You Can't Make Mistakes

An open letter to the state of Indiana

This blog has not yet endorsed a presidential candidate from the Democrat Party, and this blog will not endorse a presidential candidate from the Republican Party. Sorry, Republican readers. Some of my best friends are Republicans, I just can’t vote for one. Maybe we will discuss that one day, but for now, I will leave it at that.

Back to the point, no endorsements have been made. Here is why:

Today I was watching the American news on the satellite and saw coverage of Senator Clinton’s victory in Pennsylvania yesterday and then her move directly to Indiana to campaign like crazy there. During this coverage, there was an out-of-context segment show in which Senator Clinton was shown with hands raised emphatically punctuating her words, “… because I LOVE Indiana.”

I, frankly, find this hard to believe. And don’t you believe it either, Indiana. She is probably just buttering you up like all the others. I mean, how many states can you really love. Where is the loyalty, the devotion, the dedication? I am a one-state guy myself. Don’t get burned, Indiana. Don’t feel pressured to do something that you are not ready to do, just because she says she loves you.

The same goes for that Senator Obama as well. I know that this is a time of experimentation and alternative choices, and if you feel like you really want to swing toward the Obama camp, don’t worry: I won’t judge you and I won’t love you any less. I just want you to keep your options open and not be too hasty in making decisions when it comes to doing something that will have such a profound effect upon you. Also, don’t worry about what other people say about you, Indiana. They are just mean and unfulfilled because they got burned by Senator Clinton.

On the other hand, Sentaor Clinton may have seen something in you that changed her. She may be ready to settle down and love only you. It’s a tough one.

Just take your time, think about it, and remember that no matter what you decide, I will still support you.

One last thing, I want to thank you again, Indiana, for always being there for me when I need to take a pee-break before getting on the Skyway into that unreasonable neighbor of yours. You have always been there for me and never let me down.

Yours truly,

John Martin

Well, look at the sign, for starters.

I am often asked for directions. I am told that this is because “[I] look like [I] know where I am going”—I did an impromptu survey last week when asked where something was.

Now, as most of you know, I am a foreigner in Egypt. I should not know where I am. The streets are named things like “Mohie el-Din Abou el-Ezz” and Gameat al-Dowal al-Arabia,” and so forth, and they go off every which way, with no rhyme or reason. But, I am armed with a very useful tool: a map. Not just one map, a bunch of maps. I have loads of them. I buy every map I see in hopes that they will afford me a more complete picture of how the city is laid out.

This has caused me several problems.

First, before acquiring the maps, I navigated the city like everyone else: blind. Now, I actually feel obliged to answer when someone else asks me “How do I get to such-and-such place/street?” or the more common shouted demand from cabbies: “Fayn haaga? [Where is something?]” This holds doubly true, because not only do I know where stuff is usually, but I also know how to say where it is as well.

I don’t get to play ignorant that much anymore.

Second, when I am in a cab or driving with someone else, and they take us the terrifically long way, I am inclined to make a suggestion that we could/should/should have/could have gone a different way as well, and possibly saved ourselves some time—in some cases an hour. This is met with either: confusion, denial, indignation, ridicule, or—the worst—offense. It isn’t that I always know where I am or where I am going, either. But, I do almost always know what I am near, and how to get there. I’m just trying to help. Most of the time now, I just keep my mouth shut and see how things unfold.

It’s a neat skill to have in a city like this, but nearly useless unless you want to always want to be telling people where to go or pissing people off.

Other than the endless hours memorizing maps, I also often know where I am because there is a sign. Now, this is not the case everywhere, of course. There are parts of the city that have no signs. There are parts of Boolaq, very near to where I live, where the streets only have impromptu names because they are either too new, or no one has cared to name them yet.

But, in the vast majority of places where I am asked for directions, there tends to be a sign standing somewhere nearby indicating the information requested. The Metro is fantastic for exhibiting this phenomenon.

