Disturbing Childrens' Game of the Week

Spotted today on a walk around town, ya Allah how I wish I'd had the cash.

Image reads:

HELLO I AM A LOVELY LITTLE DUCK

WHEN THE SWITCH ON

I WILL BE SINGING WHEN I AM WALKING

MY WINGS AND MOUTH WILL BE IN ACTION ALL THE TIME

WITH RED LIGHT SOMETIMES I WILL STOP FOR HAVING EGGS

IT IS SO GREAT COME ON LET S PLAY TOGETHER

This comes just weeks after the discovery of another boxed game in a shop nearer to home, a whack-a-mole style party game with rubber mallets and Hamtaro hamsters, confusingly entitled "Very Interesting Stroke".

Totally Foul.

One of the nicest things about living in Alexandria is the relative ease of owning an 'exotic' pet - or, by extension, getting to babysit one for a few days. Pictured above is the probably-one-year-old tortoise Foul. His name is pronounced 'fool' and means Beans, after the traditional Egyptian dish of pureed fava beans, but the spelling has caused not only confusion on facebook but hilarity in a number of hotel buffets (Foul Puree at 10am, anyone?). Foul was rescued from a pet shop in the Downtown shopping district of Alexandria where, as is the norm, baby Libyan tortoises were piled on top of each other in full sun in one inadequate cage.

Since his purchase for just over ten English pounds by two classmates as the tortoise equivalent of a nervous wreck, Foul has quite literally come out of his shell and now yawns, cuddles and waddles around, looking for the most part content. He still has a slight problem with constipation in times of stress (being carried up Mount Sinai in a cardboard box may not have been the best idea) but is on the whole a thoroughly happy amphibian. The same can probably not be said for those he left behind.

Below: the epic voyage from laptop surface to 2012 diary - or possibly an attempt at some long-overdue pushups.

Re-homing Foul at the end of May has had due consideration (as bringing him to England would not only be a massive hassle but throw up serious custody issues) and he will most likely end up with one of our Egyptian friends here, or with the girls' irrepressible neighbours. That is, of course, if he hasn't been stepped on after this weekend.

Below: Foul waves at Vicky, then gets cosy on a collarbone. Bless.

Motivational Bumper Sticker of the Week

The Maharram Bey Mafia

Some nights, it's hard to sleep here. I put it down to a combination of our having adapted to the Arab lifestyle (lots of caffeine, sugar and smoke), barely any exercise and looming exams. Watching creepy stop-motion videos past eleven is probably not the best idea either.

Rewind to yesterday night, or rather, very early this morning. I and a friend give up on the idea of a good night's sleep and decide to go for a walk. What begins as a casual stroll around Wabuur al Maya, which is still alive at this hour with speeding cabs and groups of men smoking shisha in cafes, turns into a slightly surreal wander into Maharram Bey, the district behind ours on the other side of the train tracks. Maharram Bey is a much poorer area and stretches a long way but looks more or less the same throughout; narrow, dusty streets with criss-cross washing lines overhead and piles of rubbish lining the pavements, skinny cats and streaked, rusty cars with no wheels plonked by the side of the road. Unlike Wabuur al Maya, it's eerily silent here at night. The longer working hours of the average resident as well as the lower income means the night is not time for leisure, but for a well-earned rest.

After some time walking through streets in which the only sign of life has been a single hooded youth drawing something very detailed on a wall, we emerge back beside the main road that leads down to Carrefour and find a tiny ahua (coffee shop) still open. Of course, everyone glances our way - this would be normal anyway, but somehow we get the feeling they especially don't see many white faces - but there is none of the overt staring or behind-the-hand gossip we have come to expect of more upmarket places. The owner is curious, but polite. People are too busy to sit and speculate for hours on two people there for exactly the same reason as themselves.

On the walk back we notice the guy we saw before has been joined by about eight others, all in hoods. In London this would make me quicken my pace but they hardly look at us, absorbed now in spray-painting a vast and curling Egyptian flag across the wall. In Egyptian society generally we have noticed poorer people tend to be far more ddevoutly religious, and talk more fervently about love for their country; despite many being forced to work morning till night for a monthly wage of about 35 English pounds, most are so vehemently opposed to theft that whole groups of strangers will chase and beat anyone caught in the act on the street out of sheer principle. That said, we are not completely naiive and try to walk with purpose when a few heads turn.

On the way back we try climbing the stairs to the bridge, where train tracks run through long grass. There is a single immobile train on the far side of the tracks that does not appear to have moved for some time, rusty, caught in a tangle of creeping plants and eerily silent. In a moment of lunacy we consider going over to look inside. However barely two steps across the ten yards or so of vegetation, we hear a shout from behind us. A grinning middle-aged Egyptian with a cigarette beckons us back over.

