Mo Gamma Gamma

It seems a bit silly to say the traffic was crazy today, because duh, it's Cairo. I'm sitting at the guesthouse after my slightly harrowing trip to the Mogamma (oh place of wonders and delight that is the dense crush of foreigners in every square inch of space around me). The Mogamma is always a circus ride of back and forth between windows, waving money above the heads of everyone in front of you like somehow the guy behind the glass is going to call you out even though you're 4 human bodies deep in the pulsing sardine can. Luckily, as a female, I do receive some sort of privilege as there is a man that just takes the stamp fees from women. Some guy tried to shove his money around in front of me and the official was having none of it. He just ignored the man's outstretched hand and beckoned me to hand over my guinea. Hurrah! Take that, you pushy menfolk. 

What kind of visa they will decide to bestow upon me is yet to be determined. I have a contract of work this go round, but who knows whether this will carry any weight to get me a longer term of stay, or if they'll just blithely ignore it and issue the standard 3 months I received last time. I have to return tomorrow to discover the outcome. If the latter scenario happens, I'm scootin' my tail off to Malta at the end of the term, and re-entering via Cairo International Airport, a method which is slightly more expensive yet not involving nearly as much physical contact with strangers. Which in my book is a HUGE pro. 

Arriving back at Shera Ramses (RAMASEES!!) and our neighborhood corner stand, I took note of and considered the fruit smoothie concoction chock full of vitamins and goodness, but still opted for the can of Coke and sugar wafers, making yet another bad decision regarding crap that I have put into my body over the last week. Ehh, bygones. If someone offers me sugary tea, chocolate on rice pudding, and a tub full of Koshary, who am I to refuse? It's all about accepting people's hospitality. If the visa gurus are kind, and I'm to stay here as long as I am hoping, familiarizing myself with the intricacies of courtesy is going to be a must. 

Sundays

A friend of mine who has studied Egyptian history says that this used to be a place of thriving culture: dance, song, beautiful and classy black & white films, tourism, and glamour. And now, it seems a place of decay. Still beautiful underneath but in perilous danger of losing it. 

Sunday mornings for most people here mean getting up and going to start their work week. But I'm still a product of my Southern upbringing in that Sundays are church days and otherwise left for moving slowly, taking naps, and absorbing as much sunlight as I can stand. Since they don't have church on Sundays here, I had my own version, downloading a sermon from one of my favorite speakers, Dr. Dick Foth, and afterwards finishing my laundry before heading down to the kitchen for breakfast. The boys were having tea and watching a great black and white movie on the cafeteria TV. The picture was crisp, the actors and actresses glamorous, the songs soft and lovely. And Adeeb was glued to it. At least until he had to get back to work that is. It made me smile, these guys from this dusty earth, usually with cigarettes dangling from their fingers like extensions of their bodies, watching the Egyptian equivalent of Turner Classic Movies over tea. Hence my waxing philosophic over the culture that's been buried beneath the dirt and turmoil. 

I wish I could have seen this place in its heyday. It's possible they will one day get back to it, but it will be a long journey. And even if they do, will it change the way of life for the people I spend most of my time with here, the garbage collectors and recyclers who live in unfinished tenements bordering unpaved roads? I don't know. I hope they will be remembered. I hope they'll soon have enough money to paint their walls and provide their daughters with all the things they need for their future marriages. But all these things take time, something most of us are not willing to befriend quickly. Time tends to elbow its way into our lives until all we notice is how long we've been waiting. It helps us find our way back while helping us find our way better. I think Egypt can return to its glory and improve all at the same time. So long as it never loses its heart. 

Community

I cried in the taxi on Monday. There are times when I reach my emotional limit and I feel like I just can't do it anymore, but I have to because I'm in a taxi and even though he's taking the long way, through parts of downtown to get somewhere that's simply south and slightly west of me, I have to stick it out and wait until we get there and see how much the meter has run up and how much of my meager allowance I'm going to have to shell out this time before I can breathe a sigh of relief until the next time when I have to do this all over again. It's the silly female part of me that couldn't stop the floodgates once they opened, and then, because my taxi driver could see my tears in the rearview mirror, I found myself having to once again explain my overactive emotions in Arabic. The only place I felt comfortable that day was Manshiyet Nasr. I immediately met Moussa at his bakery and then, after munching on a discus of bread fresh from the oven, I headed to the school to throw myself into what I'm doing so I could remember why I'm here. I felt at home in a millisecond. No sooner had I dropped my bag on a dusty table when I was being made a large cup of tea and being shuffled over to the computers so Bola could show me how to type in Arabic. 

"See?" he said. "You put your hands like this," showing me a pattern of fingers-on-a-qwerty-pad that I've been more than familiar with since 6th grade. "You see the letter on the screen, and you type it here." 

