Cairo, Part 2

Cairo continued.

The bad hustlers at the pyramids, boy, they were bad. Some of the most aggressive I have seen. I wondered if some of it was because of the lull in tourism and for the first couple hours I was about the only prey around. As I turned the corner of one of the pyramids and descended into some nearby ruins, I ran into a man sitting on a rock. He was dressed in plain clothes, but said I wasn’t permitted to be there. He said he was a security guard and pulled one of those shoulder patches with stripes on it that would have made him look official if he had been wearing it. He placed it on his shoulder, briefly showing his authenticity as an official before shoving it back in his pocket. He started to lead me around, but I told him to leave me alone. Then he begged for a few pounds and followed me around for a few minutes.

Later, I was walking through a random area near the largest pyramid where there were a couple of tombs. Two different men told me I was not permitted to be there. One warned me against descending into one of the chambers below ground. I came back later, when he wasn’t there and crawled into a little chamber about two stories below the surface. The other man just yelled at me and shook his finger, telling me I was not allowed. I tried to ask why, but he soon disappeared and I continued my exploration. These two men didn’t have any obvious ulterior motive, but they were definitely not officials of any sort.

After talking with the boy with the donkey, I found myself wandering among some ruinous area west of the largest pyramid. In the distance I had seen a couple of tour buses arrive along with other private cars. My time was limited. There were a few signs saying that excavations were in progress, so I steered clear of those. Other signs showed maps of the various tombs in the area. This was enough of a sign that I was not too much in the wrong for being here, though where I was supposed to walk was unclear.

Tour bus cometh.

 

At one point I was on a ledge, and on the ground a meter below me I saw a few puppies. It seemed the pyramids were not immune to the city’s stray dog problem. I jumped off the ledge to the trail below. As soon as I jumped I looked down and realized I was about to land on the mother of the puppies. I am incredibly uneasy around third world dogs. The slight risk of rabies is constantly in the back of my mind, especially now that I was in a country I wasn’t supposed to be in, and Peace Corps would likely do nothing to help me. The mother quickly moved out of my way and rushed towards her puppies. They guarded their territory admirably, sending me the cutest and least intimidating barks ever.

 

I continued to walk, and suddenly some douchebag on a camel showed up. I heard him yell at me from behind. Startled, I turned around, as he told me I was not permitted to be there without a guide. Let me guess, you just happen to be a guide who can grant me permission to wander this area. I didn’t care much, as I had been wandering this area for half an hour and was about ready to go. He spoke English, but pretended not to understand my pointed questions. Then some other guy showed u and said it was no problem for me. Great. But really, he was just using this situation with the camel man to engage me. He welcomed me to Egypt, (Thanks!) and asked where I was from. I didn’t care to answer. He wanted to give me a gift. He shoved some sort of white cloth in a plastic wrapper in my direction. I tried to walk away, extending my arm, saying I wasn’t interested. He set the package on my arm, insisting it is a gift. I thanked him, keeping my arm extended, balancing the “gift”. He caught up to me and insisted on taking my camera to take a picture. He took my reluctance as mistrust. Well, I didn’t think he was going to steal my camera. He would be a fool to try that. I just didn’t want to be any more involved than I already was. He pulled the cloth out of the plastic and shoved it onto my head. It was something of a “traditional” Egyptian kaffiyeh.  This was annoying, to say the least. He still wanted a picture of me. I told him that my digital SLR set on manual operation would not work, unless I took the picture. He would not leave me alone without getting a picture of me first, though. Fine, let’s get this over with. I gave him the camera, which was affixed with a midrange lens that did not zoom. He kept telling me to scoot back farther and farther so he could fit me in the frame. He told me to climb on a nearby rock. It was getting ridiculous. Then he told me to raise my arm. I couldn’t believe it. He was trying to get me to pose for the very picture I’ve always loathed. The “hey, it looks like I’m holding the pyramid/Eiffel Tower/Tower of Pisa”. Now it actually was amusing to me, in an ironic way. He took the picture, and unsurprisingly it was underexposed and wildly out of focus. He insisted on another one. At this point, I had had enough. I forced my camera out of his hands and started to walk away. Then he demanded money. I told him the thing on my head was a gift, and I wouldn’t pay anything. He said I was paying for the picture, not the “gift”. He followed me for a minute, before he finally gave up and grabbed the gift off my head and walked away. I had had just about enough. More tourists were coming, and with them all the evils we bring. I needed out.

