Comprehending the Veil

“So…what’s up with that veil thing?”


This question comes up a lot for me, and I don’t even wear a veil. I can’t even imagine how often it must come up for Muslim women who wear one when they are talking with non-Muslims who are befuddled by the piece of cloth. In general, the Islamic veil is known by a simple and encompassing term: hijab. Hijab comes from the Arabic word meaning to cover, screen, or shelter. The word for eyebrow, hawajib, even comes from the same root as they serve to shelter the eye. Forms of Hijab come in very different shapes and sizes, colors and fashions and vary between countries, classes, age groups, and personal preference. As a tip for anyone who is ever unsure of what to call the Islamic headscarf, hijab is generally the go-to-word. Anything more specific leaves room for mistakes, as sometimes it is hard to keep a niqab from a burqah from a chic veil. If you are curious, the niqab is when a woman’s face is covered except for her eyes (often a detachable square piece of cloth over the nose which is secured on the veil around the face) And, most importantly, a burqah is NOT any old veil. Burqahs are the fully covering head piece which were made famous by Afghani women (largely not by their choice) in which their eyes and face are covered by a mesh-like fabric. Again, if you are already feeling a bit shaky about the terms, remember that you can’t go wrong with using "veil" or “hijab”.
So why the hijab?

An easy answer that many Muslims might give is that they believe that God commanded women to cover all but their face and hands. But this begs the question, why? And of course those Muslims have also asked this question, and while there are different interpretations, a common one seems to be that the hijab promotes respect between men and women. This is because within Islamic tradition, hijab is not just the veil or whatever head covering a woman wears. It also encompasses the idea of modesty, of respect; the idea that a woman should be treated as a person, and not as a sex object. Men of society should interact with women as peers, intellectual equals, and not be distracted by immodest, inappropriate attire. As interpreted by many Muslims, God in his ultimate wisdom, has commanded women to take it upon themselves to prevent such a scenario, and cover themselves. But men aren’t off the hook, as it has also been commanded that they avert their eyes and treat women with the respect that they deserve. Before you get thrown, remember that many different cultures and religions have different definitions of what is appropriate and what is not. In parts of the world, there is nothing wrong with a woman bearing her breasts. In Kansas, there is certainly something inappropriate about it. And likewise, in Islam, many have interpreted hair to be inappropriate for public. If you find yourself unable to make this leap of logic, just remember how puzzled a Polynesian might be at the seemingly oppressive bra and shirt that American women wear, gasp, and by choice!

Now, even understanding the different standards of modesty,you still might ask, doesn’t this somehow put the burden on women? Sure, God commanded men to also avert their eyes, but if God also commands women to cover themselves, doesn’t that some how imply that ultimately men can’t help themselves? Why is it that women should have to take the extra step to cover themselves just because guys can’t somehow control their sexual urges? It’s not my fault my boss is a caveman and can’t take me seriously, I shouldn’t have to compensate for his weakness!

I used to feel this way. I was able to understand the reasoning behind the hijab (I think every girl can when she walks down the street and is made to feel degraded and humiliated by the cat-calls of a disrespectful man) but I still felt frustrated that the onus of the responsibility seemed to fall on the woman. But then I remembered that this is not only true of Islamic tradition, but of American society as well. One such example, a classic, which shows the unequal expectations for controlling sex drives takes place at a college frat party. No girl, in her right mind, would ever let her drunken girlfriend be alone in a room full of drunk frat guys for the night. Reverse the roles, and see how comfortable a guy would feel in a room of girls. Of course its not fair, but its not about fairness. It’s about being smart. Girls have these rules about watching out for each other, and for themselves, because no matter how you would hope guys to act in a perfect world, you don’t risk rape or sexual assault for the quixotic dream of gender equality.

