ROUND ABOUT CAIRO, WITH AND WITHOUT THE ASSISTANCE OF THE DRAGOMAN OR
SIMON LEGREE OF THE ORIENT
Mr. Peasley is a secretive student of the guide book.
He reads up beforehand and on the quiet. Then when we come face to
face with some "sight" and are wondering about this or that, Mr.
Peasley opens the floodgate of his newly-acquired knowledge and deluges
the whole party. He is seldom correct, and never accurate, but he
knows that he is dealing with an ignorance more profound than his own,
and that gives him confidence.
For instance, the first afternoon in Cairo we chartered an open
conveyance and rode out to the citadel and the mosque of Mohammed Ali,
both of which are perched on a high limestone cliff overlooking the
city. The mosque is modern and very gorgeous with alabaster columns, a
profusion of gay rugs, stained windows, and crystal chandeliers. We
were rhapsodising over the interior and were saying it was almost as
swell and elegant as the new Claypool Hotel in Indianapolis, when we
happened to overhear one of our countrywomen reading aloud from a very
entertaining book on Egypt written thirty years ago by Amelia B.
Edwards. Miss Edwards allowed that the mosque of Mohammed Ali was a
tawdry and hideous specimen of the most decadent period of the mixed-up
architectures imported from Araby and Turkey. When we heard that we
made a quick switch and began to find fault with the decorations and
told the guide we had enough.
On the way out to the parapet to enjoy the really wonderful view of the
city and the Nile Valley, with the pyramids lifting themselves dimly
from the old gold haze of the desert, Mr. Peasley wished to repay the
lady who had read to us, so he paused, and, making a very indefinite
and non-committal gesture, said, "Near this very spot Mohammed Ali
killed more than one hundred and fifty mamelukes in one day."
Our fair countrywoman looked at Mr. Peasley with a puzzled frown on her
brow and then timidly asked, "What is a mameluke?"
[Illustration: "_What is a mameluke?_"]
We thought she had him, but not so. He wasn't even feazed. He replied
promptly, "A mameluke is something like a mongoose, only larger."
That is Mr. Peasley's way. If he doesn't know, at least he will make a
stab at it. One evening at dinner we had anchovies as a curtain
raiser, and a man sitting next to Mr. Peasley poked at the briny
minnows with his fork and asked, "What are these?"
"Those are anchorites," replied Mr. Peasley, without the slightest
hesitation.
As a rule he gets one syllable right, which is pretty good for him. At
present he is much interested in the huge dams of masonry and iron
gates that have been thrown across the Nile at Assiut and Assouan.
Over here they are called "barrages." Mr. Peasley insists upon calling
them "garages." We tried to explain to him that a garage was a place
where automobiles were cared for, but he said that automobile and "dam"
belonged in the same category and often meant practically the same
thing, so he continues to speak of the "garage."
By the way, when a pious Englishman over here, say a bishop on a
vacation, wishes to relieve his feelings without the actual use of
profanity he exclaims "Assouan!" If he falls off his donkey,
"Assouan!" If his tea is served to him at less than 212 degrees
Fahrenheit, "Assouan!"
[Illustration: _Assouan!_]
"Assouan" means the superlative of all dams, the biggest dam in the
world. It takes the place of a whole row of these:-- ---- ------ ----
------. Mr. Peasley uses the word, when he can think of it. If his
memory fails him, he falls back on the American equivalent.
Inasmuch as I reside in Indiana, where it is a social offence to crave
a cigarette, a misdemeanor to keep one in the house, and a high crime
to smoke one, Cairo during the first day gave me many a shock. Cairo
is unquestionably the cigarette headquarters of the universe. If the
modern Egyptians followed the ancient method of loading the tomb with
supplies for the lately departed they would put in each sarcophagus
about ten thousand cigarettes and a few gallons of Turkish coffee. The
food wouldn't matter.
In Cairo, men, women, and children smoke. Only the camels and donkeys
abstain.
Cigarettes are sold nearly everywhere--not only by tobacconists, but
also by milliners, undertakers, real estate agents, etc. Those who do
not sell them give them away. A cigarette across the counter is the
usual preliminary to driving a bargain.
It surprised us to learn that although the Egyptians have been addicted
to this enfeebling vice ever since they first had a chance to cultivate
it, they have managed to survive and flourish as a distinct breed of
humanity for some seven thousand years, as nearly as I can figure it
off hand. By eliminating the cigarette from Indiana the Hoosiers
should beat this record. No doubt they will retain their primitive
vigour for a longer period, say nine thousand years. If so, the
anti-cigarette law will be vindicated.
We certainly had a feeling of guilty pleasure when we sat in front of
Shepheard's Hotel and smoked the wicked little things, and knew that
the policeman standing a few feet away did not dare to raise his hand
against us.
