My plane arrived in Cairo at 1 in the morning on Saturday, November 23rd. I was rather unsure of what to expect - I had never been to Egypt (orAfrica, for that matter), and all I had heard was to watch out for thescoundrels who try to rip you off. I had found a hostel through my trustyworld traveller website (www.bootsnall.com), the Atlas Opera Hotel. Theysaid they would pick me up from the airport, but I had precious littleinformation about the when and where.
So, I was a bit on edge coming into Cairo Airport. Then, matters weren'thelped any when I had to go through a scene that has become almostcomically common at the immigration point for all countries:
Immigration Agent: Where are you from?
Ali: America
Immigration Agent: But, what is your nationality?
Ali: American
Immigration Agent: But, where were you born?
Ali: America.
Immigration Agent: But, where was your family from?
Ali: India and Pakistan (not that it's any of your business where myancestors may or may not have come from you freaking twit. I wonder - ifI had an Irish name, would I get the same question? Of course not -biyatches.)
Immigration Agent: Step to the side please.
So, after waiting a good 20 minutes (presumably they were scanning theircrack database to find out if I was in fact Osama Bin Laden), I wasfinally cleared and strolled out into the Cairo night. I was immediatelymet by Ramzy, an enthusiastic man of around 36 who held a card with thename 'Nazer' neatly printed in big letters. I verified that he was indeedlooking for me, and we went to his beat up Suzuki, got in, and began thejourney to central Cairo (as an aside, his car had a bunch of stickers onthe back, one which said 'California Cruisin' and another which said'Nazar Stereos'. Sweet).
As we traversed the outer edge of the city from the airport to the hotel,Ramzy spoke to me in his broken English of this landmark and that. 'They- They is Hosni Mubarak house' and stuff like that. I wasn't reallypaying attention - I was in a bit of a daze from the last 24 hours oftravel and was content to silently watch the night pass by. One thing wasfor sure - the word that kept coming to mind was Karachi. Same warmtemperature. Same Islamic architecture and dress. Same Third World crapsmell.
We got to the hotel, where Ramzy suddenly changed personas and went fromchauffer to reception manager. Barking orders to minions who startedgrabbing my luggage and running to and fro, Ramzy took me upstairs andinto a nice big corner room. It was obvious that the hotel was prettymuch empty - as I got a very nice room for a reasonable price. Afterthanking them and saying goodbye, I slept the sleep of the dead and awokethe next morning fresh and ready to tackle Egypt.
Down at reception I was again met by Ramzy, who had gone home, slept a fewhours, and then come back for his day shift as reception clerk. I wasintroduced to Mr. Sulaman (I had become known as Mr. Ali at this point),the assistant manager, and after settling the bill (all cash, all inadvance), he started informing me of how to get around and what to do. Iinquired as to how to get an interview for my budding journalistic hunger,and he said he had just the man for me and that I could see him the nextmorning. But first, I was to go to the Egyptian Museum and the Pyramids. With the ancient structures so close at hand, I could hardly contain myexcitement.
Ramzy dropped me off at the Museum, and I spent the morning being guidedaround the place by a guy who called himself Mike (I later found out hisreal name was Hamada Meky). He had been to America over 50 times, andloved George Bush. I told him I did not, and let's stick to ancient Egyptand not modern day D.C. He got the hint, and we plunged into thesarcophaguses, mummies and statues that line the ancient museum. Thetourist trade in large part drives the Egyptian economy (Mike said theyget 5 to 7 million visitors a year), and you could tell through thepolished and bored delivery Mike gave for his tour. He perked up here andthere, but by the end both of us were ready to quit - he, to get his money(around 4 dollars), and me to get on with the prospect of the Pyramids. Of all the things I saw at the musuem, the scientific achievements inbiology, physics and mathematics really stuck out. The Egyptians figureda lot of things out, but then in the blink of an eye all there knowledgewas lost to humanity for thousands of years. To this day, we still don'tfully understand some of their technologies - what an advanced race! Andwe think we are so badass...
Mike put me on a bus heading towards the Pyramids and bid me adieu. Aftera few miles, a clean cut looking young man sat down next to me, and afteranother few miles and began to wonder if I was on the right bus. I askedthe young man if he spoke any English, and if he did, was I going to thePyramids? The answer was yes on both counts, and we struck up aconversation for the rest of the journey.
