Criminality on Pyramids Road (with video)

"Now persuade your vassals to fall back."
--Mark Twain in 1876, having paid 4 francs
 for the privilege of being left alone at the Great Pyramids

Tourists and local bloggers here have been complaining about this for awhile. Allow me to add to the documentation.

A few hundred yards before the camera is turned on, camel and horse-carriage touts step into traffic, wagging their fingers as if to say you cannot pass. Our driver veers around them.

At 0:14 and 0:18 seconds, you can hear them banging on the side of our taxi in frustration. I laugh nervously.

on.way.to.pyramids from Sluggh McGee on Vimeo.

At 0:22 or so, a layabout walks into the frame from the right to block our progress. His cohorts rush in from the left. We are now effectively blocked. My taxi driver cannot advance without causing injury. These are not police or officials of any kind. Just thugs preventing us from free passage on a public road.

At 0:38, one of them opens the cab door and tries get in. I wrestle it shut and engage the lock.

Now, you may find this to be only a nuisance or offer by way of explanation that this is to be expected at a "tourist trap," or even concoct a socioeconomic explanation for why it occurs. Fine. But in a country that pretends to depend so heavily on tourism, it is beyond unacceptable, beyond belief.

The second "event" occurs shortly after our entry, when the louse in a ballcap demands our tickets and tells us what "we" are about to do together. I am more attuned to this than Martin for some reason.

I have loved the people here, but frankly, a little shame needs to be rained down on Egypt, and its police need to get off their ass and do more than doze on stools and direct traffic.

The dripping squeegee lives!

The ding-ding of a service-station bell brings out a small army of uniformed workers to check your tire pressure and fluid levels, clean the windshields and apply sunscreen to your nose. Well, most of those. Many of the cars here, and nearly all the taxis, run on compressed natural gas. A typical fill-up of CNG costs about $1 USD and will keep you on the road for a couple of days. Gasoline itself is about 90 cents a gallon, a price that is artificially depressed by government fuel subsidies this country can scarcely afford.

Four weeks ago, there were monumental gas lines and daily power outages. They have since mysteriously ended, giving rise to a variety of conspiracy theories. Speaking of which, it is widely and firmly believed here that 9/11 was an inside job and that the Sphinx's nose was blown off by the Israeli army. When you hear outrageous fantasies like these, I find it is always best to smile and nod, remind yourself that life is short and order another aseer asab.

Cozenage Part 2

Martin and I had just gotten back from the pyramids, and I invited him up to the apartment for a cold water when he was approached by a prating mountebank of about 14 holding a green drink in a twist-top bottle. He asked Martin to open it for him, and my friend complied.

With Martin's hands thusly occupied, the young thief tried to reach into his pockets but was quickly rebuffed. Undeterred, and in a remarkable display of dependency and parasitism, he began to follow us up the stairs, grabbing Martin's arm, upon which my friend threatened to whip this creature with his lanyarded keys.

We were targeted for speaking English on the street. I relate this story in the interest of full disclosure, not wanting this blog to be a whitewashed account of my two weeks here. My question to Egypt is a simple one: There is a reason there were only 12 visitors on the Giza Plateau this morning (where we were briefly kidnapped by the camel and carriage touts), and I have done my part -- exchanging my hard currency, and visiting the shops, restaurants and historical sites with good cheer and an open heart. What do you have to say for yourself?

Coptic Cairo

Jesus, Mary and Joseph supposedly lived here and drank from the well around which Saints Sergius and Bacchus Church would be built. The jagged edges of Cairo are smoothed away in this pre-Islamic cluster of parishes. Dipping my toe into the history of this place reminds me of the sea of wonders that lie in Al-Sayyida Zeinab and Islamic Cairo to the northeast. The entire city is an outdoor museum, and 336 hours is time enough only to skim the surface.

Sometimes I feel I am the only tourist here. Nobody notices as I climb the bell ringer's stairs to the roof of the Hanging Church, built around 300 A.D. Muhammad would not be born for another 300 years. The view from the top:

The Copts are a distinct religious minority, making up about 1 out of every 10 Egyptians. They're Christian, obviously, but speak Arabic and have a complicated history I can't pretend to understand. Some views from inside the Hanging Church.

