Global Reflections

Yesterday, Julia (another "dip wife") and I went to the Khan el Khalili. It was my second trip there, but I never got around to writing a post about the first one. Other things kept popping up, and then my memories weren't as vivid, and I wasn't sure what to write. But now I've gone again, so I'll write about this trip instead of the first one.

The Khan is basically a bazaar. It's a rats' nest of narrow streets and alleys, with shops everywhere. I haven't seen anywhere near all of it, not even most of it, just one little corner. And I can't find my way around even that corner, so it's a good thing Julia was with me. The first time I was there, I bought a loose, lightweight cotton shirt in an Egyptian style from one of the shops where embassy people go regularly--after we've been escorted to the shop once by someone the shopkeeper knows, he recognizes us, and he offers us his best price without bargaining. It isn't exactly the "Egyptian price," the lowest price which is offered to Egyptians only, but it's about half of what most Westerners end up paying. I love the shirt in this heat, so I wanted more. Julia also wanted some, so the purpose of our trip to the Khan was to visit that shop and buy some shirts.

We took the embassy's family shuttle from Maadi to the embassy, then walked around until we were able to flag down a cab. The cab was typical of Cairo cabs: no air conditioner, no leg room, and insane driving. I counted at least 3 pedestrians that we almost creamed. Then there was the bus that almost creamed us. And then there was the other cabdriver, who apparently needed change, because after a discussion in Arabic through open windows, our driver rummaged in his dashboard compartment, pulled out a wad of bills, and handed it out through the window to the other driver, who handed a single bill back. All of this happened while we were still moving. But we finally arrived at the Khan.

We had the driver let us out on the side of the street opposite to the area of the Khan where we were going. We knew that there was a pedestrian tunnel there, which is a rarity in Cairo. We paid the driver LE20 (which made his day; he would have been happy with LE10, but we didn't have change, and we knew that cabbies always claim not to have change, and the difference is roughly $2, so we weren't worried about it).

We walked past a booth on the way to the tunnel entrance, or at least we would have walked past it, except that Julia noticed some rugs that she wanted to see. It turned out that the rugs weren't for sale; they were covering the real wares until someone showed interest in order to protect them from the dust. But the shopkeeper told us how to get to a different area where there were rugs for sale, lots of them, so we started heading that way. Then the shopkeeper decided to lead the way so we wouldn't get lost. We tried to dissuade him, but he wouldn't be dissuaded, and he said that he didn't need baksheesh (tip money). He claimed to want to practice his English. So he led us down the street and into the maze that is the Khan.

After one turn, we entered the spice area. It smelled wonderful! I wish I had taken my camera, so I could at least show you pictures. The shops had buckets sitting out piled high with various spices, all of them perfuming the air. I don't cook enough to know what any of them were, but they smelled delicious. After another turn, Julia lost confidence in her ability to find her way back out, and we didn't want to be at the mercy of our "guide," so she told him that we could see where the rug area began (we could), and that we thanked him for his services, but we were going to look at the spice shops before we went into the rug area. He eventually was persuaded that we were serious, and he left. Julia bought some cumin and some coriander, and we started heading back out to cross the main street and go back into the area of the Khan we know a little. We had taken about two steps when another man came up and started pressuring us to go to the rug section. We politely declined. My guess is that the first guy was taking us to a friend's shop, and when he couldn't get us all the way there, he sent the friend looking for us. I wouldn't have minded looking at the rugs, but like Julia, I didn't want to get lost back there and not know how to get back without help. And since we had a specific goal and limited time until the family shuttle we wanted to take back to Maadi, we went on our way.

We made our way back to the main street and found a pedestrian bridge. (Pedestrian tunnels and bridges are unheard of throughout most of Cairo, but with the Khan on both sides of a major 4- or 6-lane thoroughfare, there are more of them in that area.) Then we walked back up to the al-Husayn Mosque, which marks the entry that we have to use to the Khan if we want to be on the more familiar path to the gallabiya shop. (Gallabiyas are long, loose garments; the shop where we buy the shirts is actually a gallabiya shop.)