I figured this was the time to wow them with my fancy American typing skills, so I switched the language to English, flew through the intermediate typing test, became the most popular person in the room for the next three minutes, turned to Bola and Ibrahim and said, "Yeah, I get the idea. Just not in Arabic." From that point on, life made sense again. Bola learned and remembered his animals in English like a pro, and Moussa FINALLY grasped the difference between "I am eating" and "I will be eat." Al-hamdulilah. Which came back to bite me when I arranged my word cards to form the sentence "The monkey wants to eat a mouse" and Moussa said, "NO. Monkey will not eat mouse, monkeys don't eat meat." Thank you, sir, for completely missing my grammatical point.  

But today was amazing. I had to steal myself before leaving the guesthouse for the next taxi encounter, but I arrived without a hitch and for only 10 pounds 50. Then later, although my English tutoring was somewhat discouraging, I was filmed for a Greek television piece that's being put together about Egypt after the revolution. They wanted to show the disparity between the different classes and expositing how life is in a place such as Manshiya. They were impressed with me - that I was there on a regular basis, that I was eating the food and not getting sick ("No seriously," Panos, the Greek director, asked, "what medications are you taking?"), that I was doing something to try to give the kids an opportunity to dream bigger and give them a chance. I shrugged, not real sure what to say. For the first time in my life, I didn't mind being in front of a camera. It didn't matter that the light was practically in my eyeballs, or that my hair was in disarray or that they were all up in our grill while I was helping Bola read his English book. I was just doing what I do here. And I didn't feel self-conscious at all. Even when I realized I'd probably just moved my bag into pigeon pee on the roof of Bola's house right before my interview. I didn't get nervous when they asked me questions, and I didn't hesitate when they miked me for the camera. I didn't even think twice about it. I was part of the reason they were on a roof in Manshiyet Nasr below the outfall of a vaulted pigeon coop. Panos wanted my take on the place, wanted me in one of the shots in the street, wanted me sitting with Bola and his dad and uncle and sisters in their living room. As he was telling the members of the camera crew to get out of the shot, I looked at him and asked, "Do I need to get out?" He said, "No. You're a part of the community." 

Dirt With a View

I spent the afternoon sitting in a brown plastic chair next to a white plastic table watching the cars go by beneath the shadow of the mountain that houses Saleh el-Din Citadel and the concrete frame of what will soon be the Egyptian Treasury opposite. It was my day to reward myself with a glass bottle of Coke, and I sipped it slowly while Moussa drank his tea and smoked shisha from the water pipe. Soon he stopped and started throwing rocks at a glass bottle lying on its side a small ways down the hill. I joined in with large chunks of brick. Both of us kept missing until finally he lodged a small stone perfectly and it shattered the glass, leaving shards of dangerous sharpness sticking out of the sand. This is the closest I think I'll get to a terrace café. 

We were sitting on the edge of Manshiyet Nasr. It was a short day for me, but my first day back in the school and seeing the boys. They're doing well, all of them, and all happy to see me. I gave Bola his gift - a small, digital Kodak camera that I got for Christmas about eight years ago. It's been sitting unused on my mom's desk for the last four, and he had asked me for one before I left. It wasn't until I was home during the holidays that I saw it, something I had completely forgotten about, and knew it would be perfect. We're so blessed with wealth that we're up to our ears in digital apparatuses that we no longer use. Even after some time here, I'm still startled by the contrast. 

Moussa showed me his bakery today. It opened on the first of this year, but when I say bakery, I mean nothing akin to warm, fluffy croissants, muffins, and chocolate drizzled doughy confections. Bakeries in Manshiya are as utilitarian as it gets. They buy flour from a monastery in 50 kilogram bags which they mix with water, yeast, and some salt before letting it rise for half an hour. They then roll balls of dough in tiny seeds before setting them on long wooden flats that are shoved through a gargantuan metal oven. This creates the discs of bread that float through the streets atop lattice trays in sandy abundance. The tiny seeds rub off on hands like gritty dust, so the circle is usually folded and rubbed together to dislodge all that's loose. It doesn't keep the tan powder from sprinkling over table tops and all over my black sleeves, but it helps a little. 

Moussa tells me the 50 kilo bags cost 100 pounds apiece. One bag makes 70 flats of bread, sold at roughly 2 pounds each which adds up to 40 pounds profit. With today's exchange rate, that is about $6.35 made on each bag of flour. That doesn't include the cost of machinery or the salary of the baker or any equipment repair costs. I have to wonder if they even sell 70 flats of bread a day. 

