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