So even in America, where we like to claim gender equality, you can find examples of girls taking on extra responsibilities to preempt ugly scenarios. Its not that you are some how condoning the weakness of guys; by avoiding the roomful of 30 drunken frat boys you aren’t somehow saying that sexual assault is okay. You are just taken a precaution in the same way that when a Muslim woman dons a hijab to avoid being treated like a piece of meat by her boss she isn’t excusing that disrespectful behavior.

Is this the only reason that women wear the hijab?

Of course not. There are thousands of reasons and explanations that women (and social scientists) give for the veil.* For some they are simply trying to be good Muslims in their daily life, for others they might see it as a political symbol of resistance or affiliation with Islamic reform movements who oppose the corruption and dictatorship of various secular regimes. Some might also see the veil as a rejection of Western imperialism, of American hegemony and globalization which has stripped them of their own culture. This is summed up in a quote by Adil Hussein, a late leader of the Egyptian Labor Party.



"Why can't we not only have a dress that is modest, but also have one which we have created in the region, like the Indian sari? Why can't we have our own dress which expresses decency, a requirement of Islam, as well as the special beauty that would be a mark of our society which has excelled in the arts and civilization?"

Of course there are still other explanations that believe that the use of the veil has a functional explanation such as lowering cost of attire (and hair salons) or shortens the time and energy a woman uses to beautify herself. And finally, never underestimate the power of social pressure, family pressure, and good ol peer pressure in determining what women wear. Once enough of your Muslim peers begin to don the veil, you might feel like you stick out a bit if you don't. Or maybe you've heard that the young men are only interested in marrying a veiled woman. But, I think it is important to remember, that Muslim women tend to be vehemently proud of the fact that it was a personal choice to wear the veil. Often they find it frustrating that women in the West have the freedom to wear skimpy clothes, but judge other women for wearing more.

Most veiled women just wish that Westerners would just hurry up and get over the whole veil thing. Read up on it, learn about it, and then see past it. Lets leave it up to 4th graders to judge people for what they wear or don't wear.




*Inspiration for this passage came from Saba Mahmood's article "Feminist Theory, Embodiment and the Docile Agent: Some Relections on the Egyptian Islamic Revival."2001. Cultural Anthropology, 6(2):202-236.

Your friendly neighborhood Camel Mart?

My trip to the camel market had been quite overdue. Fresh out of sugar, salt, and camel, I had to head down to the local store. Hopefully you don't actually think that I make a habit of munching on camel, but the concept is actually not as far fetched as you might think. Camels are largely sold here in Egypt not to be beast of burden as much as to be ingredients in stew, but don't tell these guys to my left. They were two of hundreds of camels being displayed, bought and sold at the Cairo Camel Market. Located quite a bit out of the city and accessible through a series of mini buses, the market is a tourist destination only for the strong willed and definitely not PETA members. As much as the camels look like they are enjoying themselves with their constant smiles (except when they are snarling and reproducing alien noises which sound like a mix between a roar and a burp)they are certainly not pets, and so aren't exactly cuddled. One leg is tied up in order to keep their movement a bit limited, and they are often beaten strongly with a large wooden cane by the various camel vendors. While I couldn't help but wince at the seemingly harsh whacks, I definitely appreciated the limited movement of our one humped friends. Camels are huge. Can't emphasize it enough. With the average height of their head at about 7.5 feet and weighing about 600 pounds, these babies aren't the daintiest of mother natures children. As much as it pained me to see them uncomfortable hobbling around on three legs, when one got loose and was running around the lot I couldn't help but be thankful that there weren't 600 loose and using us as foot stools.


While there were a few moments of panic upon being stuck between two burping and disgruntled dromedaries, overall, I was charmed by everyone of them. What can I say, I am a sucker for the even-toed ungulates with their thick eyelashes and small hairy ears. I even like their ridiculously cantankerous vocals. But most of all, I love their smiles. There is a saying in the region that the camel is smiling because he knows the 100th name for God. In Islamic tradition, there are 99 known names for God, so of course if you know that desired 100th, you'd probably be smiling too.


