Egypt, Day 5: Temple Tours

We left the hotel in the still darkness of the half-morning. Getting a taxi, we lugged our baggage to the train station, where we faced another confusing round of "Where do we go?" We had been told upon arrival at Aswan that we were to buy tickets on the train the following day; getting on, we chose our seats and sat down. Other people, however, came along a few minutes later and showed us their tickets; we had to find new seats. We settled in, the train grumbled to a start, and in due time the conductor in his faded uniform came along to take our money. He was confused at our lack of tickets, until we finally made him understand that we were going to Luxor - the only place, it seems, for which you buy your tickets on the train. We paid, my friend settled in to nap, and I settled in to enjoy the scenery.

It was difficult to tell on what continent or country I was: there were palms, and desert, and little villages, men on small motorbikes with huge sheaves of greens. At times it seemed like India, sometimes like the African plains, at times like Egypt always appears to one's mind. I was most fascinated by the tiny towns, all in poverty - all without Christ. It made me wonder.....

We arrived at Luxor after several false starts: although there were town names on the various station stops, we couldn't always see them from our windows. The men in the car had pity on us, continually telling us, "Not Luxor." Finally, however, it was Luxor - and we disembarked....

.....to chaos.

I was in my djelbaab and hijab, carrying only my backpack. My friend, however, looked distinctly American - from her features to her dress to the large pink duffle bag she was lugging. I was able to maneuver through the touts fairly successfully, getting hardly a second glance. She, however, was accosted and nearly held hostage by the men trying to get us to their hotels. They followed her, thrusting their cards in front of her, bragging about the hot water, the TV, the wifi, the beds. We pushed our way towards the ticket office, where we needed to buy our tickets for the following journey. I went to the sleeper-train window, while B. tried to figure out which window she needed to buy regular tickets for the following morning. Followed by a persistent tout, she finally got to the correct window, only to be told that she needed to buy tickets onboard the following morning. I came over to join her and the tout.

Incidentally, the hotel he was pushing was our second choice; were there no rooms at our first choice or if it turned out to be undesirable, we would try the other. We tried to placate the tout, and had nearly succeeded when we were joined by another insistent tout. They fed off each other, terrified now that they would lose two customers. We tried to escape; laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, I merely picked a side of the train station and started walking towards it. They followed us, backing us into a corner between the depot and the row of stores beside it. We finally got out of the corner and walked towards the main street, still followed by them. Reaching the intersection, we placated one by telling him that we promised to come see his hotel if our first one didn't work out; the second kept at us, until we finally ducked into the nearest restaurant. After lunch (babaghanoug for me!), we saw the second tout waiting for us.

"You said you would come see the hotel after you ate," he said.

Although we had never said that (we had said, "We are going to eat now and after lunch, we might come try to find the hotel"), I decided the best way to get rid of him would be to walk by the hotel and say no - it was on the way to where we wanted to go.

Carrying our bags through the street, we stopped by where the hotel was. Seeing it, we told him, "Oh, no, thank you. It's not in a good location." He pulled out another flyer - "Here, look at this. $70USD/ night, very good location. I can show you." Telling him no, firmly, and walking away finally got rid of him.

All that remained now was to find our hotel. Walking along the street, we were confident we could find it, since it was on my map. With all our bags, however, it was slow going, and my friend convinced me to hail a taxi.

Having not seen any metered taxis, we hailed a "private taxi" (one with no meter, with a baggage rack on top, with blue and white body parts, and often with shaggy carpet covering the dash). Just as the taxi pulled over, a motorike pulled up beside us.

"Are you looking for Bob Marley House?" the guy on the bike asked.

I looked at B. She looked at me. "Yes, we are."

"Okay. Here, hop on my cycle."

Our baggage, however, prevented this; getting in the taxi, we followed the man on the motorbike and found ourselves at our hotel: Bob Marley House.

We put our things in our room, went down and had some tea.

We got another taxi and made it to Luxor temple, fending off touts along the way.

We saw the temple. It was big. It was impressive. But, somehow, much less impressive than my imagination had made it in the magazines and books I had read as a child.

After Luxor temple, we got a caleche to Karnak temple. The driver was an old, fat man who did not want to believe us when we told him that we just wanted the ride going to the temple and not back.

Again, it was another temple. Big, impressive, and full of hieroglyphics.

Not yet finished with ruined things, we tried to find the mseum. It was, however, unfortunately closed.

After avoiding lots of insistent shebaab - really, the best way to get a girl to say hello to her is *not* to skid your motorbike inches from her and say, "I'm lonely" - we ducked into a restaurant we had read about. Another delicious meal of babaghanoug for me in lovely surroundings, and we decided some relaxing was in order. So, we found ourselves in a boat, floating on the Nile. It was decorated in the most amusing pink squares and decorations that may or may not have been relics from 1980. We sat and had some lovely drinks - mine was fresh guava juice - and relaxed, discussing our pity for the rich people on the Nile cruise boats passing us; clearly, they could not be having nearly as much fun as we were, avoiding shebaab, exploring temples alone, and finding hole in the wall restaurants.

