Egyptian Honey

Some of the twelve types of Egyptian honey we have sampled

I will say at the outset that this blog post is not about an Egyptian woman. Though prurient minds may want to think otherwise, this update is about real Egyptian honey produced by real Egyptian bees.

I also need to say up front that I have spent the better part of my 47 years not really being all that fond of honey. For that I blame one of my younger brothers. 

He was that kid who was hungry all the time, and his drug of choice was the peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He lived on them. He happily ate PBJs at every meal. He preferred to have Mom make them, of course, but when she was not around, he was also quite happy to help himself. He'd grab the bread first, throwing two slabs of white, processed sugary goodness down on the counter, and then he'd go for the silverware. He used one knife. I want to make that clear; one knife. Not a spoon and a knife; one knife. He would plop the jar of peanut butter down and then plop the jar of grape jelly down. Then he would take the one knife, scooping out an ungodly amount of peanut butter and smearing it over both slabs of bread. Then he'd go for the jelly. It is here that I need to tell you that he did not clean the knife before taking a stab at the jelly jar (I was as horrified then as I am now). He would then proceed to smear the jelly together with the peanut butter, first on one slab of bread and then the other. He would often go back to the jelly jar a couple of times, occasionally licking the knife clean before diving back into the jelly.

The result was a very messy counter and a jelly jar that looked like a vomit receptacle. Long before Goober-Grape disgraced the grocery shelves in my hometown, the homemade version was an integral part of the refrigerator at our house. It was disgusting and revolting.

And the reason I was not fond of honey? When we ran out of jelly, my brother sometimes made peanut butter and honey sandwiches. You can fill in the rest of the grisly mental picture.

Fast forward to Cairo, 2013. Dana and I have just arrived in town. We are ushered straight from the airport to our flat. The folks in our school's housing department have stocked the fridge for us (nice touch). Three days later, the pita is gone, and the jam is gone. The natural yogurt is gone, and the mangoes are gone. The fresh juice is gone. There is only white bread and Egyptian honey left. It is 4 a.m., and I am starving. So I make myself a honey sandwich. 

I have not tasted honey in at least thirty years.

Suddenly, I am in love with this stuff.

The amber crack cocaine that the housing department has put in our refrigerator is produced by a company of Egyptian, organic-honey-producing drug-pushers called Imtenan. Imtenan is one of four major Egyptian honey drug rings that purchase raw honey from Egypt's 100,000 strong army of bee-keepers. Imtenan is the one company that keeps its product pure and organic. They also have the largest range of products. Go to any small grocery store in Cairo, and you will find at least five different kinds of Imtenan honey on the shelves. There is the traditional clover honey and the comb honey. There is an orange-blossom honey. There is a thyme-infused honey as well as an oregano-infused honey. You can also find honey infused with echinacea and several varieties infused with different types of wild flowers. Each kind of honey has a different color, aroma and taste; and they are all superb. And aside from the comb honey, each jar of golden, honeyed, crystal methamphetamine will set you back all of $2; the comb honey is about $10.

Honey has been a part of the Egyptian diet since the ancients began to record history here. Sealed jars of honey have been excavated in several pharaonic tombs, and to the utter amazement of the archaeologists, it is still edible (I would have liked to have seen the poor bastard that drew the short straw on that decision, though). Today, honey is the major way that Egyptians sweeten their coffees, teas and cakes; and it is far healthier than refined, processed sugar.

So tonight I do as I do almost every night. I saunter to the fridge, and I grab one of twelve different jars of honey. I plop the jar of honey down on the granite counter. I go for the silverware, and I grab one spoon. I need to be very clear about this; I grab one spoon. With my one spoon, I scoop out an ungodly amount of honey, and I shove it straight into my gob. Sometimes I go back for seconds without cleaning the spoon.

*this week's photo is by Dana Purpura ... The jars of honey shown here were devoured within one week.

Unease in the Garden of Allah

At school we are celebrating World Peace Day. The day is one of the major school events of the year. Weeks of planning and practice have gone into the celebration, from the student processional featuring 100 high school students each bearing a huge flag belonging to one of the member nations of the UN, to the Chamber Choir delivering a lovely a capella medley. Students from every level of the school take part; speeches are made and skits are performed.