The Khan borders al-Husayn. When we reached the mosque, we turned left to walk along the border of the Khan. We found the narrow street where we wanted to enter--actually Julia found it; I was too busy watching my footing on the uneven cobblestones. We turned down the street and immediately were accosted with calls of "I have what you're looking for!", "I have good prices here," and variations on those themes. I believe it was the second alley on the right that we had to turn down to get to the gallabiya shop. I recognized it because of the jewelry shop at the corner; last time I there, they were offering very pretty strand necklaces for LE2.

The gallabiya shop isn't very far in that alley. It's right beside a glass shop that's owned by the same man--he owns factories that make glassware and clothing. We didn't look at the glass shop this time, but we did last time. There are beautiful figurines, wine glasses, vases . . . the whole second floor is devoted to Christmas ornaments. The workmanship is stunning, but I've never been a big fan of crystal or glassware, so it's a waste of the shopkeeper's time for me to even go in there. I think it'll be a different story when my mother or my mother-in-law come to visit me, though; they like those things a bit more.

We went into the gallabiya shop and were recognized immediately. Julia had been there at least two times previously, and I had been there once. Julia had special ordered some sand-colored gallabiyas for her nephews or some other children in her life; they wanted Jedi costumes for Halloween. This trip, she wanted shirts and to order a long brown vest-type garment that the kids could wear over the gallabiyas to enhance the costumes. (Jeanne, it may be too late for this year, but if your boys would be interested, let me know.) After she had ordered the vests and arranged for delivery, the real shopping began. I ended up with five shirts. I think Julia got three. It didn't take us long. The shopkeeper showed us which section had the shirts in our size, neatly folded in plastic in a stack. We could see the colors of the shirts but not the designs. We pointed at the colors we liked, he pulled them out and let us see the designs, and we bought the ones we liked.

After we finished there, Julia asked if I minded if we went to the Crazy Brothers' shop. We left the gallabiya shop and headed back out to the original alley. We continued down it until we got to an intersection that we recognized because that's where Guzman's is. Guzman's is a very nice jewelry store that also offers lower pricing to our embassy community, with no haggling. We didn't go in this time, but we did last time. They have some beautiful gold necklaces, pendants, rings, and bracelets. Some are all gold, whereas others have malachite, lapis, onyx, and many other beautiful gemstones. They also do custom work, including silver and gold cartouches. Their prices are reasonable when you consider the price of gold and the stones; most of the jewelry is more than I'm willing to pay, but considerably cheaper than similar work would be in the States.

We continued past Guzman's, looking for the first right. We went a distance that we knew was too far, so we turned and headed back to Guzman's to try again. On the way, we recognized the stairway we needed to go up to get to the Crazy Brothers, so up we went.

The official name of their shop is The Three Brothers, but someone at the embassy started calling them The Crazy Brothers, and the name stuck among embassy personnel. I noticed this time that there's a sign out front of their shop, labelling it The Three Crazy Brothers. I don't remember if that sign was there last time. The Crazy Brothers are metalworkers. They make decorative copper, bronze, and iron plates, lanterns, tables, pots . . . you name it. They have a lot of merchandise available in their shop, or they can custom make whatever you want. They also get a lot of business from the embassy. Some of their specialties are nameplates in English and Arabic for the diplomats' desks. They also give us special pricing, although they'll bargain a little if you hesitate over buying something.

Julia was looking for a pot to use as a "trash can with personality." She looked at bronze ones, copper ones, and iron ones. She finally found one that she liked with a price that she liked. I don't remember was metal it was, but it was a good size for a trash can, and it had a slightly distressed, hammered look. It should look nice sitting in the living room waiting for her to throw her junk mail in it. One of the brothers also noticed me looking at some of the decorative plates, because I'd like to get one to display in our china cabinet. He tried really hard to sell me one, but I remembered that last time we were there, Jeff was very interested in those. I decided to wait until he can go back with me; since that's one of the few home decor things where I think he'd have a preference, I want his input when purchasing one.

After we finished at the Crazy Brothers, we walked around the little courtyard where their shop is located. Some of my favorite pieces that I saw there were chess sets. There were some made from marble that were really nice. My favorite had the "black" pieces made out of malachite, so they were actually green, and the white pieces out of marble. I considered buying a set as a gift, but I didn't know if the intended recipient even plays chess. I also saw some beautiful wood-inlay boxes. I'm not sure how to describe them, so instead I'll take a picture of a pencil holder that I bought the other day so you can get the idea. The boxes are similar in style, with various patterns of inlay. They also have them with mother-of-pearl inlay, but I prefer the wood, or maybe wood with just a little mother-of-pearl.