Finally, it was time to go back to the hotel - being all of 8 pm. We found a taxi, but couldn't find the hotel. After a bit of driving, we finally got back to the correct street. The taxi driver offered us his card and services the following day; deciding that he had been nice and polite, I took the card and arranged to meet him the following day to get driven around the town and taken across to the opposite bank to see Valley of the Kings.

Egypt, Day 4: Day of Rest

The train compartment was anything but warm, despite the temperature outside. The air conditioning unit was a little over-zealous in performing its duties. The cold woke me early in the morning to find that our businessmen cabin mates of the previous evening had been replaced by two fat older ladies in ragged black abeya with the son of one of them.

They noticed I was awake, and we had a bit of brief conversation - my Arabic being as limited as it is and their not speaking FusHa at all, only the local dialect. Their son and I then played "Malek or Ka'aba (or maybe kitaba or kitafa)" which is "King or ka'aba (or maybe 'writing' or 'shoulder')" which is their equivalent of head or shoulders. I had a hard time flipping the coin, because it was so tiny compared to the large Jordanian coins. The women also had some food of bread and cheese and some half liters of water, orange juice, and soda which they ordered me to eat and then later my friend when she awoke. We passed the time in minor remarks and more playing with the boy (one of children's main purposes is to save adults awkward silences, I think). They invited us to get off at their stop and stay with them for a day, but we explained we already had plans to head to Aswan. Before leaving the train, however, they took a picture of us with the boy, as he mugged for the camera.

A few more hours of traveling, and then we saw a man rushing by our door. "Aswan," he said. We gathered our belongings and went out to join the general melee. The men around us smiled at us. "Where from?" they asked as we crammed into the space between the carriages. "America," we replied.

"Oh, America!" they said. "Obama good, Obama good!" they said enthusiastically, giving us big thumbs up. "Welcome to Aswan!" One of the men had a bag of dates, which he offered to us, forcing us to take them. "BelaH," he said motioning to them, "belaH," he repeated in case we didn't catch the name the first time.

We weren't bothered too much by touts, although one who foisted his help upon us finding the correct window for more train tickets really wanted us to take his taxi. We walked into the main green square to consult our map and provide a reasonable excuse for escaping the taxi driver. We walked over to a side street and eventually got a metered cab - not that he turned his meter on. However, the Keylaney Hotel was absolutely lovely and we were very impressed with it following our adventures at Nile Zamalek.

We left the hotel, walking along the Corniche, waffling between ourselves over where we should get lunch. We decided on a restaurant on the Nile, where we sat beside the river, sipping fresh juice and eating.

Following our relaxing lunch, we went to find the public dock. We were approached by a little old man, Mustafa, who directed us to it, informing us he had a felucca. He was very polite and spread himself very thick. We disembarked with him from the ferry, and he took us to see the brightly colored Nubian village from when he was. His spiel was a little excessive, but if you are trying to get customers, it's better to kill them with kindness than to hassle them to death. The village was absolutely beautiful and Elephantine Island (so named because of the huge rocks) was incredibly gorgeous.

Following the tour, we went to explore the ruins of an early settlement on the island, with a Christian tourguide. We had arranged with the old man to take a felucca ride after the tour of the village; we spent two and a half hours sailing about the Nile, relaxing in the perfect beauty.

The day, on the whole, was completely relaxing. Dinner was at the Nubian House restaurant (Mat3m Beit Nubi), where we enjoyed the view and watched a spectacular sunset among the aging European tourist set - really, though, the first place we had seen a lot of tourists. After dinner, we sipped our tea, and fended off the cats that wanted our left overs. Back to the hotel in our waiting taxi, for the calm end to a perfect day.

Egypt, Day 3: Bazaars and Hanging Churches

Forgoing breakfast at the hotel, we settled our bill for the previous evening and then asked about luggage storage for the day. The manager stared blearily at us from heavy eyes. He looked at us, then our bags, then back to us. "Okay, sure. Leave it over there," he nodded just across the way from the front desk. We agreed.

We set out for the small convenience store again to buy water for the day (after I returned to the hotel, having forgotten my money in my bag), and then took a cab to the metro station. The cab driver understood us after we said "Metro Opera" in a heavy Egyptian accent.

Riding the metro had quickly become passe; we bought our passes, and headed for the metro stop Ghamra. Once there, we exited into the madding crowd. A complicated set of overpasses met us and we walked a bit away from the chaotic crowd of buses, going down further the street where we hoped we could catch a taxi. We waited - to no avail. Finally, we turned back toward the metro station and took the stairs down to the street below us. We finally got a cab - and a metered one at that - and told him to take us to Al-Azhar mosque, which is one of the oldest mosques in Egypt and one of the oldest "universities" in the world. Driving through the streets lined by pollution-stained houses, we and the hefty taxi driver quickly ran through the required conversation: who, where from, why in Egypt, and why the hijab, which he was quick to compliment with the now familiar terms of "gameela, giddan gameela". Dropped off in a slightly confusing mass of wrought iron fences, buildings, and people, we managed to find our way pass the line of waiting taxis to an underground pedestrian tunnel.

