Are You Happy?

We walked a bit with the Qur'an being chanted over a PA system through the streets (it was a unique sound added to the rest of the big city sounds found in any metropolis--I don't know how many times a day it is read in Cairo, but it felt pretty much constant). We found an ATM and the metro (1 EGP per ride! That’s less than a Quarter in USA currency), we rode for the half hour to my friend’s friend’s station, and then since it was dark and we had no guess as to our direction, we decided to take a taxi from there to the flat. We only did that once, since the flat turned out to be within comfortable walking distance. The next morning—or, it may have been afternoon by the time we slept in, and had a lovely, slow start, we asked directions to the metro.

Go left out of the flat and go to the m------- and turn left again. Simple enough. All three of them looked pleased at the simple directions. I stared. “Turn left at the what?” At the mi-------. I looked dumbfounded over at my French friend, who repeated the missing word: the migdues. Migdu? What’s a migdu? It was not uncommon that I had to ask for one of them to repeat a word as I molded my ear around their accent, but it usually only took once, and it always sounded familiar, just took me an extra second to grasp it. I looked back to my Japanese friends. “I’m sorry, the what?” The magno…something. I looked back at my French friend, who was the one heading out with me and said, “Magnolias?” (I knew the flower’s name, but thought it an odd landmark, and searched my brain’s botanical file to recall what they look like.) Then shrugged, “Well, as long as you get it, we should be fine.” But this was not acceptable, and my French friend, exasperated exclaimed, “The fast food place—MAg dunuld’s—you’re American!” OH!!! Of course! MacDonald’s. What better landmark could there be for the American abroad? :-P After these three minutes of directions that should have only required thirty seconds, we grabbed our respective bags and head out the door, content with our easy directions. Down to the MacDonald’s and take a left.--McDonald's here has delivery!!

The elevator was small, like a Manhattan one, but unlike any I’ve seen before, there were only three sides to the moving part. On every floor, a door opening to the elevator shaft locked unless the three-sided room aligned with it, then the moving part would not move until the magnet was again in place. What this meant was that as the three-sided room in which we stood rose or descended, the fourth wall stayed put (which of course made it seem to move, in response to our own movement)—quite shocking the first time we began to move—and rather tempting to play with the following dozen or so times we took the elevator that week. I imagined all the parents in the building having to repeatedly tell their children to stop running their hands along the wall, or sticking things in the crevices, etc. We also took a video of my friend pretending to pull the elevator up the wall with his amazing muscles. It’s a bit hard to see actually, since we were in tight quarters, but one of these days I’ll get it posted on my facebook for you.

We found the metro without incidence and even made the transfer to the other line easily enough to the stop I had somehow come to believe was the stop for the pyramids. We did not have definite plans besides “I want to see the pyramids and the sphinx”, but we had heard by word of mouth that scams are common in Cairo. And we had read in the guidebook about the variety of scams common in Cairo. And we had read on the internet about the myriad of scams common in Cairo. All of them seemed to agree that as you exit any mode of public transportation, you will be greeted by taxi drivers, tour guides, or just friendly Egyptians wanting to help, who will ask you about your plans, point out the “problems” with it (“Oh, that’s a bad hotel”, “Oh! That’s closed today”, “Oh, darn, that building burnt down last week”) and then kindly guide you to their most highly recommended hotel/restaurant/tour service/etc. from which they later will receive a commission for delivering you. So, as we exited the metro, I ignored the, sure enough, multiple people who approached us to “help”, with my eyes down and an attitude of staunch rejection. After they drifted off, brushed aside by my friend’s repeated, “La shukran, la shukran, shukran. La.” we looked at each other, a little at a loss for what to do next. We exited the building and looked around. No pyramids. Hmm.

Just then, like a fairy godmother appearing just at the right time, lo and behold a kind passerby asked if we needed directions. “La, shukran.” He kind of laughed and said, “No, no, I don’t want to guide you, or take your money. I am a student at the Cairo University, and I just thought I could point you the right direction.” My friend and I looked at each other and shrugged. (We did that about every five minutes during our week in Cairo.) It seemed a not unlikely story. While we paused, he said, “I’m just headed back to my flat, but maybe I’m headed in the same direction as you. Where are you going?” So, we told him. The pyramids. He didn’t skip a beat, but said, “Oh yes, they’re very nearby.” (No. They weren’t. ;-P) And he began to lead the way very cheerfully engaging us in easy conversation.

