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Published: July 29th 2005
Bedreddin in Petra
I got some guy to take this picture of me... Petra, Jordan. Truly beautiful. And yes, I'm aware that the word "Jordan" doesn't figure anywhere in my blog.Aswan. Luxor. Sa’aid. Upper Egypt. Gradually increasing “African features”, and changing
landscape, colors (even of clothing and houses) as we move steadily south. Even the trip
from Cairo to Luxor covered more ground on the map than places that took me more than a
month to travel in the fertile northern countries. Yes, in the Syrian desert I wondered at the
fact that apart from the narrow fertile strip of the Euphrates it was completely empty with no
human habitation and likely no potential for it either. Here in Egypt the same is true on a
much larger scale. When I struck out from Bursa on foot, my map only marked the main
population centers, yet I was certain that there would be roads (maybe unpaved, but existent),
and water to be had, and villages to stop at. And in fact the distance to the next village was
rarely more than 7km, there was an abundance of springs (possibly every 2km or so), as well
as farms and trees for shelter (and free apples). But that was fertile Bythinia, and this is arid
North Africa. The landscape along the nile is beautiful: lush vegetation, wheat fields, date
trees, sugar cane and
West Bank (of Luxor)
Realizing that I should be taking more pictures before leaving Egypt (I hardly took any), I hastened to take this mediocre one. There you see a traditional "Saidi" man wearing a jalibeyya... 10 seconds after taking this picture he angrily demanded baksheesh... bananas. The houses are made of baked mud bricks (in Anatolia they
had been piled stones) with palm tree trunks sticking out from the side, and those small
flourishes and embellishments that remind you that the familiar is slowly receding in the past
while the Unknown (once again) looms ahead. Syria, Lebanon, Jordan, even Palestine had
been more or less what I had been accustomed to: the clothes, the people, even to a certain
degree the landscape (especially the Mediterranean coast), albeit with some pronounced
differences. Here in Egypt, I feel I am at the threshhold of a new world.
My first stops, Nuweiba and Dahab on the Gulf of Aqaba in Sinai, while beautiful, had the
general feel of resorts with little (or nothing) of the Real Egypt in them. I hear Sharm El-
Sheikh and Hurghada are much worse. Cairo was my first taste of the real thing. Even
something as simple as seeing a light blue galibeyya on an old man with sun-darkened
features contrasting sharply with the white cloth tied around his head and highly decorated
scarvish cloths around his neck and shoulders: this was enough to get my pulse going. Men
wear sombre
Sugar Cane fields
Again from Luxor. Sitting in a field chewing on sugar cane sticks is so much more fulfilling than rushing through old temples with thousands of stupid tourists. I'm proud to have skipped most sites in Luxor. Prouder yet that at the Valley of Kings (I didn't go in) the touts completely left me alone... colors in the other countries, and and it was uncommon to see even the dark grey
villager galibeyyas in major cities in Syria. But here it was, in a side street a stone’s throw
from fashionable clothing stores sat dark black Sudanese men with shiny white tunics
smoking sheesha while in the early afternoon sun bright galibeyya’d men sold bananas on
wooden carts and childred played by the street and everything took on a fascinatingly
romantic air. I loved Cairo. Strolling down the Nile Corniche in the shade of trees I had
never seen before, I walked by young lovers leaning over the railings and only interrupting
their love-making to look at the “agnaby” with the beard and long hair. Some would smile
and nod a hello, others (usually groups of boys - those with girls were on their best behavior)
would shout out something, and then I would walk on and be gone and everything returned to
normal. People normally want to stop you and talk, if only to ask where you’re from: an
answer of “Turkiya” invariable results in a handshake and some combination of “Hasan
Shash! Yavash yavash! Arkadash!” And occasionally “Muhammad Ali! Malik Farouk!”
whereupon I
Egyptian!
