EAST AND WEST
Egypt is surely one of the most cosmopolitan countries in this old
planet. It is also one of the most interesting. You will find all the
breeds you want in or about Cairo, Alexandria, and Port Said—and some
you don't. Quite a variety of languages, too, although English, French,
and Arabic are most in favour.
The natives stick to Arabic, but many of them have a smattering of
French and English of a sort. They are all there at picking up a
new language, especially if there is money back of it. They will do
anything for the dollars. They may have had souls once; but now——
They have sold them long ago.
The newspaper sellers were real dabs at learning English. They used
to visit our camps daily (like the "orangemen"), calling out the most
striking items contained in their wares. Everything out of the common
was to them "very goot news"—although _we_ mightn't think so. Thus one
morning you might hear: "Very goot news; Engelsch 'vancin'"; while the
same evening the beggars were announcing: "Very goot news: strike in
Glas_gow_." We got to take this kind of thing as a matter of course,
but it was a bit tough to hear: "Very goot news: Lord Roberts dead."
However, as time went on their knowledge of English increased at a
rapid rate. But it was camp English—Australasian at that—and when
they took to airing it in the streets of Cairo things happened. They
were especially disrespectful to the Kaiser, inventing fancy diseases
for him every day, and prefacing each item with the usual: "Very goot
news——"
One of the institutions of Egypt is the Bootblack Brigade. We struck it
in full force at Cairo. No sooner did you step out of the train there
than your ears were assailed by a shrill chorus of, "Mister, clean 'im
boots." There was only one thing to do—let them clean them. It was no
good trying to dodge those boys; they were out to black your boots,
and they meant to black them or perish in the attempt. You gained
nothing by bolting into a pub or restaurant; no sooner were you seated
comfortably than they had you bailed up by the leg and their brushes
going at forty horse-power. Even boarding an electric car didn't fill
the bill; they just chased the car till it pulled up, hopped on board,
and got to work. Swearing had no effect; calling their parents names
had less—they were used to it. Let them earn the usual half-piastre
and you could call them and their forefathers all the names in the
Bible. You found yourself entirely in their hands; go where you would
those Cairo bootblacks ran you down.
It is a gay old city, is Cairo. It is the home of Eastern curios,
priceless fabrics, beautiful pottery, good coffee, bad liquor, donkeys,
dirt, vermin, ear-splitting noises, and rampant vice. You can get as
much of each of these goods as you like. East and West certainly do
meet in Cairo. But they don't mix—for obvious reasons.
The Egyptian of the better class struck me as rather a fine fellow in
a way. He was certainly intelligent, handsome as men go, and clean-run
enough while on the right side of thirty. After that age, however, he
was prone to pile on flesh and drop his chest lower down. His chief
amusements seemed to be eating, drinking iced lemonade and sherbet,
riding in big, costly motors, listening to the band, and admiring the
Western ladies. In dress he was an out-and-out howling swell—a flash
of the flashiest. On the whole I should say he liked and respected the
Britisher in a lazy, good-tempered way; was a law-abiding citizen, but
would never find the sand to stand up to the Westerner in a mix-up for
the showboss's job.
The lower-class natives were just a cut above the poor devils of
donkeys they exercised their cruelties on. They would sell their own
daughters to the highest bidder—and throw in a wife as _backsheesh_.
They were nearly all "crooks," and cheated you right and left if you
allowed them. It was only a new chum who gave them anything like the
price they asked for their goods. They hated you like poison when you
drove a fair bargain and despised you for a tenderfoot if you didn't.
They were as saving as a Cousin Jack, investing their earnings in
donkeys and wives. I once asked a chap with a face like a Murchison
black-fellow, which fetched the higher price: he side-tracked, but
admitted that while it was always easy enough to pick up a passable
wife, good donkeys were anything but common. Taking them bye and large,
the lower-class natives, as we found them, were twisters, crooks, and
liars; they were (like most Eastern breeds) cruel devils with animals,
loading their wretched donkeys and ponies down till they could hardly
move, and then cutting them up with heavy sticks and whips till a
fellow felt like putting the swine to sleep. I fancy they treated their
camels rather better; camels are costly animals, and I have heard it
stated that if ill-treated they have a habit of eating their masters.
