Total War

The war for my kitchen opened a new front this week as Bug-Qaeda hit my stove. It was unbelievable. The little cockroach dodged my attempted smash and went right into the little hole under the stove top. Which wouldn't have been that unbelievable except that the stove was LIT. I thought it was a dumb move, or perhaps a suicide maneuver, until about 60 seconds later the little bugger EMERGED from the lit stovetop. Of course he wasn't able to dodge me again, and I took particular pleasure in crushing him between my paper-towel covered fingers. Still, it worries me that I am fighting an enemy that can apparently walk through fire.

The first incidents happened about a week after we moved in as we discovered a couple of little cockroaches that liked to crawl around the garbage can. I had recently learned the Arabic verb for smashing bugs and excitedly put it to use as I eagerly grabbed a wad of toilet paper and began "Dooss"ing the three that I saw. When I didn't see any more for a couple of days I figured that was the end of it. My roommate and I instituted a "take out the trash every day" rule, so that no food would accumulate in the trash can.

But the incidents began to happen more frequently. At first I simply used their appearance as an opportunity to indulge my Napoleon complex and exert my authority over them. It feels really good to "Dooss" bugs. Still, I realized more thorough security techniques would have to be installed to protect my American way of life in Cairo, especially when I woke up one morning to find that my roommate had left a couple of unwashed dishes out in the sink. There were at least 5 bugs enjoying the feast of scrambled egg remnants, the most I had ever seen at one time. With swift fury I did away with them and washed the dishes. When my roommate returned that night I informed him that I had unilaterally imposed a new law: all dishes must be washed before going to bed and before leaving the house. If you don't have time to do the dishes, you don't have time to eat in. He ratified the already in-force law to save face, though it would take another deadly battle for him to realize the seriousness of the matter: two days later he again left out some dishes (this time with the remnants of his Nutella sandwich). This time after driving off the scavengers I took three of the casualties and left them in his favorite tea-cup to greet him when he got home.

However, I also realized that other, more aggressive, counterinsurgency measures would have to be taken, so I began to look for patterns on when they appeared and where their hideouts were. I noticed that they came out in droves whenever I turned on the hot water: as the water began to heat they would emerge from small little cracks in the wall where the hot water pipe came through. They were fleeing the heat from the pipes! Haha, I thought with a jolt of glee. I know how to flush them out. I set traps: I would turn the hot water on, plug the sink, and then simply sweep them as they came out straight down into the water: they died on contact with any water hotter than 50 degrees Celsius. I could get 5-10 at a time this way.

Nevertheless, this wasn't a war I was going to win in this matter, killing a couple of bugs here, and a couple there, so I invested in more serious weaponry, buying a canister of bug poison. This is a problem lots of people struggle with in Cairo, so it was not difficult to find the anti-bug stuff. In fact, they had several different kinds at the store. One for flying bugs, one for cockroaches, one for ants. I returned home and stuffed the tube into the area where the hot water sink pipe came in and sprayed away. Next I thoroughly doused the area below the sink as intelligence sources had shown this to be a favorite entrypoint as well.

The War on Bugs continues, though I have definitely learned the most important techniques and measures to take so that the bugs will never threaten my freedom and values. In fact, I am becoming a cleaner person because of the war. Never before have I bought so many items to keep everything clean: brooms, mops, squeegies, marble sanitizer. So don't worry mom, in spite of the fears reading this may cause you, take comfort in knowing that your son now sweeps and mops his kitchen on a regular basis of his own free will and choice.

I keep trying to search for an "authentic cultural experience" but keep wondering if such a thing really exists. The world is blending everything. You can order in McDonalds from anywhere in Cairo. But then you can also get "fuul" sandwiches on any block for less than a dime apiece. The large "khan al-khalili" the massive marketplace in Islamic Cairo, still sells spices and cloth for whatever price you can bargain, but at the same time you have motorcycles cruising through the narrow streets, and the nicest blankets have the discrete label "made in China" on them.