We walked boldly into Al-Azhar - and were quickly instructed to remove our shoes in the entry. There were two men manning the shoe station, who told us a bit about the mosque and asked if we wanted a guide or to tour alone. We went in alone, crossing the large and silent open courtyard into one of the paneled rooms to the side. We explored around a bit, coming back to the entrance; the two men asked if we had seen the library. We went over to see the library; the men at the desk with the sign-in sheet pointed out another room that we hadn't seen. We went back to collect our shoes (5LE baksheesh, and an offer to see from the top of the minaret for 20LE) and then to try to find our way to Khan al-Khalili bazaar.

Certain of the direction, we decided to set off in the opposite direction because there were some buildings in that way that interested us. Passing outdoor restaurants with their tables and chairs jammed against each other, we passed into an alley of what looked like a small bazaar. Few people were out and about, which made sense considering that it was before noon. We exited, and walked around the grassy square between two other mosques and the pushy restaurateurs, finally deciding that we had found ourselves in Khan al-Khalili. Taking narrow street and narrow street, we wound among the rabbit warrens that constitute the bazaar. At first, there were few people pushing their way between the narrow building and under the lowering awnings; the metal screens were just being rolled past the shops and salesmen coming out to shout, "Egyptian! Egyptian! You look-a like Egyptian!" to us.

We meandered, trying to find a particular tea place called Fishawi's, highly recommended by my guide book. We asked a policeman and at least three different shop owners, going only a few hundred meters of so before asking directions again. Finally we found it, and sat down. A mix of locals and several tourists were already sitting outside. We ordered our pots of tea (oh, so good! I had two pots) and sat to watch the people.

The old, fat, white tourists laughed loudly and talked among themselves; they got henna from one of the sellers pushing their way around the diners. As we sat, the sellers hawked their watches and beats and shoe-shines and sunglasses and shawls and henna and scarves and anything you wanted, hardly taking no (in two languages and three dialects) for an answer.

One of the most pathetic sights I had seen was just down the alley right beside us. Fishawi's, recommended by a tour-book, was filled with laughing people. Just beside us was another tea and coffee (shai and ahwa) shop, with, I am sure, just as good tea and coffee and just as pleasant atmosphere and tables. But no one sat in the booths and its owner sat outside, looking glumly over at his neighbor's success.

Following Fishawi's and our combined three pots of tea, we went to take advantage (or be taken advantage of, the same difference) all the bazaar had to offer. We meandered through the stalls and my friend purchased her souvenirs. I only wanted to purchase a pair of sandals since mine had broken. I found one place and inquired the price; he said thirty and, as I immediately forgot the word for fifteen, I made noncommittal grunting noises and allowed my friend to go ahead and purchase a pair for herself.

More walking ensued. By this time, the bazaar was in full swing and we pushed our way through the people. At the outer edges of the bazaar near the square tour buses full of the old German came in to experience the day. Cats roamed the side streets, and trash piled up everywhere. We found the main thoroughfare of the bazaar, and shoved through the crowd. The men called out "Welcome! Egyptian? Turkish? Welcome! Good price!" and one or two came up with creative approaches "How can I take your money? Ah, funny, right - I like your smile!" I found a shoe place and inquired as to the price in Arabic. One of the men took my friend into his perfume shop and she left me to my haggling. We had a little bit of difficulty before we established that the shoes, although men's shoes, were actually for me; this was compounded by my not knowing my shoe size in European mens'. (It is, by the way, a whopping 42.) Finding a pair that looked like they would work, we set to agreeing on a price. He started at 120LE - a very good price, he said, look at the quality. Oh, yes, I replied. The quality is good, I can tell. Very nice. But, you see, I am a student - 120 is just too much. Ah, well, for you, he said, we are speaking Arabic - 90LE only. I responded and he replied again. Back and forth. I told him that I only had 20LE to spend, really. That was it. Was there anything there I could get with just 20LE? He looked doubtful. I shrugged sorrowfully and went to join my friend. Oh wait, the man said. These sandals (that we had been haggling over) - I can let them go for fifty. I looked more hopeful. Well, fifty is better - but I don't have that much money. Fifty, he stated. I sighed. Let me look in my purse. I pulled out the twenty, and made a show of scrounging about for more. Like a rookie, I pulled out another twenty. We settled on 45LE - more than I would have paid if I really were the Egyptian the sellers called out (in English) that I must be - but much less than the originally quoted 120LE. Not wanting to jinx my luck, my friend and I hustled away.