This I cannot vouch for, by the way. I once nearly put my great toe out
in an argument with one of the brutes (a native, not a camel), over
a poor little donkey. I had only light canvas shoes on at the time,
instead of the military hob-nailed boot. I never made a similar mistake
again. However, I had the satisfaction of knowing that the unfortunate
animal would be spared _his_ weight for a day or two. In dismissing the
low-down Gippy for the time, I have only to add that he is as husky as
they make them, intensely religious, and works his wives and daughters
much the same as the other animals he possesses. He is also a deal
dirtier, and his washerwoman must have a lively job.
Before visiting Egypt I had the usual Western ideas regarding harem
life. I soon changed that. I'd lay an even bet that the women of the
East are, on the whole, quite satisfied with their lot. True, they have
no choice in the matter, and have never run across anything better.
Anyway they just take things as they find them, and seem quite content
to graft away like billy-oh, while their owners lie in the shade and
smoke. They are really only big children, these women, with undeveloped
brains. The men have the education, seem to hold the bank, while the
women are treated by them sometimes as toys to play with, and sometimes
as wilful kids that have got to be either humoured or punished. I
must say I never ran across a brighter or more cheery lot than those
so-called down-trodden females. We used to meet them everywhere, for
they knock around quite openly, at times with their husbands, and
again in charge of an elderly lady or two, of a rather more severe
cast of countenance. They wore veils that hid their faces from the
eyes down, and from what we did see of them were not on the whole
bad-looking. They were rather fine about the eyes, and they made full
use of those organs, even in the company of the "old man," who didn't
seem to be overjoyed when he caught them giving the glad eye to a mob
of khaki-clad Christians. We were warned not to return same, no matter
what the provocation, lest we should offend native feelings—an order
which, of course, we obeyed!
The Turkish ladies were as flash as they make them, dressed in what
struck us as the latest from Paris. They used to knock round Cairo
in big Rolls-Royce cars, and seemed to have no end of a jolly fine
time. _They_, at least, certainly didn't appear down-trodden. I don't
remember seeing an ugly one; they were as pretty a crowd as you could
wish to bump into, and as lively as a basketful of jack rabbits. The
way they used to smile and roll those dark eyes of theirs! It made a
chap feel like owning a harem and turning Mohammedan right away. They
were out-and-out flirts, and their veils helped them, being made of
stuff like white muslin that you could see through. To our surprise
their complexions were of the pink and white brand. They went in for
plumpness a bit, wore high heels, hobble skirts, and ran to fineness
about the waist. Their weak point lay in their action; they didn't walk
too well (tight shoes, I reckon). But, on the whole, they were jolly
fetching—and knew it. We were specially warned against those Turkish
ladies. Poor girls! And they were so keen on learning English, too.
I used to like watching the Egyptian women carrying water gourds and
things on their heads. I never saw one come to grief; their sense of
balance was A1. It made a fellow stare some to see a slender little
woman about seven-stone-nothing pick up a big gourd of water for all
the world like a ten-gallon drum, balance it on her head, and trip off
with it, wearing a kind of "old-man-you-couldn't-lick-that" smile on
her face. I once saw a woman carrying on her head what I at first took
to be a small hut; on coming closer it proved to be a large door piled
up with all the family goods and chattels. The man of the house rode
beside the old lady on a donkey, encouraging her the while between
puffs at his cigarette by singing an Arab love song. He had a voice
like a quinsy-smitten parrakeet, so, perhaps, that accounted for her
staying power. And yet she seemed quite satisfied with this truly
Eastern division of labour. They all do: ask a woman in Egypt why she
doesn't make her better half (or quarter, or other fraction) graft a
bit more, and she thinks you are poking fun at her; go one further and
tell her that _your_ wife doesn't do any hard work (which is a lie!)
and she, if she can speak English, promptly informs you that "Engelsch
woman one dam fool!" So there you are—where you started.