Such cultural blending comes out even in so-called "high culture." The last two weeks I've been to two concerts: the first an "oud" concert where a man played the guitar-esque instrument of that name backed by a 15-20 piece orchestra consisting of violins, guitars, cellos, synthesizers, drums, and flutes. The second was a Sufi dance. Yet in both cases they seemed to be targeted at foreigners. The first had a lot of upper-middle class Egyptians in attendance but the second had almost no Egyptians. It made me realize that the average Egyptian probably knows no more about the "oud" or the Sufi dance than the average American knows about classical violin or ballet. The only ones that know anything are the educated, and even those only go to such events on occasion.

Nevertheless, that being said, these were definitely unlike anything I had ever attended. The first was a weird mix of the classical and the modern, the popular and the elitist, the Egyptian and the foreign. The whole band was dressed to the nines, wearing suits and tuxedos. Many in the audience were as well, but my fears of being underdressed in slacks and a collar shirt were allayed when a group of teenager boys came in wearing sleeveless t-shirts. The instruments were half Egyptian, with the "oud" being the centerpiece, but amidst the drums and flutes were violins, cellos, and a synthesizer. In spite of the relatively formal nature of the concert, the silent reverence assumed at symphonies in the West was never present. People would talk and laugh during the song, get up and leave in the middle of a piece. The sound system was so loud you could hear anyway. Every now and then the crowd would spontaneously start singing the words to the song, even though nobody on stage was singing. Apparently they were playing instrumental versions of well known songs from Egyptian legends like Umm Kalthoum.

The second event was, in content, even more non-Western: no western instruments or dress styles. However, the crowd was almost 100% tourists from Europe and America. The Sufi dances are not necessarily Egyptian: Sufism is a school of thought (or multiple schools of thought) within Islam that tends to emphasize a more spiritual side of Islam and personal relationship with God. They are respected (or sometimes reviled, as in Saudi Arabia) for their closeness to God and are known for their dances. The term whirling dervish comes from the "darwiish" who spins as part of the dance.

Anyway, as I was wandering through the crowded market at Khan al-Khalili (itself a classic example of the blurred line between Egyptian and international), a man yells at me in English that he has good prices on his cloth. I reply in Arabic that I appreciate it but am not interested. He then asks if I would like to see a Sufi Dance. I was in automatic "no thanks" mode at that point, not even listening to what it was he was offering, but my friend Ibrahim was interested, so he replied yes. We were directed to a free Sufi concert in a hidden concert hall down one of the back alleys of the Khan.

Once in there, it was a sight to behold. A multiple piece "band" playing away on their drums, flutes, and other instruments for which I don't have a name. One man singing what I can only assume to be Quranic verses or other hymn-like praises into the microphone. Seven dancers in the front dancing in circles. Then out comes the "dar-wiish" who spins non-stop for about 15 minutes. Sometimes going slow, sometimes fast. He is wearing a colorful outfit with 3 "skirts" that flare out as he spins, creating a kind of saucer. Midway through the first piece he unhitches one of the skirts and raises it over his head; it is now simply a large doughnut shaped cloth that he spins, sometimes with one hand, sometimes with two. The thing is massive. It is amazing that he is spinning himself but spinning the cloth at an entirely different speed, yet all in rhythm to the drummers and flutes who sometimes speed up, sometimes slow down. After a while he, still spinning, folds up the circular cloth and hands it to one of the other dancers who discretely disposes of it to a backstage hand. During the second song this is repeated with the next "skirt," which is removed over his head as he whirls it.

Following this act the finale was a triple set of "whirling dervishes" who all spun in sync but would do the same dance, spinning ceaselessly for probably 15 minutes with no sign of dizziness or fatigue. The central on of the three was the only one out of the entire group, including the instrumentalists, who was not wearing a distinctive white scarf on his head that is emblematic of one who is "taSowwuf" (Sufi). He had long stringy curly hair that would flap into his face every time he spun. Almost the entire time he had this silly grin on his face that seemed to come not as a sign directed at the audience that he was entertaining them, but a grin that seemed to come from the fact that he had no idea anyone was watching him, but was simply having an intensely pleasureable experience.