The guy's name was Mohammed, and he was a 22 year old medical student at aCairo university. After he got the general idea of my trip, I could see hewas fascinated and started asking all sorts of questions. What wasAmerica like? Were the people friendly? Had I enjoyed my time in France? I could sense a genuine warmth coming from him, and was beginning to geta sense for the Egyptian hospitality I had heard so much about. I was alsogetting a sense of just how lucky I am - here was a young guy who wasprobably smarter than I was, working hard to become a doctor, and had nochance to see the things I've seen or do the things I've done. Even if hehad the money, he spoke of his familial obligations in such a way that itwas apparent that there were a lot of people depending on him. As we talked, I began to feel the hypothesis I floated before the start of the trip – that most people are the same, to be more and more accurate.
I got off at the Meena House Hotel stop, which was right next to the Pyramids. As the bus roared off into the distance, it left the towering Pyramids directly in my line of site, and I was filled with joy and awe at the sheer size of them. They towered over the little Cairo neighborhood to which they belonged (Giza) like the Transamerica tower over North Beach back home – always in the background but beautiful to look at if you take a second. I was so psyched I was almost skipping to the hotel, which is where Mike told me I was supposed to be able to get a ticket for a tour.
But, looking so overly excited is not such a good idea at a major tourist attraction in the third world. I was quickly approached by a young boy of about 15, who told me that it was too late for the tour and that I should come with him for a special horse tour. He identified himself as Abid, and said that his family ran the best tours around the Pyramids. My shit detectors fully off, I said yes and 5 minutes later found myself at a stable near the base of one of the larger Pyramids. Abid’s brother Mohammed then took over the scam, and was talking the tour up while a couple of other menacing looking Arab guys came up and stood behind me. I asked the price, and he said that the price was listed on a board across the stable, and to ge on he horse and we would go over there. At this point, I was a little sketched, so I did it, and we rode out into the middle of nowhere, where he proceeded to tell me that the only tour I wanted was the “long” tour, which was for 360 Egyptian pounds (about 70 dollars). When I protested, I started getting yelled at by the Arab muscle he had brought along, and my divine Pyramid experience was quickly going to shit. I resigned myself to trying to get out with my backpack and enough cash for cab fare back home, and negotiated my way to a 250 pound price. That left me about 50 pounds to get back to the hotel, which should be plenty.
Abid and I set of on the horses into the desert, and before long we were galloping at a pretty good clip. Not being an experienced horseman, I was pretty much holding onto the saddle for dear life (as Abid had the reigns of his and my horse). But, we made it ok to a vista where the 6 main Pyramids of Giza lay in front of us, and at that moment all the swindling melted away into the hot sand beneath us. 24 hour hours ago I was at the Eiffel Tower, and now I was at the Pyramids – this traveling thing is pretty damn fun.
After admiring the view and taking some pictures (Abid nefariously asked me how much my camera cost after he snapped a couple of photos of me and the Pyramids), we took off at a gallop towards the Sphinx through a graveyard that is thousands of years old. Abid, however, was in some kind of hurry and didn’t really stop to let me check out to much stuff (although he did stop to bribe a few policemen here and there). We couldn’t get to close to the Sphinx, as Abid said something about construction (his English was awful), so I snapped a couple of more pics , climbed one of the smaller Pyramids, and we were off back to the stables. But, of course, Abid had something else in mind.
We veered off the path back and into the town of Giza. I had no choice but to sit back and see what enfolded, as I was on horseback and hopelessly far from my home base of the hotel. Abid finally managed to communicate to me that we were going to the Papyrus museum, and I waited to see how I was to be played next. Sure enough, when we arrived at the “museum”, Mohammed was there, and a girl who I assumed is their sister began showing me how papyrus paper is made (actually, that was kind of interesting). She then asked me to take a look at the papyrus artwork (none of which was below 50 dollars), and to please buy something. She could take credit cards to, if cash was a problem (what a sweetheart). I politely said no, then forcefully said no, and was back on the street with Mohammed in hot pursuit. He put his arm around me and said he felt as though we were brothers, so I should come back with him to his house and break the Ramadan fast with him (at this point, I hadn’t eaten all day and was pretty much keeping a fast out of chance). The last thing I wanted was to be in his home, where I’m sure I would have left without my bag (and he cameras, CDs, CD player, and books in it), so I said no thanks and that I would break the fast at my hotel. He then started to pretend to get emotional, and as I desperately looked for a taxi he pleaded with me to give him something, anything, to remember me by. When I countered with the somewhat straightforward logic “but aren’t I just another tourist to you?”, he ignored me and started eyeing my bag anxiously. When I said there was nothing in it but books in English that he couldn’t read, he generously offered to come back with me to my hotel so I could give him something there. It was at this point that I grew some balls, let out a huge “Fuck,” and told him to get lost. He saw my anger and finally let me be in peace – he had already gotten enough from me that day. I finally got a taxi, and after some haggling was driven back to my hotel as the sun set over the pyramids behind me. As I watched the beautiful scene, the thievery of the day became but a sad footnote to the main story – the Pyramids were awesome, and I was fortunate to have seen them.
