Pizza Hut dominates the corner, gorged with tourists who munch and shovel and spill and laugh. The dust is stirred in the air by heavy traffic. Dented green Military Police trucks are lined up out front, soldiers bristling with non-standard firearms. Coca-Cola dominates the skyline, and Pepsi subsidiaries are frequent targets of terrorism. Long, knobby fingers yank open doors of passing taxi cabs.
“Hello, how are you? Where are you from? Welcome to Alaska! US very good. I have a friend in Pennsylvania. I have a friend Oklahoma. I have a friend in Virginia. He visits me twice a year. Would you like to see my shop? I give you very good price. I give you Egyptian price. Everything 20% off. Everything 10 pounds. Everything 5 pounds. Everything free. Would you like scarf? I give you money to look in my shop. Would you like scarf? I give you good price. Would you like scarf? I give you Egyptian price. How can I help you spend your money? You want silver? How can I take your money? You want scarab? How can I take all of your money? I give you good price. I give you Egyptian price. You want scarf? You want necklace? For you, I give you good price. 30 pounds now, 80 you come back. Lucky man! Lucky man, come here! Madaam, just one minute! Just one minute please! Madaam, look in my shop. You are breaking my heart. I give you very good price. Just one minute, pleeease! You are breaking my heart. Silver by the gram. I give you very good price. Just for you, I give you Egyptian price.”
Lights flash, hands wave, shop keepers block your way, herding tourists like cattle through cramped alleys stuffed with people and trinkets. Shark smiles spit words that don’t register in the dull roar. This is the temple of the hard sell.
“I give you very good price. I give you Egyptian price.”
Tourists keep heads low. Wives are devoured before terrified husbands. The jackyls smell sick and dying and loose pocketbook strings. Pay for the show. Prices are cheap even when jacked through the roof. The same resin statues in every window: pharaohs, mummies, Ankhs, pyramids, cats, baboons, falcons, jackyls, camels, horses, dancing girls, and palm trees, imported from a manufacturer in the US. Dumbfounded tourists hold out wallets to help them stumble through conversations. Hand-made necklaces repeat to infinity. Each is unique. When a scarf is too much, the next shop will take 5 pounds off. The fourth shop offers the same for half the pennies you paid, but you still feel ripped off.
The sheesha district surrounds the mosques. Rows and rows of water pipes lined up with owners smoking hashish in the doorways. They don’t hassle. If you want it, you will come. The mosques are lit up red and green on the yellow sandstone against the ocean blue night. Japanese tourists pose on the steps in the strobe of camera fire. License to sell is a license to touch.
“You like sheesha? We have sheesha. I have many colors glass. Look here this. And look here this. This very good. And look here this one. I give you welcome drink? Milk and sugar? No no, listen, this is free. I show you sheesha. This very special. You like this? Very old, very good. I have many different glass. Many colors. You smoke tobacco or... What kind you like. Sit! Sit! Drink your tea. Madaam please, I do not charge you. The man, he coughs, he does not smoke? He is healthy. Very good. You look, see this? This no good. This cheap. Watch this. This, no burn. See this, this burn. This no burn. This burn. I show you again. This burn. Spanish? Spanish no care: ‘uno, uno, uno!’ You don’t want this, you want quality. How much you want to pay for this sheesha? One hundred pounds? Madaam please, this sheesha very special. Very old. No, no, sit, enjoy tea, enjoy sheesha. That, maybe 100 pounds, but this sheesha very special. I give you good price, Egyptian price: 800 pounds. Madaam, I can not go so low as 500. I can do 650, but you must make promise. This not my shop. I just work here. I sell you for 650, but you must give me gift. Anything, so I may tell my family of America. Come, I will show you to a cash machine.”
Barely two steps from the ATM, a smiling Nubian in a sweater and leather jacket is seated on a low wall curving around a mosque. He stands, hand extended to shake.
