Hashish, Ak-47s and a couple of Peanuts

Hashish, Ak-47’s and couple Peanuts

At Giza, you can find the great pyramid of Cheops.

It is the largest in Egypt and stands against the desert sky in majestic pose stretching hundreds of feet out over part of the desert’s bleak horizon. It is situated next to two other pyramids, which are also wonderfully built. Little is it realized, that are literally hundreds of Pyramids in Egypt. However, the three in Giza can be fairly said to stand as the definitive icons of this county’s past glory.

It so happened that I found myself in Giza a few nights ago. I wasn’t there as a tourist though.

I had been sitting on the bustling curb of a roundabout at two in the morning. It may well have been mid-day for all the traffic whizzing by. My legs were stretched out a little way onto the road and I had to quickly pull them in every couple of seconds so that they wouldn’t be amputated by passing the microbuses which squealed as they careened frantically around the corner. I know, I know, roundabouts shouldn’t have corners, right? Well, this one did.

The air was thick with exhaust and added a little zip to the bowel of goodness that I was eating with a spoon. I’m not sure what it was that I had been eating, but it tasted like granola, and the guy who bought it for me insisted that I finish.

Giza is home not only to the pyramids, but also to two-and-a-half million Egyptians. As I looked around, I noticed that I was nowhere near the pyramids. There were, however, a few less-than-monumental auto shops across the road. I had no idea where I was. But, then again, I didn’t really mind. I sort of expected it.

Sitting next to me, was some guy that I had met through a friend earlier in the night. Suleiman, I think. He had offered to show me how to get back home. I would have just gone home the way I had come—on the ferry, but it was late, and the ferry had stopped running long ago. I would have to take a long round-about way home, and appreciated the kind offer.

We ended up taking a little detour.

Another Wedding

I had been in Sheikh Usman again. Sort of.

I had been hanging out with another guy from the town. I’m not going to use his actual honest-to-goodness name, because there is a possibility that he could get into some trouble. Not that my blog is read by Egyptian Security Services, but, in the off-hand event that it was…

So, Let us call him Ahmed.

Ahmed suggested that I hang out with his buddies on the weekend. When I asked what we’d be doing, he shrugged and said:

“We’re going to hang out and probably watch my friend’s wedding video.”

I thought:

“Uh oh, more weddings.”

I said, smiling:

“That sounds great—I’ll be there.”

To be fair, I really did want to go, I was just over the whole wedding thing.

So , last Thursday night, I found myself crossing the dark waters of the Nile on a noisy, clanging, ferry. I looked out over the black river at the Faluka sailboats which sat silently rocking here and there like tired sentries fallen asleep in the moonlight.

Faluka

Falukas are wonderful little Egyptian sailboats which can be found anywhere that the Nile flows. Their shapely sails cut a very handsome outline against a smoggy Cairene sunset or moonrise. You can hire one for an hourly rate of about twenty bucks. I would take a relaxing Faluka ride across the Nile instead of a rumbling ferry any day. But, the ferry cost only 17 cents. Easy decision, no?

When I got to the other side, I had to walk along a long dirt path which, at once, was very crowded from the many people making their way to the dockside from the nearby main road. There were high mud walls on either side of the path, and it was very dark. The path rose up to the from the river highway in a long gentle arc. I could see the road up ahead of the throngs; its bright lights seeming to swallow them up like a portal to another world.

Once I got the highway, I had to look around a little while to find a microbus that was going in my direction. I noticed that it had gotten cooler, and was glad that I had brought my jacket. I took a super crowded little bus, and got off at the main entrance to Sheikh Usman. From there I jumped in a Tuk-Tuk that zipped me the rest of the way through the narrow, store-fronted streets to “Ahmed’s” house.

Ahmed had been waiting in the street for me, and as soon as the Tuk-Tuk stopped, he sprinted up to the driver and paid for me. I always try to refuse, but when people here insist, they insist. It can be very charming. Sometimes it’s annoying.

We went inside where he showed me some family pictures as we played with his younger brother, and nephew—six and one respectively. After drinking some black tea, we headed off to his friend’s place.

Honestly, that was my favorite part of the night; walking down the quiet dirt roads, passing the fields and date palms and the hulking shadows of water buffalo. There were no street lights, and cool air came off the river in little refreshing gusts, so that I kept my hands in my pockets as we spoke about constellations and the Egyptian Army. I learned some new Arabic words and wondered what his friends would be like.

The next hour or so, was pretty uneventful. I met his friends and we did, indeed, watch an old wedding video. The video player was in frightfully bad shape, and there was a constant line of fuzz through the middle of the TV. Like some sort of equator made of vicious static. Ah, the joys of VHS.

Another Wedding…Sort of

Then, Ahmed sort of cleared his throat, and said:

“There’s a wedding down the way, you wanna go?”

I asked whose wedding, and he said that it was one of his friend’s relatives who was tying the knot. The wedding was in the neighboring town.

I thought, hesitantly;

“Hmm, were about to go crash a wedding.”

(For those who don’t know, “crashing a wedding” is an American term. It just means showing up to a wedding unexpected, or uninvited—it is not considered a polite thing to do)

Apparently though, the party was being held along a closed off street, and was open to people who any sort of relative already there. It turned out that my friends knew half the people there, and so, by extension we were alright.

We took off down some lean back streets, following the sounds of the wedding. To be specific: loud, loud music, the sounds of many people talking and automatic weapon fire. I began to walk a little quicker through the alley that we were in. I could see colored lights up ahead, and knew were very close…

Pure Nostalgia

You know how, when, you catch a whiff of that certain perfume, or hear a bit of that certain song, or taste a certain food, how, very often, a flood of memories and feelings come rushing at you from some hazy corner of the past? Well, veritable tidal waves of de ja vous, and some other weird hard-to-place emotions began to well up inside of me. If I were an ex-soldier, the gunshots would probably would have brought on some intense PTSD. I am not an ex soldier.