A very clever young American owns a shop near the hotel. He is a
student of Egyptology and a dealer in genuine antiquities, including
mummies. While I was nosing through his collection of scarabs, idols,
coins, and other time-worn trinkets, he suggested that I purchase a
mummy.
"Can I get one?" I asked, in surprise.
"I can get you a gross, if you want them," he replied.
"What would a man do with a gross of mummies?"
"You can give them away. They are very ornamental. Formerly my only
customers were colleges and museums. Now I am selling to people who
put them in private residences. Nothing sets off an Oriental apartment
to better effect, or gives it more colour and atmosphere, as you might
say, than a decorated mummy case."
I told him I would not object to the "colour," but would draw the line
at "atmosphere." He assured me that after a few thousand years the
mortuary remains become as dry as a London newspaper and as odourless
as a Congressional investigation.
I followed him into a large back room and saw two beautifully preserved
specimens in their rigid overcoats being packed away for shipment to
America, while others leaned against the wall in careless attitudes.
What a grisly reflection! Here was a local potentate, let us say
Ipekak II. of Hewgag--ruler of a province, boss of his party, proud
owner of broad fields and grazing herds. When he died, 1400 B.C., and
was escorted to his rock tomb by all the local secret societies, the
military company, and a band of music, his friends lowered his embalmed
remains into a deep pit and then put in a rock filling and cut
hieroglyphics all over the place, telling of his wealth and social
importance, and begging all future generations to regard the premises
as sacred.
Some two thousand years later along comes a vandal in a cheap store
suit and a cork helmet, engages Ipekak's own descendants to pry open
the tomb and heave out the rock at fifteen cents per day, hauls the
mummy into the daylight, and ships it by luggage van to Cairo, where it
is sold to a St. Paul man for $125!
Until I talked to the dealer I had no idea that mummies were so
plentiful. In some parts of Egypt people go out and dig them up just
as they would dig potatoes. The prices vary greatly, somewhat
depending upon the state of preservation of the party of the first part
and the character of the decorations on the case, but more particularly
on account of the title or historical importance of the once lamented.
For instance, a Rameses or Ptolemy cannot be touched for less than
$1000. A prince, a trust magnate, or a military commander brings $150;
the Governor of a city or the president of a theological seminary
anywhere from $60 to $75. Within the last three years perfect
specimens of humourist have been offered for as low as $18, and the
dealer showed me one for $7.50--probably a tourist.
At Naples, proceeding eastward, one enters the land of Talk. The
French are conversational and animated, but Southern Italy begins to
show the real Oriental luxuriance of gab. A Neapolitan trying to sell
three cents' worth of fish will make more noise than a whole Wanamaker
establishment. The most commonplace and everyday form of dialogue
calls for flashing eyes, swaying body, and frantic gesticulations.
In front of a cafe in Naples Mr. Peasley became deeply interested in a
conversation between two well-dressed men at a table near ours. At
first we thought they were going to "clinch" and fight it out, but then
we saw that there was no real anger exhibited, but that apparently one
was describing to the other some very thrilling experience. He waved
his arms, struck at imaginary objects, made pinwheel movements with his
fingers, and carried on generally in a most hysterical manner. Mr.
Peasley, all worked up, beckoned the head waiter, who had been talking
to us in English.
"Look here," he said confidentially, "I want you to listen and tell me
what those fellows are talking about. I can't catch a word they say,
but as near as I can make out from the way they act that fellow with
the goatee is describing some new kind of torpedo boat. It goes
through the water at about thirty miles an hour, having three or four
screw propellers. When it comes within striking distance of the
enemy--bang! they cut her loose and the projectile goes whizzing to the
mark, and when it meets with any resistance there is a big explosion
and everything within a quarter of a mile is blown to flindereens.
Now, that's the plot, as near as I can follow it from watchin' that
short guy make motions. You listen to them and tell me if I am right."
The head waiter listened and then translated to us as follows:--"He is
saying to his friend that he slept very well last evening and got up
feeling good, but was somewhat annoyed at breakfast time because the
egg was not cooked to suit him."
"How about all these gymnastics?" asked the surprised Mr. Peasley.
"Why does he hop up and down, side step and feint and wiggle his
fingers and all that monkey business?"
"Quite so," replied the head waiter. "He is describing the egg."
[Illustration: "_He is describing the egg._"]
What a people--to take five cents worth of cheap information and
garland it with twenty dollars' worth of Delsarte and rhetoric!