Back at the hotel, Mr. Sulaman put his head in his hands and sighed when I told him the story of what happened at the Pyramids. He said I should have found a cop and turned those crooks in, but I think he was a bit more upset that he had such a sucker right under his nose and he let someone else take his money. I was starving, and asked him to please recommend an authentic Egyptian restaurant for dinner. He told me to go to Falfeela, which was right off Talaat Harb St. in the heart of the downtown shopping district. After an hour of wandering around downtown Cairo in a delirious state of hunger and exhaust, a kind old gentleman finally gave me the right directions and I found the place. It was rather large, looked clean, and even though it was obvious that plenty of other hotels send their guests there (it seemed as though German was being spoke at every other table), the menu looked authentic so I sat down to eat, at last. I had a newspaper I had bought in Paris the previous day, but as I started to read it, a black guy sat down at the table in front of me and ordered in an American accent. I said hello, and after a few minutes we were sitting at the same table having dinner together.
His name was Chris and he was quite an interesting guy. He had worked in the Peace Corps in Malawi for the last 2 years, and just landed a job with a U.S. Federal agency named AID (which stands for Agency for International Development). He was being trained in Cairo for a month or so before being sent out to a country of his own to start work. Basically, the U.S. will give money to countries that is earmarked for certain development projects, and Chris will work with local authorities to see that the money gets spent in the right way. He had a wife and two kids, but they moved around with him from place to place, and I was really impressed. Here was someone who was really living life according to his principles, and didn’t care how little money he made or how much hardship he and his family encountered because of it. We need more Americans like Chris.
After the meal (which was mediocre at best), we said goodbye and I again slept like a rock back at the hotel. The next morning, I went down to the lobby, where Mr. Sulaman was anxiously waiting for me. Not wanting to miss out on the cash cow, he had prepared an itinerary for the day – all for the low low price of 50 dollars. As the price included an interview subject, a tour of all the major mosques of Cairo, and Ramzy with his car (and a ride to the airport at 1 in the morning), I said fine. So, Ramzy and I set off on our first mission – to find Imam Mohammed Gamea, who was a well respected Muslim cleric and scholar at Al-Azhar Mosque. Mr. Sulaman said that Gamea had just returned from a stint as the head Imam at a major Islamic center in NYC, so he understood English very well and would be perfect for my project.
After much searching, we finally found Imam Gamea’s office, and after a few minutes he was kind enough to see us. This was the first time I felt my name game me a perceptible advantage – when introduced as Syed Ali Nazar, Gamea’s face let up and he greeted me as a Muslim brother. After explaining my purpose, Gamea decided he would not like to participate, as he was a bit too high profile and didn’t want to provide anyone with ammunition against him. But he did give me the name of a couple of professors at Al-Azhar University, an Islamic university that is over 1000 years old. I thanked the holy man for his time, and Ramzy and I were off to the university.
The professors that Gamea mentioned, as luck would have it, were not in, but Ramzy, who had begun to treat my quest as his own, would not let us leave without a fight. He stopped students everywhere, speaking in Arabic with wild tones and motioning his hands to and fro, trying to get someone to interview. He finally stopped to young men who, after they started listening to him, began looking at me and smiling. The two young men, who were both named Ahmed, were studying Islam via English (a bizarre major at one of the largest Islamic universities in the Arab world, I though), and were very happy to test out there new found English skills on a native speaker. As we wound through the corridors of the university, looking for a professor to interview, both Ahmeds told me of their dreams of going to America, and of how they wanted to teach Americans the Koran (the most beautiful book ever written in their estimation) in English. They just knew that, given the chance, Americans would have to embrace such a beautiful religion, as they knew that the American people had to be kind and just, what with all the freedom and opportunity they had. They really truly loved both their religion and the culture of the West, and wanted to meld the two loves together.
