We just returned from a wonderful 4-day trip to Lebanon. Loved it. Stay tuned for photos and more detailed posts. In the meantime, I thought I would write about something I did NOT get a photo of.
We decided to take a day trip and head north east to see the roman ruins at Baalbek. The drive took us up the winding roads to the mountains, across the spectacular range, over bridges being rebuilt after Israeli air strikes during the 2006 war to the other side and down into the Bakaa Valley.
That's when we entered Hezbollah territory. How did we know? The road was decorated with party flags and photos of dead Hezbollah fighters. Young men's faces were framed with slogans like: "You are the men of God" "You are the victory of Islam". Walls painted with Nasrallah's smiling face stood side by side with huge billboards of Khamenei and the late Ayatolla Khomeini. Most notable shop name: "Supermarket of the Oppressed".
We slowed to go through a checkpoint. Once we cleared it, we saw that two men were flagging down cars and throwing glossy, colourful Hezbollah pamphlets into open windows. We grabbed one, thinking what a great souvenir. Doh. We did exactly what they had hoped we would. The men came to our driver's window, demanding money. Our driver gave the pamphlet back, saying they (us) don't want it.
"Give us 5000 LL." (less than $4)
"They are only tourists. They don't want it."
"What about you?" he took back the pamphlet and looked at the money in our driver's hand, "then give us 2000 LL."
"I am just a driver, I don't have any money..."
"Pull over." They pointed like air traffic controllers, trying to guide our car to the side of the road. Our driver just waved at them and kept going.
Suffice to say, no political contributions were made that day.
This little fund raising attempt was the closest we got to anything remotely political during our trip. The rest of the time was spent drinking wonderful coffee, eating delicious sea food and taking in spectacular views. Blissfully unaware of the hardships facing the locals or having the slightest inkling re: the political situation. Lebanon felt more like an upscale European resort than a country recovering from -- and some argue still teetering on the edge of -- civil war.
Elections happen next year. Lets see where this roadside fund raising gets the party of God and it's competitors.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Chand Raat
Chand Raat -- aka: the "night of the moon". Chand raat is the last night of Ramadan and the eve of Eid-ul-Fitr. Tonight is chand raat (I'm sure no one in Cairo calls it that) and you can hear the traffic, fireworks and the buzz of the city getting ready for the celebration in the morning.
Growing up, chand raat was busy with preparations. Last minute cooking, ironing our new clothes (no kid of my mother's was going to show up to Eid prayers in already worn threads) and no matter how exhausted my mother was, she always made sure I had henna on my hands. Always. In the morning, we ate "savaiyah" (a sweet vermicelli dish) before dashing out the door to Eid prayers. The day that followed was a marathon blur of endless sweet and fatty food as we went from one Auntie's house to another.
We ate like were on a mission to avenge the month of fasting.
Today, I am in another country, thousands of miles away from my Mom. The traditional Eid sweet here is a cookie with a fig in the middle, dusted with sugar. We have some of those on the table but some things about Eid remain constant for me wherever in the world I go: "savaiyah" (aka: Sheer Korma) are bubbling away on the stove, I'm ironing my clothes for the morning and (much like my mother before me) trying to convince my husband to wear a traditional Pakistani suit tomorrow (he won't).
Tucked away in a little cup on my kitchen counter, some Egyptian henna waits my artistic inspiration (I'll post a photo but my prediction: a two year old child's art project gone wrong. On my hands for the next 4-6 weeks).
Tomorrow after Eid prayers, we're invited to breakfast at a new friend's place and then lunch and dinner with another. So I guess now we're the Aunties on the Eid day circuit...
Chaand Mubarak and Happy Eid to all
photo and text copyright cairomaniac 2008 and yes, that is my hand :-)
Monday, September 29, 2008
What is it EXACTLY that you love so much?
I'm surprised (pleasantly surprised) that my "Everyone thinks we are Crazy" post has gotten so much attention. Many of my friends and family have since been asking: What is it EXACTLY about Cairo that you love so much.
What EXACTLY?
So many things. So many that I've decided that I'll just write them down as they come to me:
I used to have coffee at the Segafrado on the main road in Zamalek (July 26). I sat by the window and watched the streetlife and this same scene was repeated countless times: a bus barely slows at the stop. A passenger wanting to get on, reaches out his hand. From inside the bus, two hands pull him on to the bus while a passerby pushes him onto the bus. None of the people involved know each other and go their separate ways. So what? I love that people just automatically help each other. We're all in this together, it says.