It's always a little strange being a tourist at a place where people are just doing their job, you don't want to be that person who treats someone's livelihood like a game. But I think that the buyers and sellers got a kick out of the fact that we tourists were enjoying ourselves so far away from the pyramids, and marveling at the beasts which despite being undoubtedly mundane for them, hopefully still retain some charm for the seasoned salesmen.

Lewis of Arabia-Part II

It was pitch black outside when we pitched our tent. And by we, I mean Ali and Karem. And by tent, I mean a two sided roofless structure, whose “walls” are supported by the two trucks. Our two Bedouin professionals had set all this up in less than 15 minutes, so that by the time we were finished gazing flabbergasted at the star-filled sky, we had a place to sit around the crackling fire. With the sun set and our car troubles behind us, we had a magical evening. Without the lights of a city in sight, the stars took centerstage and lit up the surreal desert scenery. The White Desert is famous for its moon-like surface, giant chalk structures, each a unique shape, tower of the landscape. Like children staring at clouds, we took to giving names to these sand-eroded beasts. “Oh! That one looks like Lenin with an elf cap!” Frances chimed, while Markell contemplated the ice cream sundae, obviously topped with two cherries.

As our tour guides began to prepare dinner, us clueless tourists took to getting to know each other. The German couple remained largely quiet, more into each other than into the burgeoning discussion on culture shock. Jennifer, of Stewart and Jennifer the Canadian couple, was extremely curious about Islam and Egypt, and seeing as I spoke Arabic and had been living in the country for a while, I seemed to be an oasis of answers. I admired her curiosity and her respect for cultural differences, but I couldn’t help but be slightly put off by her racism. Its not what you think, she wasn’t racist towards Egyptians or even Muslims, but Americans. After we had been talking for a while, and it was clear that my sisters and I were open minded, accepting, educated, and overall good Americans, Jennifer excitedly told us, “Wow! This is so great to meet you guys! I gotta say that before this trip, we thought that all Americans were ignorant bigots, but you guys aren’t like that at all!” thanks? While I appreciated that we had changed her stereotypes, isn’t that a bit like a bigoted white American telling an African American, “wow! Before I met you I thought all you guys were idiots!” or maybe like Huckabee telling a Mexican American “wow! Before I met you I thought all you guys were lazy illegal immigrants! And how did you get over my fence?”

Despite these thoughts, I strove to be a good Fulbright cultural ambassador-even to Canadians-so I smiled, and said that we were glad to have been proof of the inaccuracies of stereotypes. Another highlight of our enlightening conversation was when Jennifer asked me about all the lingerie stores she had seen in Cairo. “But how can these veiled women ever where that skimpy outfit! Are they walking around with nothing underneath but that!?!?!?” I calmly explained to the amazed Canadian, that while Muslim women may choose to be modest in the street, or even choose to be fully covered, when she is with her husband, no holds bar. I believe this concept may have blown her mind, as perhaps before she thought that a veiled woman was veiled even with her husband in the bedroom? This conversation then moved somehow to pornography, where I explained that of course there is pornography in the region, maybe no one talks about it but there is absolutely Arab pornography production. Afterall, where this a demand there will be a supply. “OH MY GOD!” more mind blowing “It’s a part of the culture here!?!??!” what, sex? Actually, contrary to popular belief, they do have sex in the Muslim Arab world. Even more shocking is that teenage boys here actually have, gasp, the same hormones as Christian Americans! Of course pornography is frowned upon and its not as publicly accepted as in Canada and the US, but its still here. It always cracks me up what encourages cultural understanding.


