Dates: August 24 – September 5, 2009
Location: Egypt
If the picture above is what you think of when you think about Egypt, then you are thinking of a land that existed 4000 years ago. When I think back to last year, though, the first two image that fill my mind are:
Neither the splendor of the world’s great structures, nor the comedy, oppulance and oppression of modern tourism are fair encapsulations of a country so large and ancient. My time in Egypt can’t even be considered a mixture of the two. There are simply too many people, sites, and stories for such an eloquent equation.
When I first arrived, Ramadan had just begun. For a full month, Muslim faithful would eschew food and water between sunrise and sunset. The in flight magazine advertised this as the best time to visit Egypt. Being part of a sacred tradition would allow insights and experiences denied to travelers the other eleven months of the year. Ready to observe and maybe even engage in a storied spiritual event, I grabbed my bag from the carousel and bounded out the airport door.
Before I had time to adjust to the hundred degree heat a voice called out, “Mr. Metier?”
Turning toward the sound, I squinted into the sun and saw a man holding a sign with my name on it. He was tall and skinny wearing dress slacks and a nice button-up shirt. His curly hair was shaved into a fade and he wore sunglasses that I would only see him take off once over the next two weeks.
I extended my hand and he gave it a quick shake. “What took you so long?” He was already walking to the parking lot. “We need to go!” The impatience in his voice was a tone I’d come to know quite well.
He passed cars on the left and right, usually choosing to straddle a lane line like a motorcycle in LA traffic. In later months I came to be very comfortable with this style of driving. A large portion of the world’s traffic seems to follow a law that can be summed up as Logic of the Moment. If someone comes into your lane from the left, you pull to the right. If you want to go faster, just lay on the horn. The bigger vehicle always wins. Logic. That said, never have I seen so much anger driving. In other countries, the constant honking is a warning, a neighborly gesture even. Throughout Egypt, however, it was an aural extension of a seething rage. Bus drivers, taxi drivers, businessmen, everyone of them had a place to be and knew deep in their hearts that not only was every other vehicle keeping them from getting there, those other drivers were slowing them up out of pure spite. In such a patriarchal, macho country, any impediment was viewed as an assault on honor and was returned with yelling, cursing and honking.
The only drivers I didn’t see this from were women, who as far as I could tell, used their blinkers, maintained safe braking distances and generally drove in only one lane at a time. Time and again I heard men tell jokes about woman drivers. After their laughter had stopped they’d turn serious and tell me that woman drivers were the worst. The way they always used their brakes and took too long changing lanes was dangerous. When I asked if Egypt had a lot of car accidents, I was met with disdain.
“It has a much lower accident rate than other places.”
“Is this because out of all the accidents I’ve seen here, none were ever reported to the police?”
(pause)
“Women cause almost all the accidents.”
ABOVE: Not the man who picked me up from the airport, this was the most sweet-natured driver I had. He still nearly got in a fistfight over a parking spot.
The sun was minutes from setting when my driver pulled up to the hostel. Outside of the car, most of his anger had disappeared. I asked if this was because another day of fasting was almost over. For the first time he laughed. “I’m a Christian, I can eat whenever I want.” He rolled up his sleeve and showed me a tattoo on his wrist. What looked like a button-sized gun sight was actually a Coptic cross. From what I could gather, all Christians in Egypt get the mark before their teenage years. Though not government issued, the tattoos serve as a sort of free pass. In a country where Muslim law is enforced by police officers, buying alcohol is a lot easier if part of your body advertises: NOT MUSLIM. Being white with an American accent communicates a similar message. I learned this when an elderly Egyptian Muslim requested that I purchase alcohol for him, since it would be illegal to do so himself.
ABOVE: Pyramid guide at Giza.
Despite warnings from hostel employees not to talk to anybody on the street, there was plenty of Ramadan cheer as I strolled around Cairo over the next couple of days. People would invite me to join community meals after the sun had set. Strangers would tell me, “Obama number 1,” because of his speech on American/Muslim relations. Best of all, I joined a barefoot soccer game on a triangular field lined by two sidewalks and the busiest intersection in one of the most populated cities in the world. Every twenty minutes one of the ubiquitous police officers, rifle always slung over the shoulder, would shoo us away. After a ten minute break our gang of ragamuffins would reclaim the field until another man with a gun made us stop.
These positive street events were strongly skewed by the tenacity of street vendors who wouldn’t take no for an answer and shysters who claimed all my destinations were closed for the next two hours so I should pass the time in their friend’s shop. Hip to such ruses, I felt confident I could emerge unscathed from an “artist’s” invitation to his gallery. A passing European (let’s call him a Swiss diplomat) shook his head in warning. Undaunted, I followed my new friend to his office.
Inside he introduced me to his business partner, fellow artist, and future son-in-law who would be marrying his daughter the very next day. Right on cue, the betrothed entered the room and gave me a “traditional Egyptian welcome drink.” There is no refusing these tiny cups of tea which are always described as a show of hospitality and not a contract to purchase.
I told them I was glad to hear that and made a verbal vow that I would not buy anything from the gallery. The man I met on the street, the one whose art I was supposed to be viewing, laughed and excused himself. The remaining not-quite-yet-a-son-in-law gestured to a stack of hundreds of sheets of papyrus. “These are my art. Would you like to see them?”
“Of course I would, keeping in mind that I promise you I won’t buy anything.”
He was hurt that I would even suggest he had such a motive. We were just two cultured beings sharing the human experience. Setting the stacks of paper in front of me, he told me to set my favorites to the side. On each sheet was a design that recreated famous hieroglyphs. I recognized them not from ancient temples, but from the dozens of other galleries I had walked by. If his strokes had been identical only to his other strokes, I would have been impressed. Since they matched every other example I had seen there were two possibilities.