However, the strangest part of all this was that there were very few Egyptians present. The hall was full of people who were obviously tourists. How bizarre, I thought. All of these people must be going home and telling stories about how they went and saw a "real" Sufi dance, but at the same time, the whole thing was set up as entertainment for visitors. I kept expecting them to have an "exit fee," since there was no charge for admission. There had to be some catch.

Perhaps I was simply skeptical because less than an hour before my friend and I had gotten herded into a different tourist trap where they served us each a can of Sprite that cost 10 LE. That amounts to $1.80 for a can of Sprite, a price you only see at expensive restaurants and out of the way resorts. I couldn't believe it; it was 5 times more than I'd ever paid for such a product in Egypt and 10 times more than what I usually paid. I was furious, but they brought out the menu and sure enough, that was the price.

Such a trap was not waiting for me at the end of the Sufi dance, but as I walked out, still in awe of how those dancers could spin those heavy cloth skirts, and spin themselves, and not die of dizziness, I was left wondering: is there such a thing as "authentic culture" anymore?

Sunday, July 1, 2007



Irony. I experienced it on so many levels yesterday.



After a month in Egypt an American style barbeque sounds amazing, so I pony up and take a taxi ride out to Wadi al-Degla, a valley just outside the rich suburb of al-Maadi. And what a spectacle it is. An American Independence Day celebration,being held at a British (yes, British) International School in Cairo. The school compound is located way out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by gigantic desert hills that have absolutely no sign of life on them, except for the random pieces of trash and litter, indications that somebody at least had seen fit to walk there. It actually reminds me of the Salt Lake County dump that I used to drive out to when I had to empty my truck full of branches and weeds after a day's worth of yard cleanup. But this isn't a dump. This is the outside edge of Cairo.



I digress. Oh yeah. Did I mention that this Independence Daycelebration is at a British school? Didn't we get our Independence byfighting a war with Britain? Then again, I think to myself as I look back out the taxi window tothe trash ornamented desert hills, we are in Egypt, and we might as well celebrate together. The freedom we Americans cherish is, after all, an idea we inherited from Britain. We pull in to the first check point of hired Egyptian security, who request that the driver leave his license as collateral and have me show my American passport. A hundred yards later there is another check point, who have me once again show my passport and have the Egyptian driver show some other means of ID. Finally we pull up to the entrance of the school, heavily guarded by various branches of theEgyptian armed forces. I jump out, hand my taxi driver the fare, and walk in. I am asked to show my passport two more times and pass through a metal detector. I think, what the hell kind of celebrationof freedom is this? There is more security here than at the airport!



After getting past the guards I find myself in a surreal, almost dreamlike celebration. There is a huge American flag draped down theentire wall of on of the compound buildings. Under the giant tent there are families eating away on hot dogs, BBQ sandwiches, potato salad, and "Dominos Arabia" pizza. The tables are decorated withred,white, and blue tablecloth and dozens of mini-American flags. Aloudspeaker is set up playing various patriotic tunes. There aregiant blow up slides and a bungee cord trampoline set up to entertain people. All of a sudden I was back in America.



Of course, I'm not, as the giant sign labeled "PORK" reminds me that I the food is from the US State Department Comissary (pork, forbidden by Islam, is largely unavailable in Egypt). I walk past the food to theedge of the compound and look through the giant iron bars to see acouple of Egyptian soldiers standing on the road outside the complex, smoking their cigarettes and tossing them out to join the desert trash. How bizarre.



Needless to say I thoroughly enjoy myself. Before the night is over I stuff myself full, eating a couple of burgers, at least an entirepizza worth of Dominos Arabia, and at least trying a little bit ofeverything. After a month of being quite cautious about mosteverything I eat, it's nice to be able to enjoy a little "freedom."