This is my new favorite picture of myself.

The brief peace I had felt in the desert environment of the pyramids had been destroyed and I was now more comfortable on the streets of Giza. Was it worth it? Of course. I got two hours of near solitude. Would it have been worth it if I had arrived in the middle of the day, or in a time in which tourism was booming? Almost certainly not. I felt incredibly blessed by the travel gods for arranging this little opportunity for me.

The city of Giza from the pyramids.

The city of Giza from the pyramids.

So I hopped on an empty minibus heading towards the city. Giza was now alive. It was a different place than it was 4 hours earlier. It was moving! Intensely! I got a very good feeling. I was glad that I had decided to get off before heading all the way to Cairo. I descended in a crowded area of freeway overpasses, big boulevards and endless food vendors, pedestrians and purveyors of household goods and clothing. It was heaven. I didn’t know where to begin. I ran into a fruit juice stall and bought a cup of mixed fruit, juice and yogurt. Delicious. Duh. I went to a sweet seller and pointed at my desire, saying, “one”. He seemed to think I meant one kilo. When he started to fill a bag, I told him I only wanted one single piece, and held out a coin. He handed me the confection and waved off my offer of payment. Free sweet! I wandered a market area for a while, then got back on my way. My plan was to take a public boat across the Nile back to Cairo proper. The road running along the Nile was wide and lacking in character. When I arrived at what was supposed to be the port, I only found men gambling and a couple of private skiffs that offered private rides on the Nile. I decided to proceed on foot. At some point a truck stopped and yelled something to me out the window. At first I thought it was so clear that I was a lost foreigner that he wanted to know where I was going. Then I realized that he was lost and was asking me for directions. I shrugged and proceeded. The Nile was lined with many boats. Some shoddy and full of character, but mostly big and gaudy cruise boats. One even had a TGI Fridays on board. Because that is where I want to eat when I travel across the world to experience Egyptian culture.

I wandered on foot back to Cairo proper and hopped into the first metro station I could find. I was planning to get off at Tahrir Square. The people I had asked told me that the city center would be calm, so I figured I wouldn’t emerge from the metro in a hail of bullets and burning cars. It turned out I was only two stops away from the Tahrir Square stop. A few minutes later, when I was planning to get out, I realized I had gone too far. I went back the other way, and missed it again. Then I realized that the metro stop was closed. Maybe I would have emerged in a hail of bullets. Later in the day, I would approach Tahrir Square on foot, only to find it completely blocked off. Every entrance was blocked with razor wire and tanks. The blocks leading to it were empty and all the businesses were shuttered. I didn’t have to get too close to the barricades before the military personnel were yelling at me. Other than that, however, I was surprised about how little military and police presence I had encountered. There was certainly less armed military walking around than in Rwanda. In fact, if I had never heard of the Arab Spring and was oblivious to the turmoil in Egypt, this would have been almost the only thing to make me wonder if something serious was going on in the country.

It was early afternoon and I had little plan, so I just walked randomly around streets on the edge of the commercial center of Cairo. Down one quiet street I stumbled onto a restaurant that served, almost exclusively, kushari, Egypt’s famous carb-party of a meal. I mutered as much of an appetite as I could and walked on in. The dish consists of a mix of noodles, rice, lentils, dried onions and sometimes chickpeas. It seemed like the kind of dish that everyone would have their own preference of what to include and how much, but I just signaled that I wanted one plate and waved my hand in the general direction of the food pots.

The joint was crowded, so I joined a table with a middle-aged man who could not speak any English, but we knew who each other were, immediately. He knew I was a lost foreigner trying to discover what an Egyptian like him might enjoy for lunch. I pegged him as a life-long kushari-hound, who ate it not because it was all he could afford, but because he liked the simple and rustic nature of the dish. He made sure that I was aware of the spiciness of the accompanying spicy tomato sauce and that I got a healthy dose of pour from the giant bottle of garlic vinegar on the table. I really liked kushari, but could only finish half. I didn’t want to overeat as I was still hoping for another meal or two during the day. I would later find out that this was one of the most famous kushari restaurants in Cairo and was featured in the Lonely Planet and, I am almost certain, on Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations.

I stopped at a nearby open air café for another hookah and coffee. I couldn’t get enough of this outdoor eating culture that doesn’t exist in Rwanda. I don’t think I actually went INSIDE anything all day except down the shaft of a ruin next to the pyramids.

