Saturday, September 29, 2007

Como se dice....

My friends and I often joke about how we can no longer speak English. We struggle for basic words, our search for "humanitarian" results in "humanoidistic", "knife" becomes "tool use cut sandwich sharp" and so on. It's not that our Arabic has become phenomenal, or that I have taken to expressing myself in Egyptian poetry rather than bother with English prose. Quite the contrary, my Arabic is only plateauing while my English descends, placing me smack in the middle of linguistic no-man's-land. Instead of being content with this battlefront, today I decided to enter a new theatre of non-communication. I was happily doggy-paddling in the pool at the Intercontinental hotel-were I am a gym member with access to the pool--when a plump spanish woman smiles between her water treading to ask me something I can't understand. I pause doggy-paddling to kick myself for having fogotten all my Spanish. I studied it for 5 years, went to both Spain and Mexico, and had acheived a sort of fluency before I decided to study Arabic and throw all my subjunctive and imperfect expertise out the window. Here I was, staring dumbfounded at a very nice Spanish woman, and all I can mutter is "Perdon. No Entiendo. She smiled, and we proceeded to chat as best we could, which went something like this. "I study (ARABIC WORD) for time in (ARABIC WORD) Spain." -oh thats great, where did you study? Madrid? " I (ARABIC WORD) study (ARABIC WORD) near by Madrid. -oh me! why we live right near Madrid also, Alcala de Heneras did you say? oh goodness! My husband works there...sweetie! oh mi carino! Come speak to this nice little girl who doesn't speak a word of spanish but is funny to talk to. So now walks over her nice husband, who is very patient, and who thinks its funny that I clearly an struggling to spit out the deeply hidden spanish. It turns out that when he is speaking, I understand 95 percent of what he is saying, and I am excited by this. I try to blurt out answers to questions that I now understand, but am met only with language obstacles. When asked if I find the arabic language to be difficult, I answer... "Yes. The Arabic Language is -how the hell do you say difficult in spanish?? sa'ab?? no no that's arabic..okay, deep breaths...how do you say difficult in english-uh, difficult, okay, spanish is close to english, difficult is....dificil!!!!" How do you say "different?!?!?"...ah, diferente!! "Hotel?!?!?!...ah, hotel!!" And so on and so forth. I didn't remember how to say "week" until I was back in the locker room, and just a few moments ago I recalled how to say "the same". I believe I am going to create a new language called Sparabish, where anything goes, and you actually can also communicate with grunts and theigh slaps if the word escapes you in all three languages. Perhaps this will force upon us a new convivencia, where peoples of different cultures and religions understand one another, and are brought together by a good game of charades. Sparabish also gives my linguistic incompetence the sort of legitimacy which comes with a title. I believe my crowning moment of idiocy was in our discussion about Thai food, when my attempted "tengo miedo" over spicy food turned into "tengo mierda" over spicy food. If you don't know spanish, learn it. Laughing at Pauline's mistake will be well worth the effort.