I used to read of the spicy and scented East, but it was some time
before we struck the brand you find in books of travel. True, we had
found a variety of "scents" in the land of Rameses, but they weren't
the kind of thing you'd invite your latest girl to inhale—although
they were all fairly "spicy," and typically Eastern. Cairo has its full
share; in fact, it bubbles over in parts, and yet it was in Cairo that
I ran the travel-book's own particular to earth.
Reader, were you ever in the Native Bazaar in Cairo? If you weren't,
take my tip and pay it a visit the first time you happen to slide
Eastward. You'll not regret having done so. But—a word in your
ear—don't carry more than, say, £1000 in your pocket, for you'll spend
every piastre you can lay hands on before they let you go, and you'll
blue the cash without caring a well-known adjective where the next
cheque is coming from.
The entrance to the Bazaar is far from imposing. I toddled in by
way of a row of butchers' booths and fruit-sellers' stalls, to find
myself transplanted straight into a scene from the Arabian Nights
Entertainments. I rubbed my eyes, opened them again—and lo! the Grand
Vizier bowed before me (with a face like an Adelphi assassin—but
this by the way, for I don't suppose it was his fault). He named his
price, I offered him 200 per cent. less; for a moment he seemed on the
point of fainting from surprise and indignation, then, recovering, he
accepted my terms and proceeded to do the honours of the place in the
capacity of guide. An amusing enough cut-throat he proved to be, too,
although just a bit too fond of talking about his adventures with the
ladies. Some of his yarns—— Ahem!
(Here in parentheses let me give the new chum a word of advice on
the engaging of guides in Egypt. On arriving at the particular show
he has set out to inspect—and often before he gets within coo-ee of
it—he will find himself beset by an ill-clad and evil-smelling mob of
hooligans all yelling fit to raise Lazarus. Don't let them rattle him,
however; his game is to select the biggest, ugliest, loudest-voiced
and most villainous-looking assassin in the push, make his bargain
with the gentleman much as he would with a Paddy jarvey, then order
him to "Lead on, Macduff"—and leave the rest to the aforesaid
gentleman. There will be no further trouble with the other lot; the
guide, if our friend possesses the faculty of reading faces, will see
to that.)
I soon found I had made a wise selection, for a single glance from the
Vizier's eagle eye was sufficient to send the rest of the unemployed
scuttling to cover. He didn't have to use his feet once; it was another
instance of the triumph of mind over matter. I told him so, but I fancy
he didn't quite take me—bowed almost to the ground as he requested me
to "spik Engelsch as he no spik French moch well." I think he must have
been the Prince of all the Assassins.
On entering Aladdin's Palace the first thing that strikes you is the
narrowness and crookedness of the streets: in many places a long-armed
man could pinch scent from a booth on one side, while helping himself
to a silk scarf on the other—if he were not watched so closely by the
merchants. Then the light is very subdued; something like that you
run across in the bush, while everywhere your nose is assailed by the
perfume of crushed flowers and spices. Look upward and you will see the
sky a mere slit between the confining walls of the lofty, old-world
houses; look around and you will see the wealth of the East in lavish
profusion. In a word, you are in Old Cairo, to my mind one of the most
interesting spots in Egypt.
Let us stroll down this close-packed double row of little windowless
stalls that resemble nothing so much as dog boxes in a canine show.
See that old fellow with the Arab features and dress, working so
industriously at his clumsy native loom: he is eighty if he is a day,
and just as likely as not ten years older. Note the speed and skill
with which his knotted old fingers do their work. He is weaving a
silk scarf, a beautiful piece of work, which later on may adorn the
shoulders of some harem favourite—or a New York belle. In the next
stall squats a native tailor or vestment maker. Opposite him a spice
merchant calls your attention to his wares, just as his forefathers
did in the days of Abraham. A few yards farther and we come on a
couple of young natives busily pounding away with heavy steel pestles
in a mortar surely identical with the jars in which the Forty Thieves
secreted themselves—scent and pot-pourri makers almost certainly.
