt, instead.

At the end of our visit, Tom drives me back to Cairo. In downtown, he makes the wrong turn and so asks me if I want to join him at the Marriott for a drink. We spend the next 3 hours at the outdoor café chatting.

Perhaps, I will become a sports writer specializing in golf. And why not? Stranger things have happened.

Searching for a new roommate

2008-10-04T07:11:00.000-07:00

Our American roommate is returning to the states in a few days, so we're interviewing for a new roommate. So far, a few people have stopped by:

Nick: an American who just arrived and is working in Cairo for a year. He called a few days ago to tell us he’s found something already.

Norveen: an Iranian lady who’s lived in Cairo for many years, but David already disqualified her because she’s the modern incarnation of Helen of Troy. She would be too great a distraction.

Carlo: an Italian who works in cement. A bit suspicious? Although, perhaps, he might have access to some Italian women.

It's down to Carlo and a Swedish man who's coming by in 2 days. Perhaps the Swede might have access to some Swedish women? David tells me that most Swedish women are lesbians. A Belgian came by today. He is a young fellow of perhaps 22, and fresh out of school. With six languages under his belt, he's now shooting for #7 with Arabic. He had a strange handshake; he pumped David's hand like it was a water pump. And he seemed very serious. I asked him if he brought any beer or chocolates. He had none. David and I both decided that he's out of contention.

Dinner with a Wahabi

2008-10-01T06:04:00.000-07:00

Yehia Khalif teaches English and Arabic at the Berlitz language school. At 25, Yehia has a thin frame and speaks softly, but confidently. Born in Saudi Arabia, he came to Cairo 7 years ago to study at Al-Azhar University, Egypt’s premier religious institution that dates back to more than 1,000 years. His parents and family still reside in the Saudi Kingdom. He is now expecting his new baby girl next month.

One of the first things Yehia tells me is “do not judge Islam based on Egypt or Egyptian Muslims.” It seems he does not think too much of the Egyptian form of Islam. His ideal Islam is that practiced in the Saudi Kingdom. While I never asked him, I believe it is fair to call my new friend a follower of Wahabism, the strict form of Islam that the House of Saud embraces. It is a bit hard for me to believe this, as he has no big beard and does not speak in a strident voice.

Yehia picks me up at the Al-Tahrir Cinema by my apartment. I buy some Ramadan pastries from the store as a housewarming gift. The clerk invariably asks me where I am from. I say Hawaii. In America.

Hawaii is an island, yes? Close to Alaska?

No, very far away. Half Kilo of these cookies and half kilo of those, please.

We drive around the corner to pickup Hassan, Yehia’s friend. As we wait, Yehia steps out of the car to buy some water and juice. When he returns, I fight my instinct to open the juice. It is about 5:45pm, about 5 minutes before Magreb prayer (Sunset), when the fast is broken. I started the day by eating the Suhoor, or the morning meal before Fajr (4:20am) and did not eat or drink anything. Only a few more minutes to go…Yehia thanks me for waiting with him.

The car is old. Very old. It is a LADA. Russian. It used to belong to his father, but he has inherited it. The radio still works fine, as he showed me. The rear view mirror is unusually long, about the width of a man’s forearm.

Once Hassan arrives, we drive off to his home. I tell Yehia that I want to pray with him this evening. He is delighted. His small apartment is by the Shooting Club, where the Egyptian Military likes to have its target practice. It is common for him to hear bullets in the evenings.

The living room is well-furnished, with a beautiful chandelier that boasts six bright fluorescent bulbs. New carpets line the floor and the couch and armchairs seem to come from a Victorian Era with gold edges and cushions with green tassels. We wash the Wudoo and prostrate ourselves before Allah.

Yehia leads the prayer: Allahu Akbar! (God is the greatest!) Head touches carpet.
Allahu Akbar! Head touches carpet.

Stand. Right hand over left hand over heart. Bend forward, hands on knees. Straighten again and head touches carpet. Allahu Akbar!

After prayer, we begin dinner: “a simple meal” as our host describes it. It is anything but simple. It is food prepared only for guests. A beautiful Saudi Arabian dish with raisins and grilled onions resting on a bed of Basmati rice, half of which is marinated in Safron. Baked Chicken thighs. MaHshee or rice stuffed into squash and eggplant. A risotto soup in chicken broth. Salad.

Yehia’s wife is in the background. She is not introduced to us and does not dine with us. I know better than to ask. As this is my third meal at a Muslim house, I have grown accustomed to not having the woman of the house join the men for the meal. Perhaps, once Yehia and I become good friends later on, it would be more appropriate for her to join us, but not on the first night, as a dinner guest.

I tell Yehia about my Arabic studies and my interest in Islam.

Why Islam?

Well, the religion is connected to the culture and the people. I don’t know much about Islam, so I am here to learn.

Yehia gives me a hardback Qur’an with both English and Arabic. It is sturdy and similar to the type I’ve seen used in mosques. “Here, this is for you to keep.” I am reluctant to accept such a wonderful gift, but he insists.

About an hour into our meal, we hear the Ithaan or call to prayer for Aisha’ the fifth prayer. Hassan and Yehia are nearly finished, but I am only halfway through with my plate. Yehia tells me that I can take my time. “The Prophet Mohammed (Peace be Upon Him) said that if you are still eating while you hear the call to prayer, then finish your meal before you pray.” Once I finish, I wash again before we pray.

We retire to the couch, where Yehia brings out a huge plate of fruit. Grapes. Apples. Guava. Dates. Hassan stays silent while Yehia and I exchange our thoughts. His pace is deliberate and steady. Pregnant pauses punctuate the conversation every few minutes.

Before I depart for the evening, I tell him that I hope to be able to finish reading the Qur’an before I leave Egypt. Yehia responds that he hopes that we can meet many more times to discuss the Qur’an. I am told by friends that if a Muslim converts a non-believer like me to Islam, then he and 7 generations of his family will have secured a spot in Aljenna or heaven. A wonderful reward, indeed.

Bed Bugs in Apt. # 28B

2008-09-25T18:55:00.000-07:00

I woke up on Sunday with a few spots on my arms. They looked like bug bites. By Monday, I had a few more. It wasn’t until Tuesday that I started to fear that they were more than bug bites. My housemate in DC came down with chickenpox before I left 10 days ago. So, I feared that I had contracted the disease. By Tuesday afternoon, spots had appeared on my arms and legs, neck, shoulders and around my bellybutton. A visit to the pharmacist helped a little. His over-the-counter diagnosis: I don't have the pox.

“They're just eczema or an allergic reaction to something you ate,” Robert declared confidently. A portly man in his 40s, Robert is a Coptic Christian and was still open at the Magreb or sunset prayer. He sold me a topical anti-itch cream and some Claritin pills to treat the spots.

I didn’t completely trust his cursory diagnosis.

My roommate says it's probably an allergic reaction to bed bugs. I did see one mite (red one) near my bed, which I promptly crushed between the pages of 8 and 9 of Holy War, Inc. by Peter Bergen.

This morning, Nadia, the landlady’s sister wanted to clean the balcony. Walking with a slight stoop, she has thin, grey hair that rests above round eyes. A large, triangular-shaped tooth protrudes from her upper jaw. A gentle septuagenarian, she has an assertive demeanor and pushes her way past you if your grip on the front door is weak.

I showed her my bug bites and the dirty bed. After we removed the bed cover, there was a big stain. It looked like someone had used the bed as a bathroom long ago. She said we can spray it. So, she brought down a roach spray and an insect repellant.

We moved the bed to the balcony, sprayed it and then she kept insisting on washing the sheets without spraying them.

I gently inquired if I can get a new mattress from the landlady. She responded that indeed, there is a new mattress in the apartment above. Although the two American girls were not at home, she would just let herself inside and have the doorman pick up the mattress. Within a few minutes Mustafa, our doorman showed up with the mattress. Cassie spent a few minutes asking him to return the mattress, especially since no one had sought the girls’ permission to enter their apartment. No matter. This is Egypt, where the landlady can enter your premises whenever she feels like it.
Mustafa deposits the futon mattress onto my living room floor. It looks like a large anaconda that just fed on a large lunch.

Nadia tells me three times that I must wash the sheets. “Do you want me to wash them?”
No thank you. I’ll take care of them.

“Do you want me to return tonight to wash them for you?”

No thank you. I’ll take care of that.

Do not forget! They need to be washed. She repeats herself a few times to Dave, my roommate. And then to Cassie a few more times before she takes off.

Cassie leaves for lunch and an errand. In that brief time, Nadia returns twice more to ask if we want the sheets washed.

A few hours later as I prepare for my evening class, Nadia is at the door again. She asks Dave if I want to go up and talk with Mounira, the landlady. Earlier, I had requested a meeting with her, but Nadia said I should wait until after 6pm when Mounira breaks the fast. Now, since the problem seemed to be taken care of, for the most part, it seemed moot now. I tell her that perhaps, “bokra, insha’ Allah,” which is Arabic for “tomorrow, God Willing,” which can really mean “later,” -- which is really what I meant. She probably heard “tomorrow, God Willing.” So, tomorrow I expect Nadia to visit us a few more times. God bless her soul!

Ramadan Kareem: Happy Ramadan!

2008-09-20T04:24:00.000-07:00

Zoo Visit with Ahmed and Tatiana
With a seven hour layover in Frankfurt, I am picked up at the airport by Ahmed, the brother of Hazem, my friend and language exchange partner. At 24, Ahmed recently immigrated to Germany to be with his German wife and newborn daughter. He says there are more opportunities here than in Egypt. They drive me to the zoo for an afternoon visit. Tatiana, Ahmed’s wife, a friendly woman, spent six years studying Islam before she converted. They give me a bag of new clothes for Hazem.

Arrival in Egypt
As our Czech Airlines flight lands in Cairo, a woman’s voice welcomes us to Kay-row, where it is about 2:15 AM. As we touch ground, the passengers clap spontaneously. My friend Yehia greets me at the arrivals hall. I met with Yehia for weekly language exchange in the Spring. At 24, he is a fresh graduate of Cairo University intent on becoming a lawyer and translator. He is still taking classes at the American University in Cairo (AUC) to hone his translation skills. Despite his training and impressive English skills, he cannot find a job. It is said that his situation is typical of Egyptian University graduates. His father owns a few grocery and furniture stores.

Yehia pushes my luggage into the parking lot, where we find a taxi driver half asleep. I ask him if he goes to Dokki. He nods. Yehia asks me if I should negotiate the fare with him before we take off. I explain that to do so would invite a long, drawn-out argument over the price. Better to just get in and pay him the standard fare of 50LE ($9). After all, that’s what the locals do. We race through the empty highways and streets for the next 30 minutes.

We pass the Syrian Embassy and the Wafd Party Headquarters until we see David, my British roommate, at the door. A freelance journalist, David is a Buddhist who lived in Tibet for a few months. At 37, he has a smooth baby face and the look of a writer. Our other roommate is Cassandra, an American Ph.D student who is studying folklore in Luxor. She’s lived in Egypt off and on for five years and speaks Arabic like a native.

After we sit down for a few minutes, I tell Yehia that I have a book for him. Then I realize that my two plastic bags of books are not with me. Did we leave them in the taxi? Or worse yet, are they still in the luggage cart in the parking lot? Yehia and I decide to try our luck by returning to the airport.

445AM: We wait at the bus station. It’s quiet and still dark. The clerks are still asleep in their plastic chairs. Only a few people wait with us. A street cleaner passes by. Yehia gives him a few pounds and explains that Sa-da-kah, or giving to charity, is always a good thing to do, especially so in Ramadan. The airport bus arrives. At the airport, we first ask one maintenance worker next to a truck with old cans and cardboard boxes if he’s seen anything.

Nothing. Sorry. Try the trash bin over there! Good luck.

We talk to a few other workers who round up carts. Nothing. They direct us to the inside of the airport. The police stop us and recommend that we stay in the parking lot and ask around. It is unlikely that the lost bags would be moved inside, they say.

So, we return to the parking lot and eventually the police station on the side. Inside, the first police officer is asleep. In the second office, the desk is empty and a man is asleep inside the jail cell, with the door open. Is he police or a prisoner?

Yehia knocks gently on the door to wake him. Nothing.
We leave the police station and walk around the parking lot again and ask other workers. Each of them directs us to the trash bin or “over there.” We peer into trash bins, but see nothing.

I’m about to give up, but Yehia insists on trying one last time. We return to the arrivals hall, where the police stop us again. Yehia explains that we’ve talked to everyone, but have been unsuccessful. Can we please try the information desk or the lost and found inside? Mr. Police officer suggests that we call over to the police station, talk to a Mahmoud, say “salaam alaykoum” or peace upon you. And “SabaH Alkheir” or Good morning and try to give some baksheesh (tip) if necessary. Someone, somewhere must have seen these two bags.

We proceed to the information desk, where a man in a red jacket and a walkie-talkie tries to help us. He asks us a few questions, but suggests we return to the parking lot and continue to talk to the workers. We thank him and decide that the bags are long gone.

* * *

On the street by my apartment sits a one-legged beggar. He has a salt and pepper beard and a scruffy face. He perches on a rolling block of wood with wheels. Dressed in a white galabeeyah, the flowing robe of Egyptian men, he pleads with passers-by for spare change. This being Ramadan, the holiest month of the Muslim calendar, many strangers stop to press into his palm a guinay ($0.20) or two.
“Shookran!” Thank You!

With a bag of bananas dangling from my fingers, I stop by and tear off two for the beggar. He refuses me, “Asif. Ba’ad el magreb.” Sorry, after magreb prayer.
Does he want money instead of food? I quickly realize that he cannot eat my bananas; as an observant Muslim, he is fasting during the day.

His name is Sabry. He lost his leg as a child to a debilitating disease. Polio? He receives a 100 LE pension ($18) each month, but this is not enough. His parents are both dead and he has no other family members who can support him. Originally from Upper Egypt, he now lives in the Dokki neighborhood. Despite his difficult circumstances, Sabry speaks with a smile and radiates optimism.

“The government doesn’t help the people. They are corrupt, but Allah will deal with them.”

I tell him that I am a student and today is my first day. He compliments me and thanks me for stopping by to talk to him. I leave one pound with him before I return home. We shake hands and I tell him that perhaps, God Willing, I will see him later.

Iftar with Yehia and David
For Iftar, the meal that breaks the daily fast, Yehia returns with a humongous package of pasta beschamel, flat bread and baked potatoes. His mother usually bakes the entrée. My roommate David joins us in the Iftar meal.

I step out momentarily to look for some juice. Many shops are closed, but I spot one on the side. The vendor and his two friends are eating their Iftar meal on the floor. He invites me to partake. I thank him, “Allah yihaleek!” May God keep you!

“Andi Iftar fee beytee.” I have Iftar at home.

He asks if I am Muslim. “Insha’ Allah.” God Willing.

When I return to the apartment, I have trouble unlocking the front door. Dave had warned me of the tricky key. So, we spend about five minutes trying to open the door. Meanwhile, Nadia, the landlady’s sister, quickly swoops down from her perch upstairs to assist us. She is perhaps in her 50s and considered a “busybody.” She usually lets herself into the apartment to look around. She once entered the bedroom of the previous tenant, whose Sudanese girlfriend was staying overnight with him. Her excuse was that she needed to get something from the room. After we open the door, Nadia leaves.

