by John Powell
The sun goes down over Cairo and the Nile
Coming out of Cairo railway station I saw, squatting near the main entrance, an Arab woman, dressed in black robes to her ankles. Across the bottom half of her face she wore a net veil from which brass trinkets dangled, a broad one crossing the bridge of her nose. Just above the veil, tattoo marks could be seen on her cheeks while her eyelids were heavily lined with black kohl, (make-up used in Cleopatra’s time). The dirty soles of her feet were satin-smooth; her hands, stained with henna dye, were shrivelled into scores of wrinkles.
She must have been young however, for as she squatted there, with breasts bared she fed a baby. Nearby were two more children; one was urinating against a wall, the other sprawled on the ground, her filthy petticoat rucked up around her pot belly while flies crawled over her bottom and clustered around the eyes and mouths of both children. Each had a cheap blue bead attached to their clothing, a superstitious charm for protection from “the evil eye”. I walked past, shocked and filled with pity at their abject poverty.
Then I saw the contrast; a contrast so prevalent throughout the Middle East; the rich and the poor; the fortunate and the miserable. A late model Mercedes drew up alongside the pavement: from it alighted a lady, dressed with the elegance of the latest Parisian fashion, redolent of a pleasing and expensive French perfume. Her hair was beautifully coiffured, while her diamond earrings matched the diamond bracelet flashing in the sun as it dangled from her elegant wrist.
Two tall Sudanese servants, carrying her suitcases followed her, their dark cheeks scarred with their ritual tribal markings. They were spotlessly clean; their long galabeeyas brilliantly white in the sun were contrasted by their short, bright scarlet-coloured waistcoats, embroidered with pleasing arabesque designs in gold braid.
The squatting Arab woman holding her baby with one arm held out her wrinkled hand and begged for alms. The lady walked past without a glance. In her defence she must have witnessed such a scene every day of her life and become inured to it and probably did not even notice the poverty-stricken mother. It filled me with feelings of pity. Only afterwards I realized that I, also, had given her nothing.
It was a modern Cairo that I was seeing; a very cosmopolitan Cairo of modern shops and department stores, luxurious hotels and tall gleaming-white buildings of offices and well-appointed apartments; mad horn-blaring traffic, and smartly dressed ladies with beautiful eyes that, alas, never seemed to look at me.
A modern Cairo
That night I went to see the old part of Cairo; a Cairo of dirty, narrow streets and dark alleyways; of crazy balustrade balconies, seemingly glued precariously onto the sides of old, insecure-looking buildings: of sun-scorched, wooden, paint-flaked, shuttered windows; of small pokey shops of all types. Butcher shops with meat carcasses suspended by large metal hooks and hanging outside, with flies crawling all over them; cafes, the customers sipping the strongly-flavoured Turkish coffee from small cups, while playing backgammon or cards which, with loud comments, they slapped down vigorously on the tables. Some were smoking their hubble-bubble pipes, Nageelies: the pleasing aroma of coffee drifted past me, while loud Arab music blared away in constant decibel warfare with the shouts of the vendors.
Wandering, I passed a kaleidoscopic, myriad variety of shops: here a tinsmith with kettles, saucepans and unidentifiable utensils displayed from every available position; some in groups on walls, and others suspended in clusters from the ceiling, like a tree made of metal bearing fruit of pots and pans. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, the tinsmiths were beating metals, held between their legs, into different shapes. Next a shoe shop, the craftsmen, their hands stained with dyes, worked at a bench cluttered with leather and tools.
Glued-on balconies: a boy balancing a tray-load of bread.
Still more shops; beautiful leather goods; jewellery shops; a bakery with a boy setting off with a large tray heaped with unleavened bread balanced skillfully on his head; shops of Arab sweet delicacies; shops with rolls of material; souvenir shops the owners taking your arm to “Come in and just have a look, Sir, no need to buy”; perfume shops, the sweet smell of scent contrasting with the more earthy smell of the market; for market it was. I had wandered into the famous “Khan el Khalili” bazaar.
Cairo: part of the Khan el Khalili bazaar
Standing there, feasting my eyes on everything so very new, so very strange and so very exciting to me, there suddenly came to my ears the musical sound of prayers called from the tall minarets of the Mosques, adding more magic enchantment to the scene.
A city of contrasts for sure but oh! What a fascinatingly exhilarant, pulsating, intriguing, vibrant, lively city—Cairo!
© John Powell 2009
This entry was posted by John Powell on Monday, February 1st, 2010 at 12:00 am and is filed under Travellers' Tales.
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