It was this question that we tried to answer by landing at Cairo International Airport in October. There were several reasons for our appearance in the country of basalt scarabs passed off as alabaster. Tired of my previous work, I was looking for a rest from the hard daily grind of a PR specialist. My sister had saved up some money and sensibly assumed that with my participation spending it would be more interesting. In addition, our keen eye could not miss a tempting airline offer that had naively sold us plane tickets at $200 per person.
About 20 million people live in Cairo. When you are taken into the city on a tourist bus and dropped off only at special places cordoned off by police, the abundance of people is surprising, but nothing more. However, that morning when we decided to start our extensive sightseeing program in Cairo, all those 20 million people took to the streets and demonstrated the unlimited possibilities of the human personality. In the city, a pedestrian has no place on the sidewalk - he runs down the middle of the highway, trying to keep pace with the surrounding cars, in order to jump on the fly into a packed minibus. At the same moment, right onto the roaring swarm of cars, about ten more people jump off that minibus at full speed, many of whom dream of reaching the roadside unharmed. The car is in the minority, but it is cooler. Once it has started moving, it has no reason to stop. Especially since there are not too many traffic lights in Cairo, and traffic police officers prefer to talk in raised voices with each driver rather than regulate traffic. As a result, at any intersection in the city you can see this picture: cars are moving slowly, the driver honks, the oncoming driver honks too, both shout at each other, leaning out of their cars to the waist, and the traffic policeman swears at both of them.
Getting into such a world, a tourist very soon finds himself in a semi-fainting state, unable to escape from this cauldron of noise, shouts, horns, dust and smog. At the same time, the Egyptians themselves do not feel any visible discomfort: you can often see how, in the middle of such a mess, without looking around, a cyclist crosses the roaring highway, on whose head, somehow, a huge tray with flatbreads is balanced. The fact that the bus never stops and you have to jump into it on the go also causes no complaints. The urban culture of the Arab East, in its exoticism, has surpassed the ancient culture of the Bedouins.
Egyptian taxis deserve a separate study. For people with normal psyches, a ride in them will be a strong impression; those with weak nerves had better not risk it. Represented by ancient Italian Fiats, French cars of unknown brands, and Soviet Zhigulis, these black-and-white killers rush around the city in huge numbers, ready to take you to the ends of the earth. Their drivers' English is extremely poor, as is the set of places whose direction they can imagine. Some of them guess that Giza is across the river, and Tahrir Square is somewhere in the center. But what a 'train station' is, they already need to be told descriptively, otherwise nothing will work. It turns out that the station is known to them as 'Ramses Station,' but who would have known that if not for the guidebook?
On our first day in Cairo, we had not yet acquired that cynical cruelty that later accompanied our financial relations with the natives. I would politely ask the taxi driver how much I owed him and pay exactly that. But the Arab East is an eternal battle for every Egyptian pound, for every piastre. And bad is the tourist who yields even an iota of his financial well-being to an Arab. You need to pay taxi drivers at the moment when everyone has already gotten out of the car, through the window, and then quickly walk away without listening to his angry curses to Allah. He never has change for large bills, and even if he did, he wouldn't give it. Stock up on greasy and crumpled pound notes so you can pay the driver his four pounds - not a piastre more. He won't be able to argue with you in English, and any fool can spit saliva. Cynicism, as I say.
That is exactly how, on the first day of our Egyptian marathon, we traveled around the center of Cairo. You can, of course, also get around by metro, but there another pitfall awaits the tourist. First, these guys have a peculiar notion of a queue. The line at the ticket window is a cluster of Egyptian men around the window and a forest of hands all stretched out to it - whoever gets a ticket thrust into his hand first wins. In my understanding, this is a crowd, not a queue. At first, I politely let about 25 people go ahead, but then it became unbearable. But you should have seen me a couple of days later! I managed to squeeze my way to the window, spewing the most refined international curses, shoving aside a couple of dozen Bedouins, and throwing greasy 50-piastre notes into the window, I fought to get my treasured two tickets. Survival of the fittest.
Only men ride the metro. Such discrimination could seriously relieve the subway in our capital, but in Cairo this does not happen: there are a lot of men. Everyone is dressed in shirts and trousers - no T-shirts, no jeans - very respectable. But when entering the car, the crowd presses in from all sides, so that it becomes a bit hard to even move. A special intrigue began every time my sister appeared, which provoked an inadequate reaction from hundreds of Arab men. They very amusingly tried to demonstrate their gallantry, trying not to push her and not to let others push her, as a result of which clashes often arose with subsequent settling of scores in Arabic, in which we did not take part.