David and Yehia discuss the relationship between men and women. Yehia asserts that women are always more emotional than men; whereas, men tend to rely more on reason and logic than emotions. David strongly disagrees and points to countless times when he has seen taxi drivers explode and yell at each other or passengers. Yehia then asserts that women are weaker than men, physically and mentally. Again, David disagrees strongly and offers the example of a woman CEO who he interviewed this week. David politely tells Yehia that he has very outdated and traditional beliefs toward men and women.

Toenail trauma
After dinner, I visit the bathroom, but stub my left toe on the threshold. It stings a bit, but when I look down I see that the injury is more serious than I realized. The nail has flipped up like the front hood of a car after an accident. Blood drips from the side. I try to press the nail back down, but to no avail. After Yehia leaves, David tends to my wound. As he is an ex-Medic with the Royal Military, he cleans up the wound, clips the nail and then dresses it. He says I will live.
So, day one passes with some excitement. I look forward to a quiet week before classes resume.

Alhamdulillah: praise be to God!

2008-06-17T10:50:00.000-07:00

In my eight months in Egypt, I have learned much about the people, religion and culture of this ancient country. Perhaps, the most common and the most famous Arabic phrase I have learned and use is Alhamdulillah, which means “praise be to God.” In English, we really do not have its equivalent in our secular vernacular. Instead, we must borrow from our more devout compatriots for the phrase. Alhamdulillah consists of two words or three parts: Alhamdu is the praise; lillah is to God. If you simply walk down any street of Cairo on any given day, you’ll hear this phrase. Greet the doorman with SabaH Alkheir or Good Morning. Most likely, he’ll respond with SabaH Alnour, meaning a morning of light to you. Ask him how he is doing and he will quickly respond with Alhamdulillah. Ask him what is new and he’ll say Alhamdulillah.

Get into the taxi and comment on the beautiful weather today; the driver will say Alhamdulillah. Tell him you are happy in your short stay in Cairo and he’ll say Alhamdulillah. In other words, this simple phrase is a distillation of people’s understanding that everything comes from God.

My Arabic tutor, a devout man who prostrates himself five times daily to worship Allah, told me recently that when life is good and you have plenty, you must say Alhamdulillah; when life makes a turn for the worst and you are in pain, you must say Alhamdulillah; when the earthquake comes and you lose your house or family, you must say Alhamdulillah. When you die, you must say Alhamdulillah because at that point you go to Aljenna or heaven.

The spirit of Alhamdulillah is the same as the gratefulness that I learned in my study of Judaism in the last three years with the Rabbis in Washington, DC’s synagogue. When I broke bread and drank kadim wine (or whiskey) with my fellow Sabbath worshippers, I saw the enthusiasm and joie de vivre on people’s faces as they praised Hashem. We prayed before the Shabbat dinner, during dinner, and after dinner; before dessert, during dessert, and after dessert. The whole day was a celebration of the Almighty.

In our current so-called food crisis around the world, I see regular TV broadcasts that show starving families in India and Africa; of large families that must cope with limited or no food; of desperate people in the aftermath of the cyclone in Burma; and of the earthquake survivors in Sichuan Province, China. Of course, these images are not new to me. I saw plenty of poverty and privation in China during my year abroad teaching English after college. At these times, I find myself saying Alhamdulillah for living in Egypt; Alhamdulillah that I am not starving; Alhamdulillah for my freedom and ability to travel; Alhamdulillah that I am returning to the United States shortly. Has my experience in Egypt these months made me more religious? I don’t know. I can say that I have a better appreciation of Islam; of giving thanks to the Almighty on a regular basis, even though I still have doubts that he is up there.

The proverb says, “I complained about my shoes until I saw the man with no feet.” This saying means that you should be grateful for what you have; it can always be worse. Well, in my time in Egypt, I have seen a man with no legs move himself on his palms from train car to train car, begging; I have seen mothers push their disabled or retarded son around in a wheelchair on the train; in the market; in the streets; of small children working as ticket collectors in the microbuses; of families living in the cemetery because they are too poor to afford an apartment in the city. But for the grace of God go I. Alhamdulillah!

An extraordinary day

2008-05-28T10:47:00.000-07:00

Cairo-May 16, 2008

As I boarded the metro train yesterday, my stomach began to grumble. I felt very sick and decided to get off at the next stop, Dar El Salaam, which means House of Peace. I found a bench and lay down. I thought I would rest for 5-10 minutes before getting back on the train. No more than two minutes passed when a group of 10 people surrounded me and a man in a shirt and tie asked me in English, “are you ok? Do you need a doctor?”
I replied in Arabic, “I’m ok. I have a pain in my stomach and I am resting for 5 minutes. It’s no problem. Thank you very much.”

With that reassurance, they went away. After another minute, I got up, thinking that I better stay in a sitting position to avoid drawing attention. A few more minutes passed and I felt much better. Just as I saw Egyptians helping the blind man in the metro a few months earlier, I now was the recipient of their compassion.

* * *
-Regib, the doorman, asks me about my family in China and if they were affected by the earthquake. I tell him no, Alhamdulillah.
* * *

In the afternoon, I take the taxi to the Ahly Club to tutor my student Barsoum. The taxi driver tells me that his father is in the hospital with a broken leg. He hands me a piece of paper with a black and white picture of his father and Arabic writing. It looks like a document that perhaps patients receive when they check into hospitals in Egypt. He then shows me what looks like a cardboard cast. “My father has no money.” He says that it’s been hard to pay the bills. Initially, I feel very sympathetic. If this were my first month here, I would gladly give the driver a few extra pounds; however, six months in Cairo have hardened my heart to such stories, even if they are true.

I instinctively think that the driver conjured such a tale. I then ask him if he has heard of the great earthquake in China a few days ago. “More than 14,000 are dead and another 20,000 are missing. I have family who suffered from the quake. Some of them are still under the buildings!” (This is a lie, but I wanted him to know that he isn’t the only one suffering.) He is silent for a few moments, but then returns to his father’s story.

When we arrive at the Ahly Club, I get out of the cab and hand him a few pounds for the short trip. He returns it to me, and in an incredulous tone, asks, “what’s this?!”
I throw it onto the passenger seat and walk off.

I tell the story to my Egyptian roommate, who confirmed my suspicions: this is a typical story taxi drivers use to try to get foreigners to pay a higher fare. He said my response was appropriate.

* * *
After I get off the microbus and climb the stairs to the 26 July Bridge, I pass a 13 year old boy in a yellow T-shirt, carrying a big square piece of glass. He has set it down for a moment to rest. He greets me and we begin talking. His name is Moustafa and he is on his way to work in Zamalek. He asks me if I know Kung Fu. I answer yes and explain that I began learning it since I was small. I ask him, “Do you know Kung Fu?” He shakes his head, saying he never learned. When we reach the other side of the Nile, I bid him farewell as he slowly makes his way down the bridge clutching the big piece of glass. It’s tough to be a kid in this country.

Forget Iowa. How about that Egypt Vote?

2008-05-19T07:19:00.000-07:00

Though overlooked by almost all of the major presidential candidates, American expatriates are mobilizing to have their voices heard in November
By Andy Lei

It is a beautiful spring afternoon and the crowds, many wearing shorts and T-shirts, are out enjoying the sun. A young man wearing an Obama 2008 baseball cap stands near a young lady holding a stack of leaflets. A cameraman is getting ready to film them both extolling the virtues of their candidate. It would seem like a typical campaign rally in a United States presidential year, except for a few small details: The man’s T-shirt sports the slogan “Egypt is Barack Obama country,” while the Sphinx watches impassively in the background.

This seemingly out-of-place outing was organized by members of the local chapter of Democrats Abroad (DA), who were making a 30-second video on the Giza Plateau that they hope will achieve YouTube fame and attention for their candidate.

Traveling or even living abroad doesn’t mean people leave their political passions at the border. According to the US Election Assistance Commission, 330,000 overseas ballots were cast in the 2006 congressional elections.

Alison Dilworth, chief of American Citizen Services (ACS) at the US Embassy in Egypt, says that about 32,800 Americans are living or working in Egypt. However, the embassy does not categorize American nationals based on ethnic background, so it is unknown exactly how many of these are Egyptian-Americans. Of this number, about 40 percent, or 13,120, regularly register to vote from election to election.

Given how close the last two US presidential elections have been and how close the Democratic primary race has shaped up to be, some expatriate partisans are extra-motivated to mobilize the overseas vote.

go here for the rest of the story: www.egypttoday.com

A visit to the chipsy factory

2008-05-08T02:31:00.000-07:00

When Norman and Michael visited the Saqqara Step Pyramids a few months ago, they asked for directions to the microbus. Abu Khalid, the man who helped them, invited them to a wedding party. He introduced himself as the chief of the chipsy (Potato Chips) factory in 6th of October City, a suburb of Cairo. He invited them to the factory for a tour anytime. They operate 7 days a week and never take a break. They exchanged phone numbers and Norman returned to his Alexandria classes. So, last week, Norman and Michael decided to head out to the factory to look for Abu Khalid. The microbus ride took about 30 minutes to the suburb. The roads were surprisingly new and clean. Many new developments are cropping up in and around the city.

After we arrive, we hitch a ride with a man in a pickup truck. We sit in the back of the pickup truck like migrant workers. A few minutes later, we are at the factory gates. Norman and Michael explain to Said, the security man, their purpose in visiting the factory. He is friendly, but a bit wary of our story…until they describe Abu Khaled: a bit on the heavy side, a beard. Said completed the description: going bald, right? A big stomach, about this tall?

“Yes, that’s Abu Khaled,” confirmed Norman and Michael.

“He’s not the mudeer (director) of the factory. He’s the chef in our cafeteria!” explained Said.

We realize the problem: chief versus chef. Of course, what a simple mixup.

On our way back to the bus station, I sit inside the truck with Mohammed, our driver. He’s lived in the area 20 years, the same age as the city. He explained that the city is full of factories: BMW, Mercedes, Suzuki, potato chips, pepsi, coca-cola. You name it, they got it. China—number one! (with thumbs up) America—number bottom!

This was a gentle comparison. Once before, a taxi driver praised China as a great country and the Chinese people as “haboob” or lovable people. However, when he mentioned America, he spat out the window.

Miss u by SMS

2008-05-01T13:53:00.000-07:00

I got this cryptic text message on my cell phone last night from Yaseen, the student who is applying for asylum in Spain (see March 20 posting “Estimado Espana—por favor, you quiero vivir en su pais”)

If 1000 person miss u I’m one of them
if only one miss u that’s me
if nobody miss u be sure that I’m dead

I don’t know what to make of it except that the previous message indicated that he was sick. I hope my friend is ok.

I will try to get in touch with him to check up.

Meanwhile, I will go visit a potato chip factory in the morning by the pyramids…

Yes, everyday in this City is truly an adventure!

Praying in Port Said

2008-04-29T13:27:00.000-07:00

Port Said is a three hour bus ride from Cairo and is a nice getaway from the hustle and bustle of the capital city. I travel with my friend Min and his friend Enha, both from Korea, but studying Arabic in Egypt.

We take the ferry across the Suez Canal and stand before Mosque Port Fuad. Its twin minarets tower above us as they reach for the sky. We step inside the empty Mosque. After a few minutes of looking around, a short, older gentleman approaches us. He seems to be the groundskeeper. He has a white beard—like Santa Claus, silver hair trimmed neatly at the top, with deep lines in his forehead and a dark prayer mark in the middle of his forehead—where he presses against the carpet for his daily prayers. (This mark is a badge of honor for Muslims, representing their strong faith. In fact, it’s reported that some go to the doctor to surgically add the prayer mark, to give the appearance of piety). He has farmer feet—blackened toenails and callouses. He offers to show us around.

He takes us downstairs to the bathroom where worshippers wash themselves in the ritual known as “wah-doo” before each of the 5 daily prayers. Afterwards, Hassan declares that he loves God. He asks me if I love God, too. As a student at Fajr Center, I’ve been conditioned by my Islamic tutor to repeat the phrase “La ilaha illa Allah wa Mohammedu Rasoolu Allah” (there is no God but Allah and Mohammed is his messenger). So, I repeat it to Hassan. He’s delighted.

He asks me, “Are you a Muslim?”
“Insha’Allah!” Or God Willing, I respond. The English equivalent is really “hopefully,” but sometimes in Arabic Insha’ Allah also means yes.

We ask if there are other parts of the Mosque to see, so he shows us the women’s prayer room. He then opens his hand and motions toward his mouth in an eating gesture. I know what he wants: baksheesh, or tip. So, I dig into my pocket and gave him two pounds. We then start to walk upstairs again. He tells me to slow down as he’s an old man and he has pain in his feet and legs. He shows me the medicine in his pocket.

Inside the mosque, another man yells at him, asking what he is doing. He reassures the other gentleman that everything is fine.

After Hassan explains a little about the services and the meaning of the different parts of the mosque, he then asks if we want to pray with him. I look at Min and say this may be an interesting learning experience. So, we agree and head back downstairs to wash and purify ourselves. I tell Hassan that “Ana Gedeed” or I’m new to the faith, so he has to teach me how to wash. He obliges.

We return to the top and follow Hassan in the prayer. Afterwards, we sit on the carpet and listen to him explain the concept of “tawheed” or monotheism. God has no partner, no son, no father. There is only one God and and Mohammed is his messenger (Peace Be Upon Him). He punctuates each sentence with his right hand lightly tapping the knee of Enha. He does the same to Min. Soon, a young man joins our small circle. He speaks very fast, assuming that we are fluent and understand him. He reads from Sura 55, Al Rahman, the Merciful. I’m glad he did because I have read it before with my tutor, so I’m somewhat familiar with its teachings of the creation of the Universe and the Heaven and the earth.

It is now about 3:00pm. We are a bit tired and are thinking about leaving the Mosque and walking around. Hassan asks if we want to stay behind and pray again, this time for the 3:30pm Asir Prayer. Min and I look at each other. We first ask Hassan if we can go up to the Minarets. He says yes, but AFTER the Asir Prayer. So, we agree and return to the bathroom and wash again.

When we return to the top of the Mosque, the hall is now filling up with a dozen or so worshippers. Enha steps outside the Mosque. When she returns, she is covered with a long overcoat-type garment that hides her form, keeping her modest and preventing her from mesmerizing the men too much.

After we pray, Hassan takes us to the side of the Mosque where the Imam meets us. He introduces himself to me as “Usama—Usama Bin Laden.” And cracks a big smile. He is perhaps in his late 30s or early 40s, with glasses and a long, black beard. He is warm and has a “Kirsh” or belly. If he were a woman, he would be perhaps at about three months along.

For the next 30 minutes, we listen politely as he talks about Islam and Allah. He speaks very clearly and pauses a little bit as Min translates a few phrases for me. Min has been in Cairo for nearly a year, so his Arabic is very fluent and he is able to understand much more than I could. We are in a small circle. The Imam sits between me and Min. Enha is at the end of the row of chairs and seemingly cut off from the circle of men. At one point, she dozes off as she is so tired. I don’t think the men realized or paid any attention to our female guest.

