Warming Up to Cairo

Though stooped and shaky, the merchant Solimel tunnels us through the dizzying maze of shops and tents known as the Arab world’s largest market, Khan al Khalili. He slows only to dip his gnarled fingers into bins of crimson hibiscus or golden saffron, or to offer us rocks of mythic myrrh, scoops of natural black pumice, handfuls of earthy henna.

Entranced and amused, we reach his ramshackle wooden table in a corner of the perfume bazaar.

“Black as night, hot as hell and sweet as love--that’s the way we Egyptians like our tea,” Solimel purrs, handing us glasses of the scalding brew. (Like almost everyone we meet who deals with tourists, he speaks excellent English.)

My husband, Jeff, and I pretend to sip politely while Solimel fusses around his table. He assures us that his perfumes are only the purest essence, guaranteed to last through many days and as many baths.

Even our children, Aaron, 10, and Hannah, 8, extend their arms for samples. Besides ambergris, an essence that is supposedly exported to France as a base for Poison, Solimel massages us with “deer gland extract, better known as musk,” which he says is one of the five secret ingredients behind Chanel No. 5.

Sweet perfumed oils seep into every pore of our arms and hands until our olfactory glands surrender. We snatch up 2 ounces of the essence du jour for a mere 60 Egyptian pounds (about $18) and bid Solimel goodbye.

It’s only the second of our four days in Cairo, but we already have the hang of appreciating this chaotic city of 7 million: You just go with it, get past the 20th century antipathies--stifling pollution, incessant car honking and pressing crowds--and allow yourself to fall under the spell of the ancient surviving the modern. Scrawny goats bleat in a dusty marketplace where cassette tapes blare pop music. A horse-drawn cart laden with melons and pitas jockeys for road space against a gas-guzzling truck. One of the best views of the pyramids at Giza is from inside the local Pizza Hut.

It was the pyramids and the noble Sphinx that brought us here, but it is the warmth of the Egyptian people that promises our return.

Tourism plummeted after the massacre of 68 tourists by terrorists in 1997, and Cairenes are eager to restore their image. Men in flowing robes greet us with “Welcome to Cairo.” Shopkeepers call to us, “Where are you from?” Their children stare wide-eyed at ours while parents smile widely and tell of brothers or cousins who live in America. It feels genuine, this warmth, and not at all related to what they may have heard about the economy that week.

But smiles and goodwill cannot hide a dirty bathroom, unwashed sheets and towels, and an empty toilet paper roll--all of which greet us after a long day of travel. The guidebooks and Internet had called the New Star Hotel appealing and a splurge at $40 a night--a month’s wages in Cairo. If this was a “deluxe suite,” what was a standard room like?

It was after midnight when we arrived, much too late to do anything but lie in the stifling heat, fully clothed on top of suspect bedspreads, next to an air-conditioner spewing fumes. It wasn’t until the sun came up and the fear of death from dehydration had passed that I truly appreciated the joys of travel; survival is not the least of them.

Suspending my preference for backdoor travel--you get to know “the real people”--we checked in to the nearby Marriott at 8 o’clock the next morning. I suppose rich Egyptians are no less real than ordinary ones.

The Marriott leases this former palace, built for Empress Eugenie of France on her visit for the opening of the Suez Canal in 1869. It has an enormous pool set in lush gardens, hot tubs, upscale boutiques, a casino and five restaurants--in short, everything I had wanted to avoid. Even so, five-star travel has some perks that are priceless. We are treated to a parade of Islamic leaders in elaborate robes and jeweled turbans en route to meetings while their wives sit poolside, fully clothed and diamond-studded, as their glossy-haired children swim in long-sleeved spandex for modesty.

Our first stop is the Egyptian Museum, because if there’s one thing American children want to see, it’s mummies, and they are not disappointed. But equal billing goes to the treasure uncovered in the tomb of Tutankhamen, who reigned in the 14th century BC. We endure the crush of live bodies to see the centerpiece, the brilliant gold mask that depicts the actual features of the young ruler in hope that his soul would be recognized in the afterlife.

