As I was drinking a small glass of black tea on the riverbank to watch the sunset on the other side of the Nile, the boat-men started the inevitable questioning.
"Miss, miss, would you like a felucca?"
"No thank you."
"Miss, miss, really don't you want a felucca?"
"I really don't want a felucca, no."
"But you need a felucca!"
"Thanks again, but I don't think I do."
"Why not?!? EVERYBODY needs a felucca!"
Maybe he has a point...
So I have this thing I bought here in Cairo, it's called a bike. It's actually really pretty, look:
Pretty, right? Made in Taiwan.
And, since bikes are mainly known as means of transportation, I use mine to get around the city. I ride it to work, to Arabic class, to go out... you know, the usual.
In the beginning, it was mainly fun. Sure, the dust is awful and traffic is crazy – there are not a lot of rules, cars pull over without warning and buses start and stop wherever and whenever they damn well please (or wherever and whenever there is a potential passenger waiting, even if that is right at the base of the on-ramp of one of the busiest bridges in town, but that aside) – but all in all, the roads are quite good, there are no hills to speak of, and it's not as dangerous as one might imagine.
However, I quickly learned that it's not all that usual. I mean, there are certainly plenty of people who ride bikes here. Hell, I've even seen people who ride a bike with a long rack with bread on their head! Or a serving tray with a complete breakfast on it! But the thing is, those people riding bikes are not women, and that's what makes the combination of me and my main means of transportation so special. Apparently.
Hence my status on facebook:
“So riding my bike in Cairo is really dangerous... especially for the three guys on the scooter that stared at me for so long they hit the parked car in front of them.”
People keep staring. And commenting. And screaming at me. Most often heard, in order of frequency:
Eh da?!? (What is that?!)
Random car honking (not meant to warn me for anything, just to say hi)
Agala, agala! (Bike bike!)
GOOOOD MOOORNING! (no matter what time of day)
Hey, you, good, good! Bravo!
What's your name! (preferably from across the road) or How are you!
Ahdslasehlkajebshf! (never understood the actual text, usually a sentence thrown at me from the open window of the seat of a passing car, with an accompanying grin)
You may have noticed they all have exclamation marks at the end. That's because they're all exclamations. Loud ones. Meant to attract my attention. Which I don't understand, because why would I want to look at you when you are screaming and I am riding my bike. In aforementioned traffic. In fact, it may even be dangerous to look at you:
“First bike-accident in Cairo is a fact, thanks to the helpful guy who kept screaming ‘watch out watch out watch out’ trying to warn me about the gigantic concrete block he had put in the middle of the road. Which I then didn’t see, because I was looking at the screaming guy.
Result: I flew over the concrete block, and my bike flew over me.
Fortunately, no bike-parts and only one knee were hurt (and only 2 guys thought their stupid opinions about women riding bikes were confirmed). ”
Other dangers? Teenage boys suddenly jumping in front of my bike or sticking out a leg (I can only assume they are unfamiliar with the physics of wheels with spokes) and young men with big egos on motorcycles who cannot accept being passed by a me when they are stuck in traffic and I manage to find some space to squeeze myself between two cars. They eventually find space, pass me, stop a few meters ahead of me, hurl an insult when I ride by, and race off.*
See that guy there? With one hand on a double(!) rack of bread? Yeah, he's riding a bicycle. Now that deserves awe and respect.
The good part? The women. Where the surprise of boys/men comes out as annoying attention-seeking or hurt-ego-compensating, I have yet to pass one woman who does not smile when she sees me, and give me a look that says: you go, girl. It's awesome, and I hope that somehow, somewhere, they will get to experience that same rush of wind and speed and owning the road that riding my bike in Cairo gives me.
________________________
*Important footnote: I was standing at an intersection yesterday when a group of teenagers started commenting on me and my bike from across the street. They kept going, eventually surrounding me, touching my bike and screaming things at me. It was more annoying than dangerous, so I tried to ignore them (which is kind of hard when someone is changing the gears on the bike I am sitting on), when suddenly a man in a suit appeared. He picked up two of the boys and threw them towards the sidewalk, then grabbed two others and pulled them in the same direction. The rest of them followed. He then lectured them in front of everyone, without even once looking back at me. I was very grateful to see an Egyptian man telling other Egyptian men(-to-be) that this kind of behavior is not ok. Thank you, man!