So we made the lap around the courtyard, then headed back out to the main road to catch a cab. We got really lucky--there was a yellow cab dropping off a couple of Western tourists, so we were able to catch that cab back to the embassy. The yellow cabs are great because they have fixed prices with a clearly visible meter (most cabs have broken or no meters, so pricing is a matter of bargaining) and air conditioning. This ride was less scary than the ride to the Khan. The traffic was lighter, and this driver seemed to be making an effort to drive in a way that is more calming to Western passengers. When we arrived, the fare was around LE9. We gave him LE20 as well. Again, no change, but there was also the consideration that this ride was comfortable, unlike the first ride for which we had paid LE20, so why not make this cabbie's day too?

We were about 20 minutes early for the shuttle, so we stood in the shade and waited, then came on home. It was a productive day. We found our shirts, Julia found her trash can, and I'm pretty sure I could find my way back to the gallabiya shop, Guzman's, and the Crazy Brothers. Maybe next time I'll find a rug shop.

I almost got hit by a car last night.

It was going slowly, so it wouldn't have done damage, but still . . . it scared me, and therefore, it infuriated me at the time. I think I'm over it now. It's all part of the process of learning not to expect Egyptians to drive like Americans.

I was crossing a street, on my way home from a cell group meeting. There's this one traffic circle near the compound; it's really busy, and it's often difficult to take the shortest way across (which is directly across it, through the grassy median in its center, and then across its other side) so Jeff and I usually just go around it. We cross maybe four smaller streets that come off the circle rather than cross the high-traffic circle twice. In this case, we were crossing one of the smaller streets when the cars that were going down that street ended up in a bit of a traffic jam--they all stopped. So of course that's the perfect opportunity to go across the street. As I was crossing behind the last car in the line, following Jeff, I looked up to make sure that the oncoming car was stopping. Something in that driver's face told me that I was in danger but not from him. So I turned to see the problem and found that the cab I was crossing behind was backing up--it was about half an inch from me. I instinctively hit the trunk of the car with my fist as I bounded away from it. The driver looked up as if to say "What's the problem?"

What's the problem, indeed. To the Egyptian mind, the problem was that this Western woman had just smacked his trunk. To the American mind, the problem was that this Egyptian man had just started backing up without checking to make sure he wasn't about to hit anyone. But we're in Egypt, not the States, and these things happen.

You see, in Egypt, there seem to be two major rules for traffic: If you want to go there, and you fit or can force yourself to fit, go ahead; and you're responsible for what's in front of you, not what's behind you. The first rule results in 4 or more cars driving side-by-side down a 3-lane road and in cars often driving on the wrong side of the road. I'm convinced it also has resulted in the extremely high sidewalks--usually a good six inches--so that cars can't drive on the sidewalks, not that they'd want to, with the trees and signs growing out of them at random intervals, but hey, they'd use it as a passing lane, trust me.

The second rule results in drivers routinely backing up without looking; after all, if there's a car behind them, it's the other driver's responsibility to honk the horn in order to let the reversing driver know that there's a problem. It also results in drivers honking their horns when approaching a car from the rear and attempting to pass, in order to notify the driver that it may be a bad idea to swerve in that direction right now, because you're also not responsible for what's beside you unless its nose is sticking out farther than yours, in which case it counts as being in front of you.

As you may have guessed, the horns are used as general communication tools here. It isn't the case where a horn indicates anger, frustration, or threats of bodily harm, as it usually does in the States. Horns here can mean "please let me go there," "okay," "thank you," "you're welcome" . . . I think sometimes they just mean "hello." As a pedestrian, oncoming vehicles often honk the horn just to say "hey, I'm coming, don't step out in front of me because I won't stop." (That can be a bit more necessary here than most Americans would think; after all, it's common here to ignore the sidewalk and walk down the middle or side of the street instead, because of the 6-inch curbs at every intersection, the potholes in the sidewalks, and the random trees and signs in the middle of the sidewalks, not to mention the air conditioners that drip water on you from above.)