Halfway through the performance, I hear the familiar staccato thudding of a military helicopter. This one is close and flying low. I can feel the air vibrating as it snarls overhead. I can see that the chopper is fully armed, side missiles at the ready, and it is menacingly heading quickly towards the River Nile. Our school ceremony stops until the helicopter passes over. The little ones think it is kind of cool. The older students look skyward with a distinct air of resignation while the adults shake their heads at the sad irony of the moment. Finally the moment and the helicopter pass, and the ceremony continues, though a little more subdued now. Throughout the remainder of the celebration, I hear a faint crump repeating in the distance across the River Nile, and I wonder if the helicopter has found its prey.

Road 14

We live in a lush, affluent neighborhood of Cairo. It is an area of lovely green trees, residential parks, sprawling dwellings, quaint markets, lavish embassies, and international businesses. We walk to work, traipsing as it were, through the Garden of Allah. In such a place, where our daily existence revolves around the walk to work and back, it is easy to become lulled into a sense of genteel security. 

Periodically this false sense of security is fully exposed. The helicopter thundering overhead reminds us that we live in a country experiencing civil unrest. The tank and army detachment that have been dispatched to guard the local police station just a mere two blocks from us, remind us that no one here is truly secure. The curfew, though it has been scaled back in recent days, reminds us that we live under martial law and can be arrested and detained indefinitely without due process of law. The faint crump of mortar shells in the distance reminds us that people are dying for their cause.

Mosque & market

Our unease is most acute on Fridays, the holy day for Muslims. Our school operates on a Muslim work week. So instead of Monday through Friday, we work from Sunday through Thursday. Friday is meant to be a day of rest, meditation and prayer. Although one of the central tenets of the religion of Islam is to pray five times per day, most Muslims in our area do not. Some pray once per day, some not at all during the week; but they do on Friday. On Fridays the mosques are filled, and ironically enough, Fridays have become a day of protest for the supporters of deposed president, Mohamed Morsi.

A little over a month ago the military government ordered the Egyptian armed forces to break up two large groups of camped protestors. Almost a thousand people lost their lives in the violence that ensued. Since then, every Friday has become a day of public protests, marches and demonstrations. Led by the members of the Muslim Brotherhood, these public protests are usually supported by hundreds, sometimes thousands of people who take to the streets as soon as afternoon prayers have ended. Although the recent protests and marches have been generally peaceful, they are no place for foreigners, and we have been strongly advised to steer clear. We generally do.

It is now Friday; a day off for us. We spend a leisurely morning drinking coffee, listening to music and planning our day. The plan is to prepare a few home-cooked meals for the week ahead. That means grocery shopping. So we head out, not really paying attention to the time. 

Our neighborhood is laid out in a more-or-less gridded pattern. We live on on the creatively-named, "Road 14." The markets nearest us are quite nearby on "Road 9." Road 9 is lined with coffee shops, nice restaurants, small grocery markets, and mini-bazaars catering to the large number of Westerners that live in the area. Road 9 is for us, a most convenient shopping destination, being only a few short blocks from our flat. As is the case with most businesses catering to Western tastes, the markets on Road 9 are relatively expensive. 

Just across the metro rails from Road 9 is "Road 7." Road 7 is also a shopping destination, but it is a universe away from Road 9. Road 7's markets are noisy, open air affairs piled high with fruits and vegetables and swarming with flies. This is where many local Egyptian residents shop, and where foreigners who do not mind shopping in typical Egyptian markets, can find inexpensive fruits and vegetables. Today, Dana and I are heading to Road 7.

We leave the relative safety of Road 9, taking the foot-bridge fly-over to Road 7. That we have crossed into a different universe is not readily apparent. We stroll down the residential portion of Road 7, passing some lovely homes and a couple of upscale restaurants. These buildings gradually give way to smaller homes and typical Egyptian shops. It is here, as we approach a Metro station crowded with blue-and-white taxi/passenger vans and the odd produce truck, that I hear the call to prayer lilting from a nearby minaret. I am immediately reminded of the U.S. Embassy's email of last week, warning us to keep a low profile and to avoid public markets especially on Fridays. I become very ill at ease.