Near the Citadel of Saladin, we discovered that the entrance gates were closed. Two well-mannered Arabs emerged from the shade of the palm trees and told us that the citadel was closed for prayer, but they knew where the Blue Mosque was and would be happy to take us there. Later we learned that the citadel was open, and the Arab had deceived us; the entrance was simply on the other side. The Blue Mosque, meanwhile, was a rather shabby sight, located in a neighborhood with no signs of civilization. Children, women, dogs, and roosters all ran up to look at us, all uniformly ash-gray. In the half-destroyed Blue Mosque, where no tourist had set foot for many years (and rightly so), another Arab intercepted us. He explained that the mosque was built under Tsar Gorokh and contains a unique, the world's only blue enamel, which we could verify: the enamel evoked sad feelings. In addition, the Arab said, we could climb the minaret and see a panorama of the city with the pyramids (!). He even offered to conduct a tour on the theme "Cairo from the minaret of the Blue Mosque." As a result, I fell for this scam, and his tour consisted of two words: "Pyramids," he said knowingly, pointing to a gray haze somewhere to the west. "Cemetery," he explained, pointing a little lower.
I obediently photographed both views. Down below, a surprise awaited us - the Arabs said we owed them 40 pounds for the tour. We bargained down to 35 ($7). While I ran to change money, the Arab advised my sister to dump me, pestered her for her phone number, and finally gave her the direct number of his friend - since he didn't have a phone himself.
In the nearest teahouse, having gotten rid of my sister's new friends, we said we wanted tea, but upon seeing the teapot, which the hostess pulled out from under some boards and wiped with her hem, we settled for two cans of Coca-Cola and moved on. We won't fall for any more of those Blue Mosques.
The sights of Cairo are as numerous as they are beautiful. The calm and coolness of the mosques set the most favorable mood - after the bustle of Cairo's streets, you can sit on a carpet, read something, or simply take a nap, which is what most people do. You immediately understand why people adopted Islam - to rest in mosques from taxis and minibuses.
Another place of rest is the teahouse. At first, we were actually afraid to go in where dozens of Arab men of the most thuggish appearance were smoking their hookahs, and conversations would freeze when we entered, and no one had ever heard of English. But later we realized that such places have much more local color, and prices are much lower - for a glass of cold karkade you don't need to pay more than two pounds. At the same time, in tourist eateries, naive Europeans are cheated out of five or even six pounds. A week later, when we, having already traveled around the country and becoming seasoned Arabs, returned to Cairo and sat down to rest in one of the roadside cafes, the owner hopefully rolled out a price of four pounds for a glass of karkade - seriously, we almost hit him over the head with those very glasses.
But the most amazing relationships with Egyptians are established at the market - I think most of our tourists are familiar with this. Once in Hurghada I bought a packet of spices for 10 pounds, the cost of which I now estimate at about one and a half pounds - thereby I ensured the existence of the entire trader's family for a week. Real fortunes are made by the producers of basalt cats, who sell their goods near the hotels of Hurghada and Sharm. Every Russian-speaking tourist is happy to buy a cat, a scarab, or a Nefertiti with a frightening face as a gift for their grandmother and pay 20-30 pounds for them. At the same time, the cost of this lump of matter does not exceed two pounds at best. But the Arabs have perfected the art of deceiving Europeans since the era of the Crusades. Apparently, it was then that fake papyri, flaking from time, basalt scarabs - symbols of happiness - and figurines of Nefertiti with faces straight out of Lombroso's book "Criminal Types" appeared in the finest houses of the Crusaders.
However, more about these wonders of Egyptian art later. We spent four days in the capital of Egypt - there was plenty to fill them. We explored Islamic Cairo, Christian Cairo with its Coptic monasteries and museums, and on the third day we went to pay our respects to the pyramids.
Surprisingly, a Cairo taxi driver doesn't even know what pyramids are. For four and a half thousand years he has lived in the shadow of this wonder of the world, and all this time tourists ask him to take them to the pyramids. It's hard to imagine, but every time he replies: "What? I don't understand!" The Polyglott guidebook has already given up and recommends that all passengers of such a taxi driver say "fundu Mena-House" (the Mena-House hotel) instead of pyramids, because the hotel is located right at the pyramids. That's what we did...