In one room we study the animal mummies: an ibis, an eagle and the stiff form of a dog found in a tomb in the Valley of the Kings. But it’s the monkey we fall in love with, a beloved pet whose tiny fingernails and face are preserved so well it would surprise no one if he swung down from the pedestal.

Outside, two women in traditional head coverings request that their picture be snapped with Aaron and Hannah. The women giggle and thank them with a kiss. The children don’t mind; all the attention, they know, comes with being different.

That afternoon we take a taxi to the Mosque of Ibn Tulun, which we chose because it looked important on the map.

(Taxis are ubiquitous in Cairo, and inexpensive--if you have an idea of what a given trip should cost because they don’t use meters. Ask at your hotel, or follow the advice of a current guidebook. Try to have the right amount for the fare to avoid an argument over change.)

At the mosque, four robed men lounging at the doorway take our shoes and cover my daughter and me with green nylon capes. Hannah likes the coverall; earlier, she worried about her short dress--that she might be arrested.

The four of us walk aimlessly through the carpeted anterooms, sidestepping young men poring over books and many older men curled up in sleep. A few women swathed in scarves and robes tiptoe through an outer corridor to their own prayer room. We begin to understand the attraction of a Cairene mosque--a very cool, dark place to rest and escape the midday heat. And pray, of course.

A toothless, hobbling figure points us to a screened alcove at the rear of the cavernous mosque. He motions us to step inside. The children obey, mouths agape a la Hansel and Gretel. Baksheesh (a tip) will uncover the blanketed tomb of some venerated figure. We oblige, but still no unveiling. Wise to this game, we return to the entrance for our shoes. Aaron is relieved to see his Reeboks, which are, he is sure, coveted the world over. The sneakers-minder takes his baksheesh, and we are off.

In garbage-strewn alleys that double as playgrounds, barefoot boys race bikes around us, begging for dollars. Younger boys with stumps instead of arms study us. Glassy-eyed old men smoke their water pipes, and wrinkled women sit cross-legged behind bubbling skillets frying chickpea balls for lunch. American boy holds Mom’s hand a little tighter.

Dinner is at Felfela in downtown Cairo, where we feast on Egyptian fare. It is popular with tourists, but that’s not a negative in this case. There is fuul, a melange of mashed fava beans and tomatoes, and kofta, spicy ground meat grilled around a skewer, as well as grape leaves stuffed with rice, lamb and chicken kebabs, baba ghanoug (mashed, spiced eggplant) and tahina, a sesame seed puree, all served with plenty of soft pita bread. The children especially like scooping up dips with pita.

Over tea and coffee, Jeffrey and I decide to sample a water pipe. The waiter brings the glass bowl containing water and lights the small wad of tobacco resting on top. The smoker draws on the attached tube, and the smoke, filtered down through the water, comes through the tube and is inhaled. The nicotine is mild because of the filtering, and the smoke tastes of the sweetener--molasses and apple juice are popular here--that the tobacco has been soaked in. We each--kids included--have a puff and write it off to cultural experience.

Dessert is candied coconut and mango bought from vendors on our stroll back to the hotel.

Darkness creeps over Cairo now, and a coolness follows, but the sounds of the city only swell.

The walk is enjoyable, and we feel safe, even at night.

The next morning we choose one lucky fellow from the pleading taxi drivers to take us to the Khan al Khalili market. He drives like a madman, honking the horn several hundred times in the 15-minute ride instead of using his brakes (if they exist).

This is where Solimel (“not Solomon, and certainly not a wise man” is his introduction) attaches himself to us.

Afterward, we walk in a daze through aisles and canopied lanes piled with brilliant silks, gold jewelry, appliqued pillows, brass and copper plates. It is so overwhelming in variety and numbers that we make only a few purchases. And because every price is negotiable, the bargaining quickly exhausts us.

Dusty, barefoot, doe-eyed children are everywhere in the bazaar, and as we leave, one of them approaches me. I’ve just bought a sack of fresh baguettes and I hand one to him, expecting to be rebuffed and asked for baksheesh instead. But the boy appears delighted and shortly reappears with several friends. We empty the brown bag, and as our taxi pulls away, I see the smallest, saddest child grabbing hungrily for a piece of the bread. His face stays with me, a souvenir that isn’t exactly duty-free.