The other day, YK and I were on the metro and a blind man got on. He was alone. Two groups of unrelated travelers were crammed on the metro on either side of him. Without a word, one man from the group on the left and one man from the group on the right offered their arms to the blind man and escorted him off the metro when his stop came. They asked if he needed anything more and went off in opposite directions to carry on their journeys.
I cannot count the conversations that have taken place as we barrel full speed ahead in Cairo traffic. Car to car, people will pass comments on a third car or a scene taking place in the next lane or by the side of the road. They'll share a joke as they cut each other off or change lanes. So many times, our cab driver has leaned out and given directions to the car driving beside us.
I love Cairo because everyone is interacting with the people around them. They are INVOLVED. I know there is no way a Cairene could walk past someone in distress without offering to help. A Cairene will give you advice and directions (granted: whether you ask for it or not) and will strike up a conversation wherever there is a sliver of a space for it. If a Cairene catches your eye, he/she cannot help but say "Salaam" and ask you how you are. It would be unnatural not to. Unheard of. Impossible.
That is just one of the things I love about Cairo.
What EXACTLY?
So many things. So many that I've decided that I'll just write them down as they come to me:
I used to have coffee at the Segafrado on the main road in Zamalek (July 26). I sat by the window and watched the streetlife and this same scene was repeated countless times: a bus barely slows at the stop. A passenger wanting to get on, reaches out his hand. From inside the bus, two hands pull him on to the bus while a passerby pushes him onto the bus. None of the people involved know each other and go their separate ways. So what? I love that people just automatically help each other. We're all in this together, it says.
The other day, YK and I were on the metro and a blind man got on. He was alone. Two groups of unrelated travelers were crammed on the metro on either side of him. Without a word, one man from the group on the left and one man from the group on the right offered their arms to the blind man and escorted him off the metro when his stop came. They asked if he needed anything more and went off in opposite directions to carry on their journeys.
I cannot count the conversations that have taken place as we barrel full speed ahead in Cairo traffic. Car to car, people will pass comments on a third car or a scene taking place in the next lane or by the side of the road. They'll share a joke as they cut each other off or change lanes. So many times, our cab driver has leaned out and given directions to the car driving beside us.
I love Cairo because everyone is interacting with the people around them. They are INVOLVED. I know there is no way a Cairene could walk past someone in distress without offering to help. A Cairene will give you advice and directions (granted: whether you ask for it or not) and will strike up a conversation wherever there is a sliver of a space for it. If a Cairene catches your eye, he/she cannot help but say "Salaam" and ask you how you are. It would be unnatural not to. Unheard of. Impossible.
That is just one of the things I love about Cairo.
My ironic laziness
Here's the project that has taken over my life and become my excuse for not keeping up my writing, please check it out:
The irony that a blogger project has kept me from blogging is not lost on me.
Stay tuned, I promise to write more soon.
The irony that a blogger project has kept me from blogging is not lost on me.
Stay tuned, I promise to write more soon.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Everyone thinks we're crazy
We miss Cairo.
A lot.
So much so that we've changed our tickets (at some expense and inconvenience) to return 2 (count em: TWO) weeks early.
That's right. And I can't wait. Ah, to chew, er, I mean, breathe that air (ironically, my asthma is 10 times worse here in north america than it ever was in Cairo) and be in the middle of all the bustle and noise. I can't wait. To have my baker, butcher, vegetable guy greet me, ask me how I am and wish me a good day. To see the sun twinkling on the Nile, feel the intense sunshine and smell the lush Indian jasmine that grows in the roundabout in front of our flat.
I have loved being home and especially spending time with family, so it's obviously bitter sweet to be returning. But the great thing is this: I consider Cairo home at the moment and I love it. Even after visiting NYC, a city I absolutely love, I still want to go back to Cairo. Even after visiting London, a place I always imagined I would settle, I still want to go back to Cairo. Even after being spoiled by all of north america's conveniences like drive-through banks, modern plumbing and coffee choices and instant everything....I still want to go back to Cairo.
Maybe everyone is right. Maybe I am crazy.
Crazy like a fox.
A lot.
So much so that we've changed our tickets (at some expense and inconvenience) to return 2 (count em: TWO) weeks early.
That's right. And I can't wait. Ah, to chew, er, I mean, breathe that air (ironically, my asthma is 10 times worse here in north america than it ever was in Cairo) and be in the middle of all the bustle and noise. I can't wait. To have my baker, butcher, vegetable guy greet me, ask me how I am and wish me a good day. To see the sun twinkling on the Nile, feel the intense sunshine and smell the lush Indian jasmine that grows in the roundabout in front of our flat.
