Tag Archives: cairo

Sep 02 2011
2 Comments
Anecdotes, Humorous, Three minute read

A Lighter and a Muse

A peanut, tweezers, and thing of floss for size comparison.

On a run to purchase ingredients for an intrepid night of pie making in post-revolutionary Cairo, we also picked up a lighter for our kitchen stove.

Though it has all the class of a 7-11, I have found within it incredible meaning beyond its mass produced tackiness. For me, it symbolizes some of my feelings about the move to Mohandiseen and my new life there more perfectly than any lighter has ever symbolized anything.

The raw picture of uncertainty and irony on the body of the lighter is enough to move one to tears or sleepiness. “S..OKY” is scrawled across it, a grotesque, hairless face with inhuman eyes, a cavernous mouth, and unexpectedly straight teeth blocking the middle letters of the word. Were the head not there it might read “SPOOKY.”

As I thought about this later on, the adjective resonated with me. Isn’t every time one moves into an unknown place a little spooky? Mohandiseen itself is eerily quiet and pleasant to walk around in, with a bizarre number of trees and expensive coffee shops. Couldn’t this be scary to someone who is used to living near only one expensive coffee shop around the corner from a Pizza Hut? Stricken by the unexpected depth I found in the fifty cent kitchen device, I probed further.

The gaping mouth is my earlier extreme thirst for coffee that went unsatisfied because I could not ignite the stove without matches.  I had forgotten to purchase some when I was at the store, which is heart breaking since they were the only thing I really needed in order to make my Nescafe.

The eyes on the lighter are a picture of this coffee-less, ironic, hell that I experienced today, since they are open but do not see, just as I had coffee but was not able to drink it. Covering up some of the letters introduces an element of chaos in the picture. It might actually read Socky, a friendly hand puppet, or “Smoky” in an anti-smoking warning, which would complement the other ironic undertones of the lighter.

And then I began to wonder whether it even matters what is written? Don’t we evaluate the picture and the letters as a whole and formulate our own truths, which must be equally valid regardless of whether or not there is supposed to be an anti-smoking message or a call to be kinder to our sock friends? The philosophical ambiguity of the lighter highlights the mixed emotions I have about living in an area where a pro-Mubarak protest was held a little over a month ago. The people here by and large did not suffer to the same degree under the past regime as did those who were not as well off. Indeed, many in this are grew wealthy during that time period and were sad to see Mubarak and the good ol’ days go down the revolutionary toilet.

Does living here make me one of them? If I eat fool (beans) and ta’amiya (Egyptian falafel) every day and ride the metro, does that still connect me with the “people?” It’s these kinds of questions, mainly philosophical, that the new lighter has ignited (pun?) in my mind. I’m glad to have such a thought-provoking piece of functional art at my disposal in order to stir the thinking wells of my brain.

Tagged , , , , , , , ,
Sep 01 2011
2 Comments
Anecdotes, Humorous, Lists, Open Letters, Three minute read

Six Stages of Packing

STOP EVERYTHING! WHERE IS YOUR TUNA?

It is finished. I have moved and am now in a magical place called Mohandiseen, where the honking in the distance almost sounds like crickets, the sky has 3 more stars, and cotton candy grows on trees.

I don’t care if I have to eat beans and toothpaste for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and tea time snack in order to live here. It will be worth it to have this haven where I can literally cocoon myself away from the craziness of Tahrir, in order to appreciate it more fully.

While packing, I gleaned some impressive information on the emotional phases of the moving process. Allow me to elaborate.

Time to Go

The day has come. It’s time to move out of your apartment, the apartment where you have lived. You saw this day coming because you signed the lease and chose this day yourself. Still, it strikes you like a thunderbolt. You squirm in your shoes, you pace up and down nervously as your palms sweat and your eyes swim, but you can’t avoid what’s coming. It’s time to pack. As you begin the laborious process, you start progressing through the six stages.

Stage 1: Despondency

As you survey the grotesque bulk of your possessions, your heart is stricken with an iced lightening rod. Hercules himself would have trembled at the sight of what must be squirreled away…unworn clothing, laughably ambitious shoes, three partially used deodorant sticks, two cans of tuna, etc. You experience earth shattering, heart breaking, soul sucking hopelessness. “Might as well give up now,” you think, as you check to see what’s on television.

Stage 2: Elbow Grease

After weeping briefly, you pull yourself together and realize that today is the first day of the rest of your life, and that if you don’t pack your landlord will confiscate you and your possessions. You start puttering around the room, rearranging and evaluating things, and all the while hope slowly wells within your chest. “Maybe this can be done,” you think, “and where did those cans of tuna go?”

Stage 3: Sweat

You’re really moving now. The hot Cairo sun is beating down upon all the Cairene earth. In the AC-less room, your temples and back grow damp as the pile of material possessions is slowly organized and moved into seal-able spaces. You are happy in your delusion that things are actually going to get done. “I’ll even be able to fit in my cans of tuna,” you contentedly state to yourself.