Inevitably, when you are descending the escalators in the Metro stations, someone will ask which way one or the other of the trains are. There are huge signs with this information in two languages all over the place. No one reads them, they just ask instead. Once on the train it is the same deal. There are line-route maps indicating the name and position of every stop in on that particular line above every door. Instead of looking to these for information, it is more customary to turn to the guy next to you and ask, then he will likely look at the sign, and relate his findings.

I know that much of this phenomenon has to do with relatively rampant illiteracy or partial literacy, but I can’t imagine that this is the only explanation. There must be more involved as well. It seems almost as though no one is sure of themselves to a high enough to degree to be happy with their choices as well. Maybe it is just a social thing—being sociable via feigned ignorance. Lord knows that American kids do that all the time, fearing perception as a nerd, geek, or know-it-all on account of knowing or understanding something. It’s probably all of the above. I don’t really care what behind it. It just cracks me up when someone looks at me and at the sign past me and asks, “Where am I?”

I had some great cabbies this week. Usually they can go one of two ways: 1) mean, and/or trying to get some more cash out of your because you are foreign, 2) really frigging funny. The latter were exemplified this week.

We had one guy completely cracking up. We were coming back pretty late from a pool match in Maadi, so the Metro was closed. We just grabbed a cab, asked Mohandessin, and off we went. Started chatting up the driver, who seemed pretty jocular and good-spirited anyway, and in no time we were cracking jokes with him talking about his kids. It was a blast. We over-paid in the end, but only because we had so much fun.

Today I grabbed a cab because I was running late—nearly a non-issue—and didn’t want to hassle with the Metro. It was a Yellow Cab, which are a bit more expensive, but sometimes cheaper.

I should probably explain that. See, when you get in a regular cab here—a black-and-white—the price is entirely variable. Depending on the traffic, the mood of the cabbie, your status as a noob or an expat in Egypt, whether it is Ramadan or not, etc. the price for the same cab-ride could be 3 LE or 10 LE, 10 LE or 20 LE. Like I said: variable. Completely.

The Yellow Cabs, though, have meters that work and are utilized. I am not sure how this is enforced, but it is. So, if I am going to Medinat Nasr or the airport—both lengthy rides—it is actually less expensive to take a metered cab and tip. This is doubly true to and from the airport.

Generally B&W cabbies want 50 to 75 LE to take you to and from the airport. A Yellow cab will cost approximately 33 LE, and you can leave a tip, and get all the way home if its a round trip for about the same price at the alternative. Much better.

For short journeys, the B&W’s are just fine. You also can’t usually find the Yellow Cabs, since they are a call service as well, but they hang out in packs on certain corners, and I know some of those corners.

Back to the story: I grabbed a Yellow Cab on the corner near my apartment. It was hot today too and I kind of wanted to sit in an air-conditioned car rather than the non-air-conditioned Metro or a B&W, which typically are free of such luxury. Plus, it is just nice to drive across the city sometimes. It is such a beautiful, strange and crazy place, which is very difficult to take in on the underground. At least, not in the same way, I suppose.

So, anyway, I’m in the cab, start talking to the driver. We’re laughing about the dumb thing that other people were doing—and have been doing—while driving recently. We talked about what has been going on in Egypt recently with the strikes and other madness.

I told him that I am leaving for the United States—that’s “Amreekah,” to you—next week and that I am pretty excited to see my homeland. He offered, no, insisted that I call him to take me to the airport.

My favorite thing today, though, was the conversation about his kids. See, small-talk in cabs goes like this:

1. “Where are you from?”
2. “What do you think of Egypt?”
3. “Here’s what I think of America, what do you think of America?” Politics
4. Religion
5. Family and children
6. Questioning of the politics of each others’ countries now that we’re friends
7. Exchanging of mobile numbers (optional)
8. “Great to meet you. Cheers. Bye.”

His son’s name is Abdel Rahman. But, he referred to him always as, “My little man, Abdel Rahman.” Of course, it didn’t rhyme in Arabic, but it was still really funny. He showed me pictures on his phone. Fantastic. I felt like I could be pretty honest with this guy, so when he asked me if I liked kids: “Not really,” I replied, “I am fearing them”

He laughed boisterously at this. I, in an attempt to defend myself as valid, could only say, “Seriously, they are like the small people. And they are always getting themselves into the danger.”