If you come to the pyramids around nine in the morning, there are no people there yet, and you can take the best photos. Near the ticket offices there is a parking lot for livestock - horses, donkeys, and camels wait for their riders for mythical prices. We wisely declined.
I have seen the pyramids twice. The second time, the one I am describing, I walked around all of them three times, and touched the sphinx just as many times, and even looked at the recently excavated boat of Osiris, housed in a pavilion nearby. And still today I want to go back there - on a cool, sunny morning with a blue sky and the huge yellow pyramids, which attract with something of their own, special, unknown. Then, closer to noon, tourist buses gather here with Russian-speaking tourists and Egyptian schoolchildren - the latter seek out lone couples hoping to have their photo taken, and the girls asked exclusively my sister for a group photo, while the boys asked only me. Everyone wanted to get a picture with a white person. After working as models for a bit, we left Giza - because, let me reveal the truth for our tourist, Egypt is full of pyramids no less impressive than the three giants in Giza.
We were in Saqqara, where we saw the stepped, most ancient pyramid of Djoser, and in Memphis, where for one pound my sister was able to have her photo taken with two Egyptian officers, and even further south, in Dahshur, where we saw the unique Bent Pyramid and the very curious Red Pyramid. There are no tourists at the latter at all, and we drove there accompanied by an armed guard who, for no apparent reason, got into our car at another checkpoint.
Besides archaeological delights, such a trip gives a good opportunity to study the life of rural Egypt and its inhabitants. Here people ride donkeys and carry bundles of food of unknown origin on their heads. From local children our driver bought for one pound a bowl of ripe, yellow dates, and later for 50 piastres - several hot sweet potatoes that they bake in iron stoves right along the road. Later we realized that our stomachs were not adapted to this kind of culinary delicacies, but that turned up later and, thank God, at the hotel.
In Memphis, the taxi driver brought us to the shop of his friend, an elderly Arab, who pays him a kickback from his sales. Such things are everywhere in Egypt. I tensed up already when the Arab offered us free tea. He stressed that it was indeed free tea and that we were his friends. The owner spoke English tolerably well and managed to convey to us that it is very cold in Russia, and in Egypt, in his memory, it snowed only twice. Both times, apparently, he was not too comfortable. Then he led us into his papyrus shop, and no matter how I tried to talk my sister out of it, she had an attack of idealism and fell for it. The Arab taught her how to make papyrus - an art she is unlikely ever to use - and foisted on her one of his masterpieces, which he priced at 140 pounds but, thanks to my efforts, gave for 50 (the real cost being 10).
Proud of the business deal, our driver talked without stopping. That day his English underwent a very severe test - he was forced to fall back on all 14 words he knew, which, together with gestures and facial expressions, constituted his vocabulary, quite sufficient for communication on neutral topics. For example, the taxi driver managed to convince us that the most unfortunate people on earth live in Sudan (Sudani people). As proof, he told the following story: once a ferry going from Sudan to Egypt and carrying Sudani people sank right in the middle of Lake Nasser. As a result, some of the passengers were eaten by the crocodiles there. This situation amused him especially.
"Crocodile, crocodile!" he convinced us with laughter, taking his eyes off the wheel and turning around 180 degrees, "Sudani people yum-yum. Good, very good!" My sister sat with a stone face, filled with horror, while I tried to keep the merriment going with a weak smile.
Good is generally the central, key term of Egyptian English. For an Egyptian, everything in the world is extremely clear: there is a clear division of everything into good and no good. In such an authoritarian state as Egypt, a driver is severely limited in the scale of business - for example, by law a Cairo taxi driver cannot take passengers outside the city without special permission. Therefore, at another checkpoint about 40 kilometers from Cairo, stopped by vigilant police, our driver futilely tried to assure the officer that the people in the car were childhood friends and that we were all going on a picnic. And after part of his money moved into the pockets of the police, our childhood friend was silent for a long time, then summarized his impressions: "No good people," he expressed his conviction about the police. "Morocco police - good. Israel police - good. Egypt police - no good."