Before we leave, one man hands us three large pieces of bread. They are warm and fragrant and as we learned later--very tasty.

Hassan, the young man, Min and I take a picture together outside the Mosque. Before we depart, Hassan returns the tip to me. I am a bit puzzled, but refuse to accept it. I hand it back to him, but he, in turn, refuses. We go back and forth like this for 3 or 4 times. In the end, I finally succeed in pushing the small tip to his pocket and whisper into his ear: “sir, this is for you—a gift. You must take it!”

While we visited Port Said and Port Fuad for only a day, this visit was the most memorable experience for us. I am now working on writing a thank you note to the Imam and Hassan for their hospitality.

Mahmoud the language exchange partner

2008-04-21T14:00:00.000-07:00

Meet Mahmoud, one of my four language exchange partners. At 21, he is short, has a chocolate complexion, curly, black hair and a big smile with pearly white teeth. From Aswan, the southernmost city in Upper Egypt, Mahmoud studied some English in school, but never built a solid foundation. Mahmoud is the “office boy” at his company. That is to say, he is the coffee boy. In Egypt, offices generally have one or two people who prepare coffee or tea for the office staff. They also clean the office at the end of the day. I met Mahmoud through my friend Hazem, my first language exchange partner. Hazem told me that Mahmoud wanted to improve his English.

For the past several months we have met twice a week for two hour language exchange sessions: an hour of English and an hour of Arabic. In our first session, I had to teach him basic grammar and review the alphabet with him. I very often feel my Arabic ability is about the same level as his English, so it is somewhat of a symmetrical match. Although Mahmoud is 21, he sometimes behaves like a teenager. He giggles like a girl. And is fairly playful.

Mahmoud makes about 400 LE ($80) a month, which is a typical salary. He sends half of that to his family back home in Aswan. He lives in the office and doesn’t have much of a social life. In his 10 months in Cairo, he has never attended a party, so he expressed a strong desire to attend one. As I was preparing to host a small gettogether, I invited him; however, he was afraid that there would be beer and hasheesh (marijuana). Alcohol, of course, is forbidden for devout Muslims. Hasheesh is also frowned upon, in general. (However, it is also the drug of choice for many young Egyptians.) I told him that there would be small amounts of alcohol that some friends would bring, but there would be no hasheesh, as I am not a pothead.

I tell him that President Jimmy Carter visited Cairo the previous night and spoke to the American University in Cairo (AUC) community about peace between Israel and her neighbors, especially Palestine.

“Do you like Israelis?” he inquires.

“Yes, I do,” I reply.

“I don’t like Jewish. In the past, the prophet says they war with Muslims.”

I ask him, “How many Jews do you know?”

He met one Jewish tourist in Aswan two years ago and spoke to him for 10 minutes. Mahmoud did not have a good impression of the Jewish visitor, which only confirmed his low opinion of Jews. Of course, in this aspect, Mahmoud is a typical Egyptian. While Egypt and Israel are officially at peace, there is very little cultural exchange or tourism between the two. In fact, any Egyptian who does visit Israel should expect to be called into the Egyptian Intelligence Ministry for an interrogation.

I ask him, “How many Chinese do you know?”
He explained that once he met two Chinese girls who were lost in Aswan, so he directed them to the tourism office. That was about a 10 minute exchange. “They were very beautiful,” he recounted. I am the third Chinese he’s ever met in his life.

Mahmoud asks me, “Do you not know Kung Fu?” This is a very common question Egyptians ask of Asians. Usually, I’ve denied that I know any martial arts; however, after many weeks of the same questions, I decided to be mischievous and say that actually, yes, I do know Kung Fu and I studied at the famed Shao Lin Temple. When Egyptians ask me to demonstrate my technique or to teach them, I say I cannot, as “it is a secret.” Moreover, the true master does not settle problems with his hands; rather, he uses his mouth. This answer usually leaves them with a sense of awe.

After I said I do no know any martial arts, he asked, “Why do you not know Kung Fu?”
I tried to explain by asking him, “Does every Egyptian own a camel?” or “Does every Egyptian know how to build a pyramid?”

Obivously, not every Egyptian owns a camel or knows how to build a pyramid and I think he got the point.

Arab greetings: the man kiss

2008-04-16T18:38:00.000-07:00

Men kiss men here, not women. It is very common to see men hold hands, or their arms locked as they walk down the street. In fact, a man will routinely rest his head on another man’s shoulder on a metro train. One time, I even saw one man sit on the lap of his male friend.

A kiss from my supermarket manager
Cairo is a city that is adopting the ways of modernity, while holding onto its traditions. It is a place filled with modern amenities like supermarkets and theaters and shopping malls and jazz clubs. But at the same supermarket with 10 different types of cereals, the manager Wael introduces himself to his foreign customers. Shortly after I met him, he greeted me and pulled me in for an unexpected peck on the cheek, Yasser Arafat syle. It was sudden. And warm. And totally appropriate for a Cairo supermarket, yet completely alien to this foreigner. Wael now kisses me on the cheeks whenever he sees me. In fact, the last time he saw me, he kissed me three separate times within 5 minutes. This is unusual, even for an Egyptian.

The doorman to the Fajr center, Abdul Al-Wahead, Servant of the ONE, now routinely kisses me on the cheeks whenever he sees me. His horse teeth protrude prominently from his wide smile. Perhaps, it is because of the one chat of 10 minutes that I had with him a few weeks ago, that he now treats me like a long time friend.

My tutor Dr. Moustafa kisses me on the cheek whenever I do well in my lesson or understand the grammar; this works out to be about once a week or so. At first, it was a bit awkward, to say the least.

How to explain all this male-male bonding? I’m no sociologist, but as I seem to remember reading some time ago, whenever you cut off men from women and only limit them to other men, as is the case in much of the Arab world, then men will sublimate their desires ie they will redirect their desires to other men.

Ahmed, another teacher at the Fajr center, came into the class today for a few moments to ask my tutor something. A tall gentleman in his mid 20s, he looks like a point guard for the Chicago Bulls. He wears a big beard in the style of the Prophet (Peace Be Upon Him). Normally, we shake hands. However, this morning, he pulled me in for a Yasser Arafat type greeting—and gave me a wet one on my cheeks. He then rubbed some perfume from a small bottle onto my right hand. Perhaps, it is a sign that I’ve lived here a while that I did not think the exchange unusual at all.

Arab Hospitality: from Jerusalem to Palestine to Amman – 12/19 to 12/30/2007

2008-03-30T10:04:00.000-07:00

As Hallah, my Egyptian-American travel buddy and I leave Cairo by East Delta bus, the radio belts out an Umm Kalthoum tune intermingled with Quranic chants. Somehow, Mother Kalthoum, the songbird of the Middle East, is never far away in Egypt. Her rhythmic songs, which proceed slowly and are favorites of the older generation, repeat themselves—sometimes five to ten times—but in slightly varying degrees. She is perhaps the most famous dead singer in the Arab world. We depart on the 5:30pm bus and crawl through the desert until we arrive at 2:30am in Dahab in the Sinai Desert.

On the bus, I meet Mataz, a call center trainer, who has excellent English. He is very happy that I have the Qu’ran in my studies. I have the English version now, but hope to be able to read it in Arabic next year, I tell him. He gives me his phone number and asks me to contact him after my vacation so we can smoke sheesha, the water pipe.

Detained at the Israeli Border
When we reach the Israeli side, I discover that I forgot my house key in the box by the metal detector. So, I return to retrieve my key, leaving Hallah alone in the hands of the Israeli interrogators. A young man, with a serious look, an earpiece, shirt and blue jeans begins to question her. I had warned her that she may be detained for several hours because of her Muslim background.

He asks her detailed questions about her background, including
-her grandfather’s name
-where her family lives in Cairo
-her itinerary

After the exhaustive interrogation, the agent asks me one question: “That girl—is she family or friend?”
“Friend,” I respond.
“Ok, you may go,” he commands me.

However, Hallah is detained by the Israeli border agents for nearly 5 hours while they conduct a background check on her.
Possible reasons? Hmmm….Her middle name is Ahmed. She’s Muslim. She’s studying in Egypt for the year.

The other detainees consisted of:
-Three Polish girls, one of whom visited Sudan. Their tour leader said he could only wait for them for one more hour and then had to leave for Jerusalem.
-An Indian family living in London. Their two girls were being detained. They usually travel through Dubai, so requested that their passports not have the Israeli entry stamp.
-Two German girls

A small sandwich shop sells some coffee, candies and snacks to the detainees. However, they have run out of sandwiches, so everyone is reduced to munching on chips and nuts.

A Nigerian couple with a baby arrives and sits down next to us. They wait for about five minutes before a portly agent comes by to tell them that they have no visa for Israel, so they cannot enter today. She reports the bad news to them, “You must return to Egypt!” They promptly get up and leave.

After about five hours, the agents finally clear Hallah of her background and give her the green light to leave for the land of milk and honey. We spend the night in Eilat and take the morning bus to Jerusalem.

Hitchhiking from Masada to Jerusalem
Masada means fortress in Hebrew. Nestled against the Dead Sea, it is the site of the last Jewish holdout against the Roman attempt to crush the rebellion about 73 CE. After we descend the mountain, we wait for the 5:05pm bus, but it never comes. A Czech woman waits with us. She speaks Czech, French and Russian, but no English. In her 40s, she is courteous, but quiet.

After a one hour wait, the bus arrives. The door swings open and the driver tells us he cannot take us, as the bus is full. However, we see only one person sitting in the aisle. We plead with the driver to let us on, but he refuses. He closes the door and leaves, as quickly as he arrived. I wonder why he even bothered to stop. The next bus will arrive in about two hours.

I decide that we will have a better chance of picking up a ride by hitchhiking on the main road, rather than staying at the entrance to Masada. So, we start to walk – in the dark – along the road. Not more than five minutes later, a truck stops. The driver has just unloaded his delivery at Masada. He asks why we did not board the bus. After we explain to him, he tells us to get into his truck. Initially, he says he can take us to Jerusalem; He then realizes the two passenger rule—he can only take two, not three. So, our options are (1) have him take the Czech woman to Jerusalem and we get out (2) have him take Hallah and me to Jerusalem and we kick the Czech woman out (3) Have him take her and Hallah to Jerusalem and I stay behind. The first option seemed to be the best, as the Czech woman spoke no English or Arabic. So, we ask the driver, Kudee, to drop us off at the next stop. We drive for more than an hour along the freeway.

Kudee is a blue collar Israeli. He says, “I only care about my dog, wife and 15 year-old son.” He pulls out his wallet with a picture of him. He doesn’t follow politics and hasn’t traveled outside Israel. He tries to make conversation with us in basic English. However, the Czech woman is deaf and mute. He asks for her hotel. I try to translate using my basic French. She does not know the name, but says it’s a Franciscan hotel in the old city by Jaffa Gate. So, he calls a woman in his office, who speaks French and hands the phone to Ms. Czech. After a few moments, there seems to be a breakthrough. He says he can take her to her hotel.

When we arrive at the bus stop, he apologizes profusely to us, saying again, “if only two of you, I can take you straight to Yerushalayem.”

“You are performing a Mitzvah (good deed)!” I tell him. I shake his hand and thank him.
The door closes and they speed away for the Holy City.

At the bus stop, Hallah tells me she doesn’t feel good about this situation: “I would never ride in a strange car with a strange man in a foreign country,” she explains.

I reassure her that everything would work out. I got a good feeling from the driver, who seemed like a decent human being wanting to help out a stranger.

About 10 minutes later, the bus arrives and we make it to the Central Bus Station in about half an hour. We catch another local bus to the Old City. As we approach the Old City, a woman boards the bus—the same Czech woman we left just an hour earlier.
“Ca va, ca va?” I ask her in French? How are you doing?

She reports that she had to take two buses to Jerusalem and that the driver became a little too friendly with her after we left. He began to touch her hands and complimented her on her eyes. He then began to feel his way up her arms and toward her breasts. Though a shocking situation, we all laughed a little. I felt both amused and saddened by the news. How I had underestimated the driver!

Ramallah: in search of Palestinian ice cream and Arafat’s tomb
Wikipedia describes Ramallah as “the most affluent and cultural as well as the most liberal, of all Palestinian cities” and is home to popular Palestinian activists, poets, artists, and musicians. Ice cream compelled me to go to Ramallah, a thriving city of 23,000 people in the West Bank. My friend Eli told me about the incredible ice cream to be had at Rukab’s Ice Cream, a hallmark of Ramallah. The ice cream is based on the resin of chewing gum, so has a distinctive taste.

So, we set off for Ramallah, expecting to brave a military checkpoint. Instead, we find no checkpoint. Apparently, it was lifted some time ago. We see restaurants and shops all around. The city is generally very clean and full of life. Hallah and I enjoy a large bowl of ice cream (16 shekels each, or about $4) that is hard to describe. Imagine the best ice cream you’ve ever tasted in your life with cheese-like consistency. That’s the best I can describe it.

After ice cream, we trek over to Beyt Arafat, or Arafat’s House. It is also known as Al Muqata. I ask a soldier guarding the tomb entrance what he thought of Arafat. He responds, “He was a good leader.” I ask a blue collar worker on the street for his opinion. “Are things getting better or worse?” “Worse!” He answered, as he moves some heavy boxes into his trunk.

Dining at Restaurant Restaurant in the Old City
Mohamed is 27 and a graduate of Cairo University in Archaeology. He shows me a 2,000 year old shekel that he found in a dig. “This is worth $300” he explains. He is a sweet man and wears a perpetual smile. He is “asmar” or dark and exudes a warmth that is characteristic of the Palestinian people. He started a Master’s Program, but did not finish. He should be teaching at a University, but instead works at the restaurant making schwarma sandwiches for hungry tourists. Such is life for Palestinians. In fact, he does not even have papers to work in Jerusalem, so he is officially an illegal worker. He invites us to dinner at his home in Hebron with his family for Christmas night.

Hebron Homestay
Mohamed tells us to meet him at the restaurant at 4pm, but we are late 45 minutes. From Damascus Gate, we take a mini bus to Bethlehem and then a service taxi to Hebron. It is quiet inside the taxi, except for the Islamic sermon by a Sheikh on the role of women. He speaks rapidly in a very rhythmic and poetic chant. Every word is pronounced in a crisp, clear way. Suddenly, the driver stops the car. He takes his prayer rug to pray on the side of the road. A few minutes later, we are off again. It is dark and the road is empty except for a few cars.

When we arrive at the house, we sit down in the living room, a simple and small square space with cushions and blankets on the floor, reminiscent of a Moroccan restaurant setting. We are served hot tea. Mohamed introduces us to Ahmed, his younger brother who studies Multimedia at the University. Ahmed is extremely worried because he has been ordered to the Israeli Police Station the next day for interrogation. Mohamed plays with his one year old son, Kassem and his six month old baby, Adam. He only returns once a week to be with his family as the two hour commute makes it difficult to return home daily.