These pictures, painted on wood, are iconic, in the original sense of the term. They're considered to be not just representations of saints and angels, but to be sacred in and of themselves. Almost an otherworldly concept. People from the neighborhood come in to touch them, one by one, then leave. The picture frames say 18 A.D., but that can't be right. They look newish, maybe 300 years old.

St. Nofer the Hermit:

A crowned Virgin Mary with her baby riding shotgun. She's stabbin' a snake.

These appear to be the oldest icons in the building, painted directly on the apse. I think they're from around 700 A.D. The arrangement and age remind me of the mosaics uncovered at the Haghia Sophia in Istanbul, so I'm guessing Mary is involved, possibly the Archangel Gabriel and somebody else.

The Coptic Museum is just around the corner. The lighting, presentation and signage is superb. Truly one of the great museums I've ever visited. Lots of portrait fragments from the fifth century, incunabula from the 1100s, and tons of icons.

Some highlights: 1) Part of an 18th-century triptych featuring Saints Ahraqas and Augani. They have the bodies of men and the faces of dogs -- an attenuated link to Egypt's pharaonic past. 2) St. Victor on horseback, trampling a dragon. 1700s, by Yuhanna Armani. 3) The many tediously produced, vividly colored pre-Gutenberg books.

Sadly, no photos are allowed in the Coptic Museum, nor are they in the Egyptian Museum. And in general, Egyptians don't seem crazy about having their pictures taken, so it can be a challenging place for a photographer. Outside the museum are the ruins of the Babylon Fortress (below), built around 500 A.D. The Nile used to flow nearby, but it's since changed its course several hundred yards away. Jesus' dad, er, stepdad ... whatever, is believed to have worked nearby.

A cool doorway in Coptic Cairo.

Saints Sergius and Bacchus Church, on the site where the holy family drank their fill.

In a mini-Deesis, Jesus touches his thumb to his ring finger (the original gang sign?).

At St. Barbara Church, there is some chanting going on, but in what language? Sumerian! (Allow me a moment to Google it.) Sumerian is the oldest written language in the world and was spoken here 3,000 years ago, when the pyramids were still encased in a gleaming limestone veneer.


st.barbara.church from Sluggh McGee on Vimeo.




These guys are tearing down an old building at the El Gawhary Tomb. Yeah, I don't know what's going on either.

I sense a startling psychological aspect emanating from this spot. Behind the skillful devotional art is a rippling agony. Jesus' death created a thunderclap along the Nile that echoes to this day. Hungry to learn more, I return the following afternoon with Martin. My Arabic is so-so, but he's a native speaker and better actor, and I need him to open some doors that are closed to me. He delivers, surprising even himself. More on that later.

After a hot, crowded metro ride, I'm getting closer to home.

Getting groceries at home is a production, but everything is so damned convenient here. Whatever you need is just steps away.

So Cairo's all, like, full of cozenage 'n' shit

They say this town is full of cozenage,
As nimble jugglers that deceive the eye,
Dark-working sorcerers that change the mind,
Soul-killing witches that deform the body,
Disguised cheaters, prating mountebanks,
And many suchlike liberties of sin.
If it prove so, I will be gone the sooner.
I’ll to the Centaur to go seek this slave.
I greatly fear my money is not safe.
--Antipholes of Syracuse, from " A Comedy of Errors"

Cairo's metro and markets are gangbusters -- a helluva deal! --but you want to keep your wallet in your front pocket, as you would in any big city.

The metro system is OK. A one-way fare to anywhere is 14 cents USD. Some cars have fans; most don't. It can get stiflingly hot. For certain items, the street markets are great. I stick to the thick-skinned fruits and vegetables.  The fish and bread are covered with flies. There are many live animals  you can take home and eat, too.  Ask the seller to kill them for you. I wind up going to the supermarket a lot :).

Lotsa refugees from Syria. Egypt welcomes them in large numbers.  (Zero Palestinians, though.)  

Starving for money, the children won't listen to "no." Martin taught me an Arabic phrase with a Syrian accent that amounts to "Get away, you little perverts." It's a very aggressive approach and not recommended, but it makes them disappear immediately because it invokes haram, or something forbidden. A nuclear option that should be used with care. Message me if you need it.

cozenage from .

