Drinking Egypt

Listed in the Lonely Planet as an ahwa, or coffeehouse, Horreyya is where the expats venture in search of cheap, ice cold beer.  Many nights at Horreyya include a pit stop at Koshari Tahrir, en route.  Koshari is best described to friends as a concoction of what you might eat at home after a late night on the town.  It is rice, noodles, lentils, dried onions, and tomato sauce, with a side of garlic sauce and hot sauce.  Sit down at Horreyya with what looks to be mom’s Tupperware of koshari, and consider yourself Egyptian.  Almost.

Walk in the door, and you’ll find men playing dominos, chess, or backgammon on your left.  No beer there.  Depending on the hour, it may be difficult to find a seat, but find the waiter and he will seemingly make chairs appear from nowhere and place you around a tiny table where someone else may already be sitting.  The customers here are primarily Egyptian men, with a good mix of expatriates and a couple tourists who read about it in the LP in search of a less touristy Egypt. 

Domestic beer only here.  Whether the bottle bears the name Stella (most common), Meister, Sakkara, or even Heineken, they are all from the same brewery on Egyptian soil.  As the level of beer lowers in your bottle, you may see a white ring just below the neck and perhaps another will become visible near the base when you finish.  This is the marking of Egyptian recycling – washed and reused bottles.  As one of my friends likes to joke, you may think that Stella has a bit of a soapy taste to it.  My response, at least they used soap. 

Whatever you do, do not venture outside with a bottle of beer in your hand.  If you dare, the waiter will probably chase you, or so I am told.  The tension is eased inside, especially as the bottles accumulate on the table (how your tab is calculated), vastly different from outside the walls.  While the mere existence of baladi (local) bars, beyond the Western-style bars and nightclubs, is evidence of an alternative to the regime that has been in power for over two decades, it does not negate the country’s lack of horreyya.  

A more conservative Egypt came be found between the banks of the Nile, just south of the city center, on an island known locally as “Bein al-Bahrain,” literally translated as “Between Two Seas.”  There, you can find a snapshot of one-third of the Egyptian population, directly engaged in agriculture.  While the beer at Horreyya is inexpensive by Western standards, the humble population of the island that many people pass but few visit choose a sweeter and warmer beverage – chai.

The tea on the other hand tasted different.  It was heavier, sweeter, masking the weight of the smoke, cooked on the open flame in a tin pot blacker than coal.  Reaching over his shoulder, our host pulled more dried leaves from the wall of the hut to kindle the fire.  We sat.  A few children were still among us.  Aged three to eight, they held our hands and requested we take their photos.  One, two, three, “gibna.”  (That’s “cheese” in Arabic).  We showed the photos to the children and promised to make prints to bring back on our next visit.

It was a day of escape from the city, although still visible across the water.  Accessible only by boat, we departed the traffic on the corniche, and set sail across the River Nile for the island.  No automobiles, no motorcycles.  Foot, bicycle, and donkey are the means of transportation there.  We three American girls, Jamie, Maria, and I, asked of our Egyptian friend, Adel, if we might take photos, cameras already in hand.  An aged bicycle leaned against the wall, silently begging it be photographed despite the countless similar prints on bookshelves worldwide.  The chipped blue paint and low tread tires had seen better days.

After some time, we made our way through what had by then become a crowd and took the path along the water.  Dust and dirt encroached over my toes, exposed by my flip-flops that only kicked more soil onto my pant legs.  Corn stalks rose to our left and right.  Adel snapped an ear from one stalk for us to taste.  Jamie and I, both having spent our teenage years in rural America, raised our eyebrows in apprehension.  Raw corn?  We shucked the seemingly unripe vegetable and found ourselves unexpectedly delighted by the sweet, tender kernels. 

Many more steps down the path, we approached a middle-aged man on his donkey.  Adel politely asked if he could ride the donkey and the man consented.  Adel, Jamie, and I took turns photographing each other riding the donkey, laughing all the while.  Adel was first, eager as a young boy, and trotted with the animal down the path.  Jamie was next.  “Is this how you steer?” she asked, gently taking hold of the donkey’s ears.  I was a bit hesitant, but it didn’t take too much persuasion for me to throw my legs over the saddle.  Friends and family would expect that I send photos of me on a camel, but no, I sent photos on a donkey instead.