I decided to head down to the Coptic neighborhood. It was an easy metro ride south of the center. When I emerged onto the street, I found it so peaceful compared to what I’d seen so far. Unfortunately I’m completely ignorant to the Coptic faith, the history and what it means to be a Copt in Cairo. But this little neighborhood was pretty cool. I wasn’t even sure what I was looking at, but there seemed to be some walled church compounds, a big walled cemetery and quiet neighborhoods in the vicinity, all surrounded by freeways and a metro line. At some point in my exploration of this tiny area, I must have stumbled upon the touristy area. I actually had no idea that this was even a place that tourists would go to. There were a few people selling religious trinkets, a couple disabled beggars and some shops incongruously selling cold Cokes and snacks within the walled compound that consisted mostly of churches. The few hawkers spoke to me in Spanish, giving me a good idea of who the most common tourists are to these parts. The other place in the world where I have been most commonly mistaken as Spanish is around the Mother Theresa parts of Kolkata. Soon after, the tourists arrived, or perhaps I arrived to where they were. It was unsettling. Groups of Europeans and Asians, snapping pictures and talking loudly. It’s easy to be a curmudgeon about the obnoxiousness of other tourists when enjoying the peace and solitude of traveling alone.

There was a lot of armed security around Coptic Cairo and the road entrance to the neighborhood was actually a blocked military checkpoint that wasn’t allowing cars through. I wasn’t sure if this was normal, because it was Friday or due to the various attacks on Coptic areas of Egypt in the last couple years.

With my last few hours, I went back near the center and explored a little more. I ate more street snacks, wandered more markets, drank more tea and got hassled by more fools. I could always tell when I was in an area that had once been crawling with tourists by whether I was approached by a friendly guy who wanted to take me somewhere. One guy told me he was an artist and invited me into his shop. I told him that I was busy (even though I had just told him that I was just wandering when he asked where I was going). I said I needed to go straight, not left where his shop was. He told me it was a bad idea to go straight, as people were protesting down that way and it was turning violent. Well, violent street protests sounded more tolerable than this guy’s shop, so I kept going straight. Surprisingly he didn’t follow me. I was almost certain that I had called his bluff, when, after walking for a block, I heard a loud pop, like a gun shot. I flinched and looked around. All the other pedestrians had jumped too. Within moments, though, they had continued on their way, not thinking anything of what we had just heard. It had sounded close. Over the next few hours I would hear more of these and it was safe to assume they were just hefty firecrackers. I’m not sure if Egyptians need a special occasion for firecrackers (nobody should), but I wasn’t aware of any holiday except for that it was the day of prayer.

I was right in assuming that the artist was lying about protests ahead, but it didn’t mean there was no turmoil in other parts of Egypt. I was surprised to find Egypt showing up in the international headlines the next morning for being one of the most violent days in months. Thirteen protesters were killed, and dozens, maybe hundreds, injured around the country. In fact, I realized later that the bus I took back to the airport passed through a neighborhood that had been particularly volatile that day. While it appears that Egypt is submerged in chaos, Cairo is a monstrous city, and the protests, as of late, have been confined to small areas.

All day I had wondered if there would be a strong presence of black Africans in Cairo. I’d met many African immigrants in America that had come by way of Egypt, Saudi Arabia or Dubai. So far I hadn’t seen any. Then, late in the day, as I walk walking in some marketed back streets I stumbled into what seemed to be the neighborhood where Africans from south of the Sahara hung out. Many of them looked Ethiopian or Somali. They were hanging out in cafes, watching soccer or dubbed action movies and drinking coffee and tea. I sat down for a cup and watched a soccer game. I hoped to strike up a conversation with someone, but I caught a closed and unapproachable vibe from everyone.

The sun started to set, so I headed back to Midan Ramses, where I hoped to catch a bus back to the airport. I wasn’t in a rush and had time for a little more eating and walking. First, though, I would try to find out at least if this was the area where I could catch a bus. I went a few different buses, asking about the airport. Nobody understood this word. I guessed I would have assumed it to be universal, like taxi. One man in particular decided to help me. After pretending that I was an airplane, arms stretched out, engine noises emanating from my mouth and flying in circles, they figured out what I meant. I learned that the word for airport is matar, making matters much easier. So with the knowledge that I may be able to make it to the airport from here, I went on a walk. I don’t know how I was still doing it. I hadn’t slept the night before and I had been walking for about 11 of the previous 14 hours. Plus the constant deluge of coffee, tea and shisha should have made me feel jittery and nauseous. Something about the thrill of this city was keeping me going, like I was on some sort of stimulant drug that I would pay dearly for later. The next two days my legs and feet would be incredibly sore, but during my day in Egypt I felt nothing. I did take a last coffee and shisha break, followed by a visit to Cairo’s friendliest sandwich stall operator.