I couldn’t tell whether he was laughing at my Arabic at this point—because we were really stretching the limits of my vocabulary—or at what I had said. This also led me to wonder if he understood that I was afraid of children or if he took it to mean that I feared midgets and dwarves—also sort of true, sorry Little People, more power to you—and therefore children as well, by extension.

He, after wiping the laughing tears out of his eyes, said that it was alright that children were always getting into trouble, because they were bl-blah-blah. I can only assume that the word I didn’t catch meant “kids bounce back easily” or “children are expendable and easily replaced.” Either would have made sense to me, in the given context. And that was that. He continued chuckling for a minute and the told me he was thrilled to have met me and he would see me on Tuesday and I got out of the cab.

It was great. The only time that I have ever had this much fun in cabs at home was the time that I got a cab in Chicago and the guy sang. I thought that it was just a cool thing that happened on the way to the airport, but apparently the guy is a legend. Finding that out made it less special.

All cab rides in Cairo are special in their own way. For that, I am thankful.

I am Frogger, hear me roar

A number of things have happened in Cairo since the strikes a couple of weeks ago. The most immediately noticeable of these was a relative increase in the speed of traffic.

It turns out that since the government and security forces warned the general public about participating in a strike, everyone has been a little edgy about gathering together in groups, moving around the city and country, and also going out at night.

It is a common Cairene pastime to drive around at night. Usually the streets are packed, especially on the weekend nights, until the wee hours of the morning. This contributes to the relative slowness of traffic which enables people to cross the street without cross-walks, traffic-signals, foot-bridges or tunnels.

No longer is this the case.

Now, with the empty streets and since no one cared to follow the speed limits—a paltry 60 km per hour, seldom reached due to the often deadlocked traffic—it is dangerous to cross the street. It may not actually be the case,

Usual speed of traffic but it certainly now feels like we are attempting to cross an interstate highway in the States.

I have decided to think of the whole thing as a big game of Frogger. Very thankfully, I was excellent at on the ol’ Atari as a kid. It might be time to drag out that Atari anew for some honing of the traffic-dodging skills.

“Clang, clang, clang went the hammer…”

It seems, and do keep in mind that I live in a relatively well established residential neighborhood in the middle of the city, that there is continuous construction around me. I can look out my window and see no less than nine new apartment blocks being constructed. More to the point, moments ago, I awoke—again—to the sound of a hammer pounding on something in the alley. This means that someone is getting a new railing on their balakon or closing it off altogether to extend the space in a particular room. What amazes me though is that it seems to be happening all the time. Except in the early morning hours, which is, thankfully, when I sleep.

Continuous construction is a major theme in this country though. I remember a a few years ago when I came to Cairo for the first time. There was the city, there was the Ring Road, and there was the desert. Now it is very different. Past what used to be the edge of Giza—which used to be mostly sand and hills, there is a sea of red-brick as far as the eye can see. This only subsides when you continue further out toward the desert highway and you can see the Pyramids to the south. Here now, instead of sand, is even more development. This used to only be home to a gigantic swath of palms. Thankfully, the continuous construction hasn’t damaged or encroached upon the palms, but they are very cozy neighbors.

It is like this in every direction as well. The city keeps expanding in this way. There are little suburbs that are set up—like 6th of October City to the north-west of Giza—and then blammo, before you know it the space between what used to be the city and what used to be a suburb is eaten up by new construction.

Back to downtown, buildings are getting taller. I live in a relatively short apartment block. It has only six floors. Those around us, though, average about eleven to twenty. This is one of the shorter parts of the city. Not for long though. Shorter buildings are always being torn down to make way for taller. On a street adjacent to mine, I noted over the course of several days a lovely two story villa being torn down and the lot upon which it had stood being cleared out. It stands empty now, but diggers and cement trucks are soon to follow and likely a 15 story apartment block will be erected in its place.

To further demonstrate a point that I made earlier, note that I just referred to my district as “downtown.” Mohandessin and Doqqi used to be considered suburbs of Giza. Now the whole thing is referred to commonly as Cairo, which doesn’t really help anyone know where they are.

