Heliopolis, Egypt | September 25, 2003

Cairo

Late last night, after almost twenty hours of travel, I arrived in Cairo. I was met just outside of customs by W.’s assistant, H., who then whisked me off to the duty-free shop to buy a box of smokes and the three bottles of gin W. wanted. Late as it was (nearly midnight), H. decided that it would be best to stay the night in H.B. and W.’s apartment in Heliopolis. On the way, we stopped at a small food stand just down from the apartment. H. told me (twice) what it was I was eating, but I forgot. It was seasoned meat wrapped in pita bread. Naturally, I lay awake most of the first night, even though H. had given me the best pillow and the divan to sleep on. The next morning H. awoke to find his taxi had a flat tire, so I went in search of a broad-spectrum antibiotic and bottled water. I was especially pleased with my Cipro purchase--20 tablets over-the-counter for just 40LE. In the U.S. it's $10 a pill and a prescription is required. The flat tire didn't throw off our plans, since we had to wait until later in the day to drive because H.'s taxi is only licensed to be driven in Fayum.

The main dirt road leading into Tunis (dig house to the left).

Tunis, Egypt

Being in Egypt once more, I'm reminded that this is a country of smells. In many ways, nothing more is more descriptive than smell, and Egypt has many--some I can't identify, and some I don't want to identify.

The two hour drive from Cairo to the Fayum with H. was—er, well. Let me just say that I’ve never felt closer to God than when riding in Egyptian traffic. They say there are no atheists in foxholes. I say there are no atheists in Egyptian taxi cabs. I can’t recount how many vehicles and/or persons we came within a hair’s breadth of plowing into. Suffice it to say it was a good thing my mouth was full of food most of the way, otherwise I might have let fly any number of the expletives floating around in my brain. There was a downside to the food, however. Egyptian food is not bland by any reckoning--it's full of a variety of spices and new flavors that, under the right circumstances, can assault a bland American palette like mine. H. bought us a lunch of four sandwiches from a street food cart: two pita bread pockets stuffed with falafel, tomato, and lettuce. I actually kind of like fava beans, so I ate one of those sandwiches. I was fine until H. insisted I take the last falafel sandwich. It was a sweet gesture, but let's put it this way: The speeding and halting and swerving nature of Cairo traffic and a stomach full of water does not make for a good dining environment--especially if you're not used to all of those bold Mediterranean flavors. The themepark-style car ride, plus the noxious exhaust gas fumes blowing in through the open windows made me wonder if I was going to toss my cookies right there in the front seat of H.'s beloved Peugeot. 

Fortunately I did not. At one point H. looked out his window for a moment and I flung the half-eaten falafel out the window. I'm not sure, but I think a beaned a wandering donkey with it. It all worked out--I didn't get sick, and H. didn't think I was rude for refusing to eat any more falafel.

We arrived at the dig house in Tunis around sunset. Tunis is a very small, sleepy little village that sits near the shore of Lake Quran. The UCLA dig house is actually very well equipped for being located in rural Egypt.  It’s rooms are all used for particular areas of research and storage. There’s the pottery room, the computer room (complete with a modem connection slower than Cumberland County's dial-up internet), general artifact storage room, etc. Even better, it has a bathroom and shower--such amenities can't always be assumed in Egypt. Sure, the shower head comes straight down from the ceiling and hangs partially over the toilet, but it’s there. The crew sleeps in desert tents, all of which are equipped with an electric light. There’s also a cooking tent and a mess tent. All in all, it’s a very satisfactory set up. I met the rest of the crew over gin and tonics, which we had while lounging on the roof of the house. I only just met everyone, but they all seem amiable and enthusiastic. (Famous last words?) I am the only American, and the only one who doesn’t speak fluent Arabic. So, as W. told me, when English is being spoken, it is for my benefit. Kind of a rude comment, I thought, but then the Dutch aren't known for their tact and good social skills. For dinner we had something I liked. I was going to ask what all was in it, until M. told me it was called bird tongue soup. An unappealing name, but I'm pretty sure the "bird tongues" were just pasta.