El Marsam Studio - Writings

Morning of Light

an Egyptian Journal

EXCERPT

ESSENCE OF THE DAY

We are so new to Egypt!

Having survived one previous trip to downtown Cairo in a hair-raising taxi ride, we decided to be daring and take the Metro into the city from Maadi, a family adventure we will not soon forget.

Pretending confidence, if not experience, we headed for the ticket office and managed, after some elbowing, to reach the front of the line. That in itself was no small feat, considering the rest of the populace was experienced and more than confident. It did not take us long to figure out that being polite would get us nowhere fast. A moment’s hesitation in sorting through the new foreign currency in my wallet allowed several pushy, sweaty men to slither in front of me. If I even smiled at an elderly woman, she and seven others managed to purchase their tickets ahead of me.

Because my husband was with us, we had no choice but to postpone travel on the "women only" car to a later date. The first car of each train is reserved for women only. This separation of gender gives them some protection from physical contact with the opposite sex. It also shields them, when veiling is not enough, from any other violation of the Islamic code of modesty.

The train arrived with a furnace blast of heat and, based on the pushing and shoving that took place, one would have thought there was a real urgency to jump into this moving oven. On board, we re-arranged ourselves as best we could and spent the next twenty minutes or so being ogled by dozens of men.

The men obviously experienced no shame in staring impertinently at us, taking in every detail of our foreign appearance. Their deep, dark Arab eyes penetrated the fair complexion of my daughter Bernadette, savoring the creaminess of her skin and the silkiness of her blond hair. Her sapphire blue eyes seem to enchant one man, who sat mesmerized by their color. When they tired of our facial features, their gazes would slowly creep along the contours of our bodies, stopping whenever they encountered some exposed skin or any other element of interest. Before leaving the house we had made every effort to dress modestly, according to the culture of the country, but our efforts had not protected us from the stares. We were on stage and I suppose the passengers felt that the right to the entertainment was included in the fifty-piaster metro ticket. Next time, we will travel among the women although I suspect that staring is a national sport, practiced to Olympic heights by both the men and women of this country.

Finally we screeched to a halt at Sadat station and spilled out of the car with dozens of our fellow travelers. We climbed, panting and sucking in dust, to the top of the stairs from the underground platforms. We emerged in the center of Tahrir Square, somewhere in the vicinity of the Egyptian museum, our ultimate destination. It felt like we had stepped onto a still platform encircled by a carousel of moving, coughing, choking vehicles whirling to the music of honking car horns and screeching brakes. The sunlight was blindingly bright. For a moment I closed my eyes to the light and the grit that assaulted them. I could taste the exhaust fumes from the many buses and taxis. We stood, dazed, with map in hand, and it seems, signs on our foreheads, reading "Here we are, sucker tourists, help yourselves."

We had no idea what the museum looked like or where it was exactly. Lesson #1 in Egypt: never, never ask directions unless you are desperate. We had already learned that no Cairene would ever refuse to give directions or assistance by admitting to his lack of knowledge. He is bent on being helpful and will point you in any direction rather than disappoint you and admit that he cannot be of any assistance whatsoever to you. What we did not know is that around the tourist attractions he will walk blocks promising to show you, the unsuspecting tourist, the way to the museum and then, with no shame, lead you to the door of his brother's souvenir shop instead. Guide #1 informed us that the museum was closed until 3 p.m. It was 2:30; we had time to shop!

Guide #2, pointed us in the opposite direction, told us the museum was closed until 4 p.m. and invited us into his office to give us his "card". There was no arguing; we must sign his guest book, sit down, and accept his offer of a cold drink. Before we could take our first sip of the inevitable Pepsi, out came the bottles of essence. He tossed two wedges of incense through the air to the girls and rattled off, without taking a breath, the history of his father's business of extracting the essence from the fresh flowers of his many, many acres in the Fayoum, a lush oasis in the desert South of Cairo. Not only did his business supply essence to merchants locally but, he boasted, to major perfume manufacturers around the world as well. Grabbing our wrists, his serving boy place a drop of essence of jasmine on the one, lotus on the other. When asked our preference, we selected the lotus. It was a very lovely, natural scent unlike the manufactured perfumes. Our friendly vendor, with a smile that barely hinted of the aggression to come, insisted that I buy. I insisted that I had not come to shop but to visit the museum.

Taking no heed, he filled a small bottle that he "dropped" in price from 100LE to 30LE. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed against his ample chest, satisfied that his generosity was going to have me buying out the store. I was beginning to see that my freedom was worth 30LE. He took my two twenties with a swiftness I did not know existed in this part of the world.

Instead of giving me change, he began a second round of negotiations. He filled a second bottle with jasmine, Rachel's favorite. Now the battle began in earnest.

"I will not pay you the twenty extra pounds" I firmly tell him.

"By Allah, I am giving you my essence at this price!" Becoming annoyed and refusing to yield, I answered, "You can keep your jasmine."

He gift -wrapped both and started in again. "By Allah, I am cutting off my arm for you. You are cutting off my other, but you cannot, by Allah, cut off my neck!"

I held firm. He prayed. He gesticulated. He acted sad. He looked at Mike, my pale and speechless husband. I did not budge.

"Unwrap your package and take back your jasmine," I repeated still determined not to part with any more of my money. By Allah, he is incredulous. I have cut off his neck. He has met his match. He could extract no more from this flower. He finally decided to let his captives free, with a promise from me to baksheesh (tip) the boy. He turned to Mike and said: "You have a good wife." I do not know if I have paid too much for this essence, but I left, head held high, feeling like an Egyptian.

Finally, we were headed in the right direction, thanks to a young university student who was kind enough to point out the entrance to the museum, warn us about the guides who overcharge, and inform us that it was open only to groups at that moment. In a half-hour, it would open to individual visitors. In the meantime, he informed us, on the corner was a regulated government gift shop where the items had a fixed price. He needed to go; he was in a hurry. What a helpful, well-meaning young man, I thought to myself. How refreshing!

We entered the shop. It sold essence. We ran out as if the place was under a terrorist attack! Our well-meaning guide was waiting and watching in the wings. We had been duped again!

Do you suppose they sell an anti-essence essence?