I'm surprised to discover as I peruse the program that I know the lady in charge from church. Ah, I think to myself. No wonder this has the feel of a Mormon Ward BBQ. I scan the list of thank yous and realize that some 60% of the people in charge of planning the event go to church with me. My entire church community is here wearing the distinctive volunteer T-shirts and running all the games. The Brunets are incharge of the kid games. The Bartons are in charge of Bingo. The Gerbers are handing out raffle prizes to the people whose wristband number is randomly selected. After eating I stroll over to check itout and am surprised to see my number up there. Congratulations, Sister Gerber says and she hands me a bag. I look inside. It's a bright pink "Rock Angel" T-shirt from the Hard Rock Cafe in Cairo. Awesome. I'm really excited about it, especially since I didn't winanything in Bingo. I show it off laughingly to a couple of friends, but then I am asked by the parents of a little girl whether I want to trade, as she is a little bit disappointed at having won a big black Hard Rock long sleeve T-shirt with flames going up the sleeves. I am ashamed to realize after a short inner debate that I don't want togive up the pink shirt: I will actually wear it more often than I will the black one. However, the girl is clearly distraught, so I reluctantly part with the Rock Angel shirt for the long sleeve black one.



I'm of course recruited to help out, and am asked to man the admissions desk. Which is sweet because I get one of the volunteer shirts with the big red white & blue flag on it. Just the sort of thing you want to wear around Cairo. However, this is my first time being a real security guard, so I'm kind of excited. I eagerly ask for people's passports and wristbands as they come in. Then Matt, the ward clerk who is in charge of admissions informs methat if I see any guys that walk confidently in and look like they'refrom the Egyptian mafia to just leave them alone, especially if they know any of the 10 or so Egyptians with guns standing just inside themetal detector. It's only the confused looking foreigners who don't look like they know where to go that we need to check their ID and make sure they don't sneak in.



I'm joined at the security desk by Frederic, a Parisian Mormon who hasreceived special dispensation to join us, and Pita and Tasi, the NewZealand couple who took me in for a few days while I was searching for an apartment. We're like the Mormon mafia, in league with the Egyptian mafia to protect the American expat community.



As I'm sitting there I look out at all the Egyptian security forces that we've hired. All told there are probably 100 of them spread outbetween the metal detector and the outer security checkpoints. Then suddenly it occurs to me that this isn't a celebration of freedom. This is a celebration of American wealth. The only reason we're having this party is because as Americans we can afford to hire 1 Egyptian security person for every 3-5 people in attendance at the party. We can afford to bring in an all you can eat meal consisting entirely of imported American staples. We can afford to rent theBritish International School (probably chosen for its remote securelocation) to throw a party celebrating our independence from Britain. I forget: are the British trying to win their independence from us now?



The evening concludes with me riding the metro, stuffed to the brim with pizza, pondering the irony of what I have just witnessed. A 4th of July party in a British School in Cairo, guarded heavily by Egyptian mercenaries. I drift off to sleep with the smell of BBQ still in my nostrils.



However, the irony is not finished, as I am rudely awakened a couple of hours later by an intense an urgent need to go to the bathroom. I end up spending the majority of the night perched upon my porcelain throne, staring sleepily at the white tile and pink bathtub below me. I have never experienced such diarrhea. Yes, after a month in Egypt, I have finally gotten sick. Who knew it would be from the food from the American Comissary?

Thursday night for the first time I felt the thrill of passing for alocal. On the phone anyway. I was sitting in the passenger seat ofmy taxi driver, Ziad, at around 12:45 AM. It's a longer ride, from the shadow of the pyramids back to downtown. I am hoping to get some practice in so I make several attempts at conversation; however, Ziad doesn't really seem to by talkative. After a short conversation about how he has been to Boston but wasn't really impressed, we both fellsilent and that seemed to be it. He doesn't seem to be intrigued that I speak Arabic, and I am too tired to continue to press him. So I turn to the right and gaze out at the poor neighborhoods we are passing and then the Nile as we turn north onto the Corniche running right along the river.





Then his phone rings. He picks it up, looks at the caller ID, grunts, and ignores it. A minute later it rings again. Again with a huff he presses ignore. After the third time he checks his watch and turns to me.





"Do you know how to answer the phone?" he asks in Arabic.





"Yes, of course I do," I respond, thinking how Americans invented the telephone.





"What do you say?"





"You pick it up and say, 'hello?'" I say, wondering where this is going.





"OK. She's going to call again in exactly 10 minutes. I want you topick up my phone and tell her I'm asleep."