We lagged behind at one point and conferred about what we thought of this “kind stranger”. We both agreed we were on the fence with it and would go along with it to see where it led…maybe like my father getting pick-pocketed in Naples last year, getting scammed in Cairo was just part of the traveling experience to be had. ;-) So I followed skeptically, waiting for “the other shoe to drop”, or the bill to appear, as it were. Without really consulting us he said, “But before we go, let’s get you two something to eat.” Oh, here it comes. But he took us to this little hole-in-the-wall place where they brought us…fruit cups? I’m not sure what to call them, but they were cups, filled with various fruit, anyway. A few moments of hesitation as I counted the cost of all kinds of possible results one can face for eating fruit in different countries, a silent prayer for mine and my friend’s health, and down went the fruit (to no negative results I’m aware of, I’m happy to say). We sat and chatted with our newfound guide, who declined the food as he was celebrating Ramadan. How ironic, then, to take us to get food. But I suppose it would be on the forefront of his mind those days, and was a kind gesture. In the semi-quiet of the corner, we were also afforded a chance to talk a bit more. As we finished up, I waited to hear how much these little cups of fruit and juice would cost us, but to my utter surprise, our new friend paid! (By the way, later in the evening he gave me the Egyptian name, Mena, and at his request our French friend gave him the ‘American’ name Jason, so I’ll call him that, for ease of story-telling.)

We asked if the pyramids were within walking distance and he mumbled something about a short ride. Then he led us across the street—what a short sentence that is! Even just a phrase: across the street. Three short words that, in Cairo, represent a thrilling adventure at every step! The guidebook had talked about this experience, too. It recommended waiting on the sidewalk until a local was going to cross, and then to follow closely, mentioning that most locals did not mind being used as human shields. So, as Jason led the way, lane by lane, with cars whirring before and after us, I stuck close and we all made it without a bump. (Three days later, I was crossing with the best of them, barely blinking as car tires rolled inches away from my little toesies, strolling—okay, not quite strolling, but calmly walking at least, one lane at a time. I never lost my caution out of respect for my parents, of course!, but I had fun once I got the jist of it. It’s not nearly as chaotic as it first appears, I think.)

We were standing on the opposite side of the street now, and Jason was looking at the on-coming traffic for something. A large vehicle of some sort, with a man hanging out the side of it yelling something, came down the road in the now start-and-stop traffic, and Jason calmly said, “Come.” No time for a look and a shrug with my friend, we jumped into the bus behind him—the busses don’t stop, but we were lucky for the traffic, and got aboard without problem (I was thankful I’d decided to go the week in tennis shoes rather than sandals: I was so nimble. :-)).

It was quite a distance to the place where Jason indicated we were to exit. And then to our surprise again, and in-spite of our protests, he paid for our bus fare, as well. We crossed a bigger road, and he laughed good-naturedly at our reaction to the chaos we saw where he must have seen order. He led us from boulevard, to avenue, to street, to alley, and I turned to my friend at one point and asked, “Do you trust him?”—I hadn’t made up my mind, yet. He proposed two hypotheses.

Early in our conversation, as with most people we talked with, Jason asked how the three of us: the Frenchman, the Japanese girl, and the American girl had come to meet and end up in Cairo (my Japanese friend was not with us, but when asked what hostel we where staying at, we always answered that we were staying at a friend’s flat, so she came up in conversation regularly because it was her friend’s flat). Sometimes we were able to, and chose, to give elusive answers (or my friend would lie outright), but with Jason, we told him we’d met while studying in Israel. He made no attempt to hide his feelings toward anything Israeli, and while he considered us with high regard as we were from our respective countries, he felt the need to enlighten us on some less-than-politically-correct-views regarding our country of choice for our studies. We tried to abate his racism with stories of our actual, own, personal experiences—he has never touched Israeli—or Palestine—soil, but gets his information from the television news, the movies, the radio, etc., but he was adamant that his perspective was factual and we must be mistaken.