Back at the bus station, there seemed to be confusion over whether I could actually reach the airport from here. Some people seemed certain I could, some certain I couldn’t. I was not pressed for time, so I was optimistic. I was eventually ushered into an empty minivan. It took about 20 minutes to fill up and we were on our way, down the roller coaster of Egyptian highways. I couldn’t tell if it was that I was so used to the relatively timid nature of Rwandan driving, or if Cairo really was the most exciting, white-knuckle driving environment I had ever been to. Maybe it does not stand above South Asia, but it is definitely in the world’s upper echelons of adrenaline-pumping transportation experiences.

One by one, people descended, and I waited for the driver to instruct me to depart. I was in the very back, but he knew that I was going to “matar”. As the last passenger other than me got out, I saw the expression on the face of the driver in the rear view mirror turn to disappointment and embarrassment. I could tell he had just realized he had forgotten about the silent gringo in the back. He said something to me in Arabic that I assumed was meant to be a comforting, “don’t worry, I’ll take care of this.” He flipped the van around in one swift motion and got on another freeway onramp. In five nerve-wracking minutes of even more frantic driving, we pulled into a dark bus lot. He arranged with another driver to take me where I needed to go and gave him my modest fare. I packed in with the other passengers and we left. He dropped me off in what seemed like the middle of nowhere. However, it was the kind of middle of nowhere that airports tend to tucked into, unseen from the highways surrounding it. I was in a mess of onramps and overpasses, inhospitable to pedestrians. If being in a bus on the freeway was fun verging on scary, crossing it on foot in the dark was terrifying. After crossing the half-dozen lanes and going under a bridge, I found a couple of men loitering on the sidewalk. I had no idea if the airport was in the vicinity, but when I asked for “matar”, they seemed to say I was in the right place and to wait. Sure enough, a bus came by. At this point, though, I was burning through the big cushion of time I had given myself. Even this, bus, though, didn’t even take me all the way to the airport. I followed some people with luggage when they got off. This was the bus stop for the airport shuttle, and I could finally relax. I managed to make it all the way to the airport 2.5 hours early for my flight and only spent a few dimes. In fact, the whole day was remarkably cheap. I had withdrawn a hundred dollars, thinking that I would prepare for any emergency taxis, unforeseen pyramid fees or to buy or do something expensive I hadn’t planned on. I finished the day with maybe $75 left.

I don’t deserve to have a concluding paragraph on a 12 page blog about a 16 hour day. So I will leave it here.

Cairo, Part 1

 Egypt Part 1

  

I didn’t sleep much the night before leaving France. I didn’t sleep at all on the red-eye to Cairo. I know for most people this wouldn’t be a good situation for embarking on an intense effort to squeeze whatever possible out of a seventeen-hour layover to one of the world’s most popular destinations. I knew from experience, though, that my own excitement is indispensable in powering through in these situations. I’ve never liked sleep all that much, anyway. Plus, I was getting an opportunity to see, perhaps the world’s most celebrated ancient monument at a time in which tourists were terrified to go.

I had always imagined that if I ended up in Egypt I wouldn’t even bother with the pyramids. So many destinations around the world are ruined by the droves of tourists and all the evils that accompany them. Hustlers, fanny packs, pushy guides, tour buses, souvenir vendors and an over-abundance of cameras can mix to form a hellish environment that kills the mystique of many of earth’s incredible destinations. There’s a McDonald’s near the pyramids, and a Pizza Hut that you can actually see the pyramids from. I’ve been lucky, a couple times, to see how much better a destination is during a tourism drought. So I was going to finally see the pyramids, and only because it seemed that most tourists were too scared to visit. Awesome.

I asked a close friend who had spent way too much time in Egypt while waiting for a visa what I should do. He hated the place, so I didn’t expect him to have much good advice. He railed against the national museum, which seems to be the country’s second biggest attraction. He said the best thing to do in Cairo is to hang out with old men in cafes and play backgammon and smoke shisha. That was exactly the advice I was looking for, even though I don’t know how to play backgammon.