We got another cab to the Metro station, but by now the people were awake and we were treated to another real Cairo experience: traffic. Our car went through the narrow streets, barely scraping by houses. We got caught up in a main thoroughfare: all the cars had been driving down the street as though it were a one-way street and then suddenly there were cars coming from the other direction. It went from a one to two way to three way street as the vehicles going one way split into a V formation to allow the cars going the other to come through. The snarl of fume-spewing metal lumbered slowly along, barely at a crawl. Once in sight of some train tracks raised on the bridge, we hopped out. Now in physical pain from the two pots of tea and the 1.5 liters of water I had drank that morning, I hustled toward the track - only to find that an actual metro station was not in sight. We went down one direction of road, walking along and between nearly parked cars in the traffic jam, only to realize we were heading in the wrong direction. Turning around, I finally broke into a run - probably much to the amusement of all the onlookers, as I doubt that a distinctly Caucasian looking person in jelbab and hijab running with a bright blue plastic sack is a very common sight. I made my way into the metro station and then passed a rather painful few moments looking for a sign of any sort. The best I could do was find a sign for an "office" of some type, filled with men laughing and smoking. Swallowing my pride, and trusting my jelbab to protect me from looking like an impudent American, I approached and coughed politely. "Where is the bathroom?" I asked in my politest Arabic. One of the men came over and was very explicit and thorough in his instructions - so voluminous, in fact, were his words, that I only caught two of them: below and to the left. This being all I really needed to know, however, I said thank you and grabbed my ticket from my friend and passed through the turn gate. This did not satisfy him; he trailed after me, and enlisted a female train agent to assist. She, however, did not understand what I wanted and so, assuming that I wanted to go somewhere on the train, tried to tell me which direction I wanted. Following her directions, I went down and to the right - no luck. Dashing upstairs and then across the platform to the other side of the tracks, I finally found the bathrooms. However, they do not put signs outside. I can read Arabic, really, and know at least four ways that are used to indicate "women's" and there were no distinction between men's and women's. I promise. I went in and was pleased to find them in better condition that UJ's (which isn't saying much) and then exited. As I opened the door, however, I think I surprised the group of men that were just ready to walk in.

I joined my friend on the platform, and we entered the women's section of the train and made our way to Mar Ghirgis, the station stop for Coptic Cairo. One of the nice things about the metro - besides the fact that it is clean, cheap, fast, and efficient - is that there are several cars throughout reserved just for women. The only men that get on are those that sell small knicknacks in between stations, and occasionally a young boy or a husband travelling with his wife and family.

Mar Ghirghis metro stop was, to our pleasant surprise, just beside the Hanging Church, the Coptic Museum, and St. George's church. We went to the Hanging Church first and marveled at the beautiful architecture and the tourists in revealing clothes. I tried getting some good pictures (of the church!), but it was too dark and I couldn't turn on my camera-flash of course. Following the Hanging Church, we saw the gorgeous church of St. George (Greek Orthodox) and wandered about the burial grounds. Some of the tombs were badly damaged and you could see the remains within. Another quick visit to what was, I think, a church of St. Anne's (??), and I think I had the attendant really wondering as I explained the story in the icons to my friend. Not every day you get a local Muslim taking an American tourist around to visit the churches and then explain the religious significance to her, but hey, that's the way I roll.

A quick meal at the St. George's restaurant (and a friendly waiter), and then back to the metro, and to Zamalek to collect our bags that were still in the lobby, exactly as we had left them. Another metro ride and we arrived at 6pm at Giza train station whence we were to depart after having purchased tickets for the sleeper train. Now, I had checked on three websites as reputable as I could find and had my guide-book, all of which said nothing about reservations being required for this sleeper car. While I did have the phone number of the place, we had decided not to call earlier, figuring that there probably weren't hordes of tourists demanding to take the sleeper from Cairo to Aswan. Unfortunately, there apparently were. The ticket station at Giza informed us that the tickets for the sleeper train were all sold out. So, we hopped back on the metro and traveled to metro Ramses where we got out and found our way to the train station nearby. This was fun and involved our map, compass, a few police officers, crossing Cairo streets in the dark and wending our way among the plethora of street vendors. I thought it was awesome, but my friend was a little stressed - and understandably so. She was also carrying a giant pink gymbag that was an unwieldy burden. To compound matters, Ramses train station is undergoing construction (it has been since at least 2008, which is why my guidebook told us to go to Giza station): this meant finding our way through a maze of hastily erected awnings and plywood sidings to get to some sort of office. I merely followed a local.

We found some ticket windows, and I approached to ask where we might buy two seat tickets on the train to Aswan. "Fein," I started and immediately stopped. You see, 'where' in FusHa is "I-eena" and in Amiyya, it's "Wayn," but in Masry, it's "Fein." After the mental exertion required to remember which "where" I needed, my mind drew a blank. I smiled stupidly at the near-toothless old man behind the window. He grinned back at me. Gathering my wits, I tried again slowly. "Fein bnishtara al-bitaqa ila Aswan fi al qataar al-masaa? Nureed kursayn." Where do we buy a ticket to Aswan on the train this evening? We need two seats, I told the man. He grinned again and chuckled. Slowly, carefully, he spoke in English. "Platform 8. Window three." I repeated it. He nodded. "Thank you!" And off Becky and I trudged.

We went down the tunnel, and I followed my disgruntled friend to the platform. We found ourselves in another office and, after going to one or two windows, finally found the one we should be at. (Although it was really amusing: One agent told me to go to "Shobak two" I stared stupidly at him until he said "Window itnayn.") Purchasing a ticket was relatively painless, although figuring out which platform, train, seat, and time we needed required another trip to scrutinize the yellowed and minute manifest that hadn't been changed since, oh, 1643, and another little visit with the poor, tired ticket-agent.

With two hours to go, we settled ourself on a stone bench to guard our belongings and wait for the train, enjoying the people-watching.