By the time we had covered American hillbillies, Egyptian negligee and the Lebanese porn industry, dinner was ready. Fire cooked chicken, hearty potatoes in a tomato-onion sauce, and delicious rice. With plenty of food for seconds, we ate happily until our bellies were full and our calorie intake sufficient to last the cold night. If foreigners are surprised by Egyptian lingerie, they seem to be even more surprised by the fact that desert equals freezing at night. The same sand which was too hot to touch during the day becomes equally unwelcoming to a barefoot at night, unless you like stepping on ice. We layered on our clothes, wrapped ourselves in scarves, and huddled around the fire. I chatted with Ali and Karem about the Bedouin dialect of Arabic while we all sipped delicious mint tea. After the third round of tea, with the moon still not risen, we turned in for bed. My sisters and I claimed three mattresses, and constructed a giant bed for us out of the ample sleeping bags and blankets supplied by our guides. Markell suggested that we spread out all the sleeping bags on top of us, but Frances and I thought it would be better for us each to have a bag and then just put the 3 giant blankets over us. While we lay in bed, staring at the stars, I was even a bit hot underneath the 4 layers. I snuggled up next to my sisters, and fell asleep underneath more stars than I knew existed.

I woke up shivering with my foot in my mouth. Markell had been right, never underestimate the power of body heat and the wisdom of big sisters. I tossed around a bit, looking for my pillow which never existed, and quickly drifted off to sleep. I woke up numerous times that night, opening my eyes to a gorgeous moon which lit up the night, although it couldn’t help me find that pillow. I mistakenly grabbed the lump which was near my head, only to realize that it was the Afrikaner’s feet wrapped in a sleepingbag. Each time I woke, I shivered, marveled at the moon, searched for a pillow, and then fell back asleep. It wasn’t the best sleep I have ever gotten, but certainly tops the list for location. The last time I woke up, it was from Markell’s persistent “time to get up Paulina, gotta watch the sunrise” I groggily opened my eyes and huddled closer to Markell. Frances was off taking photos, luckily for her, she doesn’t have as many sexy morning shots as me and Markell. In our frigid state, we encouraged the sun to rise and warm us. “Yallah yallah ya shems!) (go go oh sun!) Markell produced a packet of raisins which I had dissed earlier “I never really enjoy raisins.” The cold helped me change my opinion, and we feasted on the calories of dried grapes. The sun rose, and Frances returned, turning her camera on us. We look like refugee tourists, featured in a back issue of National Georgraphic.


Camp was slowly stirring, and as we ventured off to our own personal toilets behind the chalk structures, Ali and Karem began to set up breakfast. Jennifer, our Canadian friend, was loudly explaining to everyone how freezing last night was and how horrible her sleeping experience had been. Amazingly, it was even colder than camping in Canada pause, in the summer. We smiled and reminded her that it was December, but the point may have been lost.

We feasted on coffee or tea, bread, jam, halwa (sweet sesamee spread) and cheese. Markell and Frances got into a conversation with the Afrikaner couple, regarding race relations and education in South Africa and California. Similar issues, different standpoints. Norman, a self-admitted conservative, also admitted to being grateful for America’s military prowess in the world, explaining that it keeps “them” from power. As much as I wanted to push and ask who is this “them” that we speak of, I kept the conversation light and ended the conversation by saying that as much as I can appreciate the need for a strong military, I think that we need to rethink the strategies and policies which use or abuse that military power. Proving the importance of keeping things friendly, Nelson later approached me and praised our attitude as being “socially aware” and recognized that his perspective on the world was largely due to being a bit long in the tooth. I accepted the olive branch and agreed that both perspectives are important, and need each other to achieve a healthy equilibrium. But seriously, will somebody please tell me who this “them” is? Maybe Guliani knows…


After brushing our teeth and packing up, we explored around camp while we waited for our car to start. The old drill, push, dig, and pull, and eventually the ol jeep started up. We piled in, counting heads to make sure no one was left behind (yikes) and head back towards base. We stop along the way to get out and play, handstands and cartwheels and flying leaps were, of course, in order. On our second stop, we are told to hunt for desert roses. Huh? Looking for any sign of flora we all silently sing along to Sting and remain puzzled until our guides show us a desert rose in his palm. They are small black rocks, resembling the everlasting gobstopper (think Willy Wonka here) We immediately scattered, stooped on our knees, and searched for these beautiful creations. I didn’t do so well, but luckily Karem generously gave me one of his treasures, as I am sure that the thrill of the search has decreased slightly for him. We take our booty back to the jeep, pile in, and head back to camp.