We meet his father, an affable and elderly gentleman of 65. He wears a Jordanian headscarf, with a checkered red pattern that one usually sees on Bedouins. Deep wrinkles line his forehead. He is missing two bottom teeth, but he still has a strong smile. He is a remarkable man. Although he is illiterate, he speaks English, Spanish, and Portuguese fluently. He never went to school, but picks up languages quickly. As a businessman, he’s traveled the world and lived in Fresno, California for 9 months, in Brazil for four years and in many other countries in Latin America. Of the women in Brazil, he remarked that they are “helwa” or sweet. So, for the next two hours, Spanish becomes our lingua franca. How strange this sight must be to his family – an Arab speaking with a Chinese in Spanish – in Palestine, no less! I begin to call him “Abuelo” or grandfather.

Mohamed’s 22 year-old wife serves us a large plate of saffron rice with chicken and potatoes. There are small plates of yoghurt, cucumber and tomato salad, and soda. The rice is delicious and the chicken is tender. After everyone else finishes, I still continue to attack the plate until only one piece of chicken is left. After dinner, we retire upstairs to the second floor, where a stove heats the room. We are treated to Turkish coffee and fruit and desserts.

Nasser is Mohamed’s older brother. He has a chubby face and a receding hairline. He is 30, but looks much older. Perhaps, the 3.5 years he spent in an Israeli prison as a 14 year old aged him. One night, an Israeli soldier pointed to him and accused him of throwing a rock. He denied the charges, but to no avail. I can sense the anger inside him; it is subtle, but still present. He tells us of his memory of 9-11. He was going through a checkpoint and saw many Palestinians distributing free Kanafa, a popular Arab dessert. They were celebrating the destruction of the twin towers and the attacks on the United States. Nasser justified it by saying “when you help to supply the Israeli government with guns and bombs and money, then you are equally guilty.” His words unsettle me, but I keep silent.
Before we retire for the night, Ahmed gives me a Muslim prayer bead as a gift.

About 1:00 AM, we prepare for bed. I go back downstairs to the living room, while Hallah stays upstairs with the women. Ahmed has prepared my bed and wants to turn the TV and lights off. I tell him that I am not too tired and can still talk a little. He speaks basic English, so we communicate in very simple English and Arabic. He has two more years of studies and then wants to pursue a Master’s program. I ask him if he can do an internship in Jerusalem. Unfortunately, it is not that simple; he has no papers so cannot intern or work in the Holy City. There is one station in the local area, but with no official internship program. He says “there are no opportunities here.” I tell him that if I can help him in any way to apply for a University in America, then I will. I ask him to email me anytime with questions. Ahmad strikes me as smart and ambitious, but simply has few to no opportunities to excel.

The next morning, we leave by taxi. Nasser serves as our guide as we pass through the Palestinian countryside. Farm fields continue to our left and right as far as the eye can see. Nasser points to the security walls and checkpoints. Very often, these roads are closed, so “we cannot go anywhere.” Or they have to go a very circuitous route to Jerusalem. Nasser’s work permit must be renewed every three months. When we arrive at the Bethlehem checkpoint, he shows his papers and ID. He then puts his right hand on the machine, which matches his fingerprints to the electronic record. He is waived through. After the guards give our American passports a cursory glance, we cross over. On the Israeli side, the lines have formed already; perhaps, hundreds of people are waiting patiently to cross over.

After we arrive in Jerusalem, Mohamed asks nothing of us and I feel that he is interested in a genuine friendship. This is not always the case with friendships struck in this part of the world. For example, a fellow English teacher recently invited me to dinner and then in the same sentence asked me if I can research some MA programs at AUC for him. Even now, I still receive an email or two from Mohamed asking about my life in Cairo.

Dome of the Rock visit
The week before our arrival in Jerusalem, Hallah taught me the Fatiha, the opening sura of the Qur’an. The day before I visited the Dome of the Rock, from which Prophet Mohamed (Peace Be Upon Him) ascended to Heaven. I had memorized 4 of 7 lines. In the hour before, I had to finish memorizing the sura. Friends explained that to enter the Dome, you simply have to recite the Fatiha, thereby proving that you are a Muslim. The infidels, however, will be turned away from Islam’s third holiest site, behind Mecca and Medina.

We enter about 12:45pm. The place will close about 1:15pm for prayers. When I approach the Dome of the Rock, there is a stern man with a walkie-talkie guarding the entrance. For those who look Middle Eastern, he simply asks if they are Muslim and they pass. When I approach, he asks me the same. I say yes. He looks skeptical. “Let me see your passport!” He demands.
I show my passport, but the religion is absent from the document.
He then asks for my name.
“Andy.”
That’s not a Muslim name!
“Ana gedeed” meaning I’m new to the faith.
“Can you read the Qur’an?”
“No, but I know the Fatiha” as I begin to recite it. “Bismillah Al-Rahman, Al-Raheem; Alhamdullilah Rab Al-Ameen; Al-Rahman, Al-Raheem, Maalik Yom-Al deen…”

Where are you from?
China. I try to explain that there are many Muslims in Western China. He still looks skeptical.
“No!” and turns me away.
I walk away to gather my thoughts. Maybe I will try again in six months, think to myself. A few moments later, Hani, a Palestinian who witnessed our exchange, approaches me.
He asks me if I’m Muslim. I say yes.
“Then, it’s your duty to enter the mosque! He cannot turn you away! You must protest to his superiors. I will help you.” He is persistent. Hani explains that the guardian mostly turned me away because I did not protest his denying my entry.

Hani lives in the West Bank near Jerusalem. He tells me had to climb the fence in the morning to “enter my city.” If the Israeli authorities catch him here, he will be fined and punished. Hani leads me back to the entrance to confront the guardian. They speak very fast and I do not understand much. The guardian turns to me and again asks if I am a Muslim. He then brings Hallah into the conversation, asking her to confirm my faith. After perhaps 5 minutes of back and forth, the guardian finally relents and allows me to enter. I felt like I had passed a big test.

Hani escorts me inside and serves as my tour guide. As we circle the mosque, I see women worshippers. In fact, most of the people inside are women. Only a few men are present. Hani explains that on Jumaa, or Friday, women occupy the inside of the mosque, while men pray on the grounds of the Temple Mount. When we finish circling the inside of the mosque, another security man approaches us to inquire why I am inside. Hani explains that I’m Muslim and it’s ok.

We approach a column with a small hole. He puts his right hand inside and rubs lightly. He asks me to smell his hand. It has the smell of incense. “We believe that’s what Prophet Mohamed (Peace Be Upon Him) smelled like.”

We then go down one level to the point where it is believed that Prophet Mohamed (Peace Be Upon Him) ascended to Heaven.

After we exit the mosque, Hani, Hallah and I talk for a while on the grounds. A small group of school children are playing with each other. I thank Hani for his help and extraordinary efforts to secure my entry.

Search for a hotel in Amman, Jordan
After we cross the land border from Israel into the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan, we hop onto a Singapore tour bus that’s going to Amman. It drops us off in the outskirts of the city, next to a restaurant. Before we hail any taxis, I stop for a moment to put on a sweater as it is cold. Very cold. I place my Lonely Planet guidebook on the hood of a car. At that moment, the car owner and his wife exit the restaurant to go to their car. They wait patiently for me, saying “mish moushkayla” or no problem. They ask us where we come from and where we are going. They then offer us a ride to downtown.

Faisal, our driver, is a middle-aged carpenter with five children. He and his wife, Islam speak no English. In the 45 minute ride to downtown, they ask politely about our travels. We ask them to take us to the Cliff Youth Hostel. However, Faisal insists that he will find us a proper hotel that is “suitable for a Muslim Woman.”

At the first hotel, Faisal gets out to inquire for us. He returns a few minutes later, telling us the rate is 20 Jordanian Dinars (about $30). We decline, saying it is over our budget.

At the second hotel, Faisal reports that they want 15 Dinars (about $22). We decline again, saying it is also not in our budget. I politely request that they take us to the Cliff youth hostel.

Faisal is adamant and says we will continue our search. At this point, I begin to think that maybe he knows some of these hotel managers or may receive a commission for bringing them extra business.

At the third hotel, Faisal asks me to join him inside. There is no hot water. The beds are unmade. The sink is broken and it looks like a pigsty. The man wants 15 Dinars. I quickly decline. He drops the price to 5 Dinars. Faisal and I walk out.

At the fourth hotel, it is not as bad as the previous one, but still unacceptable. 15 Dinars.

At the fifth and last hotel, to my surprise, everything works. The room comes with hot water, cable TV, A/C and is very clean. Two beds for 15 Dinars. While I still prefer a cheaper youth hostel, I tell the manager that I’ll take it just to get Faisal off our backs.

At the reception desk, the manager processes our passports, but then asks if Hallah and I are married. We say no. “Hmmm…normally, it’s ok since you are foreigners, but she is Egyptian American and she speaks Arabic. I’m sorry, it’s too close. I cannot put you two in the same room.”

We thank him and decide to walk to the Cliff Youth Hostel around the corner. I am grateful to Faisal and his efforts and offer to take him out to dinner. Hallah says she is tired and asks if we can do dinner another night, maybe after our return from Petra. We take his number and promise to call him.

Cliff Hotel
Tony, a Palestinian Christian in his 60s, works as the clerk at Cliff Hotel. With a strong jaw, chiseled face and hooked nose, he looks Italian. When he was born, he was a sickly baby. The doctor pulled his skin, but it did not retract. He told his parents to go home and wait for him to die. Dad prayed to St. Anthony – “Please heal my son and I will name him after you!” The prayers worked. Tony has not returned to Palestine since 1982.

The Cliff Hotel located across a falafel stand and Hummus restaurant. King Abdullah came by to munch on some falafels recently. It was a big deal. And still is. Sure enough, we had to go eat where the King ate.

We Wuz Robbed
In the morning, we take a taxi to the bus station. The driver, a Palestinian, spent time in Israeli prison in 1985 and was deported from Israel. He then bounced around in Kuwait, Sudan, Egypt, and now lives in Jordan. He is in his 40s and very warm.

We board the minibus to Petra. The passengers are mostly men, with a couple of women seated in front of us. A Lebanese dance tune plays on the radio. A child coughs behind me. The King’s Highway is smooth and straight and cuts through a barren, desert landscape to either side. About two hours into our ride, the driver stops. He motions for me to get out of the bus. Someone else has taken my bag off the bus. He tells me to get onto a second bus. It all seems a bit puzzling, but I’ve learned to go with the flow in my travels in developing countries. Hallah tells me that they need to go to pray, so cannot complete the trip. He then asks for my fare. It is about three to four dinars each, so eight at the most. I give him a ten dinar note ($15) and he runs off, without giving me change. He speeds off in the direction of Amman.

I tell the second driver, Mohammed, who runs after the bus in vain; it does not stop. He is sympathetic and tells me in a resigned tone, “mish kwayyes” or not good. He says he will take us to Petra for 5 dinars total ($7.50). Once onboard, he tells me to ride shotgun so he can talk to me. The sunshine hits my face and I feel its warmth for the first time in more than a week.

Mohamed is perhaps in his late 40s, with a deep suntan, a light mustache, and very warm face. He asks about Hallah and me. Are you married? I say yes, but Hallah modifies our relationship to “engaged.” He praises me for being a lucky man. (Hallah and I had agreed that our official relationship, if asked, was that we were married. In the Middle East, it is very unusual for an unmarried man and woman to travel together.)

Soon, Mohamed asks Hallah to come up front and sit next to me so he can chat with all of us. He fires off question after question. At first, he has trouble understanding us, mainly because he’s hard of hearing. Second, Hallah is not used to the Jordanian accent, so they both have to repeat themselves quite a few times.

Mohamed invites us to his house for tea. He looks back to the other passenger, a young woman, perhaps in her 20s and asks for her permission. As she lives in Petra, it is not out of her way, so she agrees. As we pull into his driveway, we see some of his six children running around. They and his wife live upstairs, while he lives downstairs. He is currently looking for a second wife, he announces. Inside, he asks the other woman to prepare coffee for all of us, saying he’s not very good at making coffee. To our surprise, she complies. So, we sit for about 10 minutes, enjoying coffee and cookies and candies.

“Why don’t you stay here with me tonight, and go to Petra tomorrow morning?” he proposes. We politely decline his invitation. The other woman is reticent. When we arrive at Petra, Mohamed says he’ll pick us up again Sunday 6am to drive us back to Amman.

Sheesha with Ahmed around the campfire
As we walk on the street, a man in a pickup stops and talks to Hallah. “You remind me of an Egyptian girl I used to know. Where are you from?” His name is Ahmed and he’s 24. He offers to show us the city for a while. He wants to invite us for tea at his home. Normally, I do not get into the cars of strange men, especially in foreign countries. However, this being Jordan and the local people having a reputation of being extremely hospitable, I thought it safe to get in, especially since it was the two of us. Hallah rides shotgun, while I sit in the back. Ahmed is dark and has a sharp nose. He is warm and talkative. He has to deliver some bread, so he takes us to his “summer villa” on the hill. He introduces us to his three buddies: Ziad, a tall fellow with a shaved head; Ghazi and Saher (Rock), two cheerful and warm guys in their early 20s. We sit around a campfire while they serve us hot, sweet tea. The night is cold. I look up and see the “Najoom” or stars for the first time in a long time.

Rock is a soldier in the King’s Army. He will soon become an F-16 fighter pilot. Of 400 who tested, only 30 passed. Rock ranked #3 of the 30 top pilots. He is firmly committed to the King. “If the King asks me for my eyes, I will give them to him.” Ahmed added, tongue-in-cheek, “and if he asks for my heart, I will give him my heart.” Rock works at the Silk Road Hotel, owned by his father. He invites us to the hotel for more tea and sheesha (water pipe) later in the evening.

Ahmed invites us to dinner the next night with his family. He will pick us up at 6:00pm at our hotel.

Petra Man
The next day, we make our way to Petra Valley. While we linger in an outdoor souvenir shop, we meet Mansour, a Bedouin shopkeeper who invites us to tea. He’s dark, 28 years old and looks like an Indian. He has visited over 30 countries. He offers to show us around Petra for the afternoon.

Mansour lived in Hong Kong for some time, so picked up Cantonese. He began speaking to me, “mo ah.”
“You speak good Chinese!” I praised him.
“Yes, I do.”
Not the most humble fellow, I thought. And not very Chinese, who are known as very modest people.

Mansour shows us some hidden trails and accompanies us to the Monastery, a popular site at the top of the mountain. We walk up and down the trail. By the time we are finished, it is dusk. We decide to take some donkeys to the entrance.

Riding the donkeys, we float in the darkness. My donkey is named Michael Jackson. I try to speak to the boy guides in the simple Arabic that I’ve learned over the past weeks.
“Kam sana?” or how old are you? I ask the boy behind me.
“What?” he asks me.
“Mineen?” where are you from? I continue with my questions.
“What?” he asks me. “Just speak English!” he gently yells at me.

The formerly empty caves are now lit up with lanterns and Bedouins making camp for the night. Mansour offers his cave to Hallah on her next visit. If she visits in the summer, then she can stay on the roof with him.