Egypt, Day 2: Pyramid Fools

We woke early and went down around 7:30 to find the manager to rectify our situation. All we found, however, was the desk clerk sleeping behind the desk and the bellboy sleeping on a cot in the lobby. Having been promised breakfast later, we tiptoed out and went to explore the neighborhood.

Our surroundings looked much less ominous in the beautiful day: we were on a quiet street that we decided, like Jordanians, to nickname "Embassy Street" because of all the embassies located there. We strolled behind our hotel and found our "Nile View." A low wall guarded it and a small door led to some crumbling steps tumbling into the river itself. Being the intrepid adventurer I am, I decided the best thing I could do would be climb down said steps. I then decided the other best thing I could do would be actually stick my finger in the water. It was wet. And dirty.

Coming back, we wandered about our "mintaqa" (neighborhood/region/area) for what seemed like a short time. We passed the "Great Cairo Library" - closed for repairs - and more embassies than I cared to count. There were the Algerian, Jordanian, Indian, and European Union - yes, the EU has its own embassy and flag - embassies as well as an embassy for a country I had never heard of before and at least 10 others. We found several restaurants in the area we might like to try sometime as well as a tiny supermarket that was actually open at that hour in the morning. I bought some camera batteries, and was pleasantly surprised - after my careful mental calculations to determine how much I should pay in USD and JD converted to LE - to find that the supermarket had a computer with all the prices. Now, the computer was probably older than a brontosaurus - at least early nineties - and was about as fast as a dehydrated snail, but it listed fair prices and I was happy.

Back at the hotel, we accessed the wi-fi and read the email again carefully before confronting the manager. Ohh, we said painfully. The email said that all payment was upon arrival. So, shamefacedly, we approached the manager to pay. The price, however, was a good 75LE more than we were expecting. The manager explained it was because of the 12% service charge and 10% tax. We accepted it grudgingly and went to eat breakfast. The breakfast consisted of a cup of tea each; one fig jam, butter, and cheese package each; and a basket of bread.

After downing our carbohydrates, we went to catch a cab.

"We don't know the Arabic word for 'pyramids'," Becky pointed out.

"Pffft. We're tourists. We're in Egypt. Even if the cab driver knows no English, he has to know 'pyramids'!" I scoffed.

We hailed a metered cab. "We want to go to the pyramids," we tried.

"No Engleezi." He replied.

"Ureedna an nathahab ila al 'Pyramids'," we tried in FusHa.

He shook his head in confusion. We looked each other in dismay. I tried making a triangle with my hands. "Pyramids?"

He understood.

When we arrived within sight of the pyramids and the entrance, he pointed out the carriages driving by and spoke in rapid Arabic.

"No, no, we don't want one," we tried in both the Egyptian and Jordanian dialects and FusHa. We thought he had understood - but, no. No, he didn't. We soon found ourselves traveling through dirty winding streets lined by crumbling houses, decrepit stables, and starving horses. We pulled into an alley guarded by a man with his camel and two horses.

We asked in Arabic how much the far was: 30LE. We gave him a 50LE and asked for change. No change, no change, he said. We tried to conveigh that we did not want a camel; we did not want a horse. We each had two feet in very good working condition and, by golly, we could walk around those pyramids on our own. He didn't understand.

The man with the camel came over and spoke to the driver. He then spoke to us in very good English, promising us a nice ride around the pyramids on the camel for 75LE each. Becky and I looked at each other. All we wanted was change for our cab fare and to get out and go see the pyramids.

He worked on us, assuring us that the best way to see the sites was on camel or horse back and that he was a very good, respectful person - no hassling- and that it was safe and we would enjoy it and it was only 75LE for everything, and wasn't that a good deal? Worn down, with no way to get to where we wanted to go, we forked over the dough and hopped on camel back and he led us toward the entrance. We never did get our cab fare change.

At the entrance, he asked if we were students; yes, we said. He asked for our student cards and another 30LE to pay for the entrance tickets. We handed them over. He then handed them to another man who had come up and the man disappeared to get our tickets. Some time later he appeared, requesting change, since the bill we had given was too large. We switched around some monies, and the first man went off this time.

In the meantime, we waiting beneath the burning sun. We were the only Westerners there; we had seen no other tourists. Starving and maltreated horses, camels, and donkeys surrounded us; you could see their ribs and hips poking through their worn hides. Now and then, a group of boys would ride by bareback on horses, posting, or trotting, cantering, or downright galloping down the street.

Finally the man returned with our IDs and handed them to the guide, who put them in the ample pockets of his dishdash. We were taken through the entrance, and then on our tour of the land around the pyramids.

They were the pyramids. Not much to tell, really. Large pointy structures sticking out of the sand. There was the Sphinx. Rather crumbly structure, with microcephaly. Also, of course, with leosoma, but that goes without mentioning.

The camel tour finished, we disembarked. I was all for getting our IDs first, but nooo, the guide brought up payment, as I knew would happen. I was all for arguing loudly with him and calling over the tourist police; my other plan was to sweetly hold out some money, get my ID back and then run. My friend, however, quite wisely probably, paid him and we were on our way to walk on foot around the ancient structures.