It had been quite the 24 hours and my sisters and I were so pleased with the camping experience, we didn’t think we wanted to taint it by staying another night in the less than merry hostel. We had heard from Stuart and Jennifer that the camping part was definitely the best, so we decided to leave on a high and head back to Cairo a night early. When we arrived back at the hostel, I spoke with each member of our camping party about giving a tip to our fantastic guides.

This was expected, and most everyone in our party was completely aware and willing to give a modest 20 Egyptian pounds per head, which is about 4 US dollars. But when I went looking for Stuart and Jennifer, they were no where to be found. I had been worried that our Canadian couple might be troublesome when it came to the tip. They weren’t happy with the travel company who had arranged their package, but I assumed that they would reasonable not take their discontent out on our excellent guides. If the food is bad, you don’t blame the waiter. I found Stuart who told me to go and find the sugarmama, but when I went to Jennifer, she passed me off to Stuart. Eventually, Stuart sheepishly approached me and told me that they were very frustrated with everything, that they had to run to catch the bus back to Cairo, and that while they knew it wasn’t our guides' fault, they weren’t going to tip. (I’m sorry, you lost me there between the fact that you know its not their fault, but that you still aren’t going to tip them….) I pooled the money we had and talked privately to Karem about how we wished we could have given more, but thank you so much. He was incredibly gracious, making me even angrier that he didn’t the money he should have. You don’t go out to dinner if you don’t have the cash to tip, you don’t travel the world if you are going to rip off those who help you survive in the middle of the desert. Just another universal rule.

Since the bus from Bahriyya had already left, we were sent back to Cairo in a giant taxi/soccer-mom station wagon. In the front were the driver (a big guy) his friend (another big guy) and Tom, our sweet little Minnesota boy. In the middle were the Lewis girls, and in the back were our favorites, Stuart and Jennifer. The 5 hour trip was pretty uneventful, except for the fact that we never really breathed easily as our driver preferred to drive on the wrong side of the road and at night seemed to think that lights were optional. The driver tried his best to get some money out of us, even though we had paid in advance, and in addition to fending off these attempts from the front of the car, I was getting other requests from the back of the car. “Could you ask him to turn down the music?” “Could you have him pull over for a bathroom break?” “Could you ask him where he is dropping us off?” “Could you ask him if he could talk to the travel company.” Could you….” Being able to speak Arabic was becoming less and less attractive as the car ride continued. Cairo didn’t come soon enough, we said our goodbyes, and walked home. After washing the sand off, sharing a few beers and laughs over our adventure, my sisters and I went to bed. But before I went to sleep, I said a prayer. A prayer for the past year, for the new year, for the desert and for Egypt, for my sisters and for my mother, and even a little prayer for Jennifer and Stuart and their anti-tip budget tour around the world.

Lewis of Arabia-Part I

At 6:45am, my sisters and I left my apartment to meet a representative from the Travel Agency that had booked our trip to the desert. I had planned the trip in advance, paid for everything, and was excited to have a stress free experience in Egypt. As much as I resisted it, I had surrendered myself to being a tourist in the city that had become my home. I figured all I had to do was get us to the agency by 7:00am, and from there we would be in the hands of experienced Bedouins who would take care of us for the next three days. Looking back, my naitivity regarding the concept of a stress free trip in the desert seems almost cute. Almost.