After knocking on what seemed like a hundred doors, we found Dr. Salah Nefeily, who was the Ahmeds’ teacher in English Literature. He graciously granted me the interview, and for the next hour we discussed the East v. West themes whose exlporation have become the overarching mission of my whole journey. That interview will be posted to the site in the coming days.
After the interview, we said goodbye to the Ahmeds, and Ramzy decided that it was time for a world-wind tour of Cairo. We started at Saladin’s Citadel, which was a fortress/mosque complex that sprawls out on a hill overlooking Cairo. From their, it was on to Old Cairo, where we saw old Coptic Christian churches where Jesus is said to have been. Then, as we pulled out in the late afternoon sun, Ramzy declared that we were now brothers and that I would break fast with him at his house. Unlike Mohammed’s shady invitation the day before, this one obviously came from the heart, and I was only too glad to accept.
Ramzy lived in a middle-class part of town called Nasir City, and we arrived at his apartment with a little over an hour to kill before dusk (when the muezzins get on their loudspeakers at mosques all over the city and let everyone know it is time to eat). While Ramzy and his wife, Samar, prepared dinner, I was left in the drawing room with their daughter, 3 year old Nagham. She was incredibly cute, and although she only spoke Arabic, I was able to win her over with my bag of tricks. First, I took a picture of her with my digital camera and then showed her her own image (the instant gratification of digital cameras is sooo sweet). Then, I had her say things into my tape recorder and played back her voice. Thrid, and finally, I played some Talvin Singh on my headphones and she was loving life. From there on she was my homie, and we played until she started demanding of me “Sawarnay!” every 5 seconds. Samar finally came over and told me this meant take a picture, and I was soon thrust into a ful photo shoot of Nagham. But, dinner was served and thankfully the parents interjected in Arabic, quieting little Nagham down.
The dinner was really touching – this middle class family had pulled out all the stops for a guy they hardly knew. Lots of stuffed grape leaves and peppers, a delicious bread and meat dish called rokak, and the Egyptian staple of koftas. Both Samar and Ramzy would not let my plate go empty, and although I am not a big eater, I bucked up and ate a shitload. Breaking the Ramadan fast with this family, I felt truly happy, in a way only the randomness of travel can provide.
After dinner we went to their corner café and smoked some sheesha (hookas) and had tea. After breaking fasts, everyone comes out of their houses and the city is alive until 2 or 3 in the morning. This seems to be the starting point – men with sheesha and tea sitting around, digesting their hard earne food and discussing the happenings of the day. One rather right wing friend of Ramzy’s started asking me (in Arabic, with Ramzy as a translator) why America hated Muslims so much. Couldn’t they see what beautiful people Muslims are? I tried to provide a consoling answer, but the language barrier was too much, and Ramzy got frustrated translating so we left instead for the Nile, as Ramzy had arranged a boat cruise for the evening.
The boat was a touristy thing, but it turned out Ramzy moonlighted for this company (in yet another work persona), so me and the family got to ride for free. As belly dancers and lounge acts entertained the Brits and Japanese in the buffet room, I went to the top deck and breathed in the thick Nile air. A sense of calm had taken me over, as if everything was right in the world for the first time in a very long time. For so long I had felt the dread of the coming day – an email to send at work, a paper to write for school, an exam that would change the course of my life – but at that moment, I was content to just be, and fully enjoy the moment. Life is grand when you are doing exactly what you want.
After the boat we sped to Khal El Khalili market, a famous old market where you can buy all sorts of gifts. The market was in full force, as shoppers hunted for Eid bargains (Eid is the celebration at the end of Ramadan), groups of young boys sang songs and clapped their hands in rhythm, and old men sat smoking sheesha and watching the scene pass by. After buying a couple of gifts for family in Pakistan, we raced back to the hotel, packed my things, and were off to the airport (Samar and Nagham in tow the whole way).
As we pulled into the airport, Samar told me how honore she was to have spent the evening with me, and Ramzy told me again that we were brothers. He refused the money I tried to give him, but I stuffed it into his shirt pocket anyway. The kindness these people showed me bordered on unbelievable, and I wanted to at least acknowledge it in some way. I will never forget Ramzy and his family and the kindness they showed me that day in Cairo.