There were demanding touts everywhere, but very few tourists, which made us quite the target. Still, the worst thing that happened was a man came over and started re-doing my friend's scarf. She told him, no, no, I don't have any money. He said, oh, no money. He said, come take a picture with me. No money. I reluctantly took a picture. He then demanded 5LE from her, for which she didn't have change. I came over and did my best to tell her just to leave and then I told him in Arabic to stop being a liar and a cheat, but that didn't really help things. He just ignored me completely. She finally threw 10LE at him just to get him to leave her alone. I had offered her 1LE (a coin) to actually throw at him instead of the 10LE bill, but she didn't take it.

We then went to take more pictures - without any pushy "Bedouins" in them. I laughed at the teenage boy on the camel trying to intrude himself in my pictures. "Take a picture of me! I'm a bedouin!" I rolled my eyes and walked on.

Finally tired of picture taking, we walked into the town to find a bus I had heard would run back to the center of town so we could visit the Egyptian Museum. After not finding a bus, we stopped in a tiny store to buy some drinks and get directions to the bus. They didn't have change, so the little girl ran across the street to get some from a neighboring restaurant. We only overpaid for the drink by 2 or 3 LE or so.

The restauranteur came over as a "microbus" approached. A mix of our English with some Arabic, and we were on the microbus, going to "the metro" for only 2LE/person.

This, my friends, was an experience.

It wasn't like the larger microbuses in Jordan, with a two-bench seat on one side and a single chair by the window on the other; it was an old actual bench-seated bus. We got into the back and took our ride to "the metro," the wonder of all who surveyed us. I guess American tourists don't often ride in this form of public transport.

We arrived at "the metro," in a much shorter time than we thought it should take to reach downtown Cairo from Giza. We exited the bus and sat on a retaining wall, puzzling over my map and the surroundings. Just when we thought we had it figured out, we realized that this mysterious "metro" of which everyone had been speaking was actually a "metro" like in New York - an actual tram/train to take us from place to place!

This, my friends, was a discovery.

We followed the crowds of people up to the station entrance and found a map. My amazing friend read it correctly and got up pointed in the right direction - the directions are based off the stop at the very ends. We purchased our 1LE tickets and entered the station. Without incident, we exited at Sadat Station. Above us, we could hear the roaring noise of the city. Thinking little of it, we maneuvered our way through the tunnels and finally came to an exit.

In case you didn't know, Sadat Station is located just off Midan Tahrir. "Midan" means "square." As in "Tahrir Square."

So, guess where we found ourselves Friday after prayers? Guess where, of all the places in Egypt I did *not* want to visit we got to cover in our first full day in Cairo? If you guessed Tahrir Square, you wouldn't be that far from the truth.

The full truth is, we did everything in our power to avoid Tahrir Square proper - kept our heads down, walked quickly, and did not pause to buy any of the cheap knicknacks commemorating the spirit of the place or to give our statements to any of the television cameras and reporters around. The crowd wasn't thick where we were, and we quickly got out of range of the noise and crowds and were soon enjoying a leisurely stroll along the still and tree-lined streets of Cairo. We walked tow Midan Talaat Harb, where we found a restaurant at which we wanted to eat - but it was just the noon rush, and we were waved away because they were full.

More wandering about and we eventually established that I am a terrible map reader and we eventually found our final destination: the Egyptian Museum. We had a small adventure crossing the street - but fortunately, there wasn't much vehicular traffic due to the protest.

A nice man approached us as we entered the gate. "Are you looking for the entrance to the museum? It's closed today, due to the protests. But the government bazaar and papyrus shop just across the street there is open! It's a government shop, so it's really good quality and good prices, too, you know. Here, let me show you."

My friend followed him out to the street, and I went silently protesting. I pulled her over when we reached the sidewalk and explained that it was a common scam to get people to go to the (overpriced) nearby store for which the scam artist would get a commission. We decided to go back and at least walk past the entrance. We were paused at the main gate by a group of soldiers who told us it was closed. We accepted their word for it and told them we wanted to enter just to go walk along the Corniche (street along the Nile).

We walked along the Nile, fending off the felucca owners, and crossed the 6th of October bridge onto Zamalek. Finally breaking down to my friend's please, we got a cab to take us back to the hotel for the rest of the afternoon, where we could rest for a bit before dinner.

Dinner this evening was at the amazing Abou El-Sid, which is, according to my guide book: "a sumptuous orientalist fantasy of a restaurant-bar, the uber-hip Abou El-Sid serves traditional Egyptian food to wannabe pashas amid moody and low-hanging lamps, oversized cushions and brass tables. Reservations are a must, darling. Look for the massively tall wooden doors." It was all correct, except for the necessary reservations part. It was busy, but not packed to the rafters. After wandering about for awhile (further establishing my map-reading abilities), we found the massive wooden doors - firmly closed. We waited, and then followed a group of older British looking tourists as they stepped up to the door and actually opened them.

Inside, the atmosphere was amazing. The lighting was low, and the chairs were sumptuous. I had roast pigeon - eating it presented a challenge, but I asseverate that it was the best meat I've tasted in my life. My friend had some sort of meatballs, and we shared bread and rice in a sort of green spinachy-sauce. It was delicious beyond belief and relaxing in the gorgeous restaurant was incredible.