At 7:00am, we met our friendly agency representative outside of the office, but instead of escorting us to the awaiting caravan of friendly Bedouin, he piles us in a cab and we all head to the Central Cairo Bus Station. Our representative, who is shy and wears braces, quickly explains that we will be taking bus number 5 to Bahriyya, where we would be met by another friendly representative. Before I could even process that our expectedly private transportation to the desert had somehow turned into the public bus and all its delights, the shy adolescent was gone in a flash. Don’t get me wrong, the buses in Egypt are fine, very well run in fact. But this was the first time I had splurged on a tourist package, so I was slightly disappointed that my fancy package somehow started off as my budget trips did, on an East Delta Bus. We found our seats in the front of the bus, with me and Markell together on one side and Frances sitting next to a nice Algerian woman. Frances practiced her French while Markell and I planned out futures, and every once in a while I shocked the bus by breaking into Arabic to defend our seating assignment. After stopping at half a dozen desert towns in the middle of no-where, we finally reached the end of the road, and luckily our stop, Bahriyya. I was crossing my fingers that whoever was meeting us would be there, would be anticipating us, and would know that we had paid ahead of time. I dreaded the possibility of dragging my sisters into the middle of the desert, vulnerable to the vultures of eager hostel owners who prowled around the bus, waiting for foolish little sisters who somehow messed up the reservation. Luckily, my fears were allayed, the boy with braces spoke true, and I easily found our friendly representative. We piled into a beat up old Land Rover which, unbeknownst to us, would become the ill-fated vessel for our safari, and headed into camp.



Camp was a dusty hostel/restaurant which resembled an old west saloon without the swinger doors, booze, or bar fights. It was the meeting spot for groups before they went out on the trek in the desert, so it was here where we first laid eyes on the motley crew who would be our travel companions. Please note the names have been changed to protect the innocent and guilty. There was Tom, the laid-back loner from Minnesota who was on a Fulbright scholarship in Germany; Nelson and Patricia, the middle aged Afrikaneer couple from Cape Town; Stewart and Jennifer, the starry eyed young Canadian couple who were at the beginning of their year long tour of the world, Christof and Eva a young German couple who seemed to be veteran backpackers and us three Lewis gals. We were informed that instead of staying the first night at camp as was customary, we would be going out on the safari and camping that night. So, the three couples, the trio, and the lone Minnesotan headed off into the unknown armed with nothing but two jeeps, and two seasoned Bedouin guides.



Our two guides, Ali and Karem, were delighted that I knew Arabic. The only guest on the trip who could speak their language, they baptized me as “Ward” (rose). My sisters were also kindly looked upon, given their smashing good looks and superior hiking abilities. Markell was dubbed “Yasmine” (Jasmine) and Frances was knighted “Ful” (sweet flower). The afternoon was going splendidly, we would drive through the desert, park in front of a hill, hike to the top of a peak, descend, and continue on our merry way. We would lead the charge up the hills, with the other members of the caravan uninterested to competition with the Lewis girls. Despite the incredible steepness of one of the black mountains, we reached the summit and felt zen-ful thoughts while the jeeps honked at us to come back down.



