You think you know...but you have no idea

My fans have been clamoring for an update, and I'll admit I've been remiss in keep the blog updated. The reason I haven't produced a new post lately is that I'm starting to feel that Cairo is too complicated to blog about. There is simply no way to adequately describe what it's like to live here; you have to experience it yourself to get the picture.

That said, if you want to keep in mind as you're reading the blog that this doesn't even begin to describe this place, then maybe I can keep you all updated.

So what's new in al-Qahira? Basically, lately I've been going to classes (Colloquial Arabic, Modern-Standard Arabic, Development, International Security, and Environmental Politics) and adjusting to how school works here. Classes here are much, much smaller than at Northwestern and attendance counts a lot because some of the Egyptian students have trouble with participation because of their limited English skills. Also, my non-arabic classes have become increasingly frustrating due to some of the worst lecturers I've ever had. I'm starting to realize just how good a school Northwestern is...

As for how the rest of my day goes, between classes I fight the hoards of perfumed, Gucci-clad AUC students who sit with legs stretched across the stairs on Greek Campus. After the first few days, I learned that the only way to get to classes in the social science building is to forcibly shove them aside or step on their bags and notebooks. This is just one of many examples of how living in Cairo forces you to dehumanize the people around you. Whether stereotyping the Egyptian AUC students as superficial, spoiled, and ignorant or shunning the filthy children who beg near the shuttle stop or ignoring the existence of men when you pass them on the street, what one does to get by in Cairo's social system can morph an empathetic and dynamic person into a deaf and blind shell.

More thoughts like these later. The hour of iftar (breakfast during Ramadan) approaches, and I must get some din.

Float like a butterfly

As it turned out, it was the apricots that did it.

It was not the shawarma or the greasy french fries or the koshary or the coffee, although it could have been any one of them. True, the shawarma and the koshary were both from reputable places, but there's always a risk with Egyptian food. And the coffee...well, for a while, I was convinced it was the coffee.

The day before, a friend and I had gone to Costa Coffee, an upscale chain with American prices. When we walked in, the manager told us we could sit upstairs as there was a "problem with the water" downstairs. Glancing over his shoulder, I noticed the entire downstairs of the shop was flooded, and I thought to myself it must be somehow related to the flooding we'd just passed on a nearby sidestreet. We didn't think anything of it until we got upstairs and realized by the smell, that the water on the floor downstairs wasn't simply a burst pipe. It was a sewage leak. We stayed and ordered, although neither of us could say why. Personally, I attribute my inaction to not wanting to be thought squeemish or ungracious to the staff. After all, who in Egypt hasn't encountered some raw sewage from time to time? Of course, this line of reasoning was completely illogical, even dangerous, but I didn't consider that at the time.

My friend ordered strawberry juice and I, a cappucino. Her strawberry juice came bottled; my cappucino was made at the shop. For that reason, I deduced, my run-in with raw sewage had caused my illness.

Still, as I said, it was the apricots that caused my dysentery, fever, and fainting. I learned this a few days after I had recovered, when I ate the apricots again and began to feel sick. I thwarted the illness the second time with an "abdominal antiseptic" obtained from the AUC clinic. It just goes to show, however, that in Egypt anything can knock you down at any time.

As I see it, life in Egypt is like a boxing match against a pretty tough opponent. An inexperienced fighter doesn't anticipate the punches that come at him, so when he get up from being punched, he is quickly knocked down again.

On an average day during my first weeks in Egypt, I would make it down to the shuttle in the morning to find that it had left ahead of schedule. There would not be another for an hour, so I would need to get a cab, but it would take me several tries to find one that would aggree to take me where I wanted to go. Often cabbies would simply shake their heads and drive off. Others would wait until I got in, then half a block later demand a ridiculous price, and I would have to get out and find another cab.