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Superhero of Cairo

While Cairo is not the setting for too many Marvel Comics, there is a superhero who guards the streets, protects the innocent, and helps clueless americans cross streets. A few weeks ago, I went with my roommate to find some new pillows. We heard that "Carpet City" was the number one place for pillows, and we hoped to find replacements for the cement blocks which we were currently using. The only problem was that when we asked people where Carpet City was, everyone had a different opinion. Imagine the scarecrow in the wizard of oz crossing his arms, pointing in opposite directions, and then nodding adamently. After the wrong guesses of a taxi driver, shop keeper, and friendly pedestrian, we ended up in an open market which we hoped was "Carpet City". After a game of charades with one of the workers--we didn't know the word for pillow--we began to realize that this store was not the famed Carpet City, nor did the owners know, or want us to know, the location of their competition. We were lost, without pillows, and very close to dispair when a figure clothed in black swooped in to save the day. But this isn't Gotham city, its Cairo, and the hero wasn't Batman, it was a Munaqaba. The term "Munaqaba" simply means "the one who wears the niqab", which is the head scarf which fully covers the face except for the eyes, and is made of lose black fabric. Our hero, was just such a woman, and was in fact, the first fully covered woman who I had ever been rescued by. "Do you guys need some help?" she asked in perfect English, her eyes smiling for her hidden mouth. "Carpet City? Oh yes I know exactly where it is! Here, come with me and I will show you." We learn her name is Rowiya, that she grew up in Houston (hence the perfect accent) and that she speaks French, German and English in addition to her native Arabic. She walks quickly, gracefully, and seems completely uninhibited by what looks to me as yards of black cloth. Her hands are covered in black gloves, a fact emphasized when she extends her hand protectively in front of the 10 lanes of traffic which stand before us. "Let me stand on this side"-placing herself in between us, her cubs, and the uncoming traffic. Without blinking, she strides in front of flying cars, as if she and the beat up peugots are rehearsing for a dance recital, and their steps are choreagraphed and seamless. On the otherhand, Sammy and I are doing a lot of blinking, in fact I think my eyes remained closed most of the time as we clung close to her side. We tried to ignore our instincts and the adrenaline which was building in our veins, and just held our our breath till we reached the median. The second 5 lanes were just as harrowing for us, and just as carefree for our savior. With her cubs safe on the otherside of the street, Rowiya shakes our hands, smiles (I assume) and tells us to be safe and to enjoy Cairo. We are flabbergasted to have survived, and mumble astonished words of gratitude, I believe I may have offered her my first born child at one point. The memory of my words are a blur, as was the traffic, but what is still crystal clear for me are her eyes. Warm, young, bright, and a tinge heroic. She was a masked superhero who went in and out of my life like a ghost, and whose acts of goodwill I will always remember even if I never saw her face.

Monday, September 17, 2007




Isn't this a great photo? What lovely Egyptian women: Ghadeer, Mae, Hend, Amira, and of course, Alexandria. I am somewhere in there also, trying to blend in just like Waldo. They were wonderful young women, so interested in learning about the real United States, knowing that there simply had to be more than Bush and his cowboys. They were also very eager to teach us about Islam, and to show us that Muslim Arabs were more than Muhammad Atta and Osama. They were quick to distance themselves from "Gulfi" women, arguing that the political and social oppression of women in Saudi Arabia and other Gulf States is as abhorrent to Egyptians as it is to Westerners. We talked about the trend of Egyptian woman marrying later in life, divorcing abusive husbands, or choosing to never marry. Ghadeer glowed as she spoke about how women are beginning to realize their rights within society and within the marriage, and that traditional roles of husband and wife are being questioned. All of this, she added excitedly, was of course within the framework of Islam. Before leaving, Hend clasped my arm and warmly thanked me for my choice of research, entitled "The role of Egyptian women in Political and Civic Leadership". She was thrilled that my research considers the posibility of women's empowerment through Islam, not assuming that the faith oppresses its female believers. I told her that there are many western scholars who have taken this approach in their research, and gave her a few professors and books upon which I have relied. It is nice to know that my work here might actually make a difference in someone's life, even if it is just asking someone to reconsider a previously assumed notion about women, Egyptian or American. It is just amazing how with each sentence of conversation, I am forced and re-forced to admit my own stereotypes. In a conversation regarding American cinema, Mae--dead center of the photo-excitedly proclaimed that her favorite movie was "Meet the Fockers". I almost choked on my tea, laughed, and then asked her if she liked it better than "Meet the Parents." She thought about it, smiled, and decided they were both excellent. I consider myself to have a pretty open mind, but as exhibited by my near choking emergency, I am not perfect. Remember, there are two things that transcend space, culture and religion: women's empowerment, and Ben Stiller, toilet humor, Barbara Streisand as a sex therapist.

Thursday, September 13, 2007

Sabah al-Kheer (Good Morning!)