Despite my worry, we continue walking toward the Road 7 markets. I notice one of the drivers of the passenger vans emerging from his vehicle and walking toward us. He is perhaps mid-twenties, clean-shaven and thin. He has a swagger about him, and he has just lit up a cigarette. Walking straight for us, he seems intent not to deviate from his path. We make room for him; difficult with cars zooming up and down the road and the entire right-hand side of the street packed with empty passenger vans waiting for the metro trains to disgorge would-be passengers. As we pass, the cabbie shoots us a menacing glare, barking something in Arabic. This is unusual as most Egyptians greet us and one another with hand held high and a smile. This man's scowl and bark is definitely not the customary greeting. Now that we have passed, he is seemingly calling after us. I don't dare look back, fearing some kind of reprisal. I walk much closer to Dana now as his yelling continues. From up ahead another cabbie emerges from his blue-and-white van, yelling back and glaring at us. For an instant, I am convinced that we are fucked, and I eyeball the street, desperate to find a helpful face. Five such faces emerge in the form of three women wearing traditional abayas  and two children walking with them. They cross the street just in front of us, unwittingly intercepting the cabbie up ahead. Dana and I pick up our pace, walking now just behind our female saviors. The second cabbie, silenced by the presence of three women and two kids, stares us down as we pass. Once we walk a little way down the road, I sense that the two cabbies have met up behind us, and they resume their yelling. We are by now too far from the metro station and the cabbies' blue-and-white charges for them to pose further threat; but I walk now in a kind of stunned silence, wondering what could have transpired had that family of five not happened to cross the road when they did.

The rest of our journey continues without event, but we are both on edge and in a hurry to get home. Our false sense of security has been laid bare for the bald-faced lie that it is. We have made a mistake today, one that we need to avoid repeating.We have however, emerged from the judgement error unscathed, saved by five people who had no idea that their mere presence perhaps saved us from a very ugly, potentially very nasty incident.


*This week's photos taken by Dana Purpura

The tent-makers of the Khan el-Khalil Part 3

Deep within the rutted, sanded streets of the Khan el-Khalili, beyond the curtained stone walls and massive oaken gate of the Bab Zuweila, dwell the tent-makers of Old Cairo. When the Circassian caliphs planned the expansion of Cairo nearly a thousand years ago, they designed a place for the Trans-Saharan caravans to stop. Destined be one of the grandest bazaars in all of the Muslim world, the Khan el-Khalili originally catered to dusty traders and camel merchants. The tent-makers were among the original artisans to establish premises here in the Khan; and here they have stayed.

You will be hard-pressed to find a tent-maker these days that actually makes tents. Sure, a few of the old-timers still sell miniature tents, hand-sewn and made of heavy-grade canvas; but these are play-tents for children meant for the back yards of wealthy Egyptians who come here to purchase something special for their children or grand-children. No, the tent-makers of Cairo stopped stitching tents long ago.

Today the tent-makers spend their days putting their stitching talents to good use by producing sumptuously ornate quilts and wall-hangings. These artisans spend their days carefully clipping geometric shapes from the same rich fabrics used by the dress-makers at the other end of the Khan. Once cut from a bolt of colorful brocade, these pieces will be fitted together and then delicately stitched to produce lavish Arabesque designs suited to traditional yet refined Egyptian tastes. An inexpensive, Arabesque wall hanging, a little more than a square meter in size and created by one of the apprentice tent-makers, will set you back 100 Egyptian pounds or about $15 USD. A stitch-signed piece of roughly the same size but created by one of the master artisans here can cost 20 to 30 times as much. And for some people, especially for one of our artistically-inclined group leaders, that is still a bargain.

