Who would have thought it possible to suffer cabin fever in such a lovely cabin. After two days of vegging, True Blood and speculation we realise it's about time we 'did something' and so once the heat of the day has more or less passed (the best way of measuring this is not looking at a clock but standing on the pavement outside and observing whether or not anyone faints) we head out towards the library, and our favourite cafe.
Finally, after two weeks, we get our hands on some shisha. In Turkey early this summer a friend of mine, who lives in Istanbul, assured me Egyptian shisha was the best in the world - perhaps an urban myth but certainly, especially given that we paid just £1.50 for several hours' worth of cherry-flavoured coughing, I'm pleased to report that it is at the very least pretty damn good. Over chocolate milkshakes and date juice so sugary it leaves a silty texture in the mouth (Arabs apparently compensate for lack of alcohol with overloads of smoke and sweetness) we watch the sky darken and the waves roll in - and try to ignore the feeling of several (mostly) politely curious eyes on our every move.
Since being here, and aside from other Leeds students, I have counted a grand total of two other white/British people, one of them a rather put-upon looking ginger probably fed up of the staring. Vicky and I spent some of this summer in Jordan so we count the fact that nobody has cried "Shakira" or "Very very very very nnnaaaaaiiiiicceee" as a minor blessing, but certainly as a Westerner you cannot escape the feeling of being a spectacle. Most of the time we receive mere cursory glances, and even warm smiles from some of the women, but in the market lack of headscarf means you must endure a droning "WOOW. WOOW. WOOW" while struggling as it is with the stress of haggling.
Below: a few pictures taken as we trundle along the seafront. We have decided that over the year the sea air will counteract the worst effects of the nicotine-laced shisha, and hopefully also our near-chronic laziness.
As the night draws in, so too does the traffic. Deko's book on the Liquid Continent warns that Alexandrians drive 'like lunatics' but in reality it seems the pedestrians are the ones with a few screws loose. In a city where right of way is non-existent, there are no lanes, drivers alternately smoke and chat on the phone and swerving is apparently an art form meant to be practised at every opportunity, we are a little awestruck by the breezy manner in which locals meander through the vehicles, without even a pause for thought. When Natasha gets stuck a group of young Egyptians laugh and urge her on before applauding when we finally arrive in one peace, about ten minutes later. In the gridlocked roads the blaring of ambulance sirens is entirely redundant.
So far we have made our way around the city almost entirely by taxi - a ride from our area to the seafront costs little over £1, mostly because drivers are so exasperated with our level of spoken Arabic to argue. Journeys are frequently 'layered up' to save time on both sides (yesterday I went back to the flat alone until we picked up a woman trying to get to university). I try as far as possible not to mock when Arabs clearly don't understand the English slogans displayed on clothes, signs etc, but some of the bumper stickers here are hilarious - favourites so far have included 'No Friends Here' and 'GEAM (yes, GEAM) OVER'. However there is also a tram system in Alexandria dating back to the colonial period.
We stroll back from the Corniche and realise for the first time that the mainly quiet, friendly area where we are now living is in fact more or less directly opposite a huge Christian graveyard. Stretching for what seems to be a square kilometre, it's broken up according to various sects including Coptic Christians, protestants and Egyptian orthodox worshippers, clustered silently together under the ragged palms. We try to get a closer look through the iron gate but a group of enthusiastic guard-dogs materialise as if from nowhere, making us all jump.
We continue on and after another quick brush with death at the next main road, cross Shalalat gardens (below) and reach the Wabuur al Maya roundabout, below below (holy light purely coincidental):
That night - well, I say night, more like the following morning - Vicky and I are still awake at 4am, wired on peanut butter and discussing whether it would be better to remain celibate and unloved forever or marry Mr Bean when a noise creeps in that brings all conversation to a halt: the morning call to prayer. This is the first time I've heard it since arriving here and the sound is entirely different to all the others we've heard, a steady, slow echo less like words and more a low stirring groan across the city, drifting from one minaret to the next and falling like a blanket over the sounds of the street. We haven't yet worked out how many Egyptians follow the five-times-a-day prayer but in any case it is an eerie, beautiful noise that commands silence. A little like the beginning of Jim Henson's The Dark Crystal when all the Mystics start singing, but with fewer puppet strings and more majesty. At this rate I will run out of colourful vocabulary before we reach the pyramids but, unlike the pyramids, no photograph can express this experience. Even without being religious the feeling of smallness is profound, and we stay awake for a further half hour, though this might also have something to do with spider paranoia.
To conclude, and lighten the mood of this post (or not....), here is a mug we found in our cupboard. Hmmr.
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