We stop for a moment as Mansour leaves our group to stay for the night with his friends. We bid him farewell as we continue onto the Bab Asiq by the Treasury. We dismount, pay our child guides and continue on foot in the darkness by ourselves. Karen, Hallah and I lock arms and use our cell phones and camera lights to light our way. Hallah looks ahead, Karen looks down for cracks and big rocks and I look up at the stars. We continue this formation for the next 15 minutes. It is cold. Dark. A bit scary. Very quiet. But, oh so wonderful. As we approach the gate, we see a store with lights. I offer the store owner the Bedouin greetings “Goo-wak!” (Hello) and “Shhlow-nak” or “what’s your color?” He responds enthusiastically and welcomes us into his shop for tea. We stay for the next 15 – 20 minutes, chat and take some pictures in some Bedouin costumes.

Angry Ahmed
By the time we find out way out of the valley, it’s nearly 8pm. We are two hours late for dinner. Ahmed is angry. Very angry, especially at Hallah. He tells us that his family was waiting for us at 6pm, but we did not show. He asks that we go to his house to apologize to his parents and family. We agree, but first we must shower and clean up.

At his parent’s house, we meet his father, mother and aunt. His father is a traditional man, with a light beard and prayer beads in his right hand. He is very serious, but affable. He asks about Hallah’s background and then says that it may be acceptable in Egypt or America to be late to dinner invitations or not to come altogether; however, in Jordan, when you are invited to dinner, you must show up. We nod politely, shake hands and ask for his forgiveness. We thank them and take our leave.

Ahmed tells us that his fiancée has saved us a plate of Mahshe, or cabbage leaves stuffed with rice and meat. So, we enjoy some cold mahshe in their dining room for the next 2 hours or so. Ahmed’s fiancée is a quiet woman in her early 20s. She does not talk to me at all and only asks Hallah a few questions. Hallah and I sit on the floor to eat. They sit in armchairs and try to talk to us. In the middle of the meal, Ahmed’s fiancée begins to kiss him – on the mouth. On his cheeks. And gives him a few embraces. Having lived in this region for a few months, I know that the Arab culture is extremely conservative. You do not ever see couples kiss in public. It is rare even to see couples hold hands in public. All displays of affection are done in private, behind closed doors. To kiss in front of dinner guests is also bizarre. To say the least. I did not understand her behavior during dinner. Hallah had to explain to me after the dinner: She was sending Hallah a message—Ahmed is my man. Hands off!

After dinner, Ahmed drove us back to Rock’s hotel, leaving his fiancée behind in the house. At the hotel, we smoke some more sheesha and talk for the rest of the evening.
At one point, they turn to me to introduce a new game. I tell them about “Truth or lies?” We go around the circle, tell two truths and one lie. The rest of the group must guess which one is the lie. I begin:

-I’ve smuggled contraband across the Hong Kong border
-I know the Governor of Macau through his brother
-I’ve been to the White House for Christmas and met the President

When it’s Rock’s turn, he gives us three deceptively very simple items:
-I’ve traveled to Syria
-I like girls
-I’ve traveled to Lebanon

Some guess that he’s not been to Syria. Others say he’s not traveled to Lebanon. After a few minutes, he says simply, numbers one and three are true; however, number two is false. “I don’t like girls,” he reveals to us. Hallah and I are more than a little surprised.

We stay up until about 3am. We try to return to our youth hostel, but Ahmed insists that we stay at Rock’s hotel. He puts us up in a complimentary room. Ahmed asks to say a few words to Hallah alone. I oblige him. A minute later, he gives her a peck on the cheek. Again, I’m not the most sensitive person in cultural affairs, but I know that it’s a big deal when an Arab man, who is already engaged to a woman, kisses another woman on the cheek.

Rock gives us two bottles of water for the evening and will give us a 6am wake up call. It takes him two separate phone calls before we are able to get up. Ahmed drives us to the bus station and finds us a bus back to Amman. We bid him farewell. Three hours later, we arrive at the Amman bus depot. A minute after we arrive and begin looking for a cab, the bus driver comes to us and hands his cell phone to Hallah, “It’s Ahmed.” They speak for a minute. Hallah explains that Ahmed is checking in on us to see that we made it safely. “Boy, I’d hate to be his girlfriend. He knows everybody in this country!”

Return to Cairo
In the evening, we board the plane back to Cairo.
We take the airport bus back to downtown Cairo. The driver drinks some tea to stay warm. After we pull out of the airport, he bumps into the curb on the freeway, shaking the bus and the passengers from their slumber, making most of them upset. Many of them yell at him, “hey basha, watch out…don’t do that again!” The door is open, allowing a cold draft to enter the bus as we race down the freeway. It is now very crowded and the driver honks continuously at the other cars. We are back in Egypt, Mother of the World. Alhamdulillah!

A walk with Dr. Moustafa

2008-03-22T17:17:00.000-07:00

Last week, my tutor Dr. Moustafa walked with me after class to my bus stop. He began by asking me if I know of any Korean women. “I want to marry a Korean woman. I think they are so beautiful. That way, I can work and study in Korea. What do you think of my idea?” He asked me. I told him that Korea is a good country. I would inquire with my Korean friend Min about any available Korean women in Egypt.

Dr. Moustafa then turned serious. He explained that his wife is a very loyal woman. “She told me that ‘I am willing to go wherever you go. If you go to hell, I will follow you to hell.’” He has discussed with his wife his ideas of taking a Korean wife. She approves. “I love history. Especially ancient Persian history. Sometimes, my wife tells me that I dream about Persian history and speak Farsi in my sleep.”

When we reach Midan Galaa, where I wait for my microbus, we sit down on the edge of the flower bed. Dr. Moustafa will receive his Master’s degree in three months. He explains that he has a deep desire to travel abroad. To study and to work. When I ask him what his timeline is, he thinks for a moment and replies, “Within a year. I cannot--cannot continue to stay here for more than a year!” His face seemed to writhe in pain when he says this. Dr. Moustafa put in 240 hours last month. That’s about 6 weeks of full time work crammed into one month. He gets paid about LE 800-1000 a month, depending on the number of hours he works. That’s about LE 4 (80 cents) an hour. It is unfortunate that a man of his talents, intelligence and education is paid such a paltry amount.

What he really wants to do is to start his own language center. Across the street is a small sign advertising an office for rent. He says this would be an ideal place for a language center. However, the rent would be very expensive. He asks me if there are any opportunities in America for a speaker of Farsi, Arabic and French. I tell him there should be, as the US has a shortage of good Arabic and Farsi speakers. I will inquire on his behalf.

“I want to have children, but children are expensive. So, I must wait until I can make more money.” I see Dr. Moustafa as a professor at any of the top universities in Washington, DC or New York City pulling down $100,000 easily. There must be a place for him somewhere that can use his language and teaching abilities. I feel a special responsibility to help him find something better than his current position. About two microbuses stop, pick up passengers and leave in the time we talk. When the next microbus arrives, I board and bid the good doctor ma-esalama until the next class.

Estimado Espana—por favor, yo quiero vivir en su pais

2008-03-20T16:17:00.000-07:00

(Dear Spain--please, I want to live in your country)

Yaseen has never been to Spain. He speaks no Spanish. And probably has never tasted a sangria or seen a bullfight. However, he now wants to live in the land of Picasso and Gaudi. You see, Spain began welcoming applications from asylum seekers about two weeks ago.

Yaseen is dark, wears a mustache and a perpetual smile. He is affable and prefers classical Arabic to the Egyptian Colloquial Arabic, so tends to teach me a phrase or two in the ancient tongue whenever he sees me. Yaseen has been a refugee for about half of his 35 years. He first fled his home in Eritrea in 1984 for the Sudan, where he lived until 1998. He then returned to his home, but was forced to leave again in 2002 when he resettled in Cairo. Yaseen’s parents and siblings are still in the Sudan. He is now seeking asylum in Spain. Small problem--the asylum form is in Spanish. Since he heard that I studied Spanish before, he called me up earlier today and asked for my help in filling out the form over dinner.

I agreed to meet him at the gate of St. Andrews. We walk a few blocks to the Eritrean Students club where about half a dozen Eritrean men are watching Al-Jazeera news in a small room. There are no women present. Dinner is served in the kitchen on a small end table: two oval plates of warm injera bread with a large pile of sautéed beef and cow tongue. It reminds me of the Ethiopian restaurants in Berkeley, California and Adams-Morgan, Washington, DC. However, when I taste the soft injera bread, it is a bite of heaven. If you’ve never had Injera bread, imagine eating a piece of nerf football that is slightly sour.

After dinner, we sit down in the adjacent room. I begin to fill out the form with my limited, rusty college Spanish. The form is old as it still bears the date starting with 19__. Perhaps, that is an indicator of when they last opened the doors to asylum seekers. Yaseen will send me his personal account of persecution in his home country, which then needs to be translated into Spanish. All this needs to be done in the next few days for him to have enough time to submit it to the Spanish Embassy. Allah Yakreemak! May God be kind to you!

Booze for the Munaqiba, part 2

2008-03-17T15:17:00.000-07:00

Our Shirella, or cleaning lady came this morning to clean the apartment. For a 9am appointment, she came 45 minutes late. When I greeted her, I asked if there was “zachma kiteer” or a lot of traffic. She simply said, “Malesh,” which is the Egyptian Arabic equivalent of “never mind” or “oh well” in this context. Um Ahmed is munaqiba, or veils herself from head to toe, revealing only her eyes. She came with another lady...maybe her sister? Friend? An older lady, who is not munaqiba. They spend two hours cleaning and finish just before 12pm. I am already late for my noon Arabic class, so I pay them, leave and tell them to just close the door when they’re done.

When I returned this evening, I looked around the apartment. They did a great job of cleaning. Such a good job that they also cleaned the kitchen of a few beers from the beer supply. Seven missing beers, to be exact. They were taken in a very interesting way. One can was taken from one case of Stella. Two were taken from the Saqqara case. And two were taken from the Heineken case. And two more beers were taken from another box next to the fridge. They were taken in such a way that it would not be immediately noticeable. Had she simply asked me, like she did last time, I'd gladly have given her a few or more. However, she helped herself to a five finger discount.

In the Arabic culture, accusing someone of being a thief is perhaps the worst thing you can call someone. My Sudanese students tonight advised me to go the indirect route. I should call her and say, "hey, there were a few cans that were misplaced in the kitchen today. Maybe you know what happened?" and go from there...

If she confesses and returns the beer, then I may be able to forgive. No matter what happens, I think this will be the last time that Um Ahmed will be cleaning Apartment #6, floor 5.

“Ikhna” TV program: 60 minutes of fame

2008-03-16T11:51:00.000-07:00

I now have another big reason to like Egypt. Yesterday, I was interviewed on a TV program called “Ikhna,” which means “we.” My friend Shereen called me last week asking if I were interested in being a guest on a TV program that explores why foreigners come to Egypt.

Sondos, my contact at the studio, sends a car and driver to pick me up. Hasan, the driver, has worked for the company for a few years. While friendly, he’s not as chatty as a cab driver. We make it to the studio with little traffic. I sit at a plastic table, waiting for the others to arrive. Soon, I meet the director, the producer, the executive producer and some of the hosts. The other guest, Yasmeen, an Algerian lady, is running late. Once she arrives, we are escorted into the studio, a spacious office with a large conference table. Various notebooks and folders act as a tablecloth. The main hostess, Deena, is a young and beautiful Egyptian gal. She wears long, black hair and sports a T-shirt.

They begin the program with my sitting on a chair next to the door, reading an Arabic newspaper (or giving the impression that I can read an Arabic newspaper). Once Sondos enters, I will accompany her to the conference table with the others to begin our talk.

Our interview is interrupted several times by the director for various reasons. The sound quality is not good. The lighting is off. Someone stumbled on a word or two. Cut! Ok…stand by. 5…4…3…2…1…Go!

My interviewers asked very simple questions:

Why did you come to Egypt?
What do you think of the Egyptian People? The food?
What’s been a memorable experience that you can tell us?
I related the story of the blind man in the metro.

What’s a positive aspect of the people here? Negative?
While I praised the Egyptian people, I really could not think of a negative aspect.

While I began in Egyptian Arabic and tried to speak as much as possible, there were some questions that I couldn’t understand, so Sondos, who was sitting next to me, had to interpret.

The interview will air next month on the O TV Channel. Stay tuned…

Whiskey drinkin’ taxi driver

2008-03-12T16:05:00.000-07:00

The driver this morning asked me a curious question: Teshrab? Or “do you drink?” I responded that I drink tea. His name is Khaled, which means “immortal” in Arabic. He speaks fast. Very fast. Like someone on speed. He is very outgoing and, like many of the drivers, easily impressed with my rudimentary Arabic. He inquires further: “teshrab bira?” or do you drink beer? A little bit at parties, sure. He declares, “I drink beer and whiskey!” He asks for my phone number. I’m always a bit wary when random taxi drivers ask for my phone number. So, I tell him that I could just enter his number into my phone. He says he is having a problem with his phone right now, but would take my number. So, I write my number down on a piece of paper. He wants to call me tomorrow night about midnight for a drink. I don’t know what I’ll be doing at that hour, but this being Cairo, it won’t be too unusual if I wind up drinking a Stella with a random taxi driver in some dive bar in downtown. Stay tuned...

Escorting the blind man in the metro

2008-03-02T14:40:00.000-08:00

Sadat Station, downtown Cairo – A middle-aged blind man dressed in a sharp, green suit and tie approaches the platform with an escort. He is wearing dark sunglasses. As soon as they arrive, his escort leaves. Another gentleman grabs a hold of his left arm and guides him a few inches forward, placing him in front of the doors so that he can board the train as it arrives. Once onboard, his new guide stands a few feet away, but cannot get off at the next stop, Nasser station. However, he quietly tells the man in front of him that he should let the blind man get off first. When the doors open, the blind gentleman gets off. He walks slowly toward his left, but the exit is toward the right. Another man quickly grabs the blind man by his left arm and gently, but briskly guides him toward the exit. I follow closely behind them. His new escort exchanges a few words with his walking partner. At the turnstile, the escort inserts his ticket into the machine to exit. He guides the blind man to follow him. However, the ticket only allows for one entry or exit. So, the blind man has to climb over the turnstile, one stretched leg at a time. A few seconds later, he has exited. His escort leaves him, as quickly as he found him. Now, the blind man takes out his cell phone. Perhaps, to call his friend to meet him. A few moments later, a young lady approaches him, offering to help him. His new escort guides him up the stairs onto the street level. I take the other exit to board my microbus to Zamalek.

I share this little vignette with you because it left a very strong impression on me. In my 25 years of living in the United States and one year in China as an English teacher, I never, ever saw anything even close to this scene in public. In the span of only about 5 minutes, this one blind man had about four total strangers guiding him along his way. Sure, I have seen strangers in Washington, DC offering a seat to a blind rider on the metro. But, that’s the law. I have seen strangers offering to help blind pedestrians if they’re lost or about to walk into oncoming traffic. It is quite a different thing altogether to see four strangers help one blind man in succession. And with no coordination. It almost seems like there was an “invisible hand” at work here. I told my Egyptian roommate about this story and he was not surprised at all. In fact, he expects people to do this, especially Muslims. It is comforting. And reassuring to know that there is kindness and a strong sense of community here, even in this metropolis of 20 million plus people. I am very nearsighted, but still have my sight. However, if I ever become blind in this lifetime, let it happen in Cairo and not in Washington, DC. Alhamdulillah!