It gets interesting when the two major traffic rules are applied to turns and attempts to merge into traffic circles. When turning, it is important to go quickly--the guy behind you is not interested in waiting while you carefully pick your opening in the oncoming traffic. The horn-honking in that situation sounds almost as belligerent as horns in the States always sound. There are no red lights to speak of, and stop signs are ignored, so getting onto a busy street is a matter of confidence. The huge SUV usually obtains right of way over the tiny little car, but I've seen cases where the tiny little car driven with confidence trumps the huge SUV. It's just a matter of deciding that you're going now and forcing oncoming traffic to slow down, stop, or swerve in order to avoid hitting you. After all, if you pull out in front of them, you're in front of them, and rule #2 applies.

I haven't tried driving in Cairo yet; our vehicle hasn't arrived from the States. I assume I will eventually drive. I'm too stubborn not to rebel against the fear. My goal is to accept that in Cairo (and in Maadi), people drive like Cairenes. They do not drive like Americans. Although I would like them to drive like Americans, it isn't going to happen, and it would be neither right nor practical for me to expect them to. Americans who are successful in driving in Egypt--without giving themselves or their passengers heart attacks--are Americans who are able to accept that they are in Egypt. In other words, they drive like Cairenes.

The adventurous part of me is looking forward to ignoring the lanes. The logical part of me is too busy reassuring the scared part of me that the heavy traffic prevents anyone from going at the high speeds that can cause real damage, so even though there will be scrapes, there won't be injuries.

Okay, so this post is really late. There's been so much other stuff going on that I haven't gotten around to writing this post in a timely manner, so I was tempted to not write it at all, but I can't really do that. I was reading blogs from RedState when I came across this amazing entry, which reminded me of how great the United States is and how many freedoms Americans enjoy (as well as how many freedoms are being attacked by some of our politicians). It brought to mind something that I felt at the embassy-sponsored 4th of July celebration here in Cairo, so I have to tell you about the celebration.

It was held on the campus of the British International School here in Maadi, out near the commissary. It was open, free of charge, to all American and Canadian passport holders, as well as to their guests who had registered ahead of time. There was a band, there was free food (hamburgers and hotdogs, I think prepared by the Marriott), there were door prizes and games, there was a full-service bar (not free of charge) operated by the Marines . . . a good time was had by all.

Some of the door prizes were really spectacular -- free round-trip tickets for one anywhere in the world, for two anywhere in the States (a particularly good prize for many expat Americans who can afford to go home only once every two, three, or more years). Others were more in line with what you'd expect: free bowling, gift certificates to local restaurants, free temporary gym memberships.

When we first arrived at the celebration, we had to park a good little distance away and walk back to the entrance, just because there were so many people there. We passed many police officers who obviously were there for our security. You can imagine how tempting it would be for certain groups to interfere with such a large gathering of Americans in a relatively unsecured location. The Egyptian police were there to make sure nothing happened to us, which I appreciate. But it reminded me that I see these police officers a lot around here, and they aren't the same as American police officers. Egyptian officers, at least the ones who are not traffic cops, look much more like military personnel to me, and they remind me that Egypt is not a free country. Apparently some of the restrictions are being loosened--newspapers now criticize the government routinely--but there are definite limits that would be unheard-of in the States. For example, there is no discussion of President Mubarak's health in public forums (at least from what I've been told, not being able to understand the Arabic newspapers myself). As expats here, especially as expats affiliated with the embassy, we tend to live in a bubble. We see the police officers, but we know that they're there primarily to protect us; we don't experience any real limitation on our freedoms. It's very easy to forget that Egypt is a police state.

While we were at the celebration, I noticed throughout the evening that, despite the security we had passed on the way in, there were areas where Egyptian citizens were congregating to see into the field where we were. The school borders a sporting club, so people in the stands there were congregating at the edge where they could see in. There also was a building, maybe an apartment building?, where people were congregating in the open stairwell and at the windows overlooking the field. I noticed this but didn't really think too much about it until the end of the evening.

The celebration closed with a rendition of "God Bless the USA." I'm sure most of you know the words, but just in case there's a reader or two who isn't from the U.S. or who doesn't know the words, the chorus goes like this:

I'm proud to be an American
Where at least I know I'm free
And I won't forget the men who died
To give that right to me.
And I'll gladly stand up
Next to you
And defend her still today,
'Cause there ain't no doubt
I love this land--
God bless the U. S. A.