The one major saving grace of the city is that there is a great deal of green-space within the city itself. The medians of many of the streets are planted with trees and low palms. There are huge parks and clubs dotted throughout the city. I live next to the Shooting Club, which is situated next to the Ministry of Agriculture facility. Both take up several city blocks each and are filled with trees and other plants. The net result for me is that my apartment overlooks a giant green-space which stretches almost all the way to the river.

Now, this is not to say that most of these spaces are publicly accessible. No, no. Many of them are private clubs—like the Shooting Club— and almost all of the “public” parks have an entry fee, which varies depending on where you are from, of course. Even so, it is still reassuring that there is greenery at all here. In the States in many places, we have been forced to retrofit greenery instead of building around it—or, gasp, incorporating it—in the first place. That is not very sustainable, now, is it? I am by no means indicating that the situation here is sustainable, but at least I never feel as though I am really in the concrete jungle, since there is often real jungle just a stone’s throw away.

What is the name of this thing?

I am sitting here this morning eating a grapefruit for breakfast and musing on that word. Guess what the word for “grapefruit” is in Arabic.

Come on, guess.

See, my rule for language acquisition is this: if I don’t know the name for something and how to ask for it, then I can’t have it. It is less of a rule and more of a self-imposed limitation to overcome, I know this. However, it serves me well as it gives me incentive to learn things. I have a logical loop that I run on myself before I leave the house every morning or make a phone call. I will give you an example:

Situation: I am going to buy light-bulbs and the local light-bulb shop. Taken as given: Knowledge of daily interactive words (Hello, How are you?, Goodbye, etc.), knowledge of numbers related to money.

Query: What words/phrases do I need to be able to say to complete this transaction?

Output: light-bulb, fluorescent, compact, how much are they?, too bright, not bright enough, how many watts?

Query: Which words do I know already? Which which do I need to obtain?

Output:

Words known: lamba (light-bulb), bi kam? (how much are they?), Sagheer (small/compact), kam Watt? (how many watts?)

Unknown words: fluorescent, too bright, not bright enough

Query: What are possible responses to my questions? Do I know the words for these responses?

Output: I don’t have those (mafeesh), how many do you want? (‘aayz kam?), numbers for prices (this is a given)

Now I go to the dictionary or phrasebook—Lonely Planet is the best for this, if you are coming to Egypt, buy it—and accumulate these words. So today we find: neeoun (fluorescent), mushri` kiteer (too bright), mushri` shwaya (not very bright). I also could say "flooreessant" for fluorescent.

And there it is.

Whenever it is something that I feel like I should know before going out, the word in common usage ends up being a loan-word from English. Whenever I say to myself, "Nah, I'll just wing it," the word end up being something like 'umla ma'adaniyya (coins).

So, when I went to buy this grapefruit that I am now enjoying, I didn't know the word and so resigned myself to not having it until I went home and figured it out. Stacey said, in her wisdom, "Just ask the guy what it's called." Of course! I asked him, "We want this, but what is it? How do I say the name of this?"

"Greeb," he replied, looking at me like I was an idiot, "greeb froot."

Reporting on the technological forefront of asses

I’ve talked about the donkeys and horses in the city before. I still can’t help smiling when I see a donkey: the are just so pathetically adorable. Unfortunately they are often mistreated and underfed here. Then again, so are a lot of people, and I have to prioritize my sympathy. We all do.

Regardless, Stacey and I saw a donkey on our street the other day. The ass in question was attached to the cart of our regular bikiyeh guy, pulling it through speeding rush hour traffic in the left lane. He apparently was not hoofing it fast enough, because the guy switched the reins to one hand and then, with full arc arm-swings and an open palm, he just started slapping the ass—the ass of the ass, that is—with gusto. The donkey sped up, though only a little. The guy stopped when he realized that we were staring at him, and the donkey slowed.

I dubbed this “the donkey accelerator.”

Warning: memoir material ahead

I had one of those creepy, sappy moments last night that I always wince at when I hear from someone else. However, it left me with a warm contentedness—something that usually only a Xanax and two whiskeys will do for me before I get on a flight—so I felt it was worth relating.