My friend Martin

Imagine if Jerry Seinfeld and Adrian Grenier gave birth to a painfully skinny young man. At 17, Martin left his family in Port Said to make his way in Cairo. That was five years ago. Given the intractable unemployment situation here, he's now forced to live by his wits. Martin is sitting a few feet away from me as I write this. There is one ballsy MF in the room, in other words, and it's not me.

He walks the streets as if in a daze, seemingly daring cars to hit him. Like George Baker's Sad Sack, he could sleep through a war, and in a way he has. Martin is obsessed with American culture, particularly as it manifests itself in the sitcom "The Golden Girls." I ask him about an episode we watched yesterday in which Rose inherits a pig. [Editor's note: Inexcusable audio but worth a listen.]


 

Night bike ride in Cairo

One of the most mystifying things about Cairo is the number of cars, tuk-tuks and motorcycles that don't use headlights at night. I have asked Egyptians about this, and they uniformly respond as if they'd never thought about it.

Went for a spirited ride along Tahrir Boulevard around 3 a.m. Monday. At times the congestion was so great that there was no place to squeeze through. Got several shouts of encouragement and thumbs up, especially from the motorbike kids.

My gear: an HD Wing camera (hobbyking.com) velcroed to a Crest Super Strength Lager cap I got at a Beer Store in Ontario, as well as clear safety glasses and Take a Look mirror. The bike is a Brompton single-speed folder from the UK. There are plenty of bicyclists here, most of them on heavy-duty utility rides with 2-inch tires, and a few BMXs. Have not seen a mountain or road bike, or any geared bike for that matter.

night.bike.ride.in.cairo from .

Zamalek

In a city of towering apartment blocks, Zamalek seems almost like a suburban preserve. It occupies the northern part of Gezira Island (translation: Island Island), and features a lot of architectural styles: Deco, Beaux-Arts, Western-Oriental hybrids. Its streets are pleasantly unpopulated, and if you squint, it can look like small-town America. Should bring the bike here.

A lot of expats and former government officials live in Zamalek, and it's home to many of Cairo's embassies. The Canadian Embassy, in particular, is quite a looker.

This splendid building from the '20s or '30s is also distinguished by its corner store, which sells beer during Ramadan. You can visit ten thousand grocers and not find a cold one during the holy month. Even Drinkies, the Coptic-owned beer delivery service, has unplugged its phone.

We're quite close to the rag-tag city center, but these neo-colonial palaces are a world away.

A quiet tributary to the Nile.

The plant life here is more lush than I expected, and much of it is utterly foreign to me.

Sights and sounds

Two clips, each about 30 seconds long. The first is in Old Cairo, near the Mari Girgis station. I don't know what's producing the smoke in the background. Maybe the schoolboys are playing snap-the-whip again. [Rory Challands has posted a swell picture here.] The second is on Tahrir Boulevard, a couple blocks from my place. Having a great time. The scary stuff is 10K away.


sights.and.sounds from Sluggh McGee on Vimeo.



The way-angries will be throwing another hissy fit tonight, and the cops are ready.

I love coming down to the river. It's only about 10 blocks away and the views are spectacular.

But my favorite activity in any unfamiliar place is a trip to the grocery store. This will never change.

El-Galaat Square

Condolences to the families. I shot this at 12:20 a.m. Saturday.

No place for sissies

The mood is upbeat. People are literally dancing in the streets, which is how I suspect these things often begin. Many armored fighting vehicles, and not just near Tahrir.

I saw at least 20 flyovers from about noon to 2 p.m. The Cairo Tower is in the background.

It's a great day for those selling Egyptian flags and portraits of Gen. Sisi.

A look toward the square from Tahrir Bridge. As much as I'd like to join the party, I promised folks back home I'd steer clear of the crowds.

Cairenes have not seen this level of security in years. The army seems determined to keep the factions apart. They have overwhelming firepower and control the squares, but are they nimble enough to respond to rapidly changing conditions in the side streets?

Six miles away, the MB is digging in. I have two more questions: Will some of their offshoots move west and look for a fight? And can a bloodbath be avoided outside Rabia Al-Adiweya mosque? [Editor's note: Two days later, the answer to the first question is a qualified "yes"; to the second a resounding "no."]

I stop at a restaurant called Tikka and order an unbelievably good mixed-grill dish with yellow rice and vegetables. I make a note to buy cardamom while watching the demonstrations develop on the restaurant's TV.