I am not a morning person. Simply that. But here in Cairo, life comes at you fast, and I can't afford to be off my game in the morning. The good, the bad and the ugly all happen here before 8:00am. My alarm sounds at 7:15, and I open my eyes to take in my surroundings. I hear my air conditioner chugging away, not quite a plane taking off, more like a lawn mower caught on a branch. I feel my fluffy pillow which was recently purchased at the mysterious store named "Carpet City" which suprisingly was also famous for its pillows. I burrow my head into the fluffy delight and recall that this pillow was the pot of gold at the end of a long, dirty rainbow road which no taxi driver knew how to navigate. I rub my eyes and see my white washed walls, which I have covered with my photos of my friends and family. I also see that it is 7:20 am, which in my opinion, is way to early to be stumbling around Cairo. Slowly, key word being slowly, I make my way to the kitchen and turn on the gas to light the stove, boil water, and make myself some delicious Nescafe. I am in my own personal Maxwell House commercial as I open the bottle of the freeze dried coffee, and smile as I smell the stale aroma, anticipating the rush of caffeinne to my system. I decide to eat cerael and open the fridge, secretly hoping that overnight a gnome had replaced my falsely advertized "SoyFresh" soymilk with a nice carton of Vanilla Silk. Of course I am not holding my breath, and begrudgingly grab my disconcerting soymilk which tastes slightly like vodka. Slightly ironic of an Egyptian product, isn't it? After I throw down breakfast, my roommate and I lock our door, and face the world. It is about a twenty minute walk to school down a busy, lively street. As long as the traffic permits, we always choose to walk in the actually street. Everyone does, and the sidewalks are usually vacant. Why? Because here in Cairo it actually does rain, but only on the sidewalk. Every five feet you will see water dripping from high above, forming puddles. Cairo rain falls from the thousands of air conditioners that decorate the buildings, and if you aren't careful, you will find yourself taking a freon shower. Okay, so maybe it isn't freon that is dripping, but everyone seems to agree that walking in the street is the only way to walk in Cairo. As we weave through parked and moving cars, we dodge puddles, rotten vegetables and men who think kissy noises and purrs are appropriate forms of greeting. I have almost perfected my dead stare and the dirty look that can answer for me when solicited with a "oh Sugar, do you speak English?...I love you..." If the suitor is particularly persistent, I may spit out some Arabic to prove to him that I am not the American lush of his fantasies. "Shame on You" can work magic here, especially if it is used strategically in bigger crowds. Never underestimate the power of a good old fashioned public shaming. Despite their best efforts, I am not held up by these obstacles of patriarchy, and my walk to school is direct, brisk and empowering. I never look passing men in the eye for fear of unwanted attention, but it is amazing what one can absorbed from a glazed over stare at that place above their heads or at a sea of torsos. It's not that Egyptians aren't friendly people just because they don't smile and wave at strangers on the streets. There is simply a different definition of what is appropriate in public, and what is appropriate for the private space. Friendly interaction is saved for inside the work place, the school, the home, or even inside a store when you are working with an employee. Simply smiling at strangers on the street may be normal in Nashville or Ann Arbor, but in Cairo, it is seen as strange and an event worth making kissing noises after. Of course I also pass women on the way to work, but they seem to always go without much notice. Quietly walking alone or with a friend, colleague, or husband, they watch me just as the men do. They want to see what I will do when the men give me a wink, or if I have done something to provoke such attention. I still wonder exactly what they think when they see me in my loose, modest wardrobe. Is she American? Don't all American women wear mini-skirts? Is she Lebanese? Israeli? I just don't know, and guess will always wonder what they think. I try to move so fast that I am a mere blur in their radar screen, but I am sure that for the shop owners on the busy street, I have become a regular curiosity.

