Dinner and a Night Out (in the desert)

Jason had invited us over to his house for dinner, but we wanted to get our other friend if we were to join him for the evening. We had left her to work on her paper, but had been gone most of the day, and since we didn’t have a phone number for her, we wanted to go back to the flat and invite her to take a break from studying to join us at a local’s home. It’s always more interesting to see culture (and food) through an individual’s life than through tourist-y things and restaurants, etc. We had joined one of Jason’s friends along the way, so they gave us a ride to the metro where we wrote down his number and tried to reassure him we would be back. I don’t think he believed us, but said he and his friend would get a coffee and wait there for our return.

We hopped on the train and made the connection smoothly, gaining confidence in our understanding of the metro system. I was happy to be returning home so I could change my shirt—in the morning we had realized that unlike the Paris, NYC, and DC metro systems, there was often no indication as to when the subway doors were about to close. (Or at least not one we discerned.) Its lack of warning was emphasized to us when I stepped aboard and the doors began closing before my friend could board. Instinctively, I blocked the doors expecting the familiar, “Please stand clear. The doors are closing” as the doors reopen and close again. But they just pressed in on my arm, then my foot, and finally closed. My friend had called out just before they closed, “Meet me at the next stop!”, so we did, and it turned out not to be a big deal, but in trying to stop the door from closing, I had spilled my morning coffee (yes, from Migdu’s) all down my long sleeve, and was glad to have a chance to change into a clean shirt.

We collected our friend (who was indeed worn out from studying) and made the trek back to Jason and his friend. It had taken quite a bit over an hour, but as we came up out of the metro, there he was, waiting patiently for us. I suppose his friend had gone home to prepare for our arrival, because after Jason fought over price with a few taxis (he exclaimed that they didn’t realize he was Egyptian, since we were standing behind him, and they were giving him the tourist prices), we rode to the house and were treated to an excellent dinner. (I even ate some chicken out of cultural sensitivity—the first non-fish meat I’ve had since Johannesburg, I believe. What is that, 9 years? I was glad I had a bowl atop my plate so I was able to pick it apart and eat a few bites, but mostly hide the rest under the lip of the bowl. Oh the balance of politeness and preference. ;-)) But there was plenty of other food to fill our eyes and appetites. We sat cross-legged before the low table and I felt like I might pop by the end (our hosts continually entreated us to eat more, eat more!). Rice served as the base with several other bowls of semi-liquids to add to it. Um, names? Hmm, red stuff with potato chunks, green stuff that turned out to be a spinach soup thing in chicken broth, and of course the bread—oh what is it called? It’s like pita bread, but thinner.

The dinner was followed by a fruit plate for dessert and coffee.

I tasted my first raw date—I didn’t even recognize them pre-dried! Not so bad. Not so great either. Very starchy, indeed. ;-)

I was so happy when I reached the bottom of my coffee and was startled by the coffee grounds that greeted my tongue (and teeth) from the bottom of the cup. As I sheepishly chewed them up as furtively as possible, I recalled Mary Russell describing just this kind of coffee in Laurie R. King’s books, “The Bee Keeper’s Apprentice” and “O Jerusalem”. Mary is one of my favorite characters in fiction and it was so fun to share the experience with her. :)

Jason had confirmed my friend’s second hypothesis about why he was touring us around Cairo, and asked if he could see me in Egyptian clothing and said his friend’s wife would be happy to lend me some and show me how to put them on properly. I figured there was no harm in it, and was interested to experience it, too. So she took me into the other room and shyly handed me a dress. I produced my scarf from my backpack, but she seemed a bit reticent, after all, to help me wrap it. I had to do the best I could.

Dressed in this new wardrobe, I was given the Egyptian name, Mena, and we all head out to see some pyramids (not the famous Giza pyramids, but I’ve forgotten their name) that Jason’s friend could gain us nighttime access to because of connections he has through his work.

We had a good time looking around the pyramids, ruins of an ancient temple, and some excavation work that’s being done during the days. At one point our Bedouin guide had to shoo away a snake that had reacted to his flashlight. Visions of poisonous vipers and pythons in Cleopatra’s court ran through my head (and I think through our guides’ and my friends’ minds, as well), and we all walked a little differently thereafter. Jason and the Bedouin man’s reaction was somewhat reminiscent of the man my family and I had met in the Amazon who in the longboat, when rocked by an unseen large aquatic animal began paddling somewhat frantically back to shore, repeatedly panting out, “Don’t be scared, don’t be scared.” It was a little less than reassuring. But what can you do more than carefully observe your guide’s movements and try your best to imitate them and keep an extra observant eye and ear out for potential threats, and pray? We all made it out without bite or bruise, thankfully. :)

We noted that as people showed us around the sites in Cairo, they always wanted to take many pictures of us—and always had “the” pose we were to make. We sometimes went along with their choreography, and other times invented our own.

During the nighttime tour the proverbial other shoe dropped. The whole evening’s plan had been laid before us as an outing with a friend, and no mention of a professional guide, entry fee, or official tour had been alluded to nor negotiated prior to the excursion. However, as we walked, a cost nonchalantly manifested itself in conversation, just in passing, mentioned and then passed over, almost going unnoticed. But when we backed up to it, “Wait, what? How much?” it led to quite a discussion, not of finances, but of ethical disclosure of information, etc. Right there, in the middle of the night, in the ruins of an ancient temple, vocal chords tensed, hackles raised, and tempers flared. My Japanese friend and I dug in our heels, ready for a stand-off of morality, but thankfully our French friend was an excellent peacemaker, and it worked out in the end to everyone’s apparent satisfaction. We had tea with the Bedouin men (another incredible experience for me, making mental connections back to CCF, ABSL, and Mary Russell), and paid them directly for their guiding and hospitality. Whether they later would pay Jason and his friend a commission for delivering us, we’ll never know. But we had come around to “be happy” with the price. The price was indeed excellent. It was the deceit that grated our…was it pride? Was it a cultural difference that we felt our “freedom” had been infringed and they saw it merely as an adroit business practice?

They returned us to the metro thankfully a bit before it stopped running for the night, and we made our way back to the flat with our minds full of images from the day: camels, pyramids, temples, Bedouin tribes, unique foods, customs, and so many more, mixed in (at least in my mind) with veritable essays regarding culture, politics, sociology, faith and faith systems, international relations and personal relations, and implications inherent in every choice made by individuals, communities, nations. And media.

On the train ride home, I got separated momentarily from the other two—the car was packed full of our generation heading home for the night. Two women standing beside me and also swaying with the car’s movement struck up a conversation with me after a few furtive glances returned with open smiles from me. Well, it was as close to a conversation as we could create with our combined languages, gestures, giggles, and good intentions. A man on the other side of the car heard us struggling and stepped in as a kind of interpreter for us. And then one introduced me to her mother sitting behind her on the seat. Soon we had about six of us all engaged in helping me understand each question or comment they put to me, and we were getting along rather swimmingly (well, dog-paddling, anyway). I heard a pleasant little commotion coming from down the subway car and looked over to see my two friends in the middle of a large circle of Egyptians laughing and clapping as they played patty-cake-type hand games with a couple others as they balanced in the still moving train. My new friends on this side of the car and I looked at each other and laughed. When we got to our stop everyone waved goodbye and we left the station beaming and laughed most of the walk home.