In Giza, another interesting attraction recently opened - the Pharaoh's Village on a small island in the middle of the Nile. The tireless Egyptian historian Dr. Ragab, who in his time became famous for recreating the technology of making papyrus, decided to recreate the life of ancient Egypt, so unlike the life of the scientist's modern compatriots. So now tourists have the opportunity to take a boat ride around the island, watching as local residents dressed in tunics and loincloths plow the land with oxen, grow chickpeas, harvest dates, or catch fish in the murky Nile water, just as thousands of years ago. The dressed-up Egyptians work reluctantly and drop the hoe as soon as the boat disappears from view. On the island itself, guides in all European languages (including Russian) will walk you through models of an ancient Egyptian temple, tomb, and dwelling - always showing where the toilet was. Very amusing. Everywhere there are statues of gods, papyrus grows, and in workshops workers turn this papyrus into corresponding sheets. At the ticket office before visiting the Pharaoh's Village, we found a notice that an ordinary excursion would cost 40 pounds, and 80 with some additional museums. And when I ordered two ordinary tickets, the cashier demanded 160 pounds. She persisted until I showed her the sign right in front of her nose. Arabs!
We decided to devote our last day in Cairo to exploring the northwestern outskirts; it was there, in the desert, on the road to Alexandria, that the famous camel market and the Wadi Natrun oasis with several ancient Coptic monasteries were located.
Arabs do not know where the camel market is in Egypt. And even if someone does know, he cannot express it in English. Unfortunately, the previous evening we had not come to an agreement with any taxi driver about a trip there - they simply rolled their eyes wildly without any visible signs of intelligence. So at 7:30 in the morning we stood on the busy highway near our hotel and began the hunt.
We flagged down one taxi after another. And we did not get into a car if the driver did not know exactly where the camel market was. By that time I had already been forced to learn the rudiments of Arabic and, opening the door of each car, would shriek: 'Suk al-gimal! Al-Iskandariya road!' (Camel market! Alexandria road!). At the end of this show, a crowd of cars had gathered around us; their drivers, having left their cars, screamed at each other and gesticulated wildly. And only the seventh or eighth was able to say that he knew such a market. He also assured us that he knew the Coptic monasteries, but the future dispelled those false claims. And the Arab could not read a map and, judging by the unsteady wandering of his gaze, had never seen one in his life. Thank Allah, we knew roughly where the monasteries were, so we simply forced him to stop at every roadside tea-house and ask the locals the way.
Our appearance at the camel market created a sensation. The camels and their drivers, dark Nubians in burnouses and robes, broke off their conversations and rushed towards us. The situation was sorted out by the market director, who agreed to chaperone us for a sum of five pounds a head, after which we were able to stroll around this infernal bazaar. One thing I learned for life: if two camels have broken free of their ropes and are running, you must stand still - they will take you for a post and go around you. If, on the other hand, you start darting to one side, a collision with a frantic 500-kilogram dromedary is unavoidable. I darted. But, having survived, I took some of the coolest photographs of my life. A decent camel costs $300-400; before buying, one should look into its teeth, though for many, of course, that comes at the cost of their health.
The Coptic monasteries are no less impressive, but our driver got the strongest sensation. He even wandered through one of the monasteries, then went into the church shop and begged the Christian monks for a chance to make a free phone call to Cairo. I still understood Arabic poorly, but I caught the gist - they advised the despicable Mohammedan to leave.
On the way back, the driver played his final (for that day) joke. I sternly instructed him that our hotel was called 'Indiana' and was located in Giza on such-and-such a street, at such-and-such a number. For safety, I repeated it five times, and he apparently understood. However, upon getting out of the car, we found ourselves in a completely unfamiliar neighborhood.
'Where have you brought us, you dog?' we asked him politely. 'Hotel Santana,' he replied with satisfaction. 'Not Santana, you camel, but Indiana!' After that, our driver was not at all upset and, on the way to our hotel, happily repeated to himself: 'Indiana - Santana. Indiana - Santana...'
I still often repeat this first rhyme of his to myself with a smile. We spent the evening of that day at the hotel pool, arguing about what is better - to live poor and happy in one's ignorance, or unhappy and nervous surrounded by the comforts of civilization.
Late in the evening we carried our luggage out of the hotel and set off for the station. A comfortable first-class seated train was waiting for us, which was to take us in the morning to Luxor - ancient Egyptian Thebes, the city where Tutankhamun spent his youth, without ever reaching a more mature age.
