visions périphériques

“You look pissed off man, smile.” So was I greeted as I stepped out of a cab in front of the Hussein Mosque in the famous market district of Islamic Cairo, Khan el-Khalili. Islamic Cairo, also known as Old Cairo, is contained within the walls of the original palace city, built by the Fatimid Dynasty in the Ninth Century. You see, Cairo is not very old as far as cities go. The Egyptian kingdom had several capitals in the ancient period, notably Memphis, during the Pharaonic period, and Alexandria, during the Greco-Roman period. Cairo was a relatively modern invention, and it didn’t begin as a population center, but as a walled city for Egypt’s Fatimid elite. The population center, where the artisans worked and markets were held, was several kilometers to the south. Over the years, the population crept closer and closer to the city walls, until eventually they made their way in—and occupied every square inch. Now Islamic Cairo is one of the poorest, most densely populated areas of the city. The elite, as the story goes, have moved on to the suburbs.

Khan el-Khalili is famous for its markets, which are perhaps even more famous for their hustlers. The man who advised me to cheer up was one such hustler, and his quip is an example of a popular technique. Catch the tourist off guard by commenting on something like a facial expression or an article of clothing, perhaps even insult the tourist, until the tourist feels compelled to defend himself. Then begin a conversation. Then say something like, “Okay, let’s cut the bull. I own a small shop that sells papyrus and inlaid boxes. Would you like to come and see?” The first half of the scheme worked well enough on me—as in, I felt compelled to defend my mood, because I was actually feeling pretty good—but the second half fell lame. I was only there to explore and snap a few photos, and I told the man as much. “Why you come to Egypt,” he shouted as I walked away, “you gotta be cool in Egypt. Why you come here?”

I was walking with a girl named Sarah. She came to Egypt about a month ago, but spend her first three weeks in a Red Sea town called Dahab, roughly equivalent to Cancun, but maybe without the Girls Gone Wild crowd. She’s here to freelance with the local English-speaking newspapers, and she wanted to write a story about Khan el-Khalili during Ramadan. It’s supposed to be more relaxed, not so infested with hustlers. At the very least, the hustlers are said to be a bit lethargic during the hours before iftar, making a stroll through the crooked, cobblestone streets of Islamic Cairo pleasant, perhaps even quiet. When Hustler #1 returned, he chose to target Sarah. “Where you from?” he asked, which happens to be the Most Popular Ploy. Depending on the tourists response, the hustler knows where to set his prices, and how much of a sucker he’s likely to have on the line. Sarah didn’t answer, affecting instead the glass-eyed gaze that offers the tourist’s only defense. Any verbal contact, however hostile, encourages rather than deters. Since I’d already hurt this guy’s feelings, he said to Sarah, “You must be Canadian. But you [looking at me], you’re a bit snotty. You’re probably American.”

I’m telling you, these guys are good. After a few remarks like that, it’s hard not to step into the ring, if only to dispel the stereotypes about one’s country that one is particularly sensitive about. But “snotty?” I would never think to describe Americans as “snotty” tourists. Tacky, yes, but snotty? His choice of words amused more than offended, especially since his accent was almost perfectly British. “Hmmph,” he might have said, turning up his nose at a tea engagement gone sour, “you’re a bit snotty.”

Passing over the highway that runs past the Citadel, toward the City of the Dead and Maadi, we entered into the less touristy, more Egyptian half of Khan el-Khalili, where real Egyptians come to shop for spices, textiles, and assorted knick knacks. For example, a parent knee-deep in Back to School shopping could easily find a Barbie backpack, or, for a few pounds less, a knock-off Berbie backpack. I saw a few of those, wondered if Berbie was a pun on Berber. As the streets darkened, shopkeepers began setting out iftar spreads. A spice vendor along the wall of the Salah ad-Din Ayyub Mosque invited us to join his family for iftar. The quiet was worth noting. There were no cars, and the few motorbikes that were crisscrossing the square moments before had disappeared. “Sit, sit, sit,” Saleh beckoned. So we sat.

Any hesitation I felt about sharing in this family’s repast, a humble affair to say the least, quickly vanished. Saleh was relaxed and very welcoming. His wife, Muna, wore a full burka, but behind the veil her eyes darted back and forth between Sarah and me, and she laughed as her son Khaled translated our simple conversation into Arabic. She held her two year-old niece in her lap. The girl, who was screaming before iftar, fell fast asleep in her aunt’s arms. Small cats mewed underneath the table. Salah scooped a dollop of tomato stew onto a pita crust and set it on the cobblestones. The cats swooped in, tiny things. Cairo cats rarely grow larger than big kitten size, and when they do, they’re all bones. We ate with our hands, using pita to pick up mouthfuls of rice and stew, and to soak up a soup made from pine nuts, cucumber, and garlic. This was a traditional iftar, a small meal meant only to break the fast, to tide one over until sohour, the larger meal of the evening. We drank homemade licorice water and tamarind juice. After everyone had finished, a man came around with a tray of tea. We added sugar and dried mint. After that, we drank fresh guava juice, served by a boy with a tray, who waited as we gulped the pulpy substance down. A neighborhood man came and nodded to Saleh, and to Sarah and me. Barely slowing, he dropped two packets of dates onto the table. With a smile, he was off.

Now this, I thought, is the spirit of Ramadan.