I have loved being home and especially spending time with family, so it's obviously bitter sweet to be returning. But the great thing is this: I consider Cairo home at the moment and I love it. Even after visiting NYC, a city I absolutely love, I still want to go back to Cairo. Even after visiting London, a place I always imagined I would settle, I still want to go back to Cairo. Even after being spoiled by all of north america's conveniences like drive-through banks, modern plumbing and coffee choices and instant everything....I still want to go back to Cairo.
Maybe everyone is right. Maybe I am crazy.
Crazy like a fox.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
A place to breathe
Whenever we have guests and we drive around the city, they ask the same question: "Are those buildings half built or are they falling down?" It's funny what you notice and what you end up accepting as normal when you live in a place long enough.
I will be the first to admit that Cairo is by no means a beautiful city. And, I've had my recent issues with it (see previous posts about airport unpleasantries). I needed to get over my unhappiness with the corruption and get back to the city that I was growing to love. Showing the city to a guest seemed to do the trick.
Driving around, answering our guests questions, I realised that something had happened to my perspective. Instead of seeing crazy, haphazard chaos, I now saw peoples' ingenuity at work. Where there was space to build, people had done so. Where they could best spend their hard earned money they did. It seemed utterly pointless and frivolous to me actually, to waste money on the outside of a building considering the harsh climate and crazy sandstorms that seem to invade Cairo without warning. Those puzzle-piece, half-built basic buildings looked sensible and reasonable to me.
I can wholeheartedly admit to desperately needing a break from Cairo and that my relationship with the place is increasingly love/ hate (see my two previous, unhappy posts). We can afford to travel and get away from it when it gets too much. And it is that break that allows the love to come back. But what about the average Cairene? What sanctuary can they seek from the madness of the city?
Sitting on a hill, facing Salah-Din's Citadel is Al Azhar Park. It is a huge, multi-level, thoughtfully designed park that is an oasis in the middle of Cairo's chaos. There are flowing fountains everywhere, cafes, rolling green grass, flowers and colonnades of palm trees. A gift from the Aga Khan, it is a much needed escape from the urban sprawl. Sprawl that you can see extend to the horizon from every angle in the park.
Cairenes take full advantage of the space. Children play in the water, getting soaked. They roll down the grassy hills laughing their heads off. Families sit under the shade of trees to enjoy a picnic. Young lovers hold hands and talk closely on benches. Just before sunset, everyone seeks out a place on the grass to watch the sun dip into the horizon. And as the sun sets, all of Cairo, with its tightly packed homes, mosques on every corner, minarets popping through the cityscape and the din of 20 million people is drenched in gold light (remarkable what pollution can do to create breathtaking sunsets) Sure, the park is manicured and well-kept, but Cairo life abounds within it's groomed hedges. Cairenes LIVE in this city, where ever they are. 
All photos and text copyright Sufia Lodhi 2008
Friday, May 2, 2008
It sucks to be back: Airport Rage continued
Barely back from Kenya, I tagged along with my husband on his recent business trip to Doha.
Doha passport control was a polite breeze, accompanied by a friendly: "Welcome to Qatar, we hope you enjoy your stay."
Return to Cairo? Not so much.
We arrive at the same terminal where the baksheesh incident took place less than 4 days before. Once again, my passport sailed through and when they got to YK's, they asked what his nationality was. YK said Canadian and I (because I cannot control myself) said rather snidely: "That's why he has a Canadian passport." Duh.
The passport guy had already called on a gopher to come get YK's passport. It was deja vu. Except this time, they didn't have the element of surprise or intimidation because we already knew what they were after. And they weren't going to get it on my watch.
This time, as he took the passport, I stopped him and said: "If you are taking this in the hopes of getting a baksheesh, you can give it back right now. We aren't going to pay you anything."
He looked at me blankly and walked towards the end of the wickets. I followed him, my blood boiling. He told YK to go back to the other side of immigration and something in my brain snapped. I held YK's arm and told him to stay put. I think all the protective Lionesses and Mama Elephants on safari had had an effect on me... all of a sudden, we were in "Mean Girls" re: how this would be settled in the animal world.
Insanely angry me: "There's nothing wrong with his passport or his visa. It has already been stamped and checked. He is not going anywhere except out of this airport and home. And you (insert culturally inappropriate finger point) are going to give his passport back right now."