The touts would drop everything to call out "Egyptian!" in Luxor and Aswan... This is how I currently look. Fellow travelers have taken to calling me "Jesus". (And in Sudan they ask if I'm from Afghanistan). dutily point out that the illustrious Khedives, while Ottoman subjects, were of
Albanian origin. Some want to know if I’m aware of the three Egyptian soccer players
playing for Turkish teams (I wasn’t, but I’m a quick learner). The dialect of Arabic spoken
here is different enough from what I had become accustomed to that I was initially unable to
understand questions as simple as “where are you from?”, something that left me discouraged
for a while: all that hard work down the drain. But beware those friendly people who come
up to you and speak in English: more often than not they want to guilt you into coming into
their papyrus-and-perfume shop “to take a business card”, after which your fate is sealed: sit
down, have some tea, I insist! By now you feel bad about turning down someone you have
spent 5 minutes talking to, and then come the praising of wares and the casual mentioning of
prices. No thanks, I don’t like papyrus and don’t wear perfume. But these are natural! And
so cheap too! You make the possible mistake of trying to explain that even if you wanted
some “genuine” banana leaf papyrus with Pharaonic-looking art
The Essence of Egypt
A man sleeping in the shade of the historical monument he's supposed to guard. For a little baksheesh he'll even let you scribble your name on the walls... but shhh.. don't wake him up. I think this summarizes all government officials I've come into contact with. on it, you will be on the road
for another 5 months, and can’t carry it. But it’s light! And sturdy tubes are included in the
price. How about some perfume for your mother? (Surely you can’t go home empty-handed
from Egypt!) Eventually you break free and 100m down the road are approached by another
such gentleman.
For all that, Egypt hasn’t lived up to its legendary reputation for hustling. Every traveler I
met had devoted a portion of story-exchange time (and what times those are! The imagination
is aroused and one wants to start moving right there and then) to stories of undending
harassment. In my experience it hasn’t been so. Everywhere in the Middle East a foreigner
walking down the street is an invitation for a taxi driver to honk and lean over to say “taxi?”
through the passenger window. Beirut was the worst for that with cars following you,
imploring with hurt eyes for you to please stop and talk to them for just one minute. So you
stop and announce you will walk and know exactly where you are going. The skeptical driver
looks you up and down: by foot? But it’s very far from
One more
Desperate to have enough pictures for this blog, I'm uploading this one which probably looks fairly repetitive by now. A woman in a village (she didn't see me taking her picture so I didn't get harassed for 'one bound'). here! 20km! (From the bus station to
Ain Mreise - actually 2km). An article deserves to be devoted to the distance-estimating
abilities of locals who will variously quote 3, 7, 9, 15km for the same distance. And not all
are taxi drivers either! While in Beirut I was forced to make a point of walking counter to
traffic to make it more difficult for taxis to follow me (the honks are unavoidable). In Cairo a
simple “la shukran” elicits a smile (yes, a smile) and you are left alone.
Even when I managed to stumle into the “tourist bazaar” of Khan El-Khalili (the same that
was suicide bombed two days after I left), I wasn’t chased or grabbed at by anxious sellers,
and sentences beginning with “My friend!...” are easily ignored. Perhaps I had extenuating
circumstances, though - the addition of the galibeyya and later the white headcloth to the
existing arsenal of hair-and-beard may have caught them off guard long enough that the desire
to call out “Sa’idi!” or “Ali Baba!” temporarily overcame the desire to sell. And as always,
when well-fed and rested I am merely amused. It’s funny how a friendly encounter earlier in
the day can make everything you see beautiful, while the short-sighted greedy shopowner
who quotes you twice the usual price for something as basic as shawerma or squeezed sugar
cane juice can ruin your day. And *this*, this overcharging of foreigners for everything, this
“special price” they all talk about is my biggest gripe with Egypt. It becomes more acute in
places most frequented by foreigners, but it can be felt everywhere. They even have menus
and posted signs (in english) announcing prices twice (sometimes more) that of what locals
pay. And woe to he who doesn’t have change and hands over a large bill! No bystander will
step in to take your side, but will even take the side of the shopowner: after all, you are merely
a transient outsider, while they will live together for a long time yet. Usually you’re too tired
to argue for long over the bill and trust that Karma will make them pay for their dishonesty.
At times it’s playful - if you know what the price should be and say so, they smile, ask you
where you’re from and hand over the change. These encounters I don’t mind. It’s the rude
ones without a single ray of light in their eyes and faces who shake my faith in the basic
goodness of mankind. They fail to realize that I will patronize their establishment until I
leave if they in honest (and I’m friendly and quickly am on 1st name terms with many
shopowners), but otherwise those 10cents they managed to overcharge will be their last. It
took me a while to recover from my visit to a government office to get my Yellow Fever shots
in Cairo: *everyone* in one of the offices had their heads on the desks and were sleeping.
Every single last one of them. It looked like maybe they had been gassed or murdered, but
no, they were Working. The “nurses” told me it would be 80LE (about $15), and figuring it’s
a government institution, paid up without arguing. It was only later that I realized the stamps
on the certificate add up to 80 *piasters*, not pounds! So I paid 100x the real price. I met
another guy at the hotel who went to the same place and ended up paying 100LE... I guess
100x isn’t good enough for some people. The scale and magnitude of such scams is truly
unbelievable.