A visit to Maktab Al Bareed: the post office

2008-03-02T14:37:00.000-08:00

I needed to mail some postcards and a letter, so walked to the post office today. This is the same post office I visited spring last year. It has a special memory for me as the clerk took a sizable tip from me during that first visit. I gave her a LE 20 note for LE 12 worth of stamps. She only returned LE 3.5, keeping LE 4.5 or about 75 cents.

When I arrive, I see three men in front of me. There is no clerk to help them. Two men are at a table counting money. A third man sits to the side of the table, but is not busy. All three men are smoking cigarettes. A fourth man sits on the other side of the office, but runs out to get tea. No one wears a postal uniform. In fact, everyone is dressed casually. I stand patiently behind the group of three men. Waiting. Five minutes pass. Then 10 minutes. A young Egyptian lady walks into the post office. She goes to another window and asks for service. They ignore her. She asks again. One of the clerks tells her to wait. She looks annoyed, but resigned. Another man walks in. He asks for service. They ignore him. He asks again and this time, the man who is counting money yells at him in a stern tone. I don’t understand any of it. I can only imagine that he said something like, “I’m counting money. I”ll get to you when I’m done. Calm down, man!”

A few more minutes pass. I take out a piece of paper and began to write down some words from the wall that look like interesting vocabulary that I can show my tutor in the morning. I already recognize the sign for mail and package. I look at my watch. It’s been 15 minutes since I’ve walked in. Still no service. Finally, a clerk goes to the other window and tries to help the young lady. She wants to send a poster. After she’s done, I greet him with “Izayak, ya Basha!” Or “How are you, Pasha?” Basha is the Egyptian word for Pasha, the Ottoman Turkish title for the leader of the Empire. In other words, it is a remnant of the colonial era, but a very respectful, although playful title for clerks and blue collar workers. I ask for two post card stamps to America and one local stamp. He opens up the stamp book, but then tells me that I need to go to the parcel window. Strange. I’m at the proper window, but he tells me to go to the other line. No Matter. I’ve learned that one should never argue with a government worker.

I walk three feet over to the other window. I buy my stamps, place them onto the envelope and post cards. I leave them on the counter and check with the clerk to see if it’s alright. He tells me that I need to drop it off into the mailbox – outside the post office. I do as told. I look at my watch again. It’s been 20 minutes since I stepped into the office to buy three stamps. Two words that a friend used to describe Egypt last year come to my mind as I leave for my afternoon walk to downtown: needlessly inefficient.

Zalamak on Zamalek

2008-02-29T06:13:00.000-08:00

On my way home the other day from downtown Cairo to Zamalek, I was in heavy traffic. Nothing new. There’s traffic every day in this city. The microbus driver slows down, but taps the car in front. Upset, the other driver gets out, and yells at our driver, “zalamak!” which translates roughly into “you pick on someone smaller than you.” Generally, this phrase is used to insult other drivers. Another way to look at it is, “You got your driver’s license because you fooled the driving examiner.”

The angry driver opens his car’s front hood to check it for damage. Seeing no visible or major damage, our driver decides to leave the scene. He backs up a foot or so and tries to turn right, but in the process, taps the other car again. The other driver yells again. I don’t catch the insult this time…

Islam’s prohibition of dancing

There is no dancing in Islam, so says Dr. Moustafa. You can dance at home with children, your family, your spouse, but a man should not, and cannot, dance with a woman who is not his wife. He asked me to stand. He grabbed my left hand and swung me around and around in the room. “A man can dance with a man. That’s acceptable. However, it is not right to dance with a woman.” In the same lesson, the good doctor again emphasized how important it is to find a religion. In time, “you will become a Muslim!” he declared with a big smile, as he does in nearly every lesson. Hmmm…a religion without dancing? Is that one of the benefits that he’s touting to make Islam appeal to me? I told Dr. Moustafa that I took many months of Salsa and Tango lessons in the U.S. So...no dancing, no alcohol, no music except for Qur'anic chants. At least in Judaism and Christianity, you can drink alcohol. In the many Shabbat dinners that I attended at the Synagogue in Washington, DC, the Rabbi would usually come around with a bottle of Jack Daniels and offer it to us. At this point, Judaism seems much more attractive.

Oral Presentations: fitting your life into 5 minutes or less

2008-02-21T14:32:00.000-08:00

This was the last week of class at St. Andrews. Students took their written test on Monday and Wednesday night was the Oral part. It was simple. I asked the students to prepare an oral statement of 5 minutes on one of three topics:

1. Tell me about yourself
2. Give me an opinion on Cairo traffic, pollution, housing shortage, or another current topic
3. Cairo is my home now, but …

Most students chose to talk about themselves. I passed out the corrected written test to students at the beginning of class; about 5 failed. It’s always difficult to face failure, I told them. I failed statistics twice in college, before I finally passed it on the third try. It doesn’t mean you’re stupid; it just means that there’s room for improvement.

Ban is a 48 year-old mother of three boys, who likes to dye her hair reddish-purple, and wears a matching red jacket this day. She left Iraq a year and a half ago when her family received a letter threatening to kill them. She first took her youngest (12 years old) and oldest son (24 years old) and fled to Egypt, leaving her husband and middle son in Baghdad. She has tried to find any way possible to take them out of Iraq, but so many countries have denied them entry, including Sweden and the European countries. She now lives in the Cairo suburb 6th of October, where she bought a flat.

Ishag, a soft-spoken 27 year old Sudanese, went by the nickname Khaby as a child.
A childhood friend called him last week, asking for Khaby. He had forgotten his own nickname, so initially did not recognize his old friend. “We was living together,” he explained. They chatted for a while and reminisced about the old days.

Salum, from Tanzania, has been in Cairo since 2005. “I don’t like Cairo! It’s too cold in winter and too hot in summer.” He learned Arabic when he was 15 years old. It sounds like he looks forward to the day when he can return to his homeland.

Omer, a tall gentleman from Chad, has been in Egypt for 5 years. He always has an upbeat attitude. He bemoaned his mediocre English abilities and felt maybe he should try to improve his French to improve his job prospects.

In a strange way, I was relearning the backgrounds of my students on the very last day of class. When I reheard their stories, I felt an acute appreciation of the difficult lives they lead. Of the struggles they’ve faced and are facing. And I realized – again – how fortunate I am in being able to travel freely with my American passport.

After the last presentation was given, the students shook my hand as they filed out of the bungalow. I was happy to finish the course, but also sad to see my students leave me. I will have about two weeks before the next 9 week term begins. Alhamdulillah!

A Challenge from Dr. Moustafa to find the TRUTH

2008-02-19T16:10:00.000-08:00

On Saturday, the doktooor chanted Al Rahman (Sura 55) to me and we spent the entire 2.5 hours of class talking about religion: Where do we come from? La ila illa Allah--There is no god but Allah. And Mohamed is his messenger. We spoke about Prophet Jesus, who never drank wine. What about the Last Supper in which he drank wine with his disciples and broke bread? Lies. Prophets don’t drink wine. The Patriarch Lott sleeping with his two daughters?—lies from the Bible. Lott, a prophet, would never drink wine. And definitely would not have sexual relations with his own flesh.

Dr. Moustafa challenged me: Get up before sunrise. After you take a shower, come out of the bathroom – naked – and go to your room. Sit down and say “La ila illa Allah--There is no god but Allah. And Mohamed is his messenger.” Then, look up and say to God – I want to know the Truth.

Doktooor Moustafa: teacher and preacher

2008-02-11T15:28:00.000-08:00

Beer causes cancer! So says Dr. Moustafa, my Arabic tutor at Fajr Center. He has been teaching me Classical Arabic this past month and he is a wonderful instructor. He uses humor, stories, and lots of patience to teach me. He speaks no English, unless it’s absolutely necessary. When I do speak English, he punishes me by asking me to hand over LE 1 to him.

His odd statement came about after I told him about my doorman Mahmoud, who asked me for beer. First, he was amused, but then a little upset. He said to me, “haram alayk” or shame on you! Shame on the doorman for drinking beer, but also shame on me for giving him the beer. Alcohol, of course, is Haram, or forbidden by the Qu’ran. Devout muslims do not touch the stuff. Dr. Moustafa advised me to say this to my doorman the next time he requests alcohol:

What’s your name?
Mahmoud.
That’s the name of the prophet! Shame on you!

The doorman should stop asking me for alcohol after this exchange. However, I explained to my tutor that I need to maintain good relations with the doorman. So far, he likes me. If I were to stop giving him beers, he may turn against me. Dr. Moustafa asked me, “how about your relationship with God?!”

Last week, I brought in a bag of beer concealed in dark plastic bags. I placed my bag next to my chair, as always. During the middle of the lesson, he asked me what I had in my bag, as it looked rather bulky. He then picked up my bag, saying it was very heavy. I told him of the Koosharee party I was going to in Garden City, by downtown. “Ah…then you have Koosharee ingredients in your bag!” I told him I had “juice” in my bag. Satisfied with that, he did not press me further.

At 35, Dr. Moustafa is fluent in Farsi, French, Arabic and some English. He studied history at Cairo University and still teaches there during the week. He is the most personable teacher I’ve ever had in my life. For example, he hugs me every time he sees me before class. Last week, he fed me breakfast of bread, mashed potatoes, cheese and olives. I reciprocated by bringing him a box of kanafa and bisboosa, two popular pastries in Egypt. A few days ago, he fed me a Kofta lunch. And today, he made me a ful (bean) sandwich during break.

A lecturer on Huda TV, the Islamic televangelism channel on cable TV, explained that when someone praises you, generally he wants something from you. I’ve been thinking about this statement. Obviously, Dr. Moustafa is a very kind and pleasant person. He has treated me like a brother. However, he wants to convert me to Islam. And he has not been shy about his intentions. For example, in the first week of class, he would ask me to recite and then to sing the Fatiha, the opening sura of the Qu’ran, with him. In the second week, he invited me to pray with him at the nearby mosque. I never accepted, telling him “later.” A year of living in China as an English teacher taught me to have a long distance relationship with the word “no.” I would love to pray with him or with any other Muslims; however, with so little understanding of the Qu’ran and Islam, I feel that the prayer is meaningless to me at this point. And in subsequent classes, he would talk about Prophet Mohamed (Peace and blessings of Allah be upon him) and his life during the lesson.

The other day, Moustafa accompanied me on the metro to downtown, where we waited for my friend David before dinner with his aunt. On the metro platform, he took my hand and asked me, “What is the purpose of life? These are important questions you must ask and be able to answer. You will find many of these answers in the Qu’ran. Surely, you will become a Muslim, insh’allah!” This is a phrase that he has used repeatedly in class for many weeks: “Surely, you will become a Muslim, insh’allah!” And I humor him with “insh’allah!” or “God Willing.”

The proselytizing will continue. And I will continue to say “insh’allah!” I love all the food he has been feeding me, but I remember Economist Milton Friedman’s saying, “there is no free lunch.” Surely, there must be a cost to Dr. Moustafa’s largesse.

Big Brother is watching!

2008-02-10T14:10:00.000-08:00

My landlord visited me this week to collect the rent. It was a short and simple meeting. After he counted the money he asked for my passport. He explained that he needs to notify the police that I’m staying here. So, I gave him a copy of my passport. It’s an eerie feeling to know that the police have an interest in knowing where I live and now will have a copy of my passport. Welcome to Egypt!

Dinner with my refugee students

2008-02-06T06:25:00.000-08:00

I enjoyed a Koosharee dinner (a popular vegetarian meal of rice, pasta, lentils, fried onions) with two of my students Monday night: Hani, a 20 year-old Eritrean, and Mohamed, a 30 year old Sudanese. Both are refugees. You wouldn’t know it from talking to them. Hani speaks with an American accent. He says “yeah” instead of “yes.” He is wearing a dark Tupac shirt. He is more comfortable speaking English with his sister at home rather than Tagrinya, the language of Eritrea. A resident of Cairo for 10 months now, he spent two years in Khartoum, Sudan. His father remains in Saudi Arabia and his mother lives in Eritrea. She visited him in Cairo just five months ago. Hani speaks very fluently and is one of the best students in class. He should be studying at a University. Unfortunately, he says he “does nothing” the rest of the week. I do not ask him too many personal questions, but it seems that he has no job. He is taking French classes now, but does not really enjoy them. His Chinese neighbor in Eritrea used to teach him a few Chinese words and phrases, so he asked me for a few words tonight. After I explain to him that Chinese verbs do not conjugate, he said, “Maybe I should learn Chinese instead of French.”

Mohamed is a gentle man. He wears glasses and has a scholar look about him. He stands out from the rest of the students by sitting in the front row and always volunteers to speak. Mohamed follows American politics. Both he and Hani are Barack Obama supporters. Mohamed even knows about Senator Bob Dole. He grows pessimistic when I ask him about his future plans after St. Andrews, where he takes English classes. “What can I do when I leave here? All we get is a certificate, a piece of paper that says we took a class here.” He is currently applying for asylum to Australia. In 2004, he left the Sudan, where he faced religious persecution from the Islamic Government. His father disappeared and two of his sisters were kidnapped by the Janjaweed Militia in Darfur. He has never heard from them since. Mohamed received protection from a local church. After spending some time with them, he eventually converted to Christianity, which led to more troubles for him. Security men detained him and accused him of subversion. They beat him repeatedly and tortured him night and day. He was deprived of food, water and sleep. They tied him up and hanged him upside down from a ceiling fan. When he was released, he fled the country.

While Hani will stay in Cairo for the foreseeable future, Mohamed is trying to leave for greener pastures. I wish him well. Australia would do well to accept this refugee, whom I’m confident will make great contributions to their country down under.

My two minutes of fame with Sunnyland Tours

2008-02-02T02:14:00.000-08:00

My friend Nat called me up the other day, asking me if I wanted to make a quick LE 50 ($9) for two minutes of work. He told me that Sunnyland Tours company is looking for foreigners to record a testimonial for their tour services. So, we recorded a spot in front of the Egyptian Museum with impromptu lines: “I’ve been in Egypt for two weeks now and have seen the sites: Pyramids, Luxor, Aswan. Ever since my guide picked us up at the airport, everything’s been on time and wonderful (Insert cheesy smile and wave). Thank you Sunnyland tours!” Afterwards, our photographer took us out to lunch at Abu Tariq, the most famous Koosharee restaurant in downtown Cairo.

The artist Andy Warhol once said that everyone has his 15 minutes of fame. Well, with two minutes gone, I suppose I now have 13 minutes left.

Booze for the Munaqiba

2008-01-26T12:09:00.000-08:00

Our cleaner came today to clean up our mess from the going-away party the other night. To thank her, we gave her some extra beer. When she took it, she said it was for her oldest son. However, if we ever need any gin or whiskey, tax free, she has a dealer. Go figure! To get good alcohol tax free, you simply need to go through a munaqiba house cleaner. Only in Egypt.