Talk is one of the few things of which there is a superabundance in the
Levant. In nearly all particulars the Arab is economical and
abstemious. He eats sparingly and cheaply, wears just enough clothing
to keep from violating the municipal ordinances, smokes conservatively,
so as to get the full value of his tobacco, and lives in a house which
is furnished with three or four primitive utensils. But when it comes
to language, he is the most reckless spendthrift in the world. He uses
up large bales of conversation.
Suppose that three porters at a railway station are to take a trunk
from a car and put it on a truck and wheel it out to a cab. The talk
made necessary by this simple operation would fill several pages in the
Congressional Record. All three talk incessantly, each telling the
others what to do and finding fault because they don't do it his way.
One seems to be superintendent, the second is foreman, and the third is
boss.
Endless disputes of a most vivid character rage among the donkey boys
and peddlers who assemble near the hotels and lie in wait for victims.
"What do they find to talk about?" is the question that comes to one
every time he hears the babel of excited voices. And while we are
smiling at their childish tantrums they are splitting their sides over
new stories relating to that strange being from the antipodes, the
barbarian with the mushroom helmet who exudes money at every pore, who
keeps himself bundled in unnecessary clothes and rides out to the
desert every day to stand in the baking sun and solemnly contemplate a
broken column and a heap of rubbish. Truly it all depends on the point
of view.
We held back the Pyramids and the Sphinx so as to make our visit to
them the cap sheaf of the stay in Cairo. As for sightseeing, most of
the time we just rambled up one street and down another, looking in
shop windows, watching the workmen kill time with their prehistoric
implements, smelling the bazaars, dodging dog carts, donkeys and
camels, and having a fine time generally.
Aimless excursions are the best, after all. It is more fun to drift
around a new town and rub up against the people than to deliver
yourself, body and soul, over to a guide. In Egypt the guide is called
a dragoman. He puts on airs and has an inside pocket bulging with
testimonials from people who were so glad to get out of his clutches
that they willingly perjured themselves by giving him half-hearted
certificates of good character. While you are in the hands of the
dragoman you feel like a dumb, driven cow. You follow the fluttering
nightshirt and the tall red fez of this arch villain for hours at a
time, not knowing where you are going, or why. He takes absolute
charge of you, either by making specious representations or boldly
assuming authority, and when you start out to visit the famous mosque
of old Midullah Oblongahta or some other defunct celebrity you finish
up in a junk shop for the sale of antiques, all of which are personally
guaranteed by the dragoman, because he is a silent partner in the
business.
In many countries, especially at times when the traveller must condense
his itinerary, the guide is a necessary evil, and in Egypt he is
supposed to be a sort of ornamental body guard. We found that we could
wander about without being haltered and led, so we spent pleasant hours
in the Mouski, which is the native shopping street, and also we went to
the race meeting and saw native horses and ponies, carrying 140 to 160
pounds each, saunter around a half-mile track while a large number of
English in Mardi Gras costumes drank gallons of tea and simulated a
polite interest.
One afternoon we wandered into a market and a man tried to sell me a
camel. Wherever we go, if a man has something he doesn't want, he
tries to sell it to me, and sometimes he does it. But I refused to
take the camel. I did not see how I could fold it up and secrete it so
as to get it through the custom house.
Camels in the Cairo market are now steady, not literally speaking, but
as regards their value. A good terra cotta camel, 55 to 60 hands high
and broken to single-foot, will fetch as high as $150. The older
ones--spavined, hairless, or pigeontoed--can be bought for as low as
$50 each. The common or garden camel, trained to collapse like a
pocket camera and carry from three to eight tons of cargo, can usually
be bought at from $100 to $125.
Cairo, as a whole, was a big surprise to us. We knew that it was going
to be cosmopolitan, but we were not prepared to find it so
metropolitan. We had pictured it as one or two semi-European streets
hedged in by a vast area of native quarter. But, unless you seek out
the old parts of the town or the bazaars, each showing a distinct type
of the Oriental shark, Cairo is outwardly quite modern, very
attractive, and decidedly gay--that is, not real wicked gayety of the
Parisian brand, but modified, winter-resort gayety, the kind that is
induced by the presence of money-spending tourists. There is no hurrah
night life, and gambling, which flourished here for many seasons under
the skilful direction of our countryman, Mr. Pat Sheedy, has yielded to
British reformatory influence.
The modern streets in Cairo, with their attractive hotels, residences,
and shops, suggest a blending of Paris and the Riviera--consistent
architecture, trees, palms, gardens. The streets are of boulevard
width, and the houses of cheerful colouring, many of them bearing
coloured frescoes in delicate shades. We who live in a country of
rainfall and smoke and changing temperatures are impelled to stop and
gaze in wonder at a mansion of snowy white with a pattern of pale
blossoms drooping down the front of it. That style of decoration would
last about twenty minutes in Chicago.