My pulse quickened. Out of excitement.

I’m not crazy… It’s just that I spent two very formative years of my childhood in the beautiful country of Yemen. Yemen is the Wild West of the Middle East. It wasn’t an exceedingly violent place when I lived there. For instance I can confidently say that it was at least ten times safer than South Tucson. But, there were a lot of guns. Therefore, hearing an AK-47 let loose and doing it’s thing was pure nostalgia.

Formative years

We emerged onto a long, narrow, brightly-lit street. I estimate that there were about sixty tables of men just sitting, happily chatting and drinking tea. The street was hemmed in on one side by tall houses, and on the other side were some fields.

At one end of the street was a stage that had been set up. There was a band playing traditional music and a singer who was passionately belting out local favorites. There was a group of people dancing near the stage area, but not nearly as much as the last wedding. I wondered why.

I asked Ahmed,

“Where are the bride and groom?”

He said that they had just left, but that people would stay for another hour or so to socialize. We wandered between tables shaking people’s hands who knew my friends, and eventually found a few free chairs and a table that was vacant.

We sat listening to the music, and every now and then turned around when the gun was being fired. Someone would pop a few rounds off in semi-auto, and then pass the rifle to someone else who would finish the clip with a rat-tat-tat-ata into the cool night air out over the field. Then, someone with a pistol would slowly walk to the “firing area” and pa-pa-pa out over the field went his slugs. Sometimes the guy with the AK-47 would shoot in rhythm with a song. Ta-tata-ta-tata-ta-tata. Neat little salvos in ¾.

After a little we’d only turn and look occasionally. At one point though, there was a huge “Boom!” Some guy had busted out the family blunderbuss. It was pretty comical.

The Good Stuff

We ordered tea, and with it peanuts, and some sort of legume which was wet and had to be sucked fee of its skin. We were sitting and snacking, when one of the guys pulled out a little black square of hashish.

He handed it to me and I rubbed it back and forth between my fingers. It was soft and pliable. Sort of like glue tack. It smelled sweet and spicy and left my fingers a little sticky. Good stuff. He said,

“Mr. Will, you want to smoke with us?”

Before I go on let me make clear a few things. I had been led to believe by various guidebooks that though once prevalent and smoked publicly, hashish is now highly illegal in Egypt and might only be found in seedy back alleys. This is only half true. I have seen old men openly sprinkle hashish onto their sheesha (molassas tobacco, which is smoked in waterpipes, hookas, hubbly bubblies whatever you want to call them) in very public areas, and have smelled it wafting through the air when walking down the street.

This being said, hashish is illegal, and can be a HUGE problem if someone wishes to make trouble for you. It is an especially bad idea for foreigners to smoke in Egypt. Your embassy cannot help you get out of Egyptian jail is you are convicted. There are many, many expats who indulge, but are running, in my opinion, an unnecessary risk.

Also, let me add that by no means do I wish to characterize Egyptians as potheads. They are not anything of the sort. Some Egyptians smoke, some do only occasionally, some look down on it with vehemence. Sort of like alcohol consumption is viewed in the United States. There were other people smoking at the wedding, but by no means were all, or even most of them. It was tolerated though.

One more thing before I exit this side-screed. It may be hard for some people to imagine, but the atmosphere at the wedding, in general, was like any other wedding. It was a group of people hanging out with family, eating and generally having a good time. There was no alcohol, and so there was a wonderful absence of sloppy drunks.

And so, I politely refused, saying,

“No, but thank you.”

“Are you sure?” He said with some surprise.

“Yes, thank you”

He tried assuring me,

“Don’t worry William, it is normal!”

To which I smiled and said:

“Yes, I can see!”

“But why not then?”

“I told my Father I wouldn’t, because it could create big problems.” (Since I am staying with my folks, they could possibly be deported and suffer other repercussions of my actions)

He nodded. This had struck a chord. In Egypt, family is inviolable. You must respect your father. He looked thoughtful for a second. Then, he gave me a gracious pat on the back and grinned,

“Ah, yes. If you told your Father, then of course you cannot.”

An early morning detour

And so, they smoked, and we all drank tea and talked and joked until people began to slowly leave the area. The music was turned down, the guys with the guns had stopped firing, and it started to become quiet. Quiet, except for a faint ringing in my ears …

I had been taking down vocabulary notes on a little piece of paper all evening, and had accrued quite a few new words. It had been a successful outing.

I was getting tired and so I asked if one of them could show me how to get back to the highway. We walked back through the (now quiet) streets until we got to the busy road.

There, once again, my fare was paid for, and one of the guys jumped in the bus to make sure that I would end up in the right place to catch the next bus which would eventually take me home. He just talked and talked, and I nodded my head only catching about a third of what he was saying. We finally got off at a busy intersection in Giza.

My buddy insisted that I let him buy me a late night snack before I left. Understandably, he was feeling a little peckish, and knew just the underpass to get some good Egyptian munchies. We walked down under a bridge, where in the middle of a roundabout, there was a food stand surrounded by people grabbing late night bites.

We sat and ate next to the road, and then I left, feeling a good kind of tired and a satisfied kind of full.

Micro Bus

The cool Faluka Picture is from a website katiecooney.com Check it out if you wanna see pics from Egypt and Jordan. The microbus pic is from somewhere else. I probably wont get sued over it.