Tired and Thinking

If possible, I feel as if I've gone through every human emotion in the last week. It's amazing to me how much can happen in a day, when most of the time elsewhere, things are pretty predictable. Don't get me wrong, I like the excitement, but there's a reason we don't experience all of our emotions in a short period of time. It's exhausting. Our minds would splinter under the pressure. Some people's do. 

At the risk of stating the obvious, this culture is so different. I'm allowed liberties here other women aren't because I'm foreign. I wonder if strength of will is inherent or if it develops as a result of being allowed to flourish. Not to say these women aren't strong. I'd say more so than us, but its a quiet strength born of reserves deep within that they learn from their mothers and grandmothers and aunts and older sisters. They raise families in conditions most people cannot imagine with anywhere from six to ten kids. Father is usually working, and Mother is at home cooking food in a dented pot over a small gas stove in an often windowless kitchen. Metal bowls are stacked on the floor beside the stove and an oversized squeegee leans against the wall. All in all, its no bigger than a closet. 

The few homes I've been in also don't have showers, just a toilet and a sink. I've been told they wash from the faucet alone and for many, there are several days between rinsings. But they make do. For most of the people here, this is all they've ever known. There are disparities of wealth even among the poor, and I've seen both ends of the spectrum, but even if one were "wealthy," I believe this is something most of us could never do. The smell of garbage and livestock; the constant dust; the gray vapor of exhaust fumes; the loud, incessant beeping of truck horns; the mud and goo of food and animal remains on the street. No matter how nice and shiny your interior may be, the exterior doesn't seem to have much hope for change. So as one who was born here, who grew up among all of this refuse, do you hope for better? Do you simply live in acceptance? Or do you find the strength and courage to join in the change? 

Hamams and Hamaams

The difference between the Arabic word for pigeons and the bathroom is one sound. So I have to make sure when telling anyone about my day, that I say I was with the pigeons for the afternoon and not in the bathroom. Quite a different experience, those two. 

But this is the real deal, folks. The bathroom in the Recycling School is literally a hole in the ground. It's surrounded by porcelain, but is still only about the circumference of a soda can. Which for males, is probably quite a fun game but for females is more of a squat and go variety. It's odd how quickly I adjusted in the beginning, and now it's just common place. Although last week, the pen I had in my back pocket fell out and into the urine-scented darkness. The boys and teachers at the school just laughed when I told them and suggested that I go in after it.

"No big deal," they said. Ummmm..... It took several full seconds to realize they were all joking. But around here, you never know.

The school is one of my favorite places to be. I'm not an official teacher, or even an official tutor, but those students are good for my soul. Even if the boys say my name so often I've started abhorring the sound of it. Must be how my Mom felt when I was younger and said "Mom mom mom mom mom mom mom mom mom" until she just about went batty. Bygones. It's the fundamental right of children to drive their superiors crazy.

At the school, I spend my time teaching Bola (my star student) what English he can retain. He's one of seven kids and his family works in cardboard. He found a newish pair of hiking boots in the trash and amazingly, they fit him perfectly. Outside of these, he wears the same clothes often, some times three days in a row. Many of the boys do. Even the ones who own more of a variety wear faded and moth eaten shirts and pants, and I don't know if the dust is ground into their skin or if it's simply the dirt that little boys get into on a daily basis. They settle most things by hitting or grabbing shirt collars, but usually the anger is as loud and passing as a flash thunderstorm. The adults are much the same. I've been told it's because the Egyptians speak what's on their heart and then it is gone. Not like us, where we tend to stew for weeks and go crazy from the lack of confrontation. 

Today, Bola took me to his house to meet his mom and dad and seven brothers and sisters. I gave an impromptu English lesson to him on their couch while four of his siblings and a cousin looked on. No pressure. Luckily, only his cousin spoke decent English, so the rest simply stared, fascinated by the anomaly of having a very different looking foreigner in their home. Afterwards, I realized one of my Egypt dreams as I climbed up into one of the sky high pigeon coops on their roof. I wasn't there at the time of day that they all leave the nest and paint circles in the sky, but I've been invited back anytime to watch that phenomenon. I think perhaps on Sunday. And maybe the day after that. And the day after that.

Photo Credit - Liz Oxhorn

Fixing the Clock

Time is a strange concept here. For one, it moves very slowly. Or even if the day goes by quickly, it feels as if I've lived a month since the morning. And even days when nothing in particular happens, it's somewhat of a mini-lifetime. I forget how old I am here, I forget what month it is, I forget what the year is on the calendar. Because not much here is new. Everything looks a bit like the inside of a house that's been left abandoned for decades. Most of the cars hail from the eighties and share the roads with carts pulled by donkeys and the occasional horse-drawn carriage. Men are still pushing handcarts down the street selling bread or fruit or sugar cane, and I think I've only seen a decent pair of shoes trudging through the grey dust once or twice. 

I dodge frolicking baby goats on they way into the office and women and men alike wear ankle length galabias which make me feel like I'm walking around in Bible times until I catch a glimpse of my reflection and realize I failed to get the memo. Many of the women can't understand why I'm thin. They keep assuring me that a few more weeks on Egyptian food and my mom won't recognize me when I get off the plane and that I may not even match my own passport anymore. I laugh because I doubt it. I don't eat beans on the reg like they do and my metabolism seems to mostly still be kickin' it in high gear. Al-hamdulilah. 

At any rate, the plane will be years from now or no time at all. I'm still searching for my niche here, so I hope a little that it's the former. 

Who moved my apple peel?

I've begun to realize that this place is a bit like people who are organized messes. My step-dad is like that. His desk looks like an absolute disaster, but if my mom moves one piece of paper, he notices almost immediately. Despite the chaos, he knows the location of every object. 

There are piles of trash spilling out of every nook and cranny, falling out of doorways, flooding the corners and mixing seamlessly with the dirt. But everything has its place. What is being sorted one day has disappeared the next, to be replaced with a new batch of mixed garbage. Every day it is messy, but each day the mess is slightly different. At first I thought if there were just bins in the street, people could throw things away instead of leaving pieces of trash just lying around in the roads, but there isn't much distinction between what is waste and what is being recycled, and since the statistic is that 80-90% of what is brought back here is recycled, I can imagine the distinction is rather small if at all existent. 

Like the unbelievably tiny kitten whose mewl echoing through the parking garage below the guesthouse belied its minute stature, its dirt is a part of its identity. As much as Rosie and I wanted to take it into the kitchen, shove it under the faucet, and scrub it until it was Downy fresh and fluffy, its mother might not recognize it again. As much as some would like to dunk Manshiyet Nasr in a proverbial flea bath by moving its activities to designated land in the desert, doing so would strip it of its identity. Sorting trash is by far not the most glamorous profession, but it's the Zabbaleen's profession. Their ownership, their pride, their ingenuity are all tied in with the stuff at which everyone else covers their noses. There's a strength and resiliency in every face, be it tired or smiling, that is rare. So don't wash the kitten. And don't try to clean up all the messes, because sometimes things aren't nearly as messy as they first appear.