Stage 4: Despair

Your bags are filling fast and you there is no end in sight. Your forehead is sweaty and you feel like crap for some reason, even though you got three hours of sleep and have only eaten chocolate. Emotions run high as you recall past loves and wonder where they are now. Are they packing too? Do they know what this is like? As you look at the miserable pile of crap your life has become, a mere anchor to a place you are no longer attached to, you begin to wonder what the meaning of it all is.

Stage 5: Rejuvenation

After looking at a tree, you realize things aren’t so bad. You decide to throw away the yards of velvet you wanted to make into a magician’s cape for your niece, and that makes you feel better. Now there’s just the odd shaped things like packing tape left, most of which can be thrown into your backpack. “Wait a second, ” you think to yourself, “WHERE ARE MY CANS OF TUNA?” You lay your eye upon them and a chorus of heavenly angels sings as you nestle them into the perfect spot in your suitcase. The end is in sight and it looks like a celebration at Pizza Hut.

Stage 6: Jubilation

After cramming the last pair of socks through the crack of your suitcase and zipping it shut before it could escape, you glance around your room and realize you have done the impossible. You have packed your life into measurable square feet, and you have done so with only a mild breakdown. Come hell or high water, one thing is for certain. As soon as you get to your new apartment, you’re unpacking everything and cracking open a can of tuna in celebration. Champagne is for squares and people who don’t eat enough protein.

Tagged , , , , , , , ,
Aug 29 2011
Leave a comment
Anecdotes, Fiction

Make Your Own Cairo Street Sludge

Just add water and blazing heat

It never rains in Cairo, but the ground is always wet. This is one of the great paradoxes of this country. From whence does the moisture come from, if not bequeathed upon us from the bounty of the sky? This man made street moisture is a conglomeration of air conditioning residue, also known as Cairo rain, car washing by-product, and people throwing water on the streets to keep the dust down. The final result is unwanted, unpleasant, gloopy, sticky, ubiquitous, puddles.

Personally, I hate stepping in puddles. This aversion is not limited to Cairo. I hate unprotected puddle stomping everywhere and especially so when I’m wearing open toed shoes or pants that leave part of my leg bare and thus unprotected from any stray drops of street water.

The puddles here, for a variety of reasons, are particularly unappealing, and I shiver every time I’m forced to step in the street goo. What if it splashes onto my pants, squishes between my toes, or (God forbid) somehow makes its way into my mouth. No amount of pure grain alcohol would be enough to make me feel clean again.

I was searching for what exactly makes Cairo street water so special, and found this recipe on allrecipes.com. I haven’t tried it yet, but it had great ratings and comments.

Extra-Foul Cairo Street Puddle

By-products of at least 3 animals (feral dogs and cats are acceptable)

Powdered garbage

Handful of trash

Motor Oil

Human Spit

Bleach

Air-conditioning residue

Spilled Pepsi

One shard of glass (optional)

Dust (to taste)

Mix all of the above ingredients. Leave for years. In the morning, add an extremely inappropriate amount of water, making sure to waste as much as possible. Let sit in sun and reduce for 4 hours. Encourage cars to drive through. The mixture will be most foul before 4 o’clock pm, when it might completely evaporate. Does not keep well. Makes a great gift!

Tagged , , , , , ,
Aug 28 2011
2 Comments
Anecdotes, Fiction

Grizzly One Pant Man

The beloved vessel

There is an interesting character that I see daily as I walk  to the metro. All I know about him is that he owns one pair of pants and a car. It is not clear what he does when he’s not washing his car, opening all its doors and playing music loudly , or sleeping in the trunk with the trunk door open. In short, he’s a bit of a mystery.

Recently he’s taken to talking to friend and I when we walk by him, always starting out with a warm “Thank-you. How are you?” To which I respond in Arabic “Very well” and then he says in English, “You speak Arabic. Very good.” To which I say in Arabic, “Thank you.”

Apparently this conversation never gets old, since it has literally occurred 20 times. There’s something reassuring in the fact I only need to walk past him in order to earn a “thank you.” If only I could earn a paycheck by passing people while trying to ignore them as well. At any rate, I thought I’d made an online dating profile for him since he seems like an interesting guy with dreams and a set of wheels.

okcupid.com profile for “Grizzly, one pant man. With car”

My self-summary: I may seem like a pretty simple guy, especially since I only speak extremely broken English with foreigners. The reality is that I set out years ago on a journey to live a nomadic lifestyle with nothing but my one pair of pants and my car in order to break free and discover truth.  But I fell in love with a girl and followed her to Medan Messaha, trying to woo her with thank yous and how are yous. I lost her when she went inside the Pizza Hut. I waited for her for ages, but either she never came back out or she sneaked out while I was napping in my car. So I’ve been here for the last twenty years, not learning any more English and cleaning my car compulsively.

What I’m doing with my life: Eventually I dream of moving my car to the other side of the square. Until then I want to figure out how to do laundry and wash my car at the same time.

I’m really good at: speaking broken English with foreigners, sleeping in semi-open spaces, moving my car from one side of the street to the other, washing my car, arranging the knick knacks in my car, yelling occasionally, rolling up the cuffs of my pants, etc.