Booze for the Bowab

2008-01-22T15:06:00.000-08:00

The delivery man from Drinkie’s, the local supplier of booze to foreigners in the neighborhood, arrived an hour earlier than expected. I ordered 200 cans of Stella and Saqqara beer for our going-away party this Thursday evening for my roommate, who’s moving out of Egypt. Mahmoud, the Bowab (or doorman) saw the special delivery and asked if we were having a party. I invite him, even though he won’t be able to come. He asks if I can save a can for him. He prefers Saqqara to Stella. It tastes better. Later in the evening, Mahmoud visits me and knocks lightly on my door. I grab a can and discreetly place it in a black plastic bag. He smiles and leaves a happy Muslim. Alhamdulillah!

81 + 18 = 99

2008-01-18T14:57:00.000-08:00

A friend showed me this the other day:
Put your two hands together, palms up, side by side. On your left hand, you’ll see the lines form /\ 1, which is 81 in Arabic. On your right hand, you’ll see 1 /\, which is 18 in Arabic. 81 + 18 = 99, the number of names of Allah (God). Cool, huh?

Our Munaqiba Cleaner

2008-01-10T15:33:00.000-08:00

When I woke this morning, I heard the sound of a woman’s voice in the living room. It belonged to our new cleaner, a woman who has no identity. She is “munaqiba” or one who wears the niqab, the black veil that covers the face. In expat-speak, she is a ninja lady. My roommate Alex told me that it would be awkward – to say the least – to deal with her. Awkward because a man does not talk to a munaqiba, much less look her in the eyes. Having a man in the house while she cleans would pose a challenge. A possible scenario would be to have me leave the apartment while she cleans. I had no objections to this possibility; however, in the long term, it would be a problem, not simply a challenge.

Fortunately for our munaqiba, I returned home very late last night, so slept in. Also, I have a cold, so did not feel like getting out of bed. Alex slipped a note under my door: “Hi Andy! Don’t come out – the cleaning lady is here. Just call my name and I’ll come.” She also spoke very slowly and methodically – almost like a new learner of Arabic. Alex believes that perhaps she has been drinking.

I am still new to the world of Islam and just beginning to learn about its rich history and culture. So, I try to approach the religion with an open mind. However, when it comes to the niqab and munaqiba, it is very strange to me that I don’t even know what my cleaner looks like. Or that I cannot see her face. As people, we are known by our faces. Not our hands. Not our feet. Not our bellybuttons. But, our faces. If your face is covered, you hide your identity and your personhood. There is little difference between you and an invisible man.

I would’ve liked to meet our cleaner today – to thank her for her service; sadly, this may not happen anytime soon, as it would be a collision of worlds.

A street solicitation by the police
So, I encountered my first solicitation tonight by the police. As I walked home toward my apartment building, I greeted a police officer at the corner with the usual “izayak” or “hello.” I then added, “MasaH Alkheir” or good evening and the holiday greeting “Kulu Sana winta tayyeb” meaning “may you be good all year.” He responded with a sentence that I did not understand.

He then said “feeloose” or money. He opened his right palm, indicating he wanted a contribution from me to his pocket. I joked with him, “feeloose kwayyes” or money is good. I asked him if he had any to give to me. He smiled. And then asked me again for money, with his hand extended. The jist of his request was that during the new year, I’m supposed to give him some money. I turned the request around and said “Adee-knee 10 guinay” or give me 10 pounds. He declined. I then asked for 5 pounds. He smiled and I ended with “may-yeah may-yeah” or 100%, which is the Egyptian way of saying, “I understand your joke.” Of course, this is no laughing matter when the police stop you on the street to beg for money. It is said that the police are usually paid about LE 400, which is less than $80.

Happy New Year!

Kindness of a stranger

2007-12-11T11:02:00.000-08:00

This afternoon, I took a minibus from Mohandiseen, where I have Arabic classes, to Midan Dokki, where I catch the Metro to Maadi, the site of Egypt Today’s office. Surprisingly, the bus is not crowded. And there are a few seats in the back. When I sit down, the man to my right begins talking to me. I don’t understand half of what he says, but I smile and nod and say repeatedly “meshee,” which is the Arabic “Ok.”

Soon, I need to get off the bus and the gentleman to my left speaks to me in basic English. He wears glasses, has a beard and is dressed in a sweater. As we get off the bus, he pays for my ride -- half a pound (a dime). I try to put the same amount in his pocket, but he refuses, saying I am his guest. I try a second time. Again, he refuses. He also needs to go to the same Metro station, so we walk together.

As we approach the window to buy our tickets, he walks ahead of me. I suspect he will try to pay for my metro ride, so I cut him off and take out a 10 pound bill, saying I need change, which was true. He says he also needs change. I beat him to it and bought a ticket for him (one pound or 20 cents).

On the train, we talk a little more. He’s traveled to Damascus, Syria and Istanbul, Turkey, but never to Europe or America. He is a lawyer by training and specializes in family and community law. I tell him that lawyers are generally despised in America because they are seen as liars and cheats. He says lawyers have an equally low position in Egyptian society.

After one stop, a seat opens up and he directs me to sit down. I decline as the next stop Sadat station is my transfer point. Another man is ready to sit down, but the lawyer is adamant and blocks the other man from sitting, saying it is for me. I tell him that I will be sitting down for many hours tonight at my office. I thank him and bid him farewell with “Rabina yihaleek” or May God keep you. Egyptians never cease to amaze me with their kind hospitality.

Alexandria: return to antiquity

2007-12-09T14:06:00.000-08:00

For a second class seat, the 8:15am train ride from Cairo to the seaside city of Alexandria was quite pleasant: clean, soft pleather seats, and a nice view of endless farm fields. We pass many poor areas, tenements and markets. Most of the roofs are still unfinished, with the rebar sticking out like antennae. It is said that once you finish building your house, then you must pay a type of property tax, so the crafty Egyptians simply leave the roofs unfinished.

When we arrive in Alexandria about 11am, we are greeted by a gentle downpour. Hallah, my friend from Merkaz Fajr and I buy an umbrella at the station. Made in China. Everything in Egypt is made in China. We make our way to the Corniche or boardwalk. We stop by a Brazilian Coffee shop for coffee and hot chocolate to warm ourselves up. When we go upstairs, a waiter tells us that we need to vacate the shop in 10 minutes for prayers. So, we go downstairs again, order our beverages, and imbibe them as we stand and eat our desserts.

When we walk on the corniche, I spot a woman standing on a big rock with a fishing pole. I slowly make my way over to her, wanting to engage her in a conversation with my rudimentary Arabic.
“Is there fish here?” I ask her.
“Yes. A lot.”
The woman is middle-aged and comes once a week with her husband. She cooks the fish at home and tells me that it is “helwa!” or sweet. Her husband is at prayers for the moment, so she is fishing alone for a while.

As we continue to walk on the corniche, we receive many stares for obvious reasons: what is an Asian guy doing with an Egyptian girl? They must be married! So, that was our cover--Hallah became my wife for the day. I didn't even have to buy her any flowers. If only all relationships can be this easy...

We visit the Citadel Fort Qaitbay and then the Catacombs, ancient tombs that have very interesting paintings that mix Greek and Pharaonic imagery.

At most places that we visit, from the restaurant to the shop where I buy a bottle of water, vendors are very curious about us: where do you come from? They ask Hallah if she is Egyptian. If so, is she married to me?

Return to Cairo—lights out!
In the evening, we buy our return tickets to Cairo. However, we sense something is amiss as our tickets only cost LE 6 (about $1.00). Perhaps, this is the super slow train that will arrive at midnight? Once we board the train, we realize why our ticket is so cheap--there are no lights; the entire train is completely dark! Generally, I have a poor sense of smell, but I can detect a very strong stench of fresh urine mixed with shit wafting through the entire car. I tell Hallah to keep moving to the next car.

We finally spot an open seat and sit down. The window is cracked. Perhaps, a big rock hit it some time ago. It is yellow and stained and dusty. It is also half open, allowing a cool breeze to flow in. It doesn’t bother me, but Hallah minds, so she asks if I can close it. Before I get up to do anything, the gentleman next to us closes the window for us. He begins talking to us.

A medical student, Amjad is 21 years old and from the town of Tanta, close to Alexandria. Because it is dark, it is hard for me to describe him except that he has strong features and is very warm. Occasionally, some light from a passing train lights up our car for a few seconds. I catch a glimpse of his face. He has big, round eyes and a strong chin. He is not fat, but could easily be a wrestler. Amjad speaks with competent, but halting English. In about three more years he will become a doctor. He was in Alexandria today to search for a flat to buy. However, there are many cheats in Egypt so that very often, after you buy a flat, two or three others will say they have also bought the same flat, so it goes to court, which will take five years or so to resolve.

Amjad asks me, “What do you think of Egypt?” I seem to get this question a lot lately.
“I love the people. They are kind and warm,” I reply.

“What do you think of hygiene here?” Of course, I complain about the air pollution and trash. Amjad explains that he avoids eating in most restaurants because they are unsanitary. It makes sense, but he speaks like he is a foreign tourist, disdaining the street stall food.

He lives with his mom and brother. His dad is an engineer and mom is a teacher. She is sitting at the end of the car. “My father visited Holland and loved that country. It is so much better there! In America, it is so much better than Egypt, yes? More advanced in technology? Cleaner?” Amjad asks me very direct and leading questions, almost as if he wants me to confirm his opinions.

Hallah again asks me, “Why are there no lights on this train?!”
Amjad replies, “This is Egypt!” He smiles.

He says, “I hate Egypt! Where there are no lights on the train, the windows are cracked and broken.”

He asks, “Is it hard to find job in America?” I tell him there are many, many opportunities.

Amjad says he fell in love with America after he saw the movie “Prison Break” recently on his computer.

He is curious about how the American people view Egypt, especially after the 9/11 attacks. “Do they think we are terrorists?” he adds. I explain that Americans generally think of four things in Egypt: Pyramids, the Nile, Luxor and King Tut. This seems to comfort him a little, at least.

Amjad is also bothered by the ubiquitous pollution. “Leaders in Egypt do not care about the trash. They steal from the people. Egypt is a very rich country: lots of resources, but the leaders steal from the people.”

Amjad strikes me as bright, warm and ambitious. He asks me several times about the process of getting a visa to go to the US to study or work. He says in Egypt, a doctor can only make LE 400 ($80) on average or maybe LE 5,000 depending on experience, intelligence and the office.

He only goes to Cairo once a year or so. He says, “I may never see you again.” Well, I’m in Cairo until end of June, so if you come, call me, I tell him.

“At first, I was reluctant to speak to you. I was afraid,” He confided to me.
“I am glad that you spoke to me. In the future, when you see a foreigner on the train, just approach him and the worst he’ll say is maybe he is tired and doesn’t want to talk. Most of the time, you will have a good experience,” I advise him.

A small group of rowdy men behind us are laughing at us. Perhaps, they are amused by the spectacle of an Egyptian speaking with an Oriental in English. So, Amjad tells me that if they talk to me, I should avoid talking to them. Also, if they ask, that Hallah is my wife, because in Egypt, there are no boyfriends or girlfriends. He tells me this more for our safety than anything else, it seems.

Also, “sometimes in the dark, beware of thieves.” Now, I am a bit nervous.

When Amjad gets off the train, I shake his hand and tell him to contact me by email and phone. If he ever visits Cairo, he has at least one friend.

Come to Tanta!
Before we leave Tanta, a new couple sits in front of us. The young woman is 21 and a Muhigabat, or a woman who wears the hijab, the garment that covers the hair and neck. After a few minutes, they begin talking to Hallah. They, like most Egyptians, are very warm and welcoming. Mohammad is a 19 year student studying science. She studies home economics at Al Ahzar, Cairo’s oldest and most famous religious University. While he speaks a little basic English, she speaks none, so Hallah becomes our “turgamun” or interpreter. She strikes me as very outgoing and gregarious, a trait that I usually do not associate with Egyptian women. (Of course, I’ve not met too many in my one month here).

Beginning with the basics, she asks if I am Chinese, Korean, or Japanese. Wanting to make my background a little more exciting than it really is, I tell her I am from Malaysia and that I am a student.

“Are you Muslim?”
“Yes,” I reply.
“Do you pray?” she inquires.
“Dimon” (always) I reply.
She smiles.
The couple talks with us for the duration of our journey back to Cairo. They invite us to their hometown of Tanta for a small Eid or holiday in January 2008. A kind offer. I don’t know if the invitation is genuine or they are simply being polite to two strangers on the train. Tanta has much culture and many historical sites, she explains. And they have many mosques.

She and Hallah exchange phone numbers. When she asks me for mine, I tell her that I don’t remember my number, and that she can always contact me through Hallah.

After we leave the train station, she and her friend help us to get a cab. Again, she asks for my phone number. Again, I tell her that she can find me through Hallah.

We return home, exhausted after a productive and very memorable day filled with adventures.

Meandering the halls of the Mugamma

2007-12-02T07:58:00.000-08:00

I need to upgrade my 30 day tourist visa to a temporary resident visa, so I make a visit to the Mugamma.

Many foreigners fear and dread this place, as the Cairo Practical Guide warns: “This daunting pre-evolutionary monstrosity on the south side of Midan Al-Tahrir strikes terror in the heart of any Kafka fan.” The place has a reputation as the mother of all bureaucracies.

Mugamma contains a long history. For example, the head of the Nile Transport Office, while under investigation on embezzlement charges, jumped out of an 11th- floor balcony to his death. On a lighter note--in 1983, after the manager died, his assistant took over the space, housing his entire family; he was not discovered until two months later, when he explained that his wife had been nagging him about their small and cramped room. In 1994, a similar case was uncovered: this time it was a civil servant, and he had been living in the office since the mid-1970s. (To read more, click here)

I arrive at 8:30am. Already, the place is filled with people. Vendors line the outside selling snacks and drinks. Some people loiter at the bottom of the stairs. They must be the guides who offer newbies advice and paid services in navigating the Mugamma.

Before I arrive, I receive two sets of conflicting directions:
First, SameH from Fajr advised me to take a left after the metal detector, then another left. However, the Cairo Practical Guide advises readers to go to the first floor, then take a right. Well it’s a circular building, so a left or a right will take you to the same set of windows, I later discovered.

Mugamma is like the DMV, but the workers are mostly women in hijabs, who speak Arabic. If you’re lucky, a few do speak some good English. There are no lines. Only crowds and whoever can elbow their way to the window without causing a fight. At moments like this, a return to the Virginia DMV seems pretty good: you walk in, take a number, sit down, and wait to be called.

I first go to window 12 for a form. It’s about twice as big as any government form that I’ve ever seen and in both English and Arabic, it asks for basic info: address, purpose of visa, etc. I leave Religion blank.

The lady, in her 40s, and in good English, directs me to window 42 to buy some stamps costing 61 LE and to make a copy of my passport and the visa page and come back.
At window 42, the lady also speaks some English and sells me some stamps, then directs me downstairs to get a copy of my passport.

Downstairs: a middle-aged gentleman in the hallway asks if I need copies of my passport page. He takes my passport and walks to a small broom closet with some copiers. After only a few seconds, he returns my passport and one copy. I give him 50 piastres (a dime) and tell him, “SareeH” or fast. He smiles. He then asks if I have a photo. I give him my color photo and he staples it neatly onto the page. I give him 50 piastres as baksheesh (tip). His name is Tareeq and he has worked in this broom closet for 30 years. Wow! Imagine that. I’ve switched jobs annually in my former life in the US. Often, I’ve gotten bored of a job just a month or two into it. I cannot possibly imagine working the same job – especially one in such a small space and dealing with the public – for such a long time. He must be a very patient man.