"OK," I say, my curiosity still not quite satiated.





"If she asks who you are, tell her you're my cousin and that I'll call her back in the morning."





I think to myself, "Are you serious?" But then say, "So who is this that I'll be talking to?"





"My fiancee."





"Why don't you just answer and talk to her?"





"We're mad at each other."





With a chuckle I inwardly reflect that I'm not sure how I feel about this. On the one hand, I find it quite amusing that I am being asked to pose as my taxi driver's cousin. On the other, I don't want toget involved in this domestic dispute.





Sure enough, 10 minutes later the phone rings again. The taxi driverturns to me.





"You ready?"





I nod and take the phone from him. "Hello?" I speak into the phone.





"Who is this?" an angry sounding female voice shouts into the phone in Arabic."This is Ziad's cousin." I respond quickly, trying hard not to giggle. I feel like a little kid who is prank calling the neighbor girl on whom he has a crush. I look over at Ziad, who shows no sign of amusement.





"Who?"





"This is Ziad's cousin."





"What's your name?"





I momentarily freeze as this wasn't part of the game. "Khalid." I mumble. She doesn't hear me. "Khalid," I repeat again. "My name isKhalid."





"Give me Ziad," she says, still clearly unimpressed but apparently buying it.





"I'm sorry but he's asleep," I say, wondering if she can hear the sound of the wind rushing in my window as we cruise across the Tahrir Street bridge going past Zamalek.





"He's asleep?" she says, sounding skeptical.





I again look outside, gaging our speed to be around 90 km/hour. I almost have to yell it to be heard. "Yeah, he's sleeping. He'llcall you back in the morning." Heck, it wasn't my problem.





"Where are you?" she asks.





Gulp. "Um, my apartment." Right then one of the passing cars decides for no particular reason to punctuate his passing with a loud horn.





"Where?" she repeats. I have to cover my ear to hear her.





"My apartment. I live downtown and I'm outside on my balcony." Nice recovery! I inwardly congratulate myself.





"OK. Tell him to call me in the morning."





"OK. Thanks, have a good night."





"Bye."





"Bye." I hand the phone back to Ziad, who nods in approval.





"You told her Iwas asleep?"





"Yeah, I told her you were asleep and that you'd call her back in themorning."





"And you told her that you were my cousin?"





"Yep. And that my name was Khalid."





"Khalid?" he says, looking at me for a moment.





"Yeah, I told her my name was Khalid."





For the first time a trace of a smile once again steals across his face as he nods in approval, then he returns to his frown and the heavy silence within the car resumes. I turn back and notice that another car has passed us while Ziad slows down to avoid a rough patch of road. I find myself thankful on the one hand that for once I actually have a careful driver,though I'm also annoyed because I'm kind of tired and want to get home quickly.





"How long have you been engaged?" I ask.



"A year."



"And when's the wedding?"



"End of July." Wow. Hope he gets whatever this problem is worked out.



"Congratulations in Shaa Allah," I say, adding the obligatory phrase"God willing" always used for any future event in Arabic, though this time I find in being additionally meaningful and appropriate.



"Thanks," he says.T he next 5 minutes are spent in silence as I ponder his impending marriage in gloom, reflecting on how I hope never to use random strangers to avoid speaking with my fiancee.



Then all of a sudden, as we pull up to the corner where I need to get out, I think to myself: Wait a minute, I just pretended to be an Egyptian, and kind of got away with it. Is this cat thinking my Egyptian's good enough to pass on the phone, or was he so desperate to just have his fiancee get off his case for the night that he just didn't care that the lie would be so obvious since I was clearly not even Arab. Before I can ask, we are there, and with the rush of Cairo traffic I have to hurry to get out of the car and pay him my fare. He drives away and I'm left alone standing in the midst of the midnight crush in Midan al-Tahrir (Freedom Square), amidst thousands of Cairenes just getting their Thursday night started. After a moment I turn and start walking towards my apartment, which is mercifully tucked away in one of the sidestreets a couple of blocks away from the main square. Within ten minutes of walking into my apartment I am fast asleep.