The first things people usually notice about me: I resemble the Santa Claus hanging in my car, except for I look crazier, have slightly darker skin, am thinner, and role up my pants. I guess it’s mostly just the beard that causes the connection. People also notice the huge gaps in my teeth and my bizarre stare.

Favorite books, movies, shows, music, and food: I had a Twix bar once and that was pretty good. I kept the wrapper and used it to decorate my car.

The six things things I could never do without: the sponge I use to wash my car, my car, my pair of pants, my community of people who are equally busily unemployed, buckets, beauty

On a typical Friday night I’m out: on Friday nights I like to turn the music up in my car and open all the windows and doors and just make sure everyone around me knows that I have a car with loud music.

The most private thing I’m willing to admit: I once watched someone choke to death and didn’t help them since I was in the middle of getting a spot out of my car upholstery and had just applied the fabric cleaner.

I’m looking for: someone kind of like my car, but a woman. And a newer model.

You should message me if: you’re willing to help me clean my car, you agree to never touch my car with your bare flesh, you will find somewhere else besides my car for accommodation, you’re okay with always being second in my life, and you are equally skilled at speaking broken English at foreigners.

Thank you! How are you!

Tagged , , , , , , , ,
Aug 27 2011
3 Comments
Best blog posts, Humorous

New Pile of Dirt on the Block

I literally thought, “That pile of dirt is gold.”

Tonight, on my way to another lung-blackening adventure in Cairo, I noticed a new pile of dirt on my street. I thought to myself, “Huh, that’s a new pile of dirt.” In spite of the Ramadan craziness that ensued in the Hussein area of Cairo (think: Rockefeller center at Christmas but without squishy coats) and throughout the hours of sheesha-sitting, I couldn’t stop thinking about the pile of dirt. Something about it resonated with me.“This,” I thought, “Is what true inspiration feels like.” As the night passed, I kept reminding myself that I must take a picture of it, to keep and to hold.

Hours later I arrived back at my apartment, switched the air conditioning on, threw off half my clothes and suddenly realized I hadn’t taken a picture of the pile of dirt. My innards began to swim in turmoil. Do I let the moment pass, or do I try to seize the pile of dirt handful by handful (so to speak) and leave my apartment at 2 am in the morning to capture it on film? I think we all know what happened. The pile of dirt inspired the following.

Dear Piles of Dirt International, Inc.:

I see you delivered the pile of dirt I requested. I appreciate your patience with my order since my fax machine was broken for some time and kept on sending all of my piles of dirt requests to Toys “R” Us headquarters in Wayne, New Jersey. Apparently there is a hot new toy for city kids called “Pile O’Dirt” so there was quite a bit of confusion on both ends. I am glad to see that one request finally made it through to you, though I do have a few notes on your manner and timing of delivery.

First of all, I requested this pile of dirt almost two months ago. It was supposed to be a belated engagement present for my sister since she is in Physician’s Assistant school and one of her activities is “reconnecting with sterilized nature indoors.”  Through practice, the future P.A.s learn how to simultaneously sympathize with and look down upon people visiting their Wal-mart Clinics who are involved in agriculture. The dirt she is required to purchase and then sit in can be very expensive, so I thought I would shoulder some of the financial burden by providing it for her at a reduced cost. I just want her marriage to succeed. This brings me to my next point.

She is not studying to become a Physician’s Assistant in Doqqi, Cairo. She is in Oklahoma, USA. In fact, she lives a five minute walk away from your main office. I am puzzled, therefore, as to why the pile of dirt has arrived in here in Egypt. The form clearly stated the recipient of the dirt and her location. I even specified that it was to be carefully placed in the newly installed dirt-holding hut at her home. I don’t even recall writing my address or location on the form, though I was experimenting with a different kind of Egyptian peanut butter that night so it’s difficult to remember exactly what happened. Perhaps that has something to do with all the “Pile O’Dirts” I’ve gotten as well. Moving on.

Even had I wanted the pile of dirt for myself, the style of delivery was completely unacceptable. Your workers, supposedly the best in the field, had apparently indulged in Egyptian liquor before the requested midnight delivery. By the way, the one thing your company got correct was the surreptitious delivery at a bizarre time. Nevertheless, because their stupor or extreme ineptitude, they mistakenly deposited the entire pile of dirt outside a coffee shop where anyone could just up and take it. Not only will your workers likely be afflicted by blindness because of the Egyptian alcohol, but the pile of dirt is blocking a total of two cars, the owners of which are likely blinded by rage.

The last and perhaps most important point is that the sterility of the pile of dirt is completely ruined. That is actual litter in the photo. God knows what else has crept into it by now. Even were my sister be present, it would be completely useless for her exercise unless she wanted to better understand feral animals. Needless to say, I would like the pile of dirt removed and placed in front of our landlord’s car, a full refund, and a voucher for two free piles of dirt in the future.

Thank you for your time,

Emily

P.S. I will be writing an unfavorable review for you on Angie’s List, noting that there were sizable rocks included in the pile of dirt when I specifically requested only small to medium pebbles.

Tagged , , , , , , , ,
← Older posts
Newer posts →
Design a site like this with WordPress.com
Get started