My plane landed at 3AM. I got my visa, made it through customs and was shaking off persistent taxi drivers by 3:30. I took an airport shuttle bus that supposedly went to a nearby bus station. I was hoping to save about $10 by getting a bus into town instead of a taxi. As we pulled into the station, it didn’t look promising. It was completely dark and empty save for a couple of parked private cars and two or three men. I said to the bus driver, “Midan Ramses?”, the name of the area in central Cairo that I wanted to get to. He shook his head. An old man walked up, offering his taxi services. The bus driver seemed to be indicating, with a little bit of worry in his eyes, that I would not be able to get a bus at this hour. I wondered if waiting 2 or 3 hours would be worth saving $10. Definitely not.

The driver was all sorts of sketchy. I would guess he was in his mid-50’s, mustachioed, had a pock-marked face and unkempt clothing. This, however, was not what made him seem sketchy. It was his gruffness. And his car. His first offer to town was actually below what I had expected to pay in the first place. Honestly, this should have raised an alarm, as Cairo taxi drivers are notoriously full of scams, and to get a fair price right off the bat when he was the only driver available just does not make sense. I went along with it, though, already getting excited to get to town. When I saw his car, an alarm did start to go off in my head. It was clearly not a licensed taxi. It was a small car, full of dents, rust and probable danger. That was the moment where I have to make a snap judgment and get in without asking questions or just get out and wait for the next airport bus to take me back to the airport. Again, I didn’t want to waste any of my time here, so I decided to go for it. Before I entered the vehicle, I said to the driver “No parking fee, no parking fee.” I had heard that the scam of charging a “parking fee” on arrival to the city was common. It was a scam that I had fallen for on my first trip to India, and I didn’t plan on repeating it. He looked at me confused. He spoke almost no English. I repeated myself and again, he didn’t seem to understand, so I got in. If he doesn’t know the word for parking fee, there is no way he can convince me to give it to him on arrival.

 The driver’s hands went under the steering wheel. He grabbed two wires and hot-wired the car to ignition. We jerked along for a moment, past piles of garbage, small fires and people sleeping on the sides of the street until we got onto the highway. The roads were mostly empty. I felt like we were going at breakneck speed, until the occasional, more functional car would go whizzing by us.

I was on edge. I actually had very little idea where I was going. I just wanted to get to the closest metro stop to the airport to reduce my taxi cost. I also knew that the metro wouldn’t open for another 2 hours. I also was not so up to speed on the current political situation on the ground. I knew that Cairo was a big city and the odds were that I wouldn’t be hindered by the secluded, but violent protests. Still, reading AP and NY Times articles don’t give a very good picture for people like me that want to know how dangerous it really is, and where. All I knew was that Tahrir Square was important. By the end of the day, though, I would know a lot more, just from exploring and reading local newspapers.

Suddenly, the driver exited the highway, while saying, “One minute, one minute!” Honestly, he could have neglected to say anything for the time being, and I wouldn’t have questioned it. Then we started going through some dark, narrow streets and alleys. This did seem strange. Then he started saying something in Arablc. “Enta Amreeki”. I knew that it had something to do with being American, but I couldn’t tell what exactly he was asking. At first I thought he was just stating, “Anti-American, Anti-American.” This, of course put me on edge. Then I somehow went into the deep recesses of my brain to the tiny bit of Arabic I knew and realized he was asking, “Are you American?” It was the first time in my life that I considered lying about my nationality. I couldn’t do it. I just pretended not to understand him. He gave up after asking a few more times.

We pulled up and parked on the side of a small shop. I could only see the light from its entrance, but it seemed to be the only place open. He got out and said again, “One minute, one minute!” When he was out of site, I opened the car door and slowly got out. I was that nervous. I waited, and he returned in a moment with a plastic bag of something and we left. A moment later he said, “10 pounds, 10 pounds!” I said, “When we get to Midan Ramses”. He said, “Petrol, petrol!” I had changed money, but the smallest bill I had was 100 pounds. The whole taxi ride was 60 pounds. We pulled up to a gas station and I told him, “10 pounds only.” I saw him order from the attendant exactly 10 pounds and pay him with the hundred pound note I had given him. When he to back in, he tried to only return 40 pounds to me, so I was basically paying for my whole ride in advance. I grabbed the rest of the change from him, and said, “When we get there!” I don’t know if he understood my words, but he understood what I meant, and he didn’t like it.  Then he demanded another 10 pounds for cigarettes. I refused.