At dusk we reached the top of a tall sand dune, surrounded by rock structures and leading down into a valley of bedrock. After frolicking in the sand for a bit, we were summoned back to the jeeps. The dune was pretty deep, and while the grade proved perfect for extreme cartwheels, I was a bit nervous about the drive down. Ali had the tendency to make donuts in the sand; hard left, hard right, do a 180, 360, you name it he would do it and I would scream.
In Arabic I would beg him to slow down, but the cheering of the other passengers seemed to outweigh my pathetic requests. Given my fear on a flat surface, I was petrified to think of our fate after Ali had taken us down the steep incline, undoubtedly at 70 mph and on two wheels. But before we loaded back into the car, we heared the all too familiar sound of an engine which refuses to turn. As we listened to the coughing and sputtering, I was positive that all 12 of us from different countries and backgrounds were thinking the same thing: Thank God for the Buddy System. An additional thanksgiving would be thank God for manual transmissions that can start on their own if the car gets going enough. Because we were on a hill, we were theoretically in an ideal spot for such a possibility. Theoretically, all we had to do was push the car a bit to get it going down the hill and as we gained speed the car would start and we would be on our merry way doing donuts and terrifying Pauline down the hill. All the women stood to the side, cameras ready, cheering on the menfolk as they swaggered behind the jeep getting in position for the push. It seemed so easy, I didn’t think I would be fast enough with the camera to catch it all on tape, as it seemed it would last a split second. But by the tenth push, the jeep was deep in sand and no further down the mountain. We lowered our cameras, and began to dig out the wheels, playing a risky game of “better move your hand quick or else the land rover crushes your wrist”. This wasn’t working, and Karem, the guide whose jeep was working, decided to take matters into his own hands. We were instructed to get back into the lame jeep. Markell, Frances and I were in the back seat, and we turned to look out the back window to see better.



Like a lion approaching its prey, we see Karem’s jeep slowly accelerating towards us. “They are going to ram us!” We realize the new strategy, and prepare for the worst. However, like the anticlimax of the pushing, the ramming was similarly lacking in excitement. Finally, with the sun set, a mix of pushing, ramming, and scooping sand brought the jeeps to the bedrock. Ali produced a rope, and tied the nose of the lame jeep to the tail of the working vehicle, and this method of dragging produced the velocity needed to start the car. We cheered and entered the car, ready for food, camp and warmth as the heat of the desert had long since left with the passed sun.

We went on our way, resuming our method of driving like crash test dummies swerving around invisible orange cones, only to stop suddenly. Karem’s car has a flat tire. Flat is probably an understatement, more like busted. Ali and Karem quickly begin changing the tire, luckily each car has a spare attached to the back. As we are standing around, I joke “Hope they changed that spare since the last time they had a flat, or else we just replaced the flat with another busted tire.” Turns out instead of joking, I just narrated our reality. No kidding, that’s exactly what happened. Another thanksgiving: Thank God for 2 spare tires. After a few delays and even more prayers, we were finally on our way to set up camp in the white desert.

Taxi?

I am not used to taking cabs everywhere, and for the most part, I can avoid taxis here. Most of Cairo is attainable through either walking or using the Metro, but about 30 percent of the time, you have to take a cab. No thats not true, you could take a bus if you knew the ropes, but seeing as I am not yet brave enough, or patient enough, for that education, I stick to cabs when I can't walk to the place. I have learned how to hail one-pretty easy considering cabs hail you most of the time. I have learned to speak enough arabic to make it clear that I know what I am doing but keep quiet enough so that he doesn't catch on to the fact that I actually have no idea what I am doing. Most importantly, I have learned how to judge an appropriate rate, and how to exit the vehicle, give my own decided fare, turn, and walk in the opposite direction. Cabs in Cairo don't use the meter, and you certainly never discuss the fare at any point during the trip, unless its a big project like going to the airport. If a driver asks you how much, you don't want that cab. If he shouts "10 pounds", for a 3 pound trip, you definitely don't want that cab. No cab ride is ordinary, you have to stay on your toes, and make sure you are paying attention, cause you never know, for better or for worse, what your ride will be like. Some choice examples.

My friend and I were once taking a cab to Zamalek. On one of the long bridges over the Nile, our driver suddenly stops and swerves to the side of the road. We thought we had gotten a flat tire, when suddenly we start backing up. Our driver seemed incredible worried about something, peering out the windows and checking for something behind us. I look outside my window, waiting to see the inevitable bus that was undoubtedly headed toward us, when a small kitten caught my eye. She was walking timidly across our lane towards the side of the bridge, and right before she went out of sight we saw that she made it to the other side. A bus pulled up next to us, and our driver worriedly confered with the driver of the bus over the status of the kitten. The bus driver, who had a better view, reassured our driver that the kitten was okay. Overcome with relief, our driver smiled and we continued on our way. He was a good man, and needless to say, he got a tip to match his concern for our four legged friends.

