A Change of Direction

Those who know me are well-aware of my indecision (a trait much to my detriment), impulsiveness and whimsical behaviour, bordering on caprice. During this journey, I have made several last-minute changes of plan. At the bus station in Kayseri, having just ascended Mount Erciyes, I bid my new-found traveling companion, Tony, farewell as he headed on to southern Turkey, as I planned on going east to Kurdistan in Iraq. As I hauled my bag onto the roof of the minibus, a last-minute change of heart led me to remove it again and run after his bus. We spent the following month traveling through Syria together. (During which time, I once again bid him farewell, minutes later to join him down to Tartous. C’est pas facile quitter un bon compagnon de voyage.)

I hesitated when deciding to go to Lebanon, knowing that I had little time to spend there, yet became engrossed by what I found—and learned—in my brief time amongst the cedars.

I was full of indecision whether to risk an Israeli stamp in my passport in order to travel to, and subsequently volunteer in, the West Bank. This turned out to be one of the most enthralling parts of my journey so far. Had I simply traveled straight through Jordan, I would have missed out on so much.

Even sitting here writing this piece in Khartoum, I have said I would leave the city on several occasions, bidding farewell to those I have met. But each time, something has kept me here, and I have not regretted a moment of it. My primary goal in coming away was to take advantage of anything that came up, and to have the freedom to react to it; an opportunity I have never before been afforded.

Sitting in Cairo’s Bustan café with my rucksack beside me, having a final drink with new-found friends, I was due to catch the night-train down to Luxor. I would be heading south, towards the Sudan. But a debate erupted between two of my Egyptian companions, differing on the merits of Luxor’s historical treasures versus Alexandria’s atmosphere. Whilst it is clear that the temples of Luxor hold much allure, Ala countered that it would be hot, expensive, full of tourists, and a tiresome hassle. Alexandria, he argued, would be cooler, quieter and cultured.

The attraction of saying goodbye to the sea, with its cool breeze, before heading into Africa’s arid plains, feasting on sea-food, of seeing this emerging cultural capital, as well as visiting the Bibliotheca Alexandria, and continuing this café climate got the better of me. As the Luxor train departed south that night, I was enjoying a sahleb and savouring another hour with those present. The following morning, I would head north.

The Coffee Houses of Cairo

I may have left behind a city — Paris — reputed the world over for its café culture, but the street cafés of Cairo certainly had their charm.

These are not the places to sip a frothy coffee in chic surroundings; rather sitting on a street-corner with a shisha and a strong, sweet Arabic coffee, the clack-clack of dominoes striking the table, or backgammon pieces shuffling around a board as a dice rolls over the wooden set.

A morning in Cairo would start in one of these establishments, breakfasting on a fresh faroula juice washed down with a short, strong coffee. The day would end drinking shay bil-nana or indulging in a thick, sweet sahleb, playing tawila and puffing on shisha. In between, numerous stops are made for mowz bil-haleeb and gwafa juices. *

The real allure of these places, though, is the people with whom you share your table, and I was very lucky in who I met. From the games of backgammon in the little back-street café of Mohandiseen surrounded by locals, to the international crowd near Townhouse, to the thriving energy of Bustan, reputed as the local haunt of the intelligentsia, I enjoyed many an evening in good company.

Drunk on translation

* Strawberry juice, tea with mint, a milk & cornflour mix seasoned with nuts, backgammon, banana milkshake, and guava, respectively.

Elbows Out

Being a well brought-up Englishman, I can’t help but open doors, let people pass, and generally be quite polite whilst navigating a city. Here in the Middle East, this instantly identifies you as a khawaaja — a foreigner. (Having said that, it did so in Paris, too…)

From the Hamidiyeh souq of Damascus, to Amman’s Downtown, to the bustle of Khan al-Khalili in Cairo & Alexandria’s Anfushi souq, one thing remains constant: you are going to get pushed around. Cairo, with its population of 18 million people, exemplifies the lack of awareness people can have for those around them.

And then there’s queuing. Or the lack of it. Be it the people before a ticket seller’s window, crowded around vendor in the market, or packed in an office waiting for some form of bureaucracy (another thing prevalent in the Middle East), then you can be sure that there will not be a queue, but rather a scrum.

I found this at times rather frustrating, but now I just go with it. When it comes to queuing, I adapt to la foule, brandishing the odd elbow, although I don’t think I’ll ever be able to give up that English chivalry.

Sufi Dancing @ Cairo

The Al-Tannoura Traditional Troup perform a few times per week at the Wekalet El-Ghouri Arts Centre, near Khan al-Khalili.

Sufism is where mysticism meets Islam. The basis of this dancing is to separate the mind from the body through the repetition of movement, to become closer to God. Or at least that’s how it was explained to me. I’m not sure how far removed they really become on stage, dancing with strict coordination as the live musicians provide the rhythm to which their movements anchor, but in any case, it’s quite the show.

Entrance is free if you’re in town.

Arabic Aesthetics

I’m still a sucker for anything written in Arabic. I wander the streets trying to decipher the different styles of the scripts, mouthing the sounds to myself, sometimes falling upon words I know, or chuckling at the transliterations of English locution. At times, a side-by-side translation helps me along.

From my dabbling in design, being able to read & understand these flowing lines were a major motivating factor to my inscription at the Damascus university to learn some Arabic.

I wonder if those people whose language uses a different script to the latin alphabet find the same exoticism in our characters? I can’t imagine it holds the same style & panache as their cursive hand… But then I’m biased.

So even a word painted on the back of a pick-up truck holds aesthetic pleasure for me. I guess I’m easy to please.