There’s Order in Chaos

We’d visited a number of mosques while in Egypt, some were stark and medieval, while others were beautiful beyond compare. None were as beautiful as the Mosque of Mohammad Ali. Perched on the summit of the Citadel, its twin minarets and the silhouette of its central dome surrounded by four small and four semicircular domes, the mosque can be seen from all points of the city. Regardless how impressive its exterior may seem, its interior is stunning to behold.

The interior is forty meters square, an enormous span by any comparison, made larger still by the two levels of domes that rise up into the heavens on four arches, those in turn supported by colossal pillars. There are four semicircular domes around the central dome, all painted and embellished with motifs in relief. The pillars and walls are covered with alabaster up to eleven meters high. Vast conical chandeliers hang deceptively close to the red rugs that overlap one another from wall to wall, the lights suspended on chains anchored in the dome high overhead, with further concentric rings of lights stepping out from them, they too hanging from that high height. The domes are a marvel, emerald and sculptured with an array of rosettes, disks of calligraphy at each of the arches. Words can’t do it justice.

Collecting our shoes, we departed for our final stop, the Khan el-Khalili, the oldest market in the world. Ushered through the domed Bab al-Ghuri gate, the market is as tight and confined as the mosque was open and spacious. From the start, we’re gestured to, the merchants bursting forth, displaying their wares in hand with abandon, their cries overlapping one another, the scent of their incense noisome in its abundance. Chandelier shops blaze with an intensity that the sun lacks, the buildings so close together that they all but shut out its light except at noon when directly overhead. All manner of wares spilled out into the narrow paths, the displays a menagerie of this and that: brass bowls and hand-blown glass, tin and iron works, hookah pipes gleaming and glowing of gold and silver and coloured glass, rivalling the costume jewelry sparkling next to them. Wicker baskets were piled high, defying gravity. Leathers shoes, leather belts, leather bags. Rugs rolled and piled higher than houses. Clay pots. Beads. Necklaces. There were more Egyptian burial masks and statuary than could have stocked all the tombs combined, a lot of it crafted in China. Fallahs lingered over tea. A man walked by bearing a wide try upon his head, its width piled high with loaves of unleavened bread. It was a riot of sight and scent and sound.

I was on a mission. I was seeking that aforementioned mother-of-pearl chessboard, evocative yet transportable statuary, something that screamed at me. I ignored the merchants that did just so, aware that the hard sell was on, and that the wares were overpriced, and painfully aware that my ability to haggle was limited at best, nonexistent at worst. Our Contiki host knew what I was looking for, we’d discussed it a couple times as I browsed what shops we’d already visited, enlisting his and their eyes to help mine, he always remarking, “Not to worry, mate; you can find anything in the Khan el-Khalili.” Everything except a mother-of-pearl chessboard, that is. I saw some lovely stonework examples, but they were far too heavy to carry, too expensive by weight to ship. I saw others of intricate inlays that called out to me, but upon seeing the price, was instantly put off. I tried quartering the price, but the merchants were so put out by my offer I thought I was to be chased from their kiosk. Maybe that was part of the negotiation, because they never did; but even when I increased my offer by half again, they still stood firm on their price.

I decided to take a little break before returning to my horrible haggling, seeking out a tea shop at the edge of a sunlit plaza, finding our host stretched out in a wicker chair, a pot before him.

“Didn’t find your chessboard?” he asked.

“Not yet,” I said, sitting. A tea menu was thrust in front of me as my bum touched the wicker. I ordered a pot of green tea, one recommended by our host.

Before long I had to go to the toilet.

“Can it wait?” our host asked.

“Not really,” I said.

Our host called the owner of the shop over. He said I could use the washroom but it would cost me two Egyptian pounds. I agreed to his terms. Two Egyptian pounds was a trifling amount. The owner made a gesture and our waitress, his daughter, approached and was soon guiding me away from the café. There was no toilet at the café, I was surprised to discover; there ought to have been, to my mind, they were serving fluids, after all. Not to worry, I was told; it was close by. Close by? Within minutes I found myself hopelessly lost within the maze of the market, taking turns that seemed to overlap in twisted circles until she gestured for me to climb an impossibly narrow and steep stair, ending in a concrete platform and plywood door. I entered what I imagined was their apartment, a fairly spacious space that was almost devoid of furniture. What furniture there was had been piled into a corner. Children played on a rug in the center of the room while the adults, all women, wrestled with mounds of white linen, all of it wet, all of it destined for a wringer. There was a huge basin opposite the children and furniture, a green rubber hoses coiled and piled in twists around the basin. My guide explained my presence, I paid the aged matron my two E. pounds, and I was directed to a tiny space in the corner, a plywood privacy construct, where the half-high plywood plank that served as the door tapped the toilet when opened. Thankfully, I only had to pee. Had I to do the other business, I’m not sure I could have managed it.
Did I buy my chessboard? No. I did manage to buy a little sphynx statuette in the market shortly before we were herded back to the bus, nothing more.

And with that, our Nile tour was complete. We were on our own, left to fill what remained of our time in-country as we saw fit. That wasn’t long for some. They had to leave right away. There were heartfelt goodbyes to those I’d never see again and the first of us made their way to the airport, destined for California and a bookmark of memory.

For those of us who were departing the next day, there was supper to be had. We looked at the Mena House menu, declaring it beyond our means, asking the desk about options. He suggested TGI Fridays. I’d never heard of it.

“I love Fridays,” one of the girls said. It’s a chain, she said.

I was hungry, so I agreed.

We caught a cab, spilling out at its entrance by the river, six lanes on traffic in front of it. It was typical roadhouse fare, not good, not bad. The ambiance was typically American, something that thrilled the Americans, if not Derik and Jackie and I. A couple beers later, we didn’t mind, either.

We hailed a cab when done. And waited for the traffic to thin out so that we could be on our way. Suddenly, our driver peeled out and crossed not only the three lanes between us and the direction we were aiming for, but two more lanes once we were through the gap in the meridian and headed back in the right direction. We spun around so fast we were all pressed into the same door, too stunned at the prospect of the expected impact to holler or scream.

“Well,” Jackie said once our heart rates had settled back to normal, “that was almost worth the price of admission.”

We laughed. At that moment, nothing could have been funnier.