When we got within a few minutes of Midan Ramses, he said, “10 pounds, 10 pounds! Parking fee!” Of course I told him, no, and tried to explain reasonably why I wouldn’t pay him the “parking fee”. He interrupted me with “LA’ LA’ LA’ LA’ LA’!!!” or, “NO NO NO NO NO!!!”, as he wagged his finger at me. We argued for a moment, then went silent. We arrived at my “destination” and he again demanded the fee. Now that we had purchased gas, I had gotten smaller bills, so I shoved the balance of 50 pounds into his hand. I opened the car door and tried to get out. He grabbed my arm and tried to pull me back in. I shook him off and lunged out. If he had paid for the gas himself in the first place he would have had a lot more leverage to rip me off. Instead, I was able to use his trick against him. He drove away, yelling at me.

Now, I was alone again, and fairly lost. I just hoped this was indeed “Midan Ramses”. As I walked through the lot of silent mini buses and vans, I saw blanket-draped stalls of a makeshift market show the first signs of life. Sunrise was still a couple hours off, but with the first call to prayer approaching, the city was on the verge of waking. In no particular direction, I walked, in search of a functioning food stall or café. Ten minutes later, I was sitting at a tiny table in front of a café, waiting for a coffee. Luckily the first thing I wanted was one of the few things I knew the Arabic word for, since the staff didn’t speak any English. The café was empty save for a well-dressed man reading a newspaper and drinking a tea, and an old man in a djeleba puffing from a meter-tall hookah.

As I reached the thick sludge at the bottom of my cup, the call to prayer started to ring out from the mosque that towered over us nearby. The coffee, the street awaking in front of me and the devotional prayer penetrating the silence combined to ease the tension that had grown in me during the taxi ride. It had transformed into a feeling of eagerness and confidence. I walked back to the vans and mini buses. Now, a few men were around, yelling out destinations. I knew the metro would not open for another hour, so I started to look for a bus heading toward the pyramids. I went from van to van saying, “Giza?” I was slowly pointed farther and farther down the road, from bus cluster to bus cluster. Then I heard a man yelling, “Haram! Haram! Haram!” That was it, the road that runs through Giza towards the pyramids. “Giza?” I asked. He pointed inside the van. 20 minutes later, we were full of passengers and bolting down the still empty boulevards of Cairo.

A guy a little younger than me asked me in Arabic where I was getting off. He then realized I was a non-Arabic speaking foreigner. He knew a little English and I sheepishly told him I was going to the pyramids. I always hate when I realize I am going to the place that everyone expects me to go. He got out before my stop, but explained to the driver where to drop me off and to instruct me upon arrival. Five minutes later, the driver stopped, gave me directions in Arabic and I just nodded, paying close attention to the motions his hands were making.

I kind of thought it would be obvious where to go, but all I saw was a major boulevard continuing forward and smaller roads branching off into neighborhoods. Before pressing on, I went to a tired-looking tea vendor and asked for a cup. His setup was shoddy, and his family slept under blankets on pieces of cardboard next to him. His young boy was the only one else awake, as the father was sending him on various errands. He barely looked at me as he gave me the plain black tea with sugar. When I finished, I tried to hand him a pound, but he refused to take it. I would have been happy to pay this man triple the price for his tea, just because it looked like he and his family were struggling, but he was adamant about refusing my payment. Was it the hospitality to travelers that is so common in Muslim countries, or maybe some sort of superstition about the first customer of the day? I’m not sure, but whatever it was, it really touched me.

Further down the road, I found myself mingling with some fat, semi-sleazy middle-aged men at a stall selling sandwiches. I ordered a small beef liver sandwich, garnished with tomatoes with herbs and pickled carrots and radishes. The sandwich was delicious, and the pickles were amazing. It was a flavor that I’d never had before. The sensation of something new was something I hadn’t had in a couple years and it was exciting. A little more joking with the fat men, and I was on my way again, walking in the general direction I thought the pyramids might be. Time was not of the essence, as it was 5:30 AM and the pyramids don’t even open until 8 AM.