Dear Cairo,
The other day a friend asked for beautiful spots to regain her enchantment with you. The word ‘airport’ came up more than once, because a lot of people seem to think they can only be happy outside of you. I don’t. All of that “you’ll get tired of her at some point” has yet to kick in for me – we’re still getting along quite well, if you ask me.
Of course, it was inevitable that my initial infatuation with you would wear off a little. There are a few things about you I just don’t understand and that, quite frankly, piss me off. Why so many of your men can’t think of anything better to do than give disgusting looks to women and accompany those looks with equally vile remarks (or worse), for example. Or why so many of your people insist that stability is better than respect and equality for all citizens, thus welcoming a new general as their great savior. These are the big things I know it’s better to shut up about and stay out of, as a foreigner. So I begrudgingly accept these aspects of you, Cairo, but I will forever wish I could change them.
Sphinx Square, early one December morning.
More fun are the small things that puzzle me. Tell me, how do your pedestrians manage to always take up all available space on the sidewalk? Really, it doesn’t matter if it’s 30 centimeters or 2 meters wide, there is simply no passing an Egyptian walking. Also, why is your national dish (kushari, that beautiful blend of spaghetti, macaroni, rice, lentils, and chickpeas with a hint of deep-fried onions…) a heap of carbohydrates, when you have the best arugula, beans, and tomatoes in the world? And while we’re on the subject of food – if next to that you also have the tastiest strawberries, bananas, and carrots, why add sugar to your juices? Really, your insistence on unhealthifying your food is mystifying.
Vegetable vendors with tasty food.
But I have to admit, it’s the little quirks that make you so endearing. You’re the only city I know whose inhabitants have collectively decided not to wake up before 10am. Sure, there are people out and about in the hours before that, but it’s all very quiet, very Sunday-morning-in-a-small-European-village-calm, as the actual screaming and noise doesn’t begin until noon (and then lasts until about 3am when the little shop on the corner sees its owner falling asleep behind the cash register after his last client has walked off with his laundry detergent and powdered milk, because why not go grocery shopping in the middle of the night?). Your people are also the only people I’ve met that are more stubborn than the Dutch in their belief that it is possible to get onto a full metro before arriving passengers have gotten off the train.
But I’ve saved the best for last, because what I love most of all is your drama. Yes, you heard me right. You’re so incredibly theatrical, and you combine it so well with a complete absence of the concept of personal space and an unapologetic attitude of everyone-is-up-in-everyone-else’s-business, I can’t but admire the sensational outcomes. Examples? Car bumps into another car, owners get out screaming and almost start a fight, dozens of bystanders physically peel the two drivers off each other just before things get serious – but not after enjoying the scene for a while. During rush hour, a woman on the metro lets her child sit on the seat reserved for the old and pregnant, and at least 15 women argue with her, scream at her, and scream at each other for arguing with her, invoking everything from God to terrorism. Someone sleeps with someone else’s ex, and names are called, phones are smashed and sides have to be chosen. A small bomb goes off close to a police post around the corner (no deaths, hardly any damage), and two hours later there are still residents walking around the area lamenting the state of the country and literally bursting into tears as they do so. A general succumbs to his hunger for power and announces he will run for presidency, and the people are dancing around in the streets, carrying flags with his face and singing his name. In life, in love, even in politics – everything is more dramatic here, and the aliveness it creates is what I love so much about you.
Found on the street. And it wasn't even February 14th!
This past Friday it was Valentine’s Day, which I heard is a big thing in Egypt. Unfortunately I wasn’t there to witness it. I hope you accept my word that I would surely have given you a beautiful red rose, Cairo. You deserve it.
