A merchant enterprise

“Welcome, welcome!”

Cairo seems to be a place where you only find what you’re looking for once you stop looking—and even better, the treasures you discover by accident and mistake. So was our trip to Islamic Cairo (‘Islamic’ referring to the distinctive architecture and not particularly increased religious conviction), ostensibly north of the massive bazaar Khan al-Khalili, home to some of Cairo’s most beautiful mosques and differing from the rest of Cairo’s architechture, otherwise a mishmash of colonial-era buildings in elaborate style, now fading and increasingly dilapidated, and utilitarian buildings of the Nasser era. Maps are doubtful at the best of times, so we opted to be let out at Midan Atabi and walk from there, wading through the street sellers hawking the same selection of sweaters (yes, Egyptians wear sweaters, ‘cause it’s “winter” here now), scarves, and jeans. Mountains, literally mountains of shoes seemed poised to flood one alleyway, where on another corner various sellers perched atop their table of wares announced prices and items at deafening volume, and the occasional intrepid seller hawked very daring lingerie and bucket-sized bras to the teeming masses.

“Welcome, welcome!” “Welcome to Egypt!” As we press our way through the masses, where any even half-glance at an item extracts the seller’s immediate attention and enthusiastic salesmanship, we are showered with a chorus of “welcome! Welcome to Egypt! Welcome!” It’s almost like being in an echo chamber. Someone must have told the Egyptians that the word for ‘hello’ in English is ‘welcome’, because they seem universally convinced that this will attract my immediate attention.

One of the questions I’ve been mulling over in my head is how to ‘deal’ with locals talking to me. Egypt is notorious for its scams and schemes, and many of them start off with someone engaging you in conversation. The most likely variant is he will try to talk you into his shop, or into his cousin’s shop, where you will be expected (hoped?) to buy something; in other versions, the particular tourist attraction you are looking for is “closed”, but he can show you something else (also possibly involving his brother’s shop, or his local mosque—with an entry fee—or anything else), and a tip is expected at the end. Indeed, ‘baksheesh’ seems to be expected for all manner of services rendered or intended, asked or unasked, everywhere an outstretched hand. Anyways, a philosophical and moral discussion on obligations to ‘spread the wealth’ (the meaning, as I understand it, of the word ‘baksheesh’) is not my intention; my point is that simple non-responsiveness to attempts in conversation is a viable strategy to avoid many of the scams and schemes designed to fleece tourists anyone gullible or convincible. But always being on your guard, always ignoring comments and questions closes off an avenue of contact to new people and experiences, can be a rude response to well-intentioned friendliness, and can be wearying. I am trying to develop a better sense of what is friendliness or curiosity, what is an attempt at salesmanship, and what is a scam. So my response to “welcome to Egypt!” is a smile and a “thank you,” but I continue on my way without answering the inevitable follow-up question of “where you come from?”

We didn’t find Islamic Cairo. What we found was normal Cairo: a district of winding streets, lined by stalls selling wares and food and produce, shops with all manner of items for sale, coffeehouses full of men, shisha, and backgammon, women balancing preposterous bundles on their head. We found districts collectively rivaling Ikea or Home Depot for selection of house fittings, doorknobs, and power tools; we saw woodworking shops, metalluragy shops, tailors and all manner of activities, and the entire area was a gargantuan market—selling the staples of everyday life in Cairo. We saw no other tourists, and frankly, most everything we saw would not interest tourists, unless someone was in desperate need of sawblades or bits of leather whose usage we couldn’t divine. Handcarts full of sewing machines shoved their way through the masses (if you hear a hissing sound, get out of the way—it’s what they use instead of a horn), and every third person seems busy transporting bread—including one kid on a bicycle, balancing a wicker basket of pita breads on his head, upon which were balanced another flat tray with stacked breads. How he got on the bicycle was a mystery to us. Occasionally cars or lorries try to force their way through the narrow and twisty streets, causing blockages where handcarts full of fence posts or clay pots or brassware are trying to go the opposite direction.

Somehow, we ended up at Midan Ramses—the train station square—which is not anywhere near where we started, but it was dominated by the beautiful Al Fath Mosque. It was Friday, the Muslim holy day of the week (think Sunday for ye Christians), so we didn’t know if we could get into the Mosque. I managed to unelegantly cover my hair with my scarf and we were able to enter, after removing our shoes at the door. This is the first mosque I had ever been in, after countless churches and cathedrals across Europe. Instead of a long nave leading to an altar, the mosque was a large open space with vaulted ceilings, roughly square. Because Islam forbids human depictions, the mosque was free of the countless statues and paintings of saints adorning Catholic places of worship, instead adorned with intricate inlaid geometric patterns. It was breathtaking, and as much as I felt I was intruding in someone else’s private sphere, no one seemed to mind or take much notice of us as we stood in the back, craning our necks, and listening to the prayers of some and the quiet snores of others.

We decided to trek up to Khan al-Khalili, the massive souk which preceded Wal-mart by several centuries in selling pretty much everything imaginable, with variations in price in quality (and even in the good old days I imagine much of the interesting stuff was made in China). Though it increasingly caters to tourists, and the sellers in the main part of the market all seem to speak quite good English (thus reducing our advantage of conferring in English and bargaining in Arabic), it has been a commercial centerpiece of Cairo since time immemorial, and is the place to find pretty much anything. If you look hard. The spice markets are good for anything except saffron (easy to fake), entire districts sell just jewelry, or just shisha water pipes, or cloth, or clothing, or cheap trinkets and tacky souveniers, or all manner of beautiful woodwork of varying quality. The shops specializing in trinkets will have brass pyramid models and little sphinxes carved of alabaster, but also antique (looking) brass lamps, aladin-style, Turkish coffee pots, and intricate inlaid woodwork.

“Bikem?”

Bargaining is the name of the game. Nothing has a listed or a fixed price, so it is up to you to know how much you are willing to pay for things. As soon as you evince the slightest interest in anything, the seller will descend upon you. He names a preposterous price for something, you counter with an offer about a third of his, and it goes from there. Once you reach a good price, you pretend to change your mind and walk away. “Wait! Just a MINUTE!” he’ll call after you, if he’s interested in the sale, and you will be able to talk him down a few pounds (or more likely, get something else thrown in the bargain for a slightly increased price). The point isn’t to pay the price you set out to in the beginning, but to come to a conclusion with which both are happy. The happy coincidence of favorable exchange rates means that 10 or 20 LE either way isn’t too much of a hit to the wallet. Bargaining for something does, however, lead to impulse decisions and lightning-fast mental math (ever my strong point, eeek!), trying to counter his offer with your own, assess the value of the purchase, and keep your facial expressions from betraying your thought processes. Still, you likely don’t start bargaining unless you want the thing, and both you and the seller know this, so as long as you started out with a conception of what the thing is worth and are willing to walk away if the thing is outrageously priced, you’ll likely come home with some treasures and, hopefully, the feeling of having gotten a good deal. It gets to the point where we were disappointed if we were in a shop and the salesman didn’t immediately come after us, offering us the deal of a lifetime, and we would never consider taking the item to a salesman in order to bargain for the price.

Walking through the streets evokes a chorus of calls (“welcome!” “welcome!” “welcome to Egypt!” “you need a scarf?”), and even some more creative ones: “you are a lucky man!” “I have a good deal, special deal for the honeymoon!”. We mostly reply with a smile and “laa, shukran” (“no thanks”). My favorite line, however: “hello, hello!” (no response from us) “hello! Hello! how can I take your money?” I guess honesty is the best policy.