I was, admittedly, blindly tired and reaching off the charts rage, which explains my clear lack of prudence. Rarely am I so ballsy -- especially around people in uniforms with the power to detain us or worse. Clearly, my exhaustion was getting in the way of my better judgement. But stay tuned, perhaps my insanity was the key to success in this country...
Passport gopher: "Hindia?"
Not this again.
Me: "NO. Canada -- see?" (waving passport manically in his face)
YK was trying to get me to calm down, but the scene had begun and there was no stopping me now. They were not going to get away with this two times in one week. I suddenly felt a real bond with Michael Douglas's character in "Falling down" in MacDonalds when he's had this terrible day and wants breakfast at 11:02 but they stop serving breakfast at 11:00.
Me: "This happened to us two days ago. There is NO reason for you to hold this passport or delay us. We are not going to give you a baksheesh, so give back the passport now."
Uniformed officer: "Please wait -- no English." Insipid smile.
Postal Me: "No English? Nice. (flash of obnoxious fake smile) Well, me: No Arabic. Give me back the passport now."
The uniformed officer held up his hands in a "calm down, don't shoot me" gesture, laughed a little and gave YK a look of pity, as if to say: You poor man having to live with such a crazy wife...
But he gave back the passport, no money changed hands and we went to baggage claim.
It's a few days later and I am STILL so mad. I hate that the only way to avoid this is to go back to having the University people take us through immigration and customs. So much for trying to transcend a stratified society. We should have stuck to our station instead of trying to be down with the people and clearing customs on our own. Lesson unpleasantly learned.
Doha passport control was a polite breeze, accompanied by a friendly: "Welcome to Qatar, we hope you enjoy your stay."
Return to Cairo? Not so much.
We arrive at the same terminal where the baksheesh incident took place less than 4 days before. Once again, my passport sailed through and when they got to YK's, they asked what his nationality was. YK said Canadian and I (because I cannot control myself) said rather snidely: "That's why he has a Canadian passport." Duh.
The passport guy had already called on a gopher to come get YK's passport. It was deja vu. Except this time, they didn't have the element of surprise or intimidation because we already knew what they were after. And they weren't going to get it on my watch.
This time, as he took the passport, I stopped him and said: "If you are taking this in the hopes of getting a baksheesh, you can give it back right now. We aren't going to pay you anything."
He looked at me blankly and walked towards the end of the wickets. I followed him, my blood boiling. He told YK to go back to the other side of immigration and something in my brain snapped. I held YK's arm and told him to stay put. I think all the protective Lionesses and Mama Elephants on safari had had an effect on me... all of a sudden, we were in "Mean Girls" re: how this would be settled in the animal world.
Insanely angry me: "There's nothing wrong with his passport or his visa. It has already been stamped and checked. He is not going anywhere except out of this airport and home. And you (insert culturally inappropriate finger point) are going to give his passport back right now."
I was, admittedly, blindly tired and reaching off the charts rage, which explains my clear lack of prudence. Rarely am I so ballsy -- especially around people in uniforms with the power to detain us or worse. Clearly, my exhaustion was getting in the way of my better judgement. But stay tuned, perhaps my insanity was the key to success in this country...
Passport gopher: "Hindia?"
Not this again.
Me: "NO. Canada -- see?" (waving passport manically in his face)
YK was trying to get me to calm down, but the scene had begun and there was no stopping me now. They were not going to get away with this two times in one week. I suddenly felt a real bond with Michael Douglas's character in "Falling down" in MacDonalds when he's had this terrible day and wants breakfast at 11:02 but they stop serving breakfast at 11:00.
Me: "This happened to us two days ago. There is NO reason for you to hold this passport or delay us. We are not going to give you a baksheesh, so give back the passport now."
Uniformed officer: "Please wait -- no English." Insipid smile.
Postal Me: "No English? Nice. (flash of obnoxious fake smile) Well, me: No Arabic. Give me back the passport now."
The uniformed officer held up his hands in a "calm down, don't shoot me" gesture, laughed a little and gave YK a look of pity, as if to say: You poor man having to live with such a crazy wife...
But he gave back the passport, no money changed hands and we went to baggage claim.
It's a few days later and I am STILL so mad. I hate that the only way to avoid this is to go back to having the University people take us through immigration and customs. So much for trying to transcend a stratified society. We should have stuck to our station instead of trying to be down with the people and clearing customs on our own. Lesson unpleasantly learned.
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