Same friend, same destination in Zamalek, different Taxi driver. This one doesn't really know the streets very well in Zamalek, and while he drives confidently, the only thing we are confident about is that he doesn't have a clue where he is. "Is this Blank Street" pause..mutterings that seem to amount to an affirmative. "Really? Because that street sign over there say that its actually not Blank street" no answer. We drive and drive, asking random people for directions, and finally, we get to where we should have been 15 minutes ago, our destination. We exit the car, hand him his fare, and prepare to leave. We hear a "hey!" and keep walking. The basic rule is that no matter how much they yell at you, keep walking until they get out of the car. That means business. So we kept walking until we heard a car door slam. We turn and our taxi driver has suddenly become a 6'3 angry Egyptian man. "You are only paying me 3 and a half pounds for all of that?!?! We went down this street, and that street, and this street, and that street!" we argued with him, its not our fault that you don't know where you are going. But our street arabic was weak at the time, we had only been in egypt for a few weeks, so instead of saying "who the F* do you think you are?" we probably said the equivalent of "why dost thou accuse me of withholding honestly earned income, good sir?" anyways, it was really frustrating. Handicapped by our fledgling Arabic skills and lack of street cred, we paid him off, and were officially scarred from "underpaying" (i.e. paying what an Egyptian would pay) taxi drivers. My favorite part of that whole experience was when I shouted "EXPLOITATION" at him (shockingly a formal arabic word that came in handy) and he yelled back at me.."no, YOU'RE exploitation." does the "I know you are but what am I?" comeback ring a bell to anyone else? Oh 3rd grade, good times.

Finally, another memorable taxi experience was when we took Markell, my oldest sister, to the airport. Found a taxi, agreed on a good price to go to the airport, drop her off, and then take me and Frances back again. During the car ride, the driver kept talking about how we would just drop Markell off without actually entering the airport, avoiding getting a ticket and later paying the entrance/exit fee. I couldn't really tell if it was just a language barrier, but I was like no no, I will pay the fee, lets just get the airport and then we will figure it out. So we get to the airport, and he pulls over before the entrance and is like, okay she gets out now and walks to the airport. "Why don't we just enter and I will pay the fee, you have to understand, I want to make sure she gets into the airport fine" He answers but we can't enter because there are a lot of police. Tersely I ask "And why should the police be a problem?" He answers, "Because my license is expired." Excellent, would have been good to know buddy. Meanwhile, Markell and Frances are awaiting a translation. I translate loudly, in english, using colorful language which is of course universal. We get out of the car, and luckily for everybody, our taxi driver apologizes profusely and doesn't even mention payment, saying that he will wait here for Frances' and my return. We walk with Markell, suit case in tow, through the toll station, through the parking lot, through the throngs of people awaiting arrivals from Mecca, and see her off at the departures gate. It was only like a ten minute walk, and by the time I was back, I had cooled off. We found our taxi, who, like he had said, was waiting for us. He was very thankful that we had come back, which I guess makes sense as we could have gotten a free ride to the airport and found another one back. I was the one beginning to feel sheepish about being angry, so I asked him about his kids that he had mentioned earlier, and we talked about the bad economy and how getting a new license costs money, money which you don't have unless you drive, which technically you cant do unless you...you get the point. I must say it was a new experience when I handed him the agreed upon fare and feeling fully confident that we wouldn't have a disagreement.

In the end, as easy as it is to get frustrated when you are overcharged, they need the money more than we do. As one of my friends put it, these cab drivers aren't saving their pennies to study abroad in America. So while I will never roll over, I always try to remember to not sweat the few extra pounds, knowing that for them it might mean a next meal, or a new license.

The Notorious Lewis Girls

Meet the Lewis girls. Take us or leave us, we're taking on the world.