“Are you British? Australian? Froncies? We don’t see many Americans here. You like mosque? No one live here, only ghosts. Do you know whose this house? This was once house of Jean Paul Chompollion. Do you know who he was? He was first archeologist. He discovered the Rosetta Stone. You see, he was so important they named this street after him. My name is Shariff, Professor Shariff. I work in Egyptian Antiquities Museum in the animal room. We have cat and dog and baboon and horse and cow. If you come to the museum tomorrow, I can show you the animal I excavated. It was a 25 foot crocodile with a baby crocodile mummified in its jaws. Did you know the crocodile often carries babies in her jaws? The ancient Egyptians knew this too. If you’d like to tour this mosque, I can show you some pictures of my crocodile. All right, if you come to museum, ask for Professor Shariff, in the animal room. They will probably let you in free.”
Lights dim past the mosques, directing you back in the carnival. There is nothing for the outsider on the outside. Street carts sell pasta and popcorn. Long-armed men pull toward restaurants called ‘MISSUNIVERSE,’ ‘No-Name Store,’ and ‘MAFIA.’ Song hangs in the air and a few shops have been converted for prayer. Men stand inside singing with their hands over their heart.
“Aaashanaweeahhh! Ubu am Allahhhhh-laaahhhhhhhhhh... Haulaauaaa! Ubu am Allahhh-laaahhhhhhhhhh..."
Women bicker and children pick their way through legs. A boy of 7 or 8 cuts in front offering a handful of beads on a string.
“This necklace 20 pounds. Only 20 pounds. I give you good price. Ten pounds. How many you want? One? Two? Three?”
He angrily shoves back a coin meant to see him off.
“No! Ten pounds! Ten pounds!”
He tries again on the return trip.
“How many you want? One? Two? Three? T-shirt? T-shirt? You want T-shirt? Which one you like? I give you good price. You like camel? You like hieroglyph? This shirt only 40 pounds. Good price. You like camel? This car-toosh. This say Egypt. This say Cairo. Good price. Only 35. 30? You break my heart. You want scarf? Like scarf? Twenty pounds. Egyyyptiaan cotton. Only 15. Okay 12. Okay, 10. Wait! Wait! Come back! Madaam! Madaam! Lucky man, come here. Spices! Spices! Saffron! Lotus! Madaam, smell this. You promised him you would come back. Welcome back! Welcome to Egypt. Welcome to Alaska. How much you want? What you look for? How can I help you spend your money? This real silver. I give you good price. I give you Egyptian price. Perfume is only two Egyptian Pounds. Here, smell this one, Lotus.”
A little old man resembling an olive Ernest Borgnine adjusts his pace. He smiles, and speaks in a gruff, Ernest Borgnine voice.
“Americans are very popular in Egypt, as Egyptians are no doubt popular in America. I’m sure you will find the Egyptians to be a very friendly people. Have you visited the Museum? And the pyramids? My brother works in American Embassy. He is married to a teacher from Berkeley. I was an engineer on the Aswan High Dam. Aswan very good. Aswan very nice. It so happens the restaurants are closed. If you would enjoy my hospitality maybe a few minutes, then we can find you something to eat. This way please, no pictures.”
He has a determined stride, leading down dark alleys and sidestreets, past bored soldiers leaning on guns. One-handed beggars with short-leg call for baksheesh. Merchants in traditional smocks rush to display their fruit. The old man walks on, until he diverts through a door down three steps from street level. The illuminated shelves are crammed with a rainbow of liquids in frosted glass jars. He offers the leather couches around his table. The trap is set. His only English is schpeal, practiced long hours in front of a mirror.
“This frankincense, no alcohol. French use alcohol in perfumes. Yes, you know. It dries out the skin. This, no alcohol. One application lasts for two days. Only two pound. This called ‘Secret of the Desert,’ but some people call it ‘Egyptian Viagra.’ This is my son, he will be showing you some exotic fragrances and oils.”
“Only two pound per gram. This ‘Queen Nefertiti’ no alcohol. French use alcohol in their perfumes. One application, two days. This called ‘Treasure of Sitamun,’ but some people call it ‘Egyptian Viagra.’ Woman use one drop at noon, and the man does not sleep all night. Yes, you rush back to hotel now. Do you have a mother? We have scents for grandmothers too. We have these bottles only two pounds per gram. This bottle, 60 grams, this bottle 80 grams. Buy these four and I give you this gift. Perfume in here, smell here. I give you good price. Only 100 pounds I give you Egyptian price.”
END
Photo by Anna Kovach
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