Onward we traversed the island until we reached the bridge, the underside of the bridge.  A side I’m glad I didn’t see before driving over it.  I looked up at one point and could see the sun where there should have been pavement.  A young lad on a donkey greeted us, his donkey bearing a heavy load of grass and looking weary.  Black with a white accenting his hooves, nose, and forlorn eyes, his head and gaze hung downward, unclear whether he was relieved for a break in his journey or wishing it would end.

Three cows lay grazing just beyond the shadows of the bridge.  We fed them some grass that lay past their reach.  Walking under the bridge towards western edge of the island, we passed the boy on the black and white donkey, the load having been lifted.  Another boy on a white donkey and a boy on a bicycle rode with him.  

I framed one photo, made the shot, and then pressed and released the shutter once more.  The second time captured the moment.  Rays of light streamed in from the west, illuminating the young lad in the corner of the triangle, pedaling forward on his bike, Nile in view ahead, but a wall seemed to stand in his way.  The essence of Egypt.  Aware of opportunities, but encaged.  Barriers erected on all sides. 

Down the dirt road and around the corner, the steeple came into view.  We approached the church.  It was locked.  We found one of the parishioners in the park across the road and asked if we could see inside.  Through the gate, to the right, was a brightly colored mosaic of the Virgin Mary and the Baby Jesus.  It reminded me of the religious artwork I saw in Bulgaria.  Miles across the Mediterranean separated the communities, but the fundamentals of Orthodox Christianity were constant.  Inside were more icons.  In addition to candles, men and women wrote their prayers and placed their slips of paper inside the frame of the saint to whom they prayed.  “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” I said quietly, making the sign of the cross.  It was the closet place to a Catholic church I had been in recently.  Upstairs, we found another chapel and a balcony overlooking the island and Nile. 

We finally made it to the home of Adel’s cousin, where we were warmly greeted and invited inside.  Sitting on the firm and upright couches lining the walls, Adel retrieved the ziplock bag  of photos he brought with him.  Family history.  Living history.  He picked up one photo and held it next to his cousin, “See the resemblance?”  We spent some time thumbing through the photos of young and old, sharing stories, memories, and smiles.  Adel’s uncle sat under the window, his left side caste in light, his right in shadow, himself looking like a photograph out of National Geographic.  I contemplated taking the shot, but decided film would not do justice to the image in my mind.

After some time, Adel’s cousin reappeared with a small wooden table that he placed on the floor.  We took the cushions from our seats and sat cross-legged around the table, which was soon filled with bread, eggs, tomatoes, and green beans.  Adel taught us the words for the food in Arabic.  A few times, I chimed in first, anxious to test my knowledge.  Just the little bit of Arabic that I learned in the classroom brought smiles to our Egyptian hosts.  A humble meal, but one harvested by the men surrounding us.  Everything was grown on the island and tasted delicious.  Tea followed, sweetened just as any Egyptian would have it.  Thumb on top, index finger on bottom, I held the hot glass and sipped.

We were grateful for our hosts, but it was soon time to depart.  The shy little girls who had been peeking their heads in the room to see what the grown-ups were doing finally crept in for a few photos.  Bidding the family farewell, thanks, and peace, we were on our way again.  The girls, no longer so shy, came with us for a walk and a few of the little ones from earlier in the day joined too.

The sun began to set and we settled down for our last cup of tea.  Before embarking on the felucca across the Nile, we ventured out to see the men working in the fields.  Toe to heel, we walked as if on a tightrope on the bank of the path to avoid sinking into the mire.  We found the men, young and old, working hard, even after dusk.  Sitting on the ground with hatchets, they harvested the crops and bundled the greens to take back to the home to cook more meals like we had that afternoon. 

It was then time to return to the city.  We left with much more than we had when we arrived - open doors and open arms, and even an invitation to a wedding.  Wishing peace and good blessings to all, we sailed back across the Nile. 

Facebook | Twitter | Email

Comments (0)

Show/hide comments

Show/hide comment form