The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
- Derek Walcott
It struck me when I got here: how tired people are. Tired of ‘the situation’, tired of protesting, of deciding who to protest against or what for, of not being sure if all that protesting would actually lead anywhere or change anything. Weary, they seemed, with their vision of a better Egypt somewhere hidden among the exhaustion of trying to get to it and no longer knowing where to find the motivation and the strength to overcome differences and once (or twice, or so many times) charge ahead and fight for what they’ve been fighting for since January 2011 – almost 3 year now.
On a wall between AUC Downtown and Garden City.
Last Sunday evening, as I left my Arabic class in Downtown, I realized that the streets were rather empty. While I slowly walked towards Tahrir Square to cross the bridge behind it on my way home, I noticed a strange smell, something in the air that stung my eyes and nose. Tear gas. Most shops along the road were either closed or closing, with a few people still sitting on chairs in front of their doors.
From a street to my right I heard people chanting, but as the road towards Tahrir was more or less empty, I kept going to see if it was still possible to cross the square or if the army had blocked it off completely. I ended up behind the tanks with a few fire engines, ambulances and about seven people. By now I could see the protestors on the other side of the tanks and the police trucks in the next street off the square. I asked one of the seven people who was who. They are Muslim Brotherhood, he said, and we are with Sisi.
Protesting behind the book stalls, Downtown Cairo.
The police trucks advanced on the protestors, aided by a water-spraying fire engine. Then more tear gas. The protestors retreated to the next side streets, chanting slogans and holding up four fingers. A guy who was standing next to me behind the army vehicles rolled some perfume on my hand to counter the burn of the tear gas. We talked and he invited me to come see the other side – so we turned into yet another street and found our way towards the demonstration a bit further into Downtown. These are not just Muslim Brotherhood, he told me, a lot of them are university students. They are angry because a few days ago the army killed a student on a campus. The protestors had assembled on a crossroad of two of the wider avenues, and were standing there, chanting slogans led by two teenage boys on top of their friends’ shoulders. The little stalls selling corn and fries were having a good evening, serving those in the demonstration as well as the people who were shopping in the streets around it.
At some point, there was talk of moving. The mass of people turned towards what my newly-made friend said was the courthouse, but stopped as the police trucks and army tanks had blocked the road next to it. People slowly moved forward, in small groups, while the street vendors started packing up their wares. The police fired a few tear gas canisters, moving the protestors back to the crossroads. Some people from the demonstration tried to tear of some tree branches to make a fire, but others came to extinguish it. A young guy who picked up a stone was told to put it back down. From a small alley a woman came running, screaming Get lost! Go away! We don’t want you here, you are not Egypt! WE are Egypt! You aren’t! Angry people tried to argue with her, but then the police started firing tear gas again and everybody just ran, ran, ran in all directions. We hid in a little alley where a pissed-off waiter was stacking chairs as his business for the evening had come to an end.
Protesting on the intersection of two avenues.
Just as I came out of the alley again, the police truck passed, a few young boys in front of it running towards the protestors with stones and empty bottles. Instead of ducking and running back into the alley, the few people around me told me to stand still – to quietly wait until the trucks had passed. They yelled encouraging remarks at the police trucks, thanking them for dispersing the demonstrations.
By that time, the protestors had run off in so many directions, it was hard to know if there was anything left of the demonstration. Life returned on the avenues, the shops reopened and the vendors uncovered their stalls again. My new-found friend asked me if I had enjoyed the action. I demonstrate every Friday, he said. I asked if he thought the government was listening. He said it’s not for the government, but because we need to send a message to the Egyptian people that we don’t think it’s right, what is happening now.
I admire their stamina. I do not yet have a deep enough knowledge of Egyptian politics to agree with one side or another, but I believe that with a new (draft) constitution that allows for citizens to be tried in military courts and that severely restricts the right to protest, it is important to keep standing up against the system – because it oppresses you, or because it oppresses those around you, because once those are down, who knows who will be next. Beautifully said by Omar Robert Hamilton: … tyranny is upon us again. We do not need to agree on the details or what exactly comes next. We just need to say no.
Tanks and soldiers blocking off Tahrir Square, Downtown Cairo.
To protest or not to protest, that is not the question.