Now that we have arrived on what feels like almost sacred ground, our group of 25 begins to look within the tent-makers' stalls. The artisans know a good thing when they see it, and really take time with each of us, showing us more of their inventories than we could possibly see within the time allotted to us. They pull out wall hangings and quilts of every color and size imaginable from every hidden nook and cranny within their cramped stalls. It seems as though it has been quite a while since a large group of Westerners has traversed this far into the Khan, and the merchants here are ready for some serious bargaining. Most of our group is prepared for this, and a flurry of haggling commences. Sales are subsequently made. Merchants and buyers both seem happy; save for the leader of our group. He is searching in vain for Tariq, the best tent-maker in the Khan. Trouble is, he cannot remember which stall is Tariq's.

As we search for Tariq, we get a quick lesson in judging the quality of Arabesque wall-hangings and quilts. The masters work with only the finest materials, and their stitching is tight and extremely precise. I begin to search the stalls in earnest, trying to spot the difference between the work of the masters and their apprentices. Just as I think I am getting the hang of it, half of the members of our group decide that they have had enough, and they head back toward a nearby coffee stand and then onward back to our bus. I stay, but I sense that time is beginning to run out. 

Almost desperate, our leader and a couple of others head down a side lane. I continue to try to ascertain the quality of the various  pieces that I am shown whenever I venture into a stall. Now that the group has thinned out, the merchants that have yet to make a sale are becoming a little more zealous. I flee one especially energetic merchant, almost diving into a very small, very narrow stall. The mustachioed, unassuming artisan in this particular stall is busy at work on a large Arabesque piece. He is smiling and whistling, very much engrossed in the task at hand. Almost immediately, I notice deft, well-trained but gnarled hands flying over the material, stitching so quickly that I can scarcely see the movement happening. He looks up and smiles as I more or less tumble into his stall. 

"May I watch you sew?" I ask, lamely.

"As you please, sir," he responds politely, still beaming. "I am working on a nice piece. Come see."

As he focusses his attention once more on the wall hanging in his lap, I walk over to see this man at work. He resumes his whistling; still he is smiling. His is working on a rather large piece, maybe two square meters. It is probably the most intricate, geometric piece that I have yet seen in the Khan, and it is breathtakingly beautiful. Uniform pieces of cobalt, emerald and gold leap from this man's quilted canvas. The work is stunning, and I am mesmerized.

Having returned from their brief journey down the lane, my despondent group-mates shuffle into the smiling merchant's stall as I call for them. I ask the leader of our group to verify that what I am seeing is indeed one of the masters at work. He comes closer for a look, verifying that this is most certainly one of the masters.

Upon hearing this compliment, the artisan looks up from his masterpiece.

"Mr. John! You have come back to see me!"

"Tariq! David, come over!" Our group leader is yelling, motioning frantically to all the others in our group. "It's Tariq! I found him!"

And so after nearly an hour of searching and browsing, we find Tariq, the most famous tent-maker in all of Cairo. Introductions are established. Inquiries about Tariq's family are made. Tea is offered. Then the leader of our group tells Tariq that he is looking for something special. Tariq yells in Arabic across the dirt street to another stall merchant who responds immediately, crossing the street and taking Tariq's place.

"Please, come," he beckons, beaming even more than before.

We are led through a labyrinthine series of paths to a ramshackle, four-story building teeming with children scurrying around in every direction. Tariq stops before a great wooden door, triple-locked and dead-bolted for good measure.  He opens each lock with care and calls to a couple of the men who are smoking shisha in the room adjacent.

"Private stock," he says as he opens the door and hurriedly ushers us in. 

One of the shisha-smokers joins us as his companion shuts the door behind us. As the musky scent of apple flavored shisha drifts about the room, we become aware that we have been led to a treasure trove of some of the most beautiful embroidered works of art that I have ever seen. There are thousands of wall-hangings, carpets, quilts and tapestries strewn about the room, bursting from every wooden cabinet. We are shown sample after sample of richly embroidered and impossibly detailed wall-hangings. 

As our group guide short-lists four or five samples, Tariq tells us that although business here in Egypt is not good, it has been good lately in the States. It turns out that our famous tent-maker with the small, narrow, innocuous stall deep within the Khan el-Khalili, crosses the Atlantic two to three times a year. The sales he makes in the U.S. covers all of his travel expenses and allows him to earn a decent living.

"I have last month just come back from a good trip in Rochester; the one in New York," he says proudly. "And in October, I go again to Paducah."