We had saved the Great Pyramids and the Sphinx at Giza for a Monday when the evening light show is in English.

Ever since I carved a sphinx out of a bar of Ivory soap in Sister Theresa Gertrude’s third-grade class, I’ve been enthralled with this half-man, half-beast that sits so proudly among the pyramids. The reality doesn’t disappoint. The massive feline body fairly roars with strength, but its human face is almost sweet in regal repose. Though I don’t feel 8 years old again, I do feel small, not to mention insignificant.

The army of souvenir hawkers and camel drivers on the pyramid plateau is formidable, and our best defense proves to be silence. We are learning that polite spoken refusals only encourage more sales pitches.

Friends had said their camel ride here was such a highlight that they made it their Christmas card photo. In the photo, they were smiling. Thus convinced, we board the beasts for a five-minute ride that rates up there with a swim in the Nile (novel, but hazardous to one’s health). But we do have our Christmas photo; a grimace is nearly indistinguishable from a smile in the harsh light.

Sunburned, bruised and thoroughly whipped by the enormity of the mighty pyramids, we skip the light show and step into a waiting taxi. Would we like to tour “the ‘real’ papyrus museum?” Be strong.

By now I am hungry, and I want to eat where “real” Egyptians eat. Zamalek restaurant is a tiny grill only a block from the Marriott, with a few tables upstairs. Instead of choosing from a menu, you ask for what you want. We order tahina, kofta, kebabs, chicken shwarma and bottled soft drinks. The selection of hot entrees and fluffy pitas arrives within minutes.

After our $10 dinner for four we walk just around the corner to check out the Mayfair, a tiny hotel with soaring ceilings and a sultry covered terrace where breakfast is served. The newly painted rooms are bare-bones but clean, and the charge is $20 for a triple. It’s tempting. But the Marriott has air-conditioning and pools and ice machines, and this being June in Cairo, the heat is topping 100 degrees (but no humidity).

A felucca ride down the Nile is a must for any visitor to Cairo. So on our final morning we walk along the riverfront boulevard--the mangy stray dogs keep the kids moving fast--to Tahrir Bridge, where several feluccas are berthed. We talk two men into giving us a ride but wind up in a motorized “excursion boat.”

It’s a 45-minute ride up and down a shoreline where English colonial mansions sit, ghostly with broken windows and overgrown gardens.

Here the Nile doesn’t look much different from any watery stretch through a big city, with its floating restaurants and shore-front high-rises. But--I have to pinch myself--it is the Nile, great African river of historic proportions, its imagery illuminating Western imaginations from the Bible to Agatha Christie. And today, as in the beginning of recorded time, the lifeblood of a proud and marvelously warm people. The felucca’s skippers even offer us one of what they’re rolling. Whatever it is, we don’t inhale.

As our plane lifts off from Cairo, we try to get the children’s impressions down before they fade:

The Egyptians were the best at making mummies, but Americans are best at making movies about mummies.

The pyramids are awesome, even if they aren’t in the middle of the desert.

Water-pipe smoking looks cooler than it tastes.

The essence of perfume doesn’t last through even one bath.

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GUIDEBOOK

Cairo Up Close

Getting there: From LAX there is connecting service to Cairo on TWA, Swissair, Lufthansa and British Airways. Fares begin at $999.

Where to stay: In Cairo, price is not always indicative of quality. Try the Internet: https://www.europatravel.net/egypt/city/cairo.htm or https://www.lonelyplanet.com for current, honest hotel assessments.

Book upper-end hotels through their chains’ toll-free numbers, or try for deals on-site.

The Cairo Nile Hilton, telephone 011-20-2-578- 0444, fax 011-20-2-578- 0475, offered us a double room listed at $205 for $115 plus 19% tax. For a room with two double beds at the Cairo Marriott, tel. 011-20-2-340-8888, fax 011-20-2-340-8240, we paid $95, about half list price.

For more information: Egyptian Tourist Authority, 8383 Wilshire Blvd., Beverly Hills, CA 90211; tel. (323) 653-8815, fax (323) 653-8961, Internet https://www.touregypt.net.

A Side Trip From Cairo

* Searching for Nile crocodiles on Lake Nasser, L16.