The crowds will be much bigger shortly, which is my cue to go home, lock the door and hydrate. It's really fuckin' hot today. Everybody is hungry and thirsty but steadfastly sticking to their guns. Whatever happens tonight and tomorrow, I will never question the resoluteness of the Egyptian people. Not the smiling families in Tahrir Square, nor their grimly pious opponents in Nasr City.

A nice home with a garden

My manner is as if I were ailing in all my limbs.
The sand of this desert upon which I stand has reached me.
-- 3,000-year-old inscription between the Sphinx's paws 

The slithy toves won't start wrecking stuff till after Friday prayers in the late afternoon, leaving me alone with my thoughts and a Nescafe on the balcony. A robustly healthy mango tree is in the background. I don't know where it gets water from. Oh, wait, I do.

One of the defining features of Cairo life is the dripping of water from air conditioners. It falls on the wicked and men of honest goodness, and is a minor reason why people don't use the sidewalks. Leakage from my neighbor's unit above slaps a single broad leaf of the mango tree with a metronomic "tick." At first it bugged the shit out of me, but now it's just a benign reminder that the world still turns. That's all I got.

Cairo's cabbies

I confess to being breathlessly scared on my first couple of cab rides here. Squealing around a corner in a 20-year-old Fiat with a shot suspension, or splitting lanes at high speed with literally 1 inch to spare created high tension. But the more I watched my drivers, it became clear just how skilled they are. They are concentrated, nervy and decisive, and I'm over the initial shock. They honk like a bat uses its radar. They honk because they are bored. They honk to punish other drivers, and to thank them. Hurry up, sundown, the beeping chorus seems to say. It is the holy month of Ramadan, and that first drink of water is still hours away.

In Max Rodenbeck's excellent "Cairo Victorious," he describes a visitor to the city being asked to get out of a taxi. "You had better find another cab," the driver explained. "My horn doesn't work."

Boulak

Forty-eight hours after my arrival here, my big expensive bag finally showed up. The airlines will no longer deliver lost luggage to your residence, so I had to make my second trip to the airport in as many days. On the way there is a domineering mosque, possibly Fatima, I'm not sure. On the off chance an Egyptian ever reads this, please forgive my mistakes.

And a site celebrating Egypt's October 1973 war "victory" over Israel. Pretty sure the conflict ended in a draw, but Egypt still feels pretty good about the attack it coordinated with Syria.

Clip-clops mingle with the whoosh of automobile tires.

 

Dealing with Egyptian Air Services was a Kafkaesque maze -- a gray mass of government officials and a bureaucracy in its purest sense. I waited nearly an hour in a cramped office with 7 or 8 employees, most of them sitting around fanning themselves. Then another wait of 45 minutes in the departure area while an EAS functionary walked off with my passport, assuring me he'd return. Unnerving. Finally I was let into a secure area of the airport. Fort Knox is more accessible. And here, my friends, is Egypt's toughest tourist ticket -- the lost luggage room. Hope you never have to visit.

 

On the way home, my driver realizes the airport highway is gridlocked. Up ahead, traffic on the Sixth of October Bridge is not moving, so we detour around Cairo's northwest edge, where date and watermelon farms vie for space with a sea of unfinished apartment complexes. Sixty percent of everything I've read about Egypt has turned out to be wrong, so please take this with a rock of salt. My understanding is that if a building is perpetually under construction, its owner is granted a tax break. The same dodge is used in the Mormon communities of northern Arizona.

 

The serendipitous result of this detour is that it takes us through the Boulak neighborhood, a poor enclave where the asphalt turns to dirt. I've never seen it on any map.

 

Like the City of the Dead, which I hope to visit later, it's a municipal gray area that the city fathers would prefer to disown. Under President Sadat, thousands of Boulak residents were forcibly relocated. Now they're just ignored. Garbage piles up as a result.

 

It's the kind of place where you can get a chicken butchered on the spot.

 

After a few blocks, the taxi stops. I am stunned to learn Boulak is steps away from my apartment. Fiery, raging Cairo is full of surprises. Tomorrow is Friday, and the radio talk shows and cabdrivers want only to talk about the surprises that lurk over the weekend. But I can write the headline today. The Brothers will be bloodied. Strategically, there's nothing they'd like more. And the wearying cycle continues.