Around 6 AM, the road ended and I arrived at a police post. There were big riot shields scattered about. I assumed I had arrived at the pyramids, or a military installation. A police officer popped out and I greeted him in Arabic. He wasn’t sure for a moment what to make of me. He probably knew I wasn’t Egyptian, but it wasn’t normal for tourists to arrive on foot so early in the morning. He tried Arabic first, but this of course didn’t work. I told him I wanted to go to the pyramids, and he said I couldn’t because it wasn’t open yet. I knew that already, I just wanted to know if this was where I would go, if I wanted to see them. He kept telling me it was closed, so I turned around and walked back where I came from.

I turned onto a side road and kept walking as the sun finally started to rise. This was more interesting as it wasn’t just a lifeless boulevard. A few cafes were open, and I was tempted by more coffee, but this walk was starting to get interesting. I started to notice souvenir shops and sphinx-themed businesses. I realized I was getting close to a back entrance to the pyramids. I noticed a couple of horse carts and camels. There was a big truck piled high with grass. It was making deliveries. I couldn’t tell if I was in some old neighborhood that still kept it real, or if this was simply indicative of being in a touristy area. It seemed to turn out to be the latter. A man and his boy on a horse cart were aggressively pursuing me, insisting that I go with them. I had to be rude to get them to leave me alone, and of course they acted so offended when they finally left.

I branched off into some side streets filled with sand and animal excrement. The ruggedness of the buildings were charming. I saw a lot of posters supporting ousted Muslim Brotherhood president Mohammed Morsi. Throughout my day in Cairo, and especially in this neighborhood, I saw many ambiguous signs of destruction and chaos. The occasional roasted car or destroyed building. I really had no idea, though, what could be blamed on the tumultuous past two years and what was simply the result of it being Egypt, a country that has been poorly run and neglected for decades. At seven AM, I arrived at the entrance gates to the pyramids. Suddenly I looked up, and through the haze could see the top of one of the pyramids towering over us. The initial shock of its size was huge. I could even see the Sphinx. People around started to give me light pressure to hire guides or camels. Someone claimed if I took their camel they could get me in. I knew that it was most likely to be a scam and the hassle wouldn’t be worth it. I went back the other way. I bought a fresh squeezed orange juice near a bakery that was distributing giant piles of hot pitas. I wandered the neighborhood a little bit and found a newspaper vendor. He scrounged around and found and English newspaper. I went to a nearby café, sat in the front and ordered a hookah and a coffee. I was enjoying luxuries that I would rarely if ever get in Rwanda: a cheap newspaper that was well-written and not a mouthpiece for the government, quality coffee, the ability to just sit and enjoy a beverage in plain sight, and of course a cheap hookah. I was really trying to pretend like I was a local. Cairo’s café scene is legendary and I wanted to pretend for a moment that I was a part of it. I got to chatting with a man at a nearby table. He spoke decent English, so I hit him up for info on what was going on in the city. He told me that city center should be calm today and I would have little to worry about. I was a little nervous and excited about the prospect of something big happening. It was Friday, the day of prayer and protest. We were also very close to the two-year anniversary of the beginning of the Arab Spring in Egypt. It seemed like a volatile moment. He told me there could be protests in places, but that the center should be ok. He told me to be careful and not to tell people that I was American. He said it would be better to claim to be Canadian or Australian. He wouldn’t be the last person to tell me that either. It really goes against my grain, but I considered that if I got in a serious situation, I might lie, though I didn’t know what difference it could make.

I paid about 4 pounds for my coffee and two shishas, just over $.50. I know it is lame to constantly marvel about the low cost of everything in developing countries, but this had to be one of the most grossly marked up products between its native land and places it is exported too. Even in Rwanda a single head of shisha is about $8, while in Cairo it was about $.20. In Seattle it’s between $15 and $20. Ok, I’m done marveling over that.

It was finally time to see these silly pyramids. The man at the ticket booth told me it was 60 pounds, but I asked if there was a student discount. He asked to see my student ID. I gave him my old, faded Seattle University ID card with a picture of me when I was 18, and no expiration date on it. He seemed displeased. He asked where the date was and I just kind of ignored the question and said I am a student at Seattle University. He passed the card to someone outside the booth for examination. He asked me the same question. I told him not to worry, that it was just how the ID was made. He called a random unofficial-looking young guy over. He took it, walked around the corner and then came back and said with confidence that my ID was fine, and I would be charged the student rate. I don’t know why this guy was able to approve it and the guy in uniform wasn’t, but it seemed to be working. As I handed over the 40 pounds ($6.80), the young man instructed me to give include 10 pounds of “baksheesh”, or tip. I ignored him and continued on through security.