Speaking in 'aamiya is always a bit of a mission. The dialect varies from region to region and older men especially (like our 70-something doormen) often speak in such a thick, slurred fashion we are forced to give up entirely, or the Egyptian becomes so exasperated they turn to other forms of communication. An example from the other day:

Me: "Shaaria Fou'ad." - a well-known main street very close to our house.
Driver: "Shaaria Fou'ad fayn?" - "Where on Shaaria Fou'ad?"
Me: "Al mathaf." - "The museum."
Driver: "Ahh. Al mathaf tfyertub5etubwertgfhsfgh wizaara (ministry) ghdfgsertsetgaesrtkaergasfgs?"
Me: "Mish fahima, asifa. Al mathaf Aleskandariia." - "Sorry, I don't understand; the Alexandrian Museum." [It's the only museum on the road and a ten-minute walk away; I'm just feeling lazy.]
Driver (changing direction and going down a very weird route that adds an extra fifteen minutes to the journey): "dfjglskjesrtglksdjfesrlkglsdnfger! kfdslseirjlakesd? gnkjnr! dglkajwlrskawlje (sings) ALCOHOLA MIYA MIYA" - "ALCOHOL ONE HUNDRED PERCENT"
Me: "Ey?"
Driver: "FAYN?"
Me: "Ala tuul!" - "Straight ahead!"
Driver (taking both hands off the wheel and singing to the tune of 'ere we go 'ere we go 'ere we go): "ALA TUUL ALA TUUL ALA TUUL, ALA TUUL ALA TUUL ALA TUUL, ALA TUUL ALA TUUL ALA TUUL." He then tries to charge me double the price for the journey. Lesson learnt.

This man, however, clearly finds us amusing but also clearly has a point he wishes to make - he speaks incredibly fast but repeats several times that if we don't understand anything, to tell him. Francis's eyes are already glazing over before he has even begun to explain that the train we see before us, below the level of the windows, is full of people sleeping rough. He also mentions it is a meeting point for a word we don't catch - noticing my quizzical expression he tries "shabaab", "youth", but then, dissatisfied, lands instead on "zay (like) al Mafia". Gangs. Apparently, since the fall of Mubarak there has been a huge increase in gang culture in this area; he tells us it's not safe, and most non-residents walk alongside the main road (even though there is no pavement there and you have to take your chances with the traffic) because they are scared to go through Muharram Bey at night. He concludes by making some kind of chopping motion towards his shoulder; we've seen this before and it's to do with armed theft. Pointing us towards the steps on the other side of the bridge, he says goodnight, still laughing at our stupidity.

It seems that even in a culture steeped in religion, there are exceptions. Particularly, as with any society in the world, among the disaffected youth. Looking back it now seems like lunacy to have gone wandering around Maharram Bey at one in the morning (especially with a phone in my pocket); though the conversation has not scared me away from the area in its entirety, it seems in Alexandria that for a half-decent, non-awkward cup of coffee, you must be prepared to risk life and limb and all personal wealth, rather like a London Starbucks actually. Bring it on I say. The quest continues.

25/01/11: Bridge, Tahrir Square and aftermath

After a long time staring at the never-ending march, we climb down and allow ourselves to be swept along towards Qasr al-Nil bridge. The bridge connects Gezira Island and Zamalek to Downtown Cairo and is distinctive for the vast lion statues at either end, where today flag-wielding citizens have climbed onto the lions' heads and urge on the hundreds of thousands attempting to cross. Choking on the smoke from sweet potato carts and hanging grimly onto one another's elbows (our group now includes Mostafa, his brother and several friends) we make it a short way across the bridge before coming to a halt, hemmed in on all sides by an almost stationary crowd. This is to be our post for the next hour, in full sun. My ailing camera battery now gives up, but through bitter experience I know a little more life can be squeezed out through that arcane method of Turning It On And Off Again:

Above: Mustafa's brother standing on the rail like a maniac to photograph the crowds. I was not tempted to join him.

Cheap flags and facepaint are abundant on the bridge; somehow sellers are the only people capable of worming their way through the mass of bodies. We inch our way forward, yelling back the chants that echo from the closest megaphones: the favourite seems to be "Yasqut yasqut hakm al askar', which means something like 'Down, down with the military regime'. As the towering hotels on the opposite bank of the Nile swim into view, voices only grow louder, the atmosphere more suffocating. Next to us, a man who seems barely past his teenage years strokes the shoulder of his young wife in niqab, a rather sweet display of affection in an atmosphere that seems half carnival, half barely-contained rage.