As we sang that song, I looked around at the people in the stairwell. It hit me that they couldn't say "at least I know I'm free." In the United States, we know that no matter what else happens, at least we are free. We are free to worship as we see fit (and to share our faith freely, and even to change our faith if we want). We are free to keep and bear arms. We are free to criticize and protest the government to an almost unlimited degree, even to the point of removing leaders from power--think gubernatorial recalls, impeachment efforts, even simple elections where the incumbent is voted out. Egyptians don't have the same freedoms that we so often take for granted.

I've been told that as the U. S. presidential race heats up moving toward November, I should expect Egyptians to display an incredible amount of interest in this particular race and in our political system in general. They have no experience with elections that aren't rubber stamps. It's beyond conceivable that two candidates are engaged in a struggle for the office of President and that the people will choose the winner. Can you imagine that concept being anything other than normal for you? I can't.

So as Jeff and I prepare to request our absentee ballots, I'm reminded to think about what those ballots actually mean, what they represent. I'm thankful that I was born a citizen of a free country. I thank God for my freedoms, and I thank the men and women of the U. S. Armed Forces who preserve those freedoms.

Introducing the two newest members of our family: Isis and Cleo (short for Cleopatra)! Cleo is the one who's all gray; Isis has the white paws and belly.



They're named after two figures in ancient Egyptian history: Isis the the mother of all pharoahs, and Cleopatra the last pharoah. The best estimate we have for Cleo's and Isis's age is around 6 weeks. They're littermates, two little sisters.

Isis and Cleo were adopted from the shelter run by S.P.A.R.E. (the Society of Protecting Animal Rights in Egypt). They, along with their sister, brother, and mother, were dropped off at the shelter by a man who paid for one night's boarding, left a false name, address, and phone number, and disappeared. This is a common way in which pets are abandoned at the shelter when their owners no longer want them. They were fortunate to have been taken to a shelter; there are countless feral cats all over Cairo, and many more cats are simply put on the street than are taken to shelters. The cats at the shelter are fed, sterilized, vaccinated, and adopted out whenever possible, often to families in the United States or Europe. They have much longer and healthier lives than do the feral cats.

Cleo and Isis did not have a good day yesterday. We picked them up from the shelter with their brand new carrying case, complete with two toys and a travel water bowl. We put a little water in the bowl, enough that they could drink it but not enough that it would slosh out, even on Cairo's bumpy streets. But although the water would have survived the bumps just fine, it did not survive getting in the cab.

The driver "helped" Jeff put the carrier in the backseat a little too exuberantly. The travel bowl of water landed on Isis's head. Isis was a wet and miserable kitty for the 20-minute ride back to Maadi. She mewled pitifully, sticking her paws and nose out of the carrier, begging to be let out and dried off.

I thought Cleo was handling the ride better. She was sitting calmly in the carrier, braced against the swerves, jostles, and bumps. She looked a little tense, scared even, but that was to be expected, so she was doing well enough, I thought. Then I realized why she was sitting so quietly -- she was motion sick. The new little mouse toy ended up in the trash when we got home, along with the soft bathmat we had put in the bottom of the carrier.

Things improved once we got them home. We put them in the storage room off the hall; we had prepared it for them beforehand with a litter box, food and water bowls, a scratching post, a few toys, and a cardboard box with a door cut into it. The kittens came out of the carrier quickly at first, then went back inside just as quickly, even though it was wet in there. This strange new place was not their cage back at the shelter, and they weren't certain that they liked it.

Eventually they both came back out. They found the cardboard box and decided it was a good place for a nap; at least Cleo did. While Cleo slept, Isis sat there awake and staring.

After naptime, they showed their personalities quickly. Cleo is adventurous; she started exploring and playing with the toys quickly. Isis was much more timid. She eventually explored and played some, but even today, she prefers playing with Cleo over playing with the toys. But for a while, they were both actively exploring and playing.

They were doing so well that we let them out of the storage room for a while. Cleo was great with this; she wanted to explore the whole apartment. Isis saw her reflection in the entryway mirror, then hid under the chest in the entry. We eventually pulled her out and put both of them back in the storage room. Even though Cleo is ready to come out, Isis isn't, and Isis also isn't ready to be in the storage room alone unless she's asleep, so Cleo will have to wait.