Sunday, September 9, 2007

This is what happens when Pauline leaves

I am very, very sad. I knew that by going to Cairo, I would be leaving my friends and family for a year and that they might miss me as much as I missed them. But I knew that life would go on usually without me. But maybe I was too modest in assuming that life would go on as usual without me, because I know there is a place in Ann Arbor that misses me very, very much. That place is the Big House, the sacred ground that has recently been disgraced by the triumph of both Appalachian State and now Oregon. Oh the Humanity!! Falling from number 5 to unranked in the polls was bad enough, and then the wolverines had to go and prove that the loss to app. state wasn't just a fluke, it was inevitable. Why? Because that frizzle frazzle fan who sounds like an ambulance siren and swears like a sailor isn't there. She isn't there to scream words of comfort to Henne, telling Chad it's okay that he just threw an interception. She isn't there to mock the referees when they make a bad call, then to congratulate them when they make a proper one (of course always checking with Judge Wade to see what I should scream first) She isn't there to try and catch hot dogs from hot dog man, and then to cheer "let him stay" a the security drags him away after he refuses to stop projecting the delicious hot dogs for us to eat. She isn't there to dance to the fight song, especially that trumpet bit that is so good. She isn't there to wish the wrath of God upon the other team, but at least she doesn't have to watch our cheerleaders make that stupid "N". So, if Chad, Mike, Lloyd, or Mario are reading this blog--I know they are big fans--I want to say to you all, that I know its hard. I know it may seem like the games just aren't worth winning if Pauline isn't around. You might just want to give up and roll over, or just fly to Cairo and join a cultural immersion program to be near your number one fan. But you can't give up, you must persevere. You have to make do with Steve's voice, even though its an accepted fact that Pauline is louder than him. Remember that even though I may not be in the stands screaming like a maniac, over here my blood still runs maize and blue, and I really don't want to explain to the camels why I am crying all the time over a pack of wolverines.

Wednesday, September 5, 2007

Dirty Nails

I have short finger nails, for piano it became a habit, but here in Cairo I have had to make cutting my nails a daily activity. Why? Having dirt under your nails seems to be form of citizenship here in Cairo, and even if you are germaphobe-like most foreigners petrified of eating a bad falafel or falling in the Nile-you will find dirt underneath those nails within two hours of washing your hands. What have I been doing?? I ask myself, trying to remember if I stopped to dig a few holes in the dirt on the way to the bank, because my nails seem to suggest that new hobby. It takes no more than a trip to the bank, a trip to the store, or a ride in a taxi for the insidious dirt to sneak up those small crevasses and snuggle in for the ride. The culprit, I believe, is the dirty money. Literally, dirty money. Not money from a drug deal or a laundering scheme, but just straight up money with at least one centimeter of dirt coating the paper. Is that Fifty pounds? I don't know, looks like a twenty to me....Twenty pounds or twenty piaster??? The piaster is the equivalent of a cent, except it is much, much more useless. First of all, they are in the form of bills, so it is quite easy to mistake the 50 pound note (lots of money) with the 50 piaster note (barely considered money) Maybe at the mint the bills were separate colors, vibrantly different, but after a few shifts in the streets of Cairo, you are lucky if you can distinguish between the now muddled colors and script. You just can't escape the dirt, the way you can't escape the noise, the traffic, the sounds the smells and the life of Cairo. And as much as I enjoy my shower at the end of the day, I am glad that I can't fully escape the vitality of this city. I guess this just proves that you can't get the real experience without getting a little dirty yourself. But don't worry, this hallmark moment won't keep me from washing my hands like I am scrubbing in for surgery every chance I get.

Sunday, September 2, 2007

Learning to Cross Streets

Welcome to my blog! With my first entry entitled as "Learning to Cross Streets", one might assume that this Fulbright scholar intends to build bridges between my culture and that of old Cairo. While this allegorical purpose is charming and would fit in with my pledge to "build understanding" between the United States and the rest of the world, there is in fact a literal meaning behind this title. In Cairo, you seriously have to re-learn how to cross a street. Honestly. If you go by the old-fashioned rules of the US, you will never end up on the other side of the boulevard. Traffic here is a video game in which taxi drivers get bonus points for how many clueless tourists they almost run over, for how many "traffic lights" they ignore, and for how many lanes they swerve in and out of in the span of 100 yards. I had always heard that the traffic here in Cairo, lovingly called "zahman" by locals, was atrocious, but nothing could have prepared me for the shear insanity. The first time I was dropped off by a taxi on the wrong side of the street, it took me 15 minutes to timidly wait for a gap in traffic. The cars come at approximately 40 mph, more if there is a green light, less if there is a red (but actually stopping is optional, as are head-lights at night). As I waited, I watched with amazement and jealousy as savvy Egyptians, gabbing on their cell-phones, casually weaved in and out of the oncoming traffic. If they couldn't cross the entire 5 lane road in one go, they would wait on the white dotted line, as traffic whizzed by, nipping their coat tails and hijab, never batting an eye-lash. While I don't think I will ever acheive the talent exhibited by Cairo's locals, I hope that by the end of my stay I will truly learn how to walk like an Egyptian.