Finding someone that would let us pay, however, was a little more difficult. After finishing, we did manage to catch the waiter's eye and he removed our dishes. However, we could not, it seemed, catch anyone's eye to allow us to pay and leave. We enjoyed waiting there, though, as we watched no fewer than four tables finish and leave without learning their secret for bidding the waiting to get the check. Finally, just before we made a final desperate dash to the door in the assumption that it was 'on the house,' I saw a waiter and I gesticulated wildly in the air, making the international "air-check writing" symbol. He understood. We were soon finally on our way back to the hotel to rest.

Egypt, Day 1: Arrival Adventures

I walked out of my final final at noon today, feeling much lighter since all that knowledge had fled my head. I had four hours to get all my things together.

First, I went to pick up my driving stipend, and then to purchase a scarf and under-scarf  that I matched to go with my jelbab. I had been wearing the jelbab all day without a hijab which attracted quite a bit of attention; one of my classmates Jordanian friends approached and wanted to know why. I could hear her laughing about it with her friends as I left.

I then made a quick trip home to finish packing, write my curriculum vitae to a professor for a recommendation letter, and buy batteries. I arrived at the 7^th Circle to wait for Becky so we could share a cab to the  airport together. I sat, waiting; soon, I was approached by a young woman, who asked me in Arabic if I was waiting for the bus. For the next 20 minutes we had a conversation in Arabic and English, establishing both of our life stories. I thought little of it and then went off with my friend and another CIEE student who had showed up looking for the airport bus. We shared a 10JD ride to the airport and went to look for where to go through customs. My flight, however, was with a different airline, and we were soon split off. I then spent a good fifteen minutes looking for another terminal and learning the Arabic words for terminal, departure, and arrival. Good to know.

Without problems, I handed in my passport and sent my baggage through the scan. This, however, is when my problems began. Now, it’s not a crazy airport like O’Hare, Dulles, or even Dayton…..the terminal was more like a gian warehouse; few people milled around and there was no wait for the security line. I didn’t even have to remove my shoes. My bag, however, was taken aside for a security check. Great, I remembered. I didn’t remove my baggie of liquids.

However, they didn’t care about the liquids. The man spoke no English – not that he should, of course, considering that this is Jordan and not America. However, shall we just say that several personal items were confiscated along with my camera batteries, and that it required an extra security guard and a random German tourist to get things straightened out? Shall we also just say that the words that you need in situations such as these are not ones that are likely to be taught in a class - ever? And shall we finally conclude this discussion with the caveat that a bilingual dictionary is essential if one is not perfectly fluent in the language? Yes. Yes, we shall.

Feeling somewhat frazzled after that ordeal, I wandered over to the check in counter and received my ticket. I then spent another eternity (okay, two minutes of confusion) looking for where to exit towards the upper storey. Finally, a security guard took pity on my plighted state and motioned me towards the “Immigration” station. I present my paperwork and walked through.

Upstairs, I spent my time looking through the duty-free shop and buying a reasonably priced drink and croissant. I peeked my head into a bar and coffee lounge and found a group of my program’s students.

“Hey, guys, how are you?” I walked up to them cheerfully.

Blank stares of confusion met me. I guess they hadn’t seen me in jilbab before.

Finally one of the girls recognized me. We established some of us might be on the same flight, but that they had a connecting flight in Cairo, where I would stop. I went on to wait for the flight, but did not wait long; soon, the gate attendant began calling out “Al-Qahiro, Al-Qahiro. Cairo, Cairo.” Surprised at the early time, I presented my papers and passed through. Then came another scanning station, where the men and women were separated to get a brief patdown. I was ushered into another waiting room, finding myself to be one, the only female and two, the only Westerner, and three, the only Western female, in a room full of working-class Egyptian men returning home. They paid me little enough mind, however, and went about their business of performing prayers, talking and arguing loudly, and stretching their arms across the chairs.

The flight was uneventful – and then I found myself in Cairo late at night and alone. I easily disembarked and purchased my visa. I arrived in the enormous main Cairo terminal and went through customs. I settled myself in the waiting area to wait for Becky who had gotten in on antoher flight before me. We had made arrangements that she would meet me at my terminal. I waited. And waited. I saw that my terminal only had EgyptAir flights and I knew she was on Royal Jordanian. Finally, I approached the information desk. First question, as always, is “Do you speak English?” He did, and informed me that her flight would be in terminal one, floor three and pointed me in the direction of a bus to take me there.

I got on the bus and drove towards terminal 1. The bus stopped in a decidedly non-terminal looking location and all the passengers got off. I approached the bus driver and asked in Arabic, “Excuse me, terminal 1? This bus?”

“Eh?”

“Terminal 1?” I was a little unsure of my pronounciation, since I’d never heard the word pronounced. I held up my finger. “One?”

He got the idea. “That bus, that bus,” he pointed in front. I thanked him and got onto the second crowded bus. It left the station and started heading out on a road. For a moment, I was decidedly nervous that the bus was heading into downtown Cairo towards a hotel or something and that my brief Arabic question to the bus driver had been sadly misconstrued. Soon, however, reason got the better of me. There is no way an airport would be furnishing a bus like this for free to a hotel downtown in Cairo; and there is no way there would be no place for baggage on a hotel bus. So I settled in to enjoy the ride.