I was sitting on the Metro, returning from Heliopolis, staring out the window at the city rolling by and suddenly felt completely at home. This came as a shock to me because I’ve been here for a while and it doesn’t often take me very long to acclimate, but there it was.

I’m not talking about some weird sort of assimilation. I can’t really assimilate here. Or maybe I won’t. I don’t know. It involves too much compromise. What I can do is live here, by my groceries at the local places, speak Arabic in an attempt to increase fluency, and learn from everything I see and hear.

I think I just finally, about two weeks before I am set to depart for the States for the summer, realized that I live here now. I think that it may have something to do as well with increasingly solid plans to return and live here for a few more years in the fall.

Back to the feeling, though. It wasn’t like anything suddenly made sense or that I understood something new. It was just the utter normalcy and mundanity of that situation: I was exhausted, and just brain-off gazing out the window at recognizable buildings in familiar parts of the city. I suppose that this is when I should know that I have finally arrived, right?

Just when your marriage, job, academic course, mode of artistic expression, home, etc. becomes a little bit boring, THAT is when you know that it is actually working. When the new-puppy feeling wears off, that is when you have what you really want. Unless, of course, you are the type who wants to always feel like you are experiencing something new and different.

I am not. I prefer the boring train-rides to the helter-skelter variety. They stay on the tracks and you know the stops.

YOU want mint.

I was walking today and saw a kid standing in the street shouting and waving something in one hand. As I approached, warily, I realized that he was yelling—indeed bellowing—the words: “Who wants mint? YOU want mint! Who wants mint? You WANT mint?” I went out on a limb and assumed that he must be waving mint in that hand.

He spotted me coming down the street and ran right up to me saying “Mister! You want mint?” He was little, his head was at about the level of my elbow. I told him that I didn’t really need any mint, but he was persistent. He shook the mint and then shoved the whole bunch right up under my nose, instructing me, “Smell it. The smell is very good. You want mint.”

I couldn’t resist. I asked him how much, doubled it, and crossed the street before he could try to give me change. Little things like that make my day. It’s not everyday that you can feel that good after having succumbed to a sales pitch.

Sold.

al-Khamasin! al-Khamasin!

As I mentioned yesterday, we had a sandstorm headed our way. I have been asking everyone I know who lives here what they are like and I finally got to see one for myself. This was of the mild variety, though.

The sky was a little hazy this morning, and then all of a sudden it started to turn yellow and then orange. I opened the the balcony doors to bring in the mint plants and was caught with a blast of hot (28°C) air which smelled like clay after it dries on your hands and you rub it off.

The sandstorms are called al-Khamasin, which means “the fifty.” The reason for this name—as it was explained to me recently—is that the sandstorms generally occur in the spring during a space of about 50 days, beginning in mid-March and extending into May.

I already noticed the yellow dust beginning to collect on the balcony railing, so I went back in and made sure that all of the windows and balcony doors were shut tight, just to be on the safe side. I don’t want sand clogging up the pores of my laptop after all.

It was relatively uneventful, for the most part, but really cool looking. The sky just got darker and more yellow as the day progressed and then in the evening it cleared up altogether.

This is not always the case, I have been told. al-Khamasin have been described to me variously as looking like: a giant wall of sand approaching the city or like a hurricane of sand in the streets. From my friend Simon, I received a description of a particularly violent storm which happened several years ago. He recalled that the winds were so high that debris was blowing around all over the place. One man on his street was killed when a satellite dish blew off of the roof of a nearby apartment block.

There are also often what people refer to as “Red Rains” after the storms. Apparently, if the temperature and dew-point are just right, it will begin raining just on the tail of the storm, but since the condensation nuclei for these rains are very orange sand, they leave behind red-streaked rivers of bloody-looking water all over the place. I can’t wait to see this.

It is odd experiencing meteorological conditions that are different from those you are accustomed to. I imagine that my experience of a sandstorm is not dissimilar from that of an Egyptian seeing snow for the first time—which still feels a bit magical to me the first time it happens each year.