THE CAIRO BAZAAR

The Cairo Bazaar stretches over several city blocks, bordered by cafes, tea houses, bakeries, mosques, restaurants and open plazas.  The Bazaar is a grid of open air narrow lanes, lined with countless tiny shops no different from the shops that would have been near the Roman Forum of the 200s or at Delphi in Greece in 400 BC.  These shops are not just family businesses but social hang outs, meeting spots for friends.  None is what could be called a ‘boutique’, no Prada or Gucci here, just everyday, basic, usable items.  That is, except for the souvenir shops.  After all, when the profit margin on a tshirt emblazoned with ‘I Heart Egypt’ is 200%, sell as many as possible.  If the message doesn’t get the customers, the facsimile of the Sphinx on the back will seal the deal.  

 

The stalls are filled chock-a-block with goods.  From the spice shops drift the odors of cinnamon, saffron, bergamot, cumin, cardamom, curry, lemongrass, turmeric and sage, nestled in small bins.  The shopkeeper lifts the lid, the customer smells, says how much she wants and the shop owner pours it into a small bag.  At a store further along, fine leather moccasins, slippers and sandals dangle from hooks.  A Coca Cola machine hums on the corner.  Signs are in English but the conversations are in Egyptian.  Nearby, silver incense burners, brass and glass hookahs, ceramic samovars with inlaid stones, all with intricate designs carved into them, are displayed so close in the tiny 9 x 12 foot stalls that if you move one, 5 would topple over.  Hanging over the lanes are rectangular cloths spread like awnings to shadow the shoppers below from the blazing sun.  Women’s apparel, even lacy bikinis and lingerie shops, are tended by women in full length black burkas, while local men in tight t-shirts and and jeans stroll past.  Flat brass plates 2 feet across with intricate Arabic designs are crammed next to brass chess sets and brass mugs, candle holders and copper tea pots.  Tea, not coffee, is the drink of the local Egyptians. Young men meander by, jostling fat, gourd-shaped jugs of water on their shoulders as others kneel in the plaza on their rugs when the call for prayer squawks from the mosques’s minarets. The floors of the shops are marble and spotless, much like the clean concrete lanes outside, not a cigarette butt or candy wrapper in sight.  Men sweep the tiny lanes from one end to the other all day long.  Phone wires and electrical cords overhead form a spider’s web of designs, evading extra telephone and electrical charges by tapping directly into switch boxes.  Knots of local families amble along the lanes, buying spices, sandals and dried figs, edibles and everyday items, no pyramid shaped key rings, no Sphinx beer bottle opener. A teenager spins his bike down the street, dodging pedestrians, rickshaws, carriages and cars, balancing on his left hand a 3 x 4 foot tray of steaming pita, while steering with the right hand.  

Missing was the Hollywood version.  No thieves wielding machetes, running to escape the hero of Raiders of the Lost Ark, no smoky eyed Marlene Dietrich having her cigarette lit by Peter Lorre in a swank hotel, no pot of gold hidden in a hookah.  

I bought some saffron and a small bag of dates and strolled back toward the main plaza, enjoying the hodge podge and energy of life here, the smells of the spices, the tanginess of new leather, and found a quiet cafe on the edge of the Bazaar and sat under the green and red umbrellas.  The cafe looked out over the plaza and the deep green palm trees beyond.  I ordered and the waiter brought me a gleaming copper cylindrical pot filled with black bergamot Egyptian tea, the fragrance like perfume, heady, like a summer’s day.  Excellent with the dates.



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Mike Ross

HELLO! I am Mike Ross Of MIKE ROSS TRAVELS. I have been a professional tour guide since 1982 and a secondary and post-secondary educator since 1971. I’ve taught in the Jackson Public Schools, at Eastern Michigan University, Jackson Community College and Michigan State University.

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