At the risk of boring my audience, I will relate my search for an “old man’s” galibeyya.
There are many kinds, some factory made with buttons, a collar and shirt pocket, others with
enormous sleeves and billowing skirts - the kind I find most beautiful. I spent days trying to
find one, in the course of which I learned that the kind I want can’t be bought ready-made, is
called Sa’idi (from Upper Egypt), but that I may be able to pick one up in an area right next to
the main tourist shopping district. I shook off a couple touts who brought me to their Uncle’s
place to try on for-tourist garments and quoted ridiculous prices (I already knew I could get a
good ready-made one for 45LE). Then in my naivete I started talking to this young guy who
seemed pretty friendly (but alas spoke english) and when the sense of false security was
established I asked about galibeyyas. He was very friendly and helpful and took me to a
couple of places and finally to a shop in an alley which he declared was a “factory” (they love
that word). I must add that they invariably speak to you very rapidly so that you are
disoriented and unable to calmly observe your surroundings. Otherwise you may notice that
you are in a street where *used* galibeyyas are being bought and sold for rock-bottom
prices). The selection was meager, but they were the right kind, and I trusted “my friend”.
He declared the one I was trying on was perfect, and told me to state my highest price and he
would bargain for me. Since I really would have done the same for a naive traveler I had
befriended, I frankly said I would be willing to part with 70LE for a really good one, since I
intended to wear it for a long time. His face clouded over in despair: but, this was hand-
made! And the cloth itself was worth more! Think of the poor tailor’s labor! The shopowner
wanted 170. Still not realizing that my friend stood to make a fat commission, I half-believed
him when in desperation he said he’d give 10LE from his pocket just so the bargaining would
end and he could go back to what he was doing. I ended up paying 125LE. The minute I
handed over the cash, however, I felt something wasn’t right. I decided I had been at least
double-charged. But when I got back to the hotel I realized (the mirror in the shop had been
real small) that it was *way* too small for me. I went back the next day hoping merely to
exchange it for one I could actually use, but the owner wasn’t there, and their eyes lit up with
wonder when I said I had paid 125 for it. They all felt sorry for me. The theatre continued
later when someone along the way joined me (and a french guy I was hanging out with that
day) and swore he would demand justice and involve the police if necessary. He said it
shouldn’t be more than 30LE. I also realized it was used and all the talk about cost of cloth
and labor and “factory” were lies and underscored the fact that I am a sucker. The shopowner
protested that he had given 55LE to the guy as a commission, and that he didn’t know who he
was. When they finally did bring the guy in there was even a mock “is your name so-and-
so?” exchange between them. How stupid do they think foreigners are? I increased my
demands to half the money I had paid and exchanging the useless garment with one from a
neighboring shop (since there was nothing else here). They howled in protest, remonstrating
and shaking their heads. The guy swore he had never taken a dime as commission, and that
the other was a liar. My French friend was very much taken in by the whole performance and
repeatedly implored me to cut my losses and move on. My other new friend was silent except
fo brief episodes when he would pull me out of the shop and whisper some long explanation
to me in Arabic - I didn’t understand a word. During one such episode the commission guy
apparently gave 25LE to the shopowner to offer me, and the French guy was almost driven to
tears at the genuine goodness: he would give his own money just to help me out?! What lofty
character! It didn’t occur to him that this was simply returning a portion of the earlier spoils.
The drama came to an end when the old galibeyya disappeared and (after bargaining) they
returned 110LE, keeping 15 (possibly the true price of the galibeyya) for themselves and
offering some lame explanation like ‘but you wore it for one day, so this is rent”. Throughout
the entire episode I didn’t get angry or call them names or raise my voice. I was pleased with
myself. Then my new friend disappeared somewhere and returned with the missing item! He
had stolen it and now wanted to sell it to me. I tried to take it to return it to the store but he
looked at me like I was crazy and took off with it.
The next day I got a much nicer one for 20LE, a price people still approvingly nod at. And
that was the asking price too... Such is Egypt.
After a while Cairo starts getting to you: your hands are perpetually dirty and you develop a
transient cough from all the pollution in the air (and boy, is it polluted), or maybe from the
thrice-a-day sheesha smoking. Having to walk through the fumes on your way home can be
pretty tiring. Alexandria was a great change - in comparison it is a small quiet town strung
along the coast of the Meditteranan, where one can relax and seek refuge from the chaos of
Cairo while eating fish and (as always) smoking sheesha.