- Every artist in Cairo was of parallel skill and produced works of exacting fidelity
- Somewhere there exists a factory that prints identical images
I decided not to state this observation out loud and spread three paintings across the table.
“How would you like to see your name written on these in Egyptian hieroglyphs?”
“No, that’s all right.”
“Maybe you’d prefer in Arabic. That would be very beautiful.”
“I’m sure it would be, especially if done by an artist such as yourself.” I leaned in close. “I would feel bad if you did that though, because it will be hard for you to sell something with my name on it.”
He dipped a brush into some ink and began to write.
“Please don’t.”
Lifting it up for display, he struck a proud pose. “I would like to give this to you as a gift. We are good friends now.”
ABOVE:An image unrelated to this story but necessary to break up this block of text.
I was surprised by the generosity and felt bad that previous experiences had caused me to misjudge this man’s innocent intentions. Shaking his hand I stood up to leave.
He looked at his fiance and then back at me. His chuckle subtly menacing. “I am giving you a piece of my talent. All day I worked on that and it is for free because it only cost me time. However the materials were not cheap. As my friend surely you will reimburse me.”
Instead of being shocked by this turn of events, sadly I felt validated. “I promised you that I wouldn’t buy anything today and now you are trying to make me take back my word. It is not good to make your friend a liar.”
“This is not buying.”
Back and forth we went. He became increasingly indignant while I stupidly clung to my inherent modes of decorum. Everything I had witnessed in Egypt suggested that I should begin to yell, throw my hands in the air, storm off. Anything less would be viewed as weak. Instead I turned to ineffectual logical arguments and appeals to honor.
“Mr. Jack please just pay what you think the materials are worth. Call it a wedding present,” he turned toward the woman in the room. “Make it a wish for my wife to have a happy marriage.”
Even though I was sure no wedding would even be taking place I pondered the likelihood of that wish being fulfilled. For the first time in years I was tempted to punch someone in the face. There had to be something I could do to communicate the level to which I felt wronged. A simple extension of my middle finger or the spilling of my tea might do it. Instead I left the equivalent of three dollars on the table, walked outside, and dropped the torn up painting on the front step. I tried to justify the three dollars to myself based on the premise that he had actually asked for twenty. According to this post game spin, he would take it as an insult instead of a financial profit. And I hoped he would feel shame upon discovering the discarded papyrus. Neither of these occurrences was as likely there being a wedding the following day.
ABOVE: The body language I should have adopted during my fight at the art gallery.
In Luxor I met the wonderful counterpart to the father-daughter-fiance sales force. He insisted he had painted the papyrus sheets in his store, even though I could see stacks of them shrink-wrapped in the corner. This fib was easily forgiven since his offer of a welcome drink stemmed from a genuine interest in making new international friends. Luxor Bob, as he liked to be called, shut down his shop on two separate evenings just to sit and chat. On the second night we hopped on his motorcycle and saw parts of the city I never would have visited otherwise. The highlight was a special Ramadan youth soccer night tournament. Situated between buildings, a medium-sized field was surrounded by floodlights and cheering fans. There was even an announcer. All the enthusiasm made it a perfect mixture of And 1 streetball and a Texas high school football game.
To thank him for showing me around, I agreed set up Luxor Bob an email address so he can keep in touch with all of his international friends. Since he doesn’t own a computer I don’t think he’s checked his inbox yet, but if you want you can write bob.hussein.luxor@gmail.com. Ask around if you’re ever in town and maybe buy something from his shop.
In a land of desert there is a lot of ground to cover to get from place to place. Sometimes this required day-long bus rides in roasting hot sun. My inclination was always to open a window and let some air in. Generally this led a fellow passenger to glare at me and point until I closed it again. Eventually I figured out that curtains were considered a more effective method of beating the heat. Without a view of the outside, I had to turn inside to find entertainment.
As luck would have it, my first ride placed me squarely under the bus’ only speaker. For eight hours three-minute prayers were blasted loud enough to make sure everyone could hear over the noisy engine. Alternately I found them beautiful, annoying and fascinating. The prayers are always taken directly from the Koran, so quality is dependent on the performer rather than lyricist. Since I couldn’t understand the words anyway, it helped me to focus on the sonic qualities.
The best songs walked a line between billowing emotion and strict control, a slight variation on my preference for music that sounds like it is about to fall apart but somehow keeps it together (see Wilco – At Least That’s What You Said). Part of this control was embodied by the repetitive structure. No verse, verse, chorus, verse, bridge, chorus here, just a single melody repeated until it became a chant. Hours of repetitive music with meanings I couldn’t decipher played a role in the annoyance factor. The other was the incredible volume that even drowned out my headphones when I tried to listen to a podcast. Turn up your speakers and experience for yourself.
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Prayer on bus in Egypt
What I found most interesting was the audio quality. The reverb and feedback have nothing to do with the crappy iPhone microphone I used to record it. Mosques play the prayers over loudspeakers and often times they sound like someone is singing into a bullhorn pointed at a microphone plugged into an amplifier. The voices take on a metallic quality becoming machine-like in the process. I had been listening to Kanye’s auto-tune flooded 808′s & Heartbreaks at the time and couldn’t help but notice the similarities.
ABOVE: Me (as portrayed by a young Egyptian child).
Of course the reason anybody goes to Egypt is the ancient temples. They’re great. For reasons I can’t explain I usually didn’t bring my camera. The End.
The desert is hot.
Post script: here’s a self-aggrandizing picture of me daring to look bigger than the great gods of old (and looking like an asshole).