Luxor greeted us with its usual heat, a cloudless sky free of Cairo smog, but with the same abundance of rabid taxi drivers. Each of those who fell upon us at the station had a brochure for some hotel or other, many of which were considerably cheaper than the previous one. As for the Luxor Hotel, where we stayed, of the four stars it advertised it barely merited one and a half. Yes, it had Victorian style and windows overlooking the city's main temple. Yes, four-meter ceilings and a huge veranda with armchairs. But we had to change a couple of rooms before we found a toilet that did not leak. During our stay there were few tourists, which allowed the staff to work negligently. For instance, that very morning, after unpacking our suitcase, we went down to the porter and asked where our breakfast was.
'Breakfast?' he asked, taken aback. 'Okay.' Then he rummaged somewhere below himself and said: 'No breakfast.' We showed him a fax from his own hotel, which stated that the price included breakfast. He immediately realized he had lost. He asked us to sit down right in the hotel lobby, where five minutes later the said breakfast appeared. I don't know who would have eaten it if not for persistence.
The list of our friends in Egypt steadily grew. Besides the porter with a sense of humor, we met the man in charge of the hotel pool, whom we asked in a friendly way why there was no water in the pool under his care. 'The water will come later. If you so desire,' he informed us. And he turned out to be right - after lunch the water was already there. The children of the local staff gathered around the pool to get the chance to see a free show - white people swimming.
Even at the station we met a man named Mister Happy. He made his living as a tour guide - he took tourists across the Nile to see the giant temples and necropolises of the West Bank, where the main sights of Thebes are located. We agreed with him to have two excursions: to the West Bank and to the little-known but well-preserved temple of the goddess Hathor of the New Kingdom era in Dendera, downstream of the Nile. However, we could not agree on the price, and we decorously proceeded to our hotel. But Mister Happy turned out to be more cunning. When handing over the key in the evening of that day, after visiting Luxor, the porter confidentially informed us that a certain Mr. Habi had called us.
As a result, in the morning we got a car of the New Kingdom era, as well as a driver whom Mr. Habi introduced as his brother, although there was no resemblance between them. Mr. Habi's brother turned out to be a remarkable person. His name was Ahmed, and to any question like “Do you know where the Colossi of Memnon are?” he would answer approximately: “Yes, Ahmed knows. Ahmed will show.” At the same time, I missed his name and could not understand who he meant until my sister explained to me that he was talking about himself in the third person.
That day Ahmed knew and showed us the Valley of the Kings, the temple of Queen Hatshepsut, the stunning temple at Medinet Habu, and those very singing Colossi of Memnon. My sister was delighted, but she especially enjoyed visiting a souvenir shop, of which there are many in Luxor - every Ahmed takes tourists to one of his partner shops. It abounded with basalt cats, scarabs, Nefertitis and heads of Tutankhamun, along with many other useless things for home coziness. My sister remembered her husband and friends and picked up cats for everyone, after which the most interesting part began: bargaining with the shop owner.
I would have gladly wandered more along the West Bank - it is simply beautiful there and there are many places we never had time to see. To hell with the money - if only there was time! But we had only three days left in Luxor. And the third of them we spent in Dendera, which can only be reached from the city as part of a caravan - for safety reasons. This time we were accompanied by another brother of Mr. Habi - just some Negro. The road to Dendera passes through the city of Qena, the birthplace of Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak. Qena is kept clean and beautiful, and strangers are prudently not allowed. But there are quite enough portraits of the president there.
In Dendera we examined the wonderfully preserved temple of the goddess Hathor, inside which there are frescoes depicting Caesar and Cleopatra in ancient Egyptian attire - very amusing. There are few tourists there, and you can wander around the temple for several hours, examining the chambers, towers and the view from above of an oasis in the middle of the desert. Around the temple roam underage Egyptian businessmen selling white Arab headscarves. Thank God, we had already bought such a scarf in Giza, so the boy's pleas did not touch us. On the contrary, imbued with cynicism, I reacted harshly, offering him 25 piastres (five cents) for the whole basket. And - imagine that - he understood the humor, laughed; for the first time all week someone understood our Russian humor!
Perhaps when this guy grows up, he will no longer evoke an ironic smile from Europeans and will become a full-fledged citizen of the world of free, progressive people. He will understand European humor, and engage in high technology, and he will walk not in a robe down to his heels, but in a suit and shoes. And then, even if all the sights of Cairo, Luxor, and Alexandria remain just as beautiful, Egypt may lose its distinctive character - inaccessible to the view from an air-conditioned bus, but so amazing if you dive into the very thick of its people.
Kirill BABAEV.
The author's travel notes about other countries
are published on the website Babaev.net.