But he has big dreams, this Moussa. He hopes to study recycling practices in England or America for a few years to learn and share what he knows before coming back to help improve his community. He's building out his apartment for his fiancée whom he would marry tomorrow if her family would allow her too without insisting she acquire all the furniture and everything needed for their life together before she walk down the aisle. He hopes after my being here for 5 months, he will speak perfect English and I will speak perfect Arabic and maybe the two of us can open an office of translation on the edge of Manshiyet Nasr to serve all the tourists. The safest response to things like this is "God willing." He's a pillar of his community: self-educated, entrepreneurial, ambitious. I have yet to pass a person on the muddy streets who doesn't know him. Anytime I have doubts about meeting someone new, he says, "You are with Moussa. Do not worry." His family has been in Manshiya since the beginning 60 years ago. His father put his hand on the dirt where we sat and claimed it as his own, and so now it is so. I guess the café is just using it on loan. I asked him why his father wanted it, and he said, "Because it is beautiful."  

En Route

Color me sheepish. I was so occupied staring out the window at the huge expanse of northeastern coastline that the flight steward had to throw two napkins at me to get my attention for the beverage service. I had caught his eye when he was at the row behind me, so I have no idea how I managed to zone out and forget that we would be next. He flashed a grin at  me though, and I laughed and said, "Sorry," and for two seconds we were besties. 

And then... I arrived at JFK. I am a veteran traveler and mere hours after discussing with my mom how good I am at navigating strange airports (yes I'm awesome), I found myself wandering around JFK Terminal 7 like a dingbat with a broken radar. There were no signs indicating the location of my second airline, so I had to go back to my arrival gate and, shock and horror, ask.  

"Oh you can take the Air Train. Get off at Terminal 4. Just follow the signs here to Ground Transportation."

Okie dokie. Which I'm pretty sure means I have to go back through security. Oh delight. But before I can get to the metal detectors. the pre-security kid who appeared to be half my age informed me that I had to exchange my US Airways boarding pass for one issued by Egypt AIr. As if my joy wasn't complete by having to re-go through security. Be still my heart, JFK! It's not as if my carry-on bags weigh upwards of 20 pounds apiece. No way! Light as a feather. I can think of nothing more I'd like to do than haul them over every inch of this place to ensure that they get the full tour. 

I'm rewarding myself by sitting at a bar-top table at an Irish pub, partaking of the last hard cider I'll be able to get my hands on for a while. A little girl just walked by wearing multi-colored striped leggings and pink, fuzzy boots. I am being completely serious when I say I wish I could. No one ever appreciates the freedom of fashion one has as a child. 

Oh! I almost forgot! My plane has been delayed by an hour! I do love Hall A... good thing I get to spend a lot of time here. 

Travel

I find I write best in airport terminals while I'm waiting on my various flights. I've survived the stress of security checkpoints where I always get a little nervous even though I have nothing to hide (except that rogue bottle of conditioner left over from my color-in-a-box that failed to make it into the Ziploc baggie. Woops.); I successfully checked two bags with no charge and no hassle (good thing because I'm not sure I could have lived without my box o' brownie mix and Shredded Wheat); and Starbucks miraculously managed to nail my double over ice with vanilla making it 8 different kinds of delicious, a vast improvement from their usual offerings. 

Let me just say, for the record, that Charlotte Douglas International Airport has morphed into a sunlight and glass wonderland since the Democratic Convention was held downtown last year. There are welcoming white rocking chairs scattered throughout, including the one in which I'm sitting located on the lofted balcony just outside the USO Conference room. I'm afforded a view of a whole host of parked and taxiing planes and one or two taking off if I glance to my right at the opportune moment. There's a new clock tower at the epicenter between Terminals C and A-B that is one of the most creative I've ever seen. On the very top, above the clock, is a small air traffic control man whose arms, complete with fluorescent sticks, move up and down at regular intervals. Below the clock faces, there are four tiers of revolving flight craft all created from thin painted metal. The Wright brothers are on the bottom tier and apparently, there was a guy on a small bicycle strapped on top of the foremost wings. Odd... don't remember that part of history. 

Flying with them on the same level are Icarus complete with waxy bird wings and the dangerous sun, a hot air balloon which must have been invented by the French if the flag flying behind it is any indication, and a weird platform in the sky with a double set of propellers and an open, elongated body below where passengers sit - this also flying a French flag. 

The other tiers include a paper airplane with every genetic combination of white girl playing jump rope on top (my paper airplanes were never good enough to host PE activities); a bi-plane with a chorus line of dancers on the upper wing called the "Ace Air Stars" (did these things really happen? Because I feel like one misstep in those routines was a bit more than just an ankle sprain... "Oops! We lost Janice... keep going girls, the show must go on."); a German blimp with a concert pianist on top (what I call a true feat of German engineering); a US space shuttle with dangling astronauts (one of whom in turn is dragging his dog through outer space on a leash); and an 8-blade old-fashioned helicopter where a late commuter appears to have grabbed on to the bottom and is flying through the air dangling his briefcase behind him. Truly flights of aeronautical fancy, all of which are contributing to my current moment of zen. Bravo, Charlotte Douglas, bravo. It is now truly a pleasure flying with you.