I think I actually faltered in my physical walking stride as my mind began to wrap around what I was hearing. Anyway, that had been nearly the first conversation we’d had with him, and periodically it would come up again and we would continue trying to plant seeds for a new paradigm of the world. He had shown no animosity toward either of us, and if he’d known the popular American phrases would have said something like, “You’re entitled to your opinion” or “We’ll just have to agree to disagree”, but the stark contrast of perspectives gave rise to my friend’s first hypothesis. His second was much less complex. I asked, “Do you trust him?” And he answered smiling with something like, “I have two hypotheses: Either he is taking us to a dark alley somewhere because we told him we’re studying in Israel…or…he likes you.” I grinned my agreement, and walked a little closer to my French friend, glad I had a male with me! Haha

Let me take a minute here to say that the people in Cairo were Oober kind. And while men did look at me a great deal everywhere we went, the VAST majority of them were highly respectful. Of course there are always a few bad seeds—and they were more disconcerting than normal for me because of the cultural differences, but most smiled and tried some of their English on us “Hello! Welcome! What’s your name!”, and gave us our space if we body-languaged a need for it, and complimented me using words a girl likes to hear, not degrading, objectifying, or explicit language. The overall feel I got was that people were eager to help, excited to interact with the foreigners, and curious about us and our behavior (especially the children—adorable! Little ones starring for all they were worth and smiling from ear to ear when we’d wave). And their kindness was far from only toward us. Every time we entered a subway we saw men not only stand for ladies or elderly, but also for each other, or squish together so one more person could take a seat. And then the newly-arrived man would sit down in the created spot and pat the other man’s knee in a thank you. When someone jostled another person, they turned and apologized, and both would laugh or smile, more often than not, and both go on their ways. My friend and I laughed when, even as our driver laid on his horn at another car trying to merge in where he apparently did not want them, when the people in that car looked over, he laughed and waved as they merged in—like he was chuckling to himself that they’d got the best of him that time. Maybe he knew them, but he said he did not. My friend asked why the drivers in Cairo honk so much, and he said, “Hmm. If I do not honk, I do not feel that I drive.” Ha! Like checking your mirrors, wearing your seatbelt, or using your blinkers, honking is just a part of driving a car. I wonder if you fail driver’s-ed if you don’t honk enough.

By the time Jason had led us to the tour organization he said gives students discount tours, I felt like we’d had such experiences with him as to be worth a scam. But I still wondered how much such experiences might cost in this unknown realm. The manager said there were three different packages we could choose from; all three consisted of riding camels into the pyramids (they’re surrounded by a big wall/fence), going inside the pyramids, and up to the sphinx, but differed in time and distance. I wanted to hear all three options before heading out, but they bundled us onto the camels and said they would explain once we...something, something. Sometimes I wondered if their English failed them only when convenient for them. Suspicious much?

It “turned out” that because of Ramadan the pyramids were closing, so we could not go into the complex, but they would instead take us up to a hill where we could take panoramic pictures of the pyramids and sphinx with our camels. I was torn because this was just the kind of thing the tour book described (things being conveniently closed—they said to always check on your own rather than take a local’s word for it—and besides, I’d seen billboards in English advertising night shows at the pyramids…), yet I was already on a camel, and I figured we could go do the panoramic thing today and go in to the pyramids tomorrow. But still, I didn’t like the feeling of being worked over. But I was on a camel. But they had said one thing and now changed the plan. But we could get what we really wanted tomorrow along with this. But then again why pay twice?

Well, my mind went on like this back and forth, and my mouth basically followed suit as I engaged in my typical verbal processing method to my poor, patient friend. Jason overheard us discussing from one camel back to another, “Wait, are you not happy with this?” “No, not really. I want to go IN to the pyramids.” I have to admit, I was a bit pouty—it had been a good day, but in my disappointment I’m afraid I was acting a bit below my natal age, I’m afraid. Surprisingly, though, I don’t think it was the pouting that influenced him. Without fail, anytime we were bargaining, the merchant would ask us at the end, “Are you happy?”. If you said no, negotiations were not over. Even if you had agreed on a price, if you were not happy, they were not happy. I am not sure if this stems from cultural, religious, political, or business motivations, but it was such a common question, it became the catch-phrase of our entire travels. We started asking each other in the staccato-like accent, “Are you happy?”. Since we were not, Jason bade us turn our camels around (rather, once we’d agreed, he spoke in Arabic to our camels’ guides, and they turned them around), and we went back. He worked it out so we did not pay at all, and we went on our way.

More to come. :)