Slow

You can’t help but fall in love with West el Balad, downtown Cairo. It has always felt far more honest, encompassing and alive than the suburbs of the majestic city. The large boulevards and the busy sidewalks. The majestic buildings and the hidden courtyards. The large commerce and the tiny stalls. The old opera, the old stock market, the old cinemas and the good old Egyptians. Most importantly, the banks of the River Nile with the sailboats cruising back in forth with dreamers, lovers and groups of friends needing to escape the city through the veins that give it life. It’s loud and yet somehow forgotten. It hid in plain sight and gave way to high-walled gated suburbs and a new capital, but it refused to go away.  

Every time I visit, I’m overwhelmed with emotions. Anticipation, excitement and dread. From the moment I make my way to the airport and until I make it to West el Balad. For I only feel I’m back home once I make it there. It’s never on the first day that I go there, but I never let it drag for too long. I may have never lived in West el Balad, but I entrusted it with my love for my country. A love locked in a virtual safe somewhere between the boulevards and the side streets. The key stays with the remaining few friends who were more lucky than I ever was. The true dwellers of West el Balad. They are not only the custodians of said safe but also my guides in the wonderous maze that is West el Balad.

Afaf is one of those who escaped to the suburban gated communities. Much like myself, she preserved her love for the place by moving away. Maybe that’s why she’s my favorite West el Balad guide. Afaf was born and raised in West el Balad. Her family home, her school and her father’s office were there. She says she doesn’t remember it as well as she used to, I’m not sure I believe her. She certainly knows it far better than I ever will. I only need to ask for something odd and obscure, and then she takes me through a side road leading into a courtyard and over a hidden alley that feeds into the large boulevard where we aimed all along to be. A magical journey where we cross hidden universes to reach our destination.

It was a day in November when we were having one of our walks. I was tired and desperately craved a coffee to make sure I stayed awake. To my surprise, she didn’t have an immediate spot in mind. We had wandered too far as we searched for quiet streets. On our right is the mausoleum of Saad Zaghloul. An imposing building built in the architectural style of a pharaonic temple. In the midst of the chaos we found silence, as if the entire city decided to let the man rest in peace. It could have also been the time; it was rather late. We asked a passerby where we could have a coffee on the fly. “If you continue on this road, you will find a small street to your left. The fruit and vegetable market is there. At the end of the market, there is a local cafe.” 

Afaf knew the market but had never visited. It was out of her circle of comfort in West el Balad. We carried on walking. The odours welcomed us before we ventured into the small street fully occupied by small vendors and the occasional carts. A few carts bled into the main street, confirming we were at the right place. Trays and wicker baskets burst with every colour you can imagine of fresh fruits and vegetables. Our paces slowed down as our eyes wandered the market. On either side of the small street, stalls were neatly lined, one next to the other underneath the short buildings. Where a small space occurred, a cart or two occupied that space. What was left was a space barely enough for people to walk up and down the market.

Beautiful arrangements of fruit and vegetables. Apples and pears, oranges and dates, mangos and grapes. It was impossible to resist. I was surprised to see grapes and mangos in late November. I asked the seller how that came to happen? “They plant it in greenhouses, ya doctor.” I smiled because I’m not a doctor, but we Egyptians will honey-talk whatever comes our way. Because life is bitter as is, we instinctively understand that it needs us to sweeten it. Afaf and I started to pick the random fruit here and there. I picked two mangos and four pears for us. Afaf picked an apple. She knows I can’t stand that fruit. We took our little treasure and went to the stallkeeper to pay. 

“Are you Egyptians?” the seller asked me.

“Are you serious?” Afaf found the question absurd.

“I don’t mean to offend, ya doctor.”

“Why do you think we are not Egyptians?” I had to ask.

“I don’t know. You guys are kind of slow.”

Slow we were, he was right, but so was the market. It was late, after all. It’s true that other shoppers outpaced us, but we didn’t care. We were slow to enjoy the market. We knew too well we couldn’t enjoy it in the light of day. We were slow, hoping that this moment would stretch beyond the linearity of time. We were slow because our time in West el Balad that evening was coming to an end, and we were not ready to go back home. We were slow because maybe someone would see and slow down with us. We were slow because we enjoyed the privilege of not having to run or maybe the courage to refuse to run.

Then we slowly retraced our steps out of the market. We forgot all about the coffee. At the very top of the street was a cart with some dates left. I assumed the cart had been full, and the man behind the cart was waiting to sell the last of his dates before he went back home. He saw me eyeing his produce, and when we approached his cart, he handed us two dates to try. His hands were not particularly clean, and his produce wasn’t necessarily covered. We wiped the dates with our hands and tried them. Little bullets of sweet heaven they were, but my hands were full. I stood there solving a complex equation of how many fruits I had per day, how many days were left to stay, how many fruits I had on hand, and other questions only I could understand.

“Screw it, I’m buying dates,” I announced in defiance of all my newly acquired European shopping habits.

“How many kilos, Sir?” The seller said excitedly.

“Quarter a kilo, please,” I said confidently.

“You don’t need more time to consider?” He seemed less excited

“No, I’m certain.” 

We placed our fruits in the backseat and started our long journey back to Afaf’s leafy compound outside of Cairo. “You do remember true Egyptians don’t use fractions when it comes to fruits! The poor seller took your long contemplation as a sign you will buy the rest of the cart and the next harvest”. Afaf was right. I laughed at myself and sang Dr Seuss rhymes in my head as we drove back home.