Arriving at school, I would have to negotiate the AUC "bureaucracy," a euphemism for describing the system of self-important people who are paid despite their complete disregard for the fact that they have jobs to do. The worst of this set is the director of the International Student Services Office, a witch of a woman decked out in a suspiciously wig-like coifure and shimmering pancake makeup caked inches thick on her face. This woman -- let's call her Tomato -- carries a Louis Vuitton purse, is directly decended from the prophet (and "has the certificate to prove it"), and appears to derive sadistic pleasure from telling people she can't help them.

Nevermind that there are nearly 400 international students this year, she insisted on acting as "advisor" to all of us. Nevermind that there wasn't enough time in the day on the designated advising days to meet with all of us or that the signup sheets for appointments didn't get one as far as crossing off a name from an earlier appointment and substituting one's own. Nevermind that having an appointment was the only way to add a class, because meeting with Tomato was no guarantee that one would get a class, regardless of how many credits one's home university required.

Once, for example, I came to an appointment with a page-long list of backup courses in case the witch didn't allow me into the classes I wanted. (At a previous appointment, she had refused to let me take upper-level political science lest I, a non-major, "undermine the reputation of the school"). As I read through the list of more than 20 courses, she declared each one closed. When I finished, she asked me if I was satisfied with my schedule. Trying to keep my cool, I explained that my university required me to have five courses, and as I only had four, I needed another course. She told me that it was my responsibility, not hers, to find a class that was open and that I should come back to see her when I did.

And that would only be half of an average day.

Where am I?

Standing in line at the dorm cafeteria’s register, I am suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling of everything moving towards my center. My extremities feel light as if all the blood had left them, and I worry that if I don’t lie down soon my core won’t be able to support the rest of me. I briefly imagine my neck flopping over under the weight of my head and my legs collapsing underneath me. I begin to panic, annoyed by the Egyptian girl who has cut in front of the line. She’s pretty, and she ignores the rest of us and speaks to the cashier in rapid Egyptian Arabic conveying that she’s a classic AUC student: over-privileged, under-worked, and utterly self-involved. My panic seems to raise my already high fever a degree. I can feel it burning in my eyeballs. Things are getting blurry.

I’m sure now that if I don’t at least sit, I will collapse. I’ve hardly eaten today – just a quarter of a granola bar that made me nauseous the moment I swallowed it. I had gone home at lunch, missing half of my classes on the first day of school here in Egypt, and despite sleeping the whole afternoon, my condition had only gotten worse. Now there had been nothing on my stomach all day and though I don’t have a thermometer, I can tell that I now have a higher fever than I’ve ever had before.

I rummage for some one-pound bills so I can quickly give the cashier money and make it to a chair before I collapse or throw up. The closed-in feeling intensifies. Everything is blurry. The bill is 3.75 EP. I hand the man 4 pounds. He slowly begins to get change but I cut him off – mish mushkilla – and turn to go back though the cafeteria up to my room. I know now I won’t make it that far. I WILL throw up. But I don’t want to. There are people around. And I just don’t like that feeling. I see a blur that I assume is a chair and make my way towards it, trying to hold myself together just long enough. I try to put my drinks on the table next to the chair, but my depth perception fails me, and I let the Sprite and water bottle fall further than they should.

I am so sure now that I will throw up that I know I must decide whether to push my body to make it to the restroom across the courtyard or to let the inevitable happen here in the cafeteria. I stand and begin making my way across the courtyard. I know when I make it to the other side because I feel my foot nudge the step. Blind and clutching the doorframe, I try to feel my way over the step.

I don’t remember the fall.

When I open my eyes, I can see again. People are swarming me as I lie on my back on the floor. Most of them are the dorm’s bawabs – doormen – in their navy and red uniforms. A round man with an air of authority pushes through the bawabs urgently to kneel beside me. His hair is neatly trimmed and on his forehead is the distinctive mark – like the gray smudge of Ash Wednesday – of a Muslim who has prayed five times a day for many years. He begins asking me questions – what is my name, am I on medication, do I feel sick? I try to answer, but my own question, which has been nagging me from the back of my mind since I arrived in Cairo two weeks ago, has grown stronger.

How did I get here?