A little neighbor girl has been excited about the kittens, so she came over to see them last night. She was fine; she was soft-spoken and gentle, understanding that the kittens were scared. Unfortunately, the friend who came with her was not quite so fine. Think squeals and attempts to pet a cat who's frantically clawing her way up my shoulder to get away. Our neighbors reined her in before she went too far, but the kittens definitely were afraid of her. Luckily, Isis missed most of this. She had disappeared sleepily into the box just before the girls got here, so I opened the top of the box to let them see her but didn't take her out. Cleo got to go explore the living room a little bit, with the girls in tow. It was during this time that Cleo started to decide that Jeff and I aren't so bad, and we're pretty good places to go for protection.

After the girls and their chaperons left, Cleo joined Isis in sleep. They slept until around 3:30 this morning, when Jeff and I awoke to mewling. I told him to go back to sleep since he had to go to work today, and I went in there with them. At first, they just wanted me in there periodically. I'd go in, say hi, then go out to the couch and lie down. They'd let me sleep for 15 or 20 minutes while they played before mewling again, when I'd go back.

Then Isis got sleepy again. Apparently Isis has decided that I'm okay; in fact, I'm her substitute mommy (which is what we had hoped for). Apparently Isis also is a lap kitty. This means that when she gets sleepy, she wants to be in my lap. (Cleo also will get on my lap, but only if she's trying to use me as a ladder to get over the table we turned sideways to block the door.) I want to encourage her in this, but I don't want to sit on the floor in the storage room holding her all day while she sleeps. So I tried to bring her with me back out to the couch. Nope. As soon as I got one step from the storage room door, she was mewling loudly, claws out and gripping my arm through my sleeve, straining back toward her "safe room." So I took her back into the storage room and held her for a while. Eventually I couldn't take it anymore; I laid down on the floor and used their blanket as a pillow. At that point, Isis couldn't sit in my lap, and beside me wasn't working for her, so she went back into the box to sleep. So I went back to the couch.

Then Cleo decided that it was time for my training to begin. She'd mewl; I'd come back; she'd stop mewling and look at me until I told her that it was okay, I was here. She didn't want to be held, petted, or touched; her food and water were fine, and her litter box was clean. She proceeded to ignore me. I'd go away. Five to 10 minutes later, the process would repeat. Eventually Cleo went to sleep too, so I was able to check email and get a shower. Then they woke up, and the whole process, including my training, repeated again for a couple of hours. Now they're asleep again.

So I'd say the kittens are adjusting. We're establishing the rules. They call me; I come running. They pounce on my toes; they get sprayed with the water bottle. I think these are rules we can live with.

The coolest thing happened last night. We had gone to church, then to dinner at Maadi House (just a couple of blocks from church), and we were walking home. As we neared the church, a vehicle stalled at an intersection, and we stopped because Jeff was going to see if there was anything he could do to help. The driver of the vehicle was Mark, the worship leader at church. He had left his lights on and already had a marginal battery, so he was having some issues, but he got it started again with no help from us, and we thought it was on for good, so he was going on his way and we were going on ours. (We found out after we got home, when he and Jeff became friends on Facebook, that it wasn't quite as simple as that, but he made it home okay.) Just before he pulled away, he said something that I didn't quite catch. He repeated it, but I still didn't quite catch it.

I have good hearing, but I often have problems focusing on one sound to the exclusion of others, which makes it difficult for me to understand people sometimes if there's any background noise at all (which there always is in Cairo). I get a little embarrassed if people have to repeat themselves for me more than once, so I usually just let it go and get Jeff to tell me later what they said. That's what happened in this case, too.

So I smiled and nodded, Mark drove off, and I turned to Jeff. "What did he say?"

"He said that he liked your blog."

"My what?"

"Your blog."

"My blog?! He's read my blog? Cool!"

The really cool thing is that I don't think I've told anyone at church about my blog. I may have mentioned that I have one, but I know I haven't told anyone what it's called or how to find it. I deliberately set up the blog so that anyone could read it, but I really didn't expect anyone to other than people who know me from back home. So it's just really cool that someone else actually has found it, read it, and liked it. Thanks, Mark, you made my day :-)