I return upstairs to window 12 and a different lady reviews my application. A younger lady to her right seems to be new and is learning on the job. The first lady is gently teaching her where to write on the visa applications. They tell me I now have to get my application signed. “Fain?” or Where?

“Right next to us” she points somewhere toward over there.
I leave the window and walk slowly, but don’t see anything relevant:
Non-Arab residency. Not me.
Refugee applicants. Not me. Alhamdullilah.
Arab residency.
Long term residency (3-5 years).
Long term work residency (3-5 years).

Hmmm….I walk back and forth. Then, a man who notices that I have the lost look directs me to a desk by the end of the hallway with two men in business suits, but no sign above them. I walk over and hand my papers to them. The man signs and returns it to me without even looking at me.
“shookrun” I say, or Thank you! No response.
“Shookrun” I repeat. Again, no response. He is busy talking to his friend.

When I return to window 12, the lady tells me that I really do not need the 50 LE stamp and gently removes it. She returns it to me and tells me to get a refund, which surprises me. She could easily have pocketed the money. Many Egyptians do. In my weekly visits to the supermarket, the clerks -- as a rule -- always shortchange customers for anything under half a pound (a dime). Most people are too busy and in a hurry to care. While I initially thought they simply did not have the “faka” or change, I’ve now realized that they do, but want to skim off the top. For example, yesterday I had lunch at Hardee’s, which is Carl’s Jr. in Cairo. For a lunch of 16.50I handed the girl a 20 pounder. She should have given me 3.5, but instead gave me 3.25, all in 0.25 increments of very old bills. She probably figured that it would take me a while to count them and by the time I realized the inaccurate amount, it would be too late or I wouldn’t care. She was right. If she does this 10 times daily, she’ll make 2.5 LE, enough to buy two falafels. That’s breakfast.

In my first visit to Egypt in April, I went to the post office to mail some postcards. I bought stamps for 12 LE. I gave the clerk 20 LE. Instead of handing me 8 LE, I got 3.5 in return. In other words, she kept 4.5 LE (about 90 cents) as her user fee. At the time, I didn’t complain, thinking, ”well—she needs it more than me and I’m a tourist here for only two weeks, so…” Now that I’m a resident, I try to be more vigilant with these matters. I’m sure sociologists would have a field day trying to explain this practice. I’ve heard it said that Egypt is such a poor country that people try to make ends meet in whatever way they can. If that means skimming from the top by shortchanging customers, then so be it.

I should return in two hours to Window 38 to pick up my visa. I receive no receipt for my application. Hmmm…

After I return to Merkaz Fajr to take my final exam, Moustafa hands me a copy of the Quran in English. I had asked SameH earlier in the week for one. The men promised me one before I finished my course. I tell them that I will read it and cherish the gift, always.

Return to Mugamma
At Window 38:
The lady simply recognizes me from my passport photo and hands it to me without confirming my identity. Five minutes after I enter the Mugamma, I am finished. I leave with an extended stay until April 2008. Alhamdullilah!

I discover women at Fajr

2007-11-26T13:51:00.001-08:00

I’ve never attended an all-boys Catholic school, but Fajr must come close to it. Women are on the 3rd floor, while men are on the 2nd floor. Men teach male students and women teach female students. The only time males and females mix is if they wander into the office with a question for SameH, one of the bearded office workers.

During one of these random office encounters, I meet Hallah, an Egyptian gal born in New York, who is studying Arabic here for the year. However, she studies all day five days a week, including Arabic calligraphy. She, too, feels the effects of isolation and inability to interact with other students. She jokes that she feels like “running away.” Hallah is 18, but going on 25. She has long, straight, black hair and keeps it that way; otherwise, Egyptian women will give her a hard time if she wears a perm or any style that would draw too much attention. She has big, round eyes and a New York attitude about life; that is to say, a resilient attitude. Many aspects of Islam make her apprehensive, especially the strictness that Islam places on female modesty. For example, when she goes into the office to arrange her schedule of classes, the man at the table does not look directly at her. He looks down on the floor or past her or slightly askance so that she is not able to mesmerize him too much. And he definitely can not shake her hand.

We agree to meet about 2pm outside the center for a study session. I arrive about 2:05 pm, but don’t see her. I wait another 10 minutes and then go upstairs to the 3rd floor to find her. The door is unlocked and open an inch or so. However, I find myself reluctant to enter. It feels forbidden, like I’m stepping into the women’s bathroom. After a few minutes, I crack it open…Creeek!!! There’s a large mirror behind the door covering the wall and a hallway, almost like in a bathroom to obscure one’s view of the tenants inside. I don’t actually step into the room. As soon as I crack it open a few inches, I let it close again. I remain outside, nervously waiting…

Finally, I hear footsteps downstairs, peer down and see a young girl walk down. I yell her name, “Hallah!” Outside, she explains, “it’s a good thing you didn’t go inside, because one of the women teachers wears the niqab (the garment that covers the body from head to toe, except the eyes) and she’s exposed inside.” In other words, had I been discovered on the women’s floor, the niqab teacher (ninja lady) would complain to the program director, who would probably reprimand me. Images of Mr. FawteH beating me with a ruler returned to my mind.

As we walk to Midan Dokki and then Midan Galaa, she walks on the streets, whereas I stay on the sidewalks. And it occurs to me that most Egyptians use the streets because the sidewalks here are so dilapidated and full of holes and debris and trash, that it’s much easier and more direct to walk on the street.

Hallah is hungry, even though she ate lunch. Well, a small, meatless sandwich, so I offer her an apple from my bag. After a few bites, a small girl of 5 or 6 with a dusty face and unkempt hair approaches her to ask for a bite. Hallah gives her the remainder of the apple. “Here you go, habibtie (darling).” It is a common sight that I suppose I am getting used to, but still uncomfortable with. The Cairo Practical Guide for expats offers an interesting perspective on begging: “It is one of the Five Pillars of Islam to give alms to the poor, and since a strong streak of fatalism runs through Egyptian society, there is little shame, if any, associated with begging.” A far cry from Dostoyevsky, who once wrote in Crime and Punishment that Beggary is the worst vice. Perhaps, there is a comfortable middle ground between the Russian and the Islamic view? I will have the next seven months to find out.

Who turned off the lights and water?

2007-11-24T14:38:00.001-08:00

When I arrived at my apartment lobby, I noticed the lights were out. The doorman sitting outside said the power went out, including the elevators. He directed me to use the stairs. I started climbing—in the dark. As I live on the 5th floor, you’d think it’s a simple thing to climb to the 5th floor to my apartment. Well, this is Egypt, where they like to add a few floors between the ground floor and your floor. So, there are actually two or three additional floors before they start counting “floor one.” I’m glad I actually walked up and down the stairs a couple of times when I first moved in because I would have gotten lost tonight.

A short while after I entered my apartment, the water stopped running. About midnight, it returned—very quickly as the toilets started making noises. About 12:30am, a group of 10 men or so, some still in their business clothes, went around ringing doorbells, including mine. “Hello! The water and electricity was cut tonight because we owe 250 LE ($50) more. Can you pay this now?”

I didn’t know what to say. It sounded very odd. My roommate Alex came to the door, more skeptical than me. She said we would speak with the landlord first and slammed the door. I could still hear their voices as they lingered outside the door, laughing...

How strange—the internet connection tonight is very clear and fast, the first time in a long time, but we are lacking electricity and water.

Welcome to Egypt!

Mooshkayla Bab

2007-11-21T16:01:00.000-08:00

The lock in our “bab” (door) began to jam a few days ago. Each day, it would get harder and harder to unlock the door. Last night, it took more than an hour.

I first ask our doorman Mahmoud, who’s my favorite of the three doormen, for help. He always greets me warmly and with a big smile each time he sees me. Mahmoud tries for a few minutes, but fails, so we go back downstairs. I ask if he can talk to the landlord Mr. Sameer for us. “Who’s Mr. Sameer?” he asks me.

He returns to his desk, and says the locksmith can take a look at the “mooshkayla” or problem “bokra, insha’allah” or tomorrow, God Willing. Otherwise, he keeps quiet. It is 9:40pm. At this late hour, a locksmith would cost about 150 LE ($30). After I ask for a phone number, he writes it down for me. I call the landlord and request that Mahmoud speak with him, as I still do not speak fluent Arabic. He agrees. However, the landlord does not answer his phone.

At this point, my phone credit expires. After buying more credit, I go for a schwarma chicken sandwich dinner to stay calm. When I return, our Romanian neighbor Nikol is helping us with the door. He asks me if I have a small card.

I give him my Arlington, Virginia public library card. After a few minutes of jamming it into the door, he returns it to me. He goes to his apartment and returns with a large kitchen knife. He slides it into the side of the door. He returns to his apartment for some pliers. He spends the next 30 minutes performing surgery on the door. At one point, he tries to kick down the door. Boom! Boom! Boom! Nothing. He disappears into his apartment and returns with a small wooden board and uses it as a lever to budge open the door. It opens a little bit. Back to the knife and pliers.

At this point, the night shift doorman visits. He’s an older man, in his 50s, with a receding hairline and walks with a slouch. As he arrives at our door, his phone rings. He answers and talks while he picks up the knife with his left hand. He inserts it into the door crack and moves it back and forth a few times, without much effort. When he hangs up, he disappears into the elevator, but doesn’t return.

After we finally open the door, the next day, I find myself stuck in the apartment. I tell Regib, our daytime doorman, about our problem. He is also in his 50s and speaks some English; he graduated from Cairo University in 1976 with a degree in English translation. As soon as he examines our door, he says, “you must change. Helas!” or this lock is done. He says he can fix the lock for only 100LE or less than $20. He lives by the pyramids, so it’ll take him an hour or so to go home to get his equipment.

He returns in one hour and fixes the door with remarkable speed. He hammers the nails back into place and tells me, “nails not good. Made in Egypt!”

“Where are the good nails?” I inquire.
“Made in China,” he smiles. He also explains the glue he uses is Egyptian.

Ahmed, our roving doorman, tags along, but doesn’t do much more than pass a few screws to Regib. Although the repair is really a one-man job, somehow in Egypt, it always takes two or more men. When Regib finishes repairing the lock, I slip him a small baksheesh (tip) that will allow him to buy five falafels. The custom here is to tip for nearly every service. I give Ahmed nothing.

To sum up, lessons I’ve learned about life in Egypt so far:

1. Everything breaks down in Egypt
2. Good help is hard to find, especially in Cairo
3. Most doormen are useless
4. Try to have a Romanian neighbor who knows how to open a stuck door

A final note—my new favorite doorman is now Regib. Alhamdullilah!

Teaching Sudanese Refugees: a preview

2007-11-18T07:45:00.000-08:00

I visited St. Andrews yesterday to meet with Abigail, the new Director of the Adult Education Program. The office is on the second floor, which sits on top of a small property with one main teaching classroom and a bungalow on the playground. Some children are kicking around a soccer ball.

A petite lady in her mid-20s with fair skin and brownish hair, Abigail studied in Cairo for a semester in 2004 while at the University of Virginia (UVA). This is now her second rotation in the Egyptian capital. She has scheduled me to teach one class twice a week for a total of three hours. My students will probably be more advanced speakers.

The school has eight paid teachers serving 600 adults and 200 children. Most of them are Sudanese Refugees; however, the school also welcomes refugees from Somalia and Eritrea. Abigail says they “turn no one away.” Some students need to learn Arabic besides English to function in Cairo. Like the previous school I taught at in China, St. Andrews emphasizes English and computer skills; however, unlike my Chinese students, these students don’t have cars and drivers to shuttle them home for the weekend at nice condos in the city.

While we talk in the office, a skinny, young boy comes in asking for bus money home. Abigail prepares to give him one Egyptian Pound (about 20 cents), but he asks for 2 LE to include his “uktee” or sister. Abigail pulls out the bus fare from her purse and hands it to him.

A while later, a young girl enters the office with a scraped knee. Abigail tends to the small wound with some disinfectant spray, warning her young patient, “ok…this will hurt a little.” Spray. Spray. She covers it with a band-aid and the operation is complete.

After I leave St. Andrews, I spot an Egyptian man pissing into a fence next to the Nasser Metro Station. Maybe he really has to go. Despite his precarious situation, he is fairly discreet. No one seems to notice him. Once he finishes his business, he calmly zips up and walks away. The last time I saw public urination in broad daylight was in China during my teaching year. Egypt reminds me so much of China. Both are crowded and polluted, but have so much potential. Both countries operate with authoritarian political systems trying to find ways to improve their futures. Both have young men who like to piss at or through fences in public.

Tutor to the jeweler

2007-11-13T07:07:00.000-08:00

I have found myself gainful part-time employment as a tutor to a diamond and gold jeweler named Barsoum. I first speak to his wife Manal, who has very fluent English. She tells me her husband is in need of conversational English practice for two hours a week. She doesn’t tell me much else except that they live by the Pyramids.

When I arrive at the compound, Barsoum meets me at the gate. He is a youthful looking gentleman with short hair and a mustache and a warm smile. He guides me into his house, which is a lovely mansion-like home. His wife serves me tea as we sit down at the coffee table. A large plasma TV screen sits on the shelf, below the DVD player. Barsoum has studied English for many years, but has not used it much outside the classroom.

He’s traveled all around the world, from the U.S. and Canada to Hong Kong to Europe to Bangkok, Thailand. He visits Dubai every three months and has been there more than 30 times altogether. He likes Hong Kong, but found the taxi drivers hard to communicate with as they speak little to no English. Barsoum speaks with confidence and much energy. He tells me that he wants to focus on speaking, listening and business vocabulary. In his line of work, he often deals with foreign businessmen, especially in Hong Kong and Thailand, who tend to be very indirect.

After nearly an hour of chatting, we move to the dining table, where Barsoum and his wife serve me a light snack of flat bread, salad, a thin omelette and cheese. I compliment her on the delicious food. I want to compliment on her cooking, but see that she has a maid in the kitchen.

Barsoum wants to meet with me weekly on Sunday mornings for two hours. He wants to take me to dinner Thursday in Dokki, by his shop, which is just a few minutes away from my language school.

The couple has two children in a private British-run high school, the “best in Egypt”. (Best means expensive). Even better than Al Alsson, the other famous international school. He wants about six children, but explains that his wife doesn’t want more. “It’s a real problem,” he jokes. They are Coptic Christians, and explain that in Egypt, unfortunately, the Muslims like to convert foreigners or any non-Muslims. I explain that I noticed that every conversation with a taxi driver usually turns into religion. “I feel like a fish and the Muslims are out to catch me,” I tell them. They laugh.

When our tutorial ends, they briefly show me around the Villa. “It is very quiet here,” they remark as we walk to the swimming pool. Many foreigners rent out the houses here. The couple lives in what would be called a “gated community” in the U.S. They hail a cab for me and I bid them Ma-esalama or see ya later.