Siwa is a small oasis town (whre the ancient Oracle was located) where I spent the last days
of my 27th year. The number still sounds strange to me. It was beautiful to simply wander
among the paths with palm- and olive-trees, past the water canals and stumble into some
village where people stare and then ask you where you’re from. That was some real respite
from the madness. From the edge of the water you could look a small ways beyond the trees
and see the beginnings of the Great Sand Sea stretching out to Libya and beyond. I was
content to eat my grilled fish twice a day and smoke my sheesha (for which I had to negotiate
to get the correct price) at nights while reading my book all the while berber people trudged
around or rode their donkey carts (it’s all about the donkey cart in Siwa), or otherwise heavily
veiled and unmoving women were driven about by males (of any age, so long as they’re
males) in such carts. At a rest stop on the way back, in the middle of the desert, I saw a sky
more full of stars than I could have imagined.
The ubiquotous water pipe is renamed sheesha here, and they prefer the ma’asil unflavored
“molasses” variety to the sweetish apple flavor. They’re really cheap (10 cents), but every
15-20 minutes you need to have the tobacco replaced - in Syria, for instance, I smoked the
same thing for almost 3 hours.
And speaking of money matters, allow me a small rant. The money-naming system is
completely nonsensical throughout the middle east: in Syria, the unit is Lira but when
speaking english it’s called a “Pound”. And those initiated will at once recall that Arabic does
not have the “p” sound, so in practice it becomes “Bound”. In Jordan the dinar is divided into
100 “qrish”, but in english it is divided into 1000 “fils”. In Egypt the unit is Guinea in Arabic
but (again) a “Bound” in english, while fractions thereof are “piasters” in english, and “qrish”
in Arabic. One wonders at such a scheme: why have such a difference at all, and why
“pound”? Why use a word they can’t pronounce? Neither guinea nor lira are particiularly
hard to remember either.
And while I’m at it lets talk about the Egyptian police (and armed forces?). Sinai was littered
with checkpoints, but those manning them mill lazily around and don’t bother stopping or
searching your vehicle. But there are uniforms issued, salaries paid, and numbers tallied:
such and such many soldiers and this many checkpoints guarding the roads in Sinai!
Apparently those in charge are the only ones who can’t see how stupid it is. On the way in to
St Katherine’s monastery some guy with a walkie-talkie (and they always have walkie-
talkies) insisted on seeing everyone’s passport (why? What purpose did it serve?) and looking
through our bags (afraid we might have... what? The wrong kind of snacks?), but then he
forgot about me and I passed through without having shown either. Masters of inefficiency.
Yes, and some wonder why they lost all the wars with Israel: I think the reason is more than
obvious. Young Egyptians have obligatory military service of 3 years: multiply that by the
enormous young population and you have a huge standing army. Yet, they are destined to
lose again and again because even they themselves are unable to take them seriously. Every
few days in Cairo hundreds of police would line entire streets (they and their transport trucks),
blocking intersections and serving no apparent goal (maybe justifying someone’s
employment). They were generally around the American University in Cairo and the main
government office, so I asked one day: it turns out the President was due for a visit that day.
But wait: the police weren’t armed! Neither with pistols nor automatic weapons, not even
with sticks. Wearing black uniforms under the Cairo sun (whoever designed them must have
been a traitor bent on sabotage), with pins declaring “Egypt” attached to arms and chests, but
not sewed onto, but attached with a pin (as if it was a piece of flair): maybe tomorrow a
different pin would be substituted and one needs to be flexible in the face of all possible
eventualities(!). The few with riot police helmets had no shield or batons. Just helmets. And
here and there were occasional policemen sporting sticks (looking suspiciously like
broomsticks), and of course without any accompanying gear. How did they hope to protect
the president? Or anyone, for that matter? By becoming human shields? And why was I not
surprised when, reading the news about the Cairo bombing, it said the police had immediately
formed a cordon(!) around the area - the same utterly pointless collection of unprotected
bodies. And then occasionally one will stop me in some random place and ask me where I’m
from or for my passport, and I boil over with rage - not at their malice but at their stupidity.
A fat ass-guy carrying the inevitable walkie-talkie, full of self-importance slowly sauntering
around the place. At such occasions I refuse to speak any Arabic to them and lose what
patience and kindness I may have had at the time. Without exaggeration, they are worthless.
And coming after Israel, all I can say is I prefer a smart enemy to a stupid friend.