Eventually, we make it across, forced to creep along the edges of the crowd to get further in. Channels of people leaving the square cut through the masses trying to enter, and many people have elected to remain standing here or at the sides, content to watch the drama unfolding from this comparatively spacious area. A new chant - "Di thawra, mish hafla" or "This is a revolution, not a party" - rises up, prompted by the two men shown above and echoed across the square. This is mostly aimed at the festivities organised by SCAF to commemorate the last 'victory' of last January and, in many people's view, to cover up the fact that on a fundamental level little has changed. It also serves as a reminder to those who seem in a more celebratory mood that there is still work to be done. News websites in days to come will express this concern and question whether a high enough proportion of the Egyptian public remain engaged and wish for further reform: but as one lady told the BBC, the fact was that three times as many people came out to demonstrate this year, and if there were differences of opinion in the square, this is democracy, and they must get used to it.

Getting across Tahrir does feel a little like trying to navigate a festival field; tents have been pitched where activists and families alike have been camping all night, the ground is a cludder of mud and debris ("USE THE WATER!" exclaims Mostafa, and we fearlessly stomp through the puddles where no one else is standing) and voices blast from speakers overhead. But unlike a festival, the sense of unity and cohesion here is undeniable; those that are not yelling and fist-pumping are smiling from ear to ear. Men huddle against cardboard barriers, reading the papers or passed out in the afternoon sun; we spot an old woman and her daughter being helped over the railings by a group of at least ten strangers. I have never been in a crowd so vast. And despite having been through Tahrir several times before, I have absolutely no clue where we are.

We emerge on the other side of the square, not far from the museum, shocked by the sudden space and air. There are a number of smaller gatherings here, and people resting, albeit in trees or on blockades:

We round the corner and find a local cafe (I later found out this was Shaari'a Sabri Abou Alam, where we'd actually stayed in a hostel before) - all coloured plastic seats and battered shisha pipes, and full to bursting today with exhausted Tahrir protestors. Finding somewhere to sit takes a moment but once we've installed ourselves by the back wall, it becomes apparent that most people here are friends of the brothers anyway, including a sculptor they refer to as "Samurai" for his long hair, and a capueira instructor named "Tiger" (real name, surprise surprise, Mohamed). Sipping from a tiny glass of milky tea I realise all I have consumed today is Sprite and Marlboros - apparently the norm for a would-be photographer on the go. I also realise I have a banging headache and feel like I am about to die.

The sensation persists for the next fourty minutes in which we pile into a car with some friends and drive back to Zamalek. After paying a brief visit to Mostafa's rooftop residence and getting to know the bathroom in particular, we go to an old brasserie-style pizza restaurant called Maison Thomas, and after a while the world begins to de-blur. I am in very good company and the conversation moves freely between 'Aamiya and English; these are the first people I've yet encountered who properly understand the concept of "atheist" and do not seem completely appalled. It's a great end to a fantastic day, and I return to our friend's home (doubtless like much of the Cairene population) frazzled and triumphant - and hugely grateful.

25/01/12 part two: Tahrir Street

Realising how impossible it will be to move for a while if we remain part of the assembled crowd, we take a shortcut through the near-deserted sidestreets, finally emerging only to discover we have joined an earlier march that still wends its way towards Tahrir Street. Below is my favourite image from the whole day, some demonstrators crossing under a bridge.

A few stragglers observe and offer encouragement to the march from the other side of the road.

Finally, we make it onto Tahrir Street itself, which continues all the way down to Tahrir Square. Here we meet Mostafa's elder brother Ahmed, who has been standing on a tiny concrete island in the middle of the street, watching and photographing the constant sea of bodies and banners as they thunder past for well over an hour now. We stand, transfixed, for a while: I keep expecting the march to end, but it just doesn't. The longest gap between one group and the next is a few feet, with chants and drum beats tangling in the air, flags and signs jostling for room, fingers pointing, fists pumping, a perpetual swirl of black hair, coloured headscarfs and ripples of red, white and black. Later a friend asks how things are going: I can only respond, and only half-joking, "I had no idea there were this many Egyptians."

At one point the SCAF marionette bobs past again, carried along now by the crowd. Some groups have dispensed with proper slogans altogether and instead yell "Inzil! Inzil!", "Get down!" at those who remain watching from their balconies. Cheers erupt when, occasionally, someone does.

I was pleased to see a lot of families participating in the demonstrations, and realised for the first time then that the government had kept its word: there were indeed no police officers in sight throughout the 25th of January. It was just as well: there was no need. The biggest scuffle we saw all day was over someone spilling face paint. I also noticed plenty of women leading the chants.

Below: the rest of the photos from Tahrir Street, over the course of about an hour.

  

Still to come: Qasr al-Nil bridge, and Tahrir Square..