A view of the pyramids from an adjacent neighborhood at dawn.

Pyramid and Sphynx from outside the entrance gate

I was in, and seemed to have the whole place to myself. I walked on a road toward the sphinx. A man close to the entrance to the sphinx called me over, saying he needed to see my ticket. I knew that this was a hoax, but wanted to see the sphinx anyway. I showed him my ticket. He tried to take it, but I held it firm in my hand, not allowing him to take it. He told me to follow him. And just like that, I was being escorted by a false guide. He was young and dressed in trendy clothes. He asked if it was my first time there and I said of course not. He instructed me where to stand to take the best pictures, which, as a photographer I was certainly offended by. After a few minutes, I decided it was enough. I knew what would happen if I let this go on much longer.

“What’s your name?” I asked. He seemed a little caught off guard.

“Spicy, my name is spicy.”

“Ok, Spicy. Look, I told you that I have been here before. I don’t need a guide. I would really just like to enjoy your country’s great history by myself. I am not looking for a guide, and I don’t have the money to pay for one.”

This actually worked. We shook hands and he left me alone, save for one or two more later attempts at selling me camel rides, because, as they all said, “you won’t see anything if you only go on foot.” Right. Unfortunately I would not have the same tact and patience with the various false guides and swindlers I would meet along the way.

 

I don’t think it would be right for me to give my commentary about the pyramids, considering my lack of knowledge and the fact that they are about the most archetypical ancient monument the world has to offer. I will say, though, that in the moments that I was completely alone to admire them, I was far more enamored than I had expected. 

Selfie with the Sphinx. I didn't have a wide angle lens that day.

For the first two hours after meeting Spicy, things were lovely. I was wandering around, captivated by this site, completely forgetting that I was just hundreds of meters away from a megalopolis and the second biggest city in Africa. I walked and walked and walked. Occasionally I came across little side ruins that were in various states of excavation. As with many of the world’s greatest sites that I’d visited, it seemed surprisingly unprotected. It was easy to wander among some of the ancient alleyways sunken into the sand and the lower blocks of the pyramids had plenty of modern etchings and graffiti on them. I like when sites aren’t so cordoned off, so I make an effort to respect them, in hopes that they will remain this way. At some point a random Egyptian wandering around between the pyramids told me I should go climb the shortest of the three biggest pyramids. It was an exciting idea, but I knew it was forbidden. When he ran into me again, next to said pyramid, he assured me it was a good idea to climb it. I felt it was better to leave it alone. Who was this guy, by the way?

Not all of the hustlers were bad. At times I engaged them. One child on a donkey was trying really hard to get me to take a donkey ride. I repeatedly refused, and even the older man with him told him to leave me alone. For whatever reason, I had said I was from Spain. I thought they might know Spanish. Only a few words. Anyway, we had a nice conversation, and the man seemed genuinely interested in having a conversation with me, and kept telling the boy not to keep offering me a ride. Before finally leaving, I got into a long discussion with a tour guide who owned several camels. I don’t think he ever held too much hope in me becoming a client, since it seemed clear I was on my way out. He bought me tea, though, and talked to me about how much the tourism industry had suffered because of the revolution and two recent coups. I felt his pain, but that is the nature of tourism industries in the developing and unstable world. And as a tourist, I liked it better this way. By this hour, the main entrance was actually getting overrun by what I thought were hoards of tourists. He disagreed. He waxed nostalgic about when the tour buses were endless and all his camels were constantly in motion. He has even had to sell some. This of course put me in an awkward situation. I hate the droves of tourists and everything that accompanies them. At the same I am part of them, whether I like it or not. And this is a poor country that desperately needs every job it can get.  I just don’t know who is right or wrong in this equation. The tourists who allow themselves to get ripped off by endless hustlers, disrespect the monuments and lack reverence for such an incredible piece of history. The tour guides, hustlers, and trinket vendors who sell out their country’s history for an easy buck, while simultaneously destroying the very atmosphere that people travel thousands of miles to experience. Or the government, who, for decades, neglected its people, failed to provide sustainable job opportunities and allows the unfettered and unregulated tourism trade to go on in a fairly ugly manner. No, I bet it’s America’s fault. It usually is, right?