And what about the stupid tourists, a plague upon the land, traveling in air-con tour buses or
nile-cruise ships, *riding* those camels, *buying* those tacky papyrus prints, and accepting
all outrages prices as “cheap!”. They ruin it for the rest of us. But possibly the worst are they
(like the ones sunbathing on the decks of their cruise decks 50m from me) who without any
regard to the local dress customs continue to wear their shorts and short-sleeved shirts (I’m
talking about the women here), or in their speedos and bathing suits display nearly all of their
aged and well-sunburnt lobster red bodies for the benefit of everyone on the shore. In front
of the Egyptian Museum in the middle of crowded downtown Cairo, I followed the stares of
people around me to a young woman (most likely Russian) who was wearing a pair of
extremely short cutoff jeans (I’m talking parts of ass showing) and standing there with an
uncomfortable look on her face, probably wondering why people were staring. With the faint
hope of educating someone, I’ll spell it out: this is the Middle East, not ____ (insert name of
your country): you cannot dress as you please and assume people will mind their own
business (they rarely do). Here modesty is defined by the amount of flesh visible. That girl
walking in front of you with pendulum-hips rocking inside about-to-burst jeans and equally
shape-revealing top is modest because not an inch of skin is visible, and she’s wearing hijab.
But take off the hijab and give her a tshirt and she’s now socially regarded as a potential slut.
Hyprocritical? Yes, but it won’t change because of your glorious example of “liberation”,
and it’s not so hard to wear loose-fitting long-sleeved clothing either.
Egyptians love to pray in public (Jesus would not approve). Groups of worshippers will come
together in the seemingly most unlikely places: the entrance to the train station, portions of
sidewalk, or any other open area, or even in the middle of a crowded government office
stacked high with papers, you may catch a glimpse of someone’s head suddenly popping up in
a corner in the middle of prayer. On subways and other waiting-places people will pull out
their little Qurans and begin reciting. The prayers are broadcast from loudspeakers and also
via radio, so it’s not uncommon for someone to pray to the accompaniment of the radio. Men
of all ages may have a curious-looking blackish blemish on their foreheads: this is a callous
(yes, callous) from praying, and an outward sign of their religious zeal. It’s probably not so
far from the point if I generalize and say there must be muslims in every country, yet Egypt is
the only place I’m aware of wherein touching your forehead to the floor produces a permanent
scar. Radio stations broadcast Quranic recitals, and it’s not at all uncommon for someone in
your hotel staff or the driver of your long-distance bus to make sure the first and last sounds
you hear are chanted verses. It seems to have taken the place of ear-splitting Arabic pop
music.
So after having wasted your time with useless rants, I’ll hurry to summarize. Alexandria,
Siwa, hanging out with university students in Tanta, and finally in Luxor (Thebes) where a
boy I met in a coffee shop invited me to his house which turned out to be in a village where I
had one of the most pleasant afternoons so far, walking through a remote village and meeting
his family. The touts and double-chargers in the East Bank of Luxor are ferocious and
quickly get to you, but the West Bank is really beautiful, and rather than visit illustrious Old
Stones I prefered to sit in the shade of palm trees and chew on sugar canes, otherwise riding
my rental bicycle and waving at people. The foreigners think I’m a local and I’ve even had
my picture taken. I’m currently in Aswan, further up the nile, where I met up with a french
guy (I don’t know why I’m always meeting french people) who’s also heading to Sudan, and
we’ll be taking the ferry up the Nile this afternoon. If you look at the sheer size of Egypt and
Sudan on the map and the length of their border one naturally thinks “huh? Ferry to sudan?
Why?” The ferry in fact is the only way of getting from Egypt to Sudan (there being some
kind of complication with the border crossing). I’m destined to follow the Nile through Sudan
and into Ethiopia, before striking out East to Yemen, and Oman and finally Iran (where I
know the timezone is different... it hasn’t changed for months), after which I hope to head up
the Karakoram Highway into Western China (Xinjiang province) before I turn into a pumpkin
in September.
I don’t foresee myself checking email while in Sudan (it really is a 3rd world country), so that
means I’ll be out of touch for at least a month. Keep the emails coming, since I’m not dead
but merely temporarily unavailable. Also wish me luck and pray I don’t get malaria or some
exotic intestinal (or actually *any*) disease.
I'm currently in Khartoum -- the reports about ultra-expensive internet seem to be unfounded (for Khartoum at least). Sudan is the most 3rd world country I've been to so far... really amazing. The people are beautiful and the roads suck... There also doesn't seems to be much more to eat than fuul and the occasional shawerma (which doesn't taste too good either). Stay tuned.
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anonymous
non-member comment
misir haritasi kirmizi degil
bedreddincim misir haritasi bak kirmizi degil ana sayfandakki, oyle cirkin duruyo gezinin butunlugu falan yani onu soyle duzeltsinler