We finally arrived at terminal one, and I dashed off to circle about the terminal. By now, nearly thirty extra minutes had passed and I feared I had missed my friend. Quickly, I ran outside and caught the next bus back to my terminal. It was the same bus driver as before.

“Terminal 1?” He asked.

“Yes.” I said. “I mean, no. This is terminal one.”

“What do you want?”

“Terminal 3. I want terminal 3.”

He looked at me skeptically, but motioned for me to enter the bus.

Arriving again at the terminal 3, I allowed the other passengers to exit before me. I had jost gotten off, when I realized the bus driver had followed me.

He smiled. “You speak Arabic?”

“A little.” I said. “I’m a student from Jordan.”

“Jordan? Ah. Welcome to Egypt. Islamti?” He motioned to the hijab.

“No, I’m a Christian. But it’s better this way.” I replied.

He smiled. “Ah. Beautiful, it’s very beautiful. Welcome to Egypt!”

I thanked him. Turning, I saw Becky and eagerly ran towards her as an island of welcoming English-speakingness and familiarity in a sea of  uncertainty and Arabic. We quickly rehashed the last two hours of searching for each other and finally decided that we would get a taxi from that location.

The taxi-touts had been eyeing us in our conversation.

“You need a taxi?” One approached.

“Yes.” I let Becky do the talking.

We established where; he was asking for much more, but one of Becky’s Egyptian contacts had assured us that the ride should be no more that 50LE (Egyptian Lira, or pounds). He finally came down to our price when Becky put on her sad face and pitifully said please.

The taxi took us to the island of Zamalek, where our hotel was located. He stopped twice to ask for directions to our hotel. This, we decided, was probably not the best sign.

We arrived without problem, however, and went to check in. They had our names from the online reservation we had made but then insisted that we had to pay. Becky had made the reservations, but used her credit card; we were certain that we had already paid. Finally, the night clerk told us to go to our room and we could talk to the manager in the morning. (He really reminded me of my cousin, L.) We got onto the mirrored elevator that smelled of sweat and pungent men’s cologne. Our room was guarded by a door that was nearly impossible to open – it took the two of us, one pulling on the giant round knob in the middle, the other turning the key and throwing her body weight against the door as hard as possible. We put our things away, had a quick glimpse of the Nile from our small balcony, and decided to go back downstairs since the promised wi-fi didn’t exist in our bedroom. We went out to find the balcony; instead, we found a dark half-constructed room filled with toilets huddled around a center post. 

We then went downstairs and had an interesting evening watching the people going up to the roof restaurant and bar. We decided we would not be two of them. Even if we could have found it.

Tired, we eventually returned to our room, eagerly awaiting the following day: the Pyramids!

Midterms

This morning started with my hand-washing my clothing from last weekend in the shower with me, since it needed to be done by hand and I wouldn't have time otherwise.

Then came my Ammiyya midterm exam. It was only ten questions. Three hours of a break, and then my archeology midterm. This was only 25 questions.  Two hours, and then my Modern History of Jordan midterm. This one came in at only three questions. However, at the end of the day, my hand was cramped from writing so much. For the history exam alone, I filled up three computer pages front and back.

Now back home to take an exam and write two papers for my online class from Cedarville. Tonight I also have to study for my FusHa midterm tomorrow. And take care of all the final details for spring break.

On the way to the history class, though, a funny thing happened. I had arrived early enough to want to study outside. Just as I arrived at the building, I saw a bench sitting out front. There have been a distinct lack of benches around the vicinity, so I rejoiced that the University had responded to the need. I had just settled myself on the bench, when I heard a man sharply clapping beside me. I looked up and realized that the group of men I though I had beaten out for access to the bench were actually waiting there to move the bench. I jumped up to move. They laughed at me. The end.

Pictures 3.20-3.26

Here is the link from pictures of last week!

(Right now it's unedited - sideways views! - but they're up there). We went to Wadi Rum last weekend. And, I even managed to include some people in these pictures.

I have about a week's worth of posts I need to finish...but right now, I'm in the midst of midterms and then comes Spring Break and a little jaunt to Egypt.

So, these pictures might be all you have to enjoy of my posts from Jordan for another week or two. Enjoy!

Pictures 3.13-3.19

Here is the link to a disparate group of pictures: from Umm al Jimaal, to the University, to food.

I already posted the link once, because I went back and edited my post from Saturday, and I'll post links to more pictures in my next few posts as I describe a typical day, so you can see what normal life looks like for me over here!

Epic Discovery

You know the discoveries of Petra, Tutankhamun, the structure of DNA? Minor revelation. Discoveries of the wheel, indoor plumbing, and sliced bread? Mere innovations.

Today I found a bus that goes from Raghadan bus station to within walking distance to my house.

This, my friends, is a breakthrough.

My 'Hood

Here is a link to pictures from my area - what I see on the way to school, my room, and some sights around the area. I have pictures from the University of Jordan that I'll be adding soon, Lord willing, to show you a typical day. :-) Hey, it's not all ruined cities and adventurous adventures, you know. A girl's gotta study sometime!