Squeezing past a mild-looking camel, which we do not trust, however,
we almost stumble over a couple of silk spinners, an old man and a
precocious-looking boy. The spinning-wheel might have come straight
from an Irish cottage. The yarn is passed through the interstices of
the boy's small white teeth, the idea being to clean it of foreign
matter, I suppose. Flattening ourselves against a sweetmeat stall to
permit of the passage of a train of heavily laden donkeys, our eyes
are dazzled the while by a glimpse of a silk merchant's stock in the
booth opposite; hanging to the walls, piled in huge heaps, and lying
around anyhow, are scarves, robes, and vestments in all the colours of
the rainbow. What would that stuff be worth in London or Melbourne? Who
knows?... We turn the corner, dodge a cow and a goat that are being
milked in the street, and find ourselves at the entrance door of a
dealer in beaten brass and copper goods, Japanese ware, and antiques.
This we enter, ignoring the protests of our guide, who would much
prefer that our custom should go to the more flashy-looking store
farther up the street—kept by his brother or uncle, most likely, and
a first-rate house for buying Eastern curios and antiques _made in
Birmingham_. You tell him so, insult the memory of his mother, and
leave him to continue his protestations on the threshold.
There are many things we should like to purchase. That pair of vases,
for instance, so beautifully chased and inlaid with silver, price £20.
Or that group representing a couple of Japanese wrestlers, dirt cheap
at £18. Or that magnificent cabinet—— But our finances only run to
two weeks' pay at two shillings per diem, so we turn our attention
to flower-holders, candlesticks, and such-like cheaper lines of
goods, enjoying the while a cup of excellent Egyptian coffee and some
unusually good cigarettes at the expense of the proprietor. Shopping
in Cairo is a slow game, so we kill an hour in the making of our
purchases—and emerge with a balance still at the bank.
And now we come on a street almost entirely given over to the vendors
of silks and ostrich feathers. What a wealth of colour! And how
harmoniously the myriad tints blend with the flowing robes of the
natives, the duller hues of the crumbling walls, rickety, projecting
balconies, and sun-blanched lattices! Looking down the narrow
thoroughfare packed as it is with a moving sea of quaintly garbed
figures, suggests an ever-changing arabesque, kaleidoscopic-like in
its effect. It is the East as Mohammed found it, a bit of Old Egypt
basking snugly in the warmth of a truly oriental setting.... We thread
our way slowly through the noisy crowd of guttural-tongued natives, and
emerge with something approaching a shock into the clang and rattle of
a modern city street with its electric cars, resplendent automobiles,
and plate-glass windows. Yet even here the East holds its own: you see
it in the strings of camels and the numerous donkeys that dispute the
right of way with the big touring cars and electric runabouts; in the
open-air cafés; in the dress of the natives, especially the sherbet and
lemonade sellers, and the hawkers of sweetmeats and cigarettes; but it
is the meeting of the Occident and Orient, the commingling of the East
and West, and the effect is anything but congruous.
Reader, I am not out to describe Cairo. For one thing, space forbids;
for another, I reckon I amn't a boss hand at descriptive writing; and,
lastly, you can get as much of that kind of thing as you want in the
guidebooks. But I should like to point out three places you should
really pay a visit to the first time you blow into the old City: the
Citadel, the Museum, and the Tombs of the Mamelukes; add to these the
Zoo, and the Hezekieh Gardens on a Sunday afternoon, and you won't
regret it. It is a gay city, is Cairo; a bad old city, but, above all,
an intensely interesting one. You will there, it is true, find vice,
dirt, and immorality flaunted openly, the trimmings all shorn away.
But you needn't stop and look, you know—(you will, all the same). And
"to the pure all things are pure." Besides, when away from home things
often strike you from a vastly different standpoint. You are out to
"do" Egypt; you have paid to "do" it—then "do" it by all means. But
take my tip, and exercise a wise discretion when writing to the folks
at the old farm. Or don't write—just mail them the guidebooks.