Paducah. Paducah, Kentucky. Just a few miles away from my wife's hometown. 

I look to my wife, her face a beautiful mixture of excitement and longing for home, and I know that the wheel of fate is turning and that our number is up; but in a good way. A hour later we emerge from Tariq's private warehouse, and we are now proud owners of one of Tariq's exquisite Arabesques. 

As we bid Tariq farewell, I am struck by an inescapable sense of global irony. We have travelled thousands of miles to live in Cairo, and today we have made what some of our friends would say is a foolish journey into a part of Cairo that is not the safest in the world only to be escorted into the warehouse of the most talented tent-maker in all of Cairo and to end up discovering that he sells his masterpieces at an annual quilting fair not far from where my wife grew up. We live in a small, small world.

*This week's photos taken by Dana and Kyle Purpura.

The tent-makers of the Khan el-Khalili Part 2

The Khan el-Khalili, we come to find out, is mainly for tourists. It is a huge rectangular area encompassing several city blocks. The area is very old, and the bazaar (marketplace) here has been in constant operation since at least the 1300s, having been designed originally as a kind of depot for the trans-Saharan camel caravans. Today however, it is a place where tourists go to get a glimpse of "Old Cairo." In the vast area surrounding the Khan are the markets and bazaars for the Cairenes (residents of Cairo). This is where we need to go if we are to find Tariq, the tent-maker of Cairo.

One of the wonderful aspects of living and working abroad is being able to break through the tourist barrier, experiencing local life as much as someone born and bred in the U.S. can. As we approach the southwest corner of the Khan, our intrepid group is about to break that barrier in a very real way. As if to warn foreign tourists that they are about to pass into realms not designed for upscale sensibilities, two scowling Egyptian men sitting on a pair of crusty, very worn Vienna cafe chairs and drinking hot tea, are partially blocking the southwest exit out of the Khan and into the broad expanse of markets beyond.

We stop as we approach the two men. It is here that I realize that we are being followed. While in Mustafa's glass shop, I had been dimly aware of a young-ish, mustachioed and well-dressed Egyptian man browsing the shops around Mustafa's place. Now, as we pause before trying to exit the Khan, the same Egyptian man emerges from behind our little group, confidently approaching the tea-drinking fellows that guard the southwestern edge of the tourist bazaar. I catch of whiff of spicy bay-rum as the man passes me, and much to my surprise, I also notice the barrel of a very large handgun protruding from underneath his neatly pressed shirt. He shakes hands with the two tea-drinkers, kissing them both, first on the left check and then the right; they all know each other. Pleasantries exchanged, the two tea-drinkers, now smiling, allow our group to pass. 

I ask one of our group leaders about what has just transpired. The two tea-drinkers are indeed a type of Egyptian security detail, put in place to ensure that tourists visiting the Khan do not stray too far from the rectangular area that has been informally designated for them. Our mustachioed mystery man is an off-duty police officer who spends his off days in the Khan providing discrete security for groups of tourists. He has been with our group since we entered the Khan, and I didn't even know it. He will be our chaperon as we troll the local bazaars, and he will ensure that nothing bad happens to us. At the end of our journey, our group will thank him and pay him a couple of hundred Egyptian pounds (about $30) for his services. This is more than he earns in a two week period of time on the police force.

We head south, walking briskly down a bustling thoroughfare lined with merchants selling everything from Gucci abayas to bags of raw wool stuffed in burlap bags. Jewelers and silversmiths abound. There are spice merchants as well as perfume merchants. The streets are crowded with Egyptians from all walks of life. There are men in suits as well as conservative gents dressed in traditional galliabayas (long, flowing shirts) and turbans; women wearing everything from Western dress to abayas (long cloaks) and niqabs (headdresses covering the face).

We cross a major road that separates the more touristy areas from an even more traditional bazaar. The entrance here is unlike anything that I have ever seen. Surely I must have stepped into a gloaming area of Mos Eisley on the planet Tatooine; or maybe into the Cairo from Raiders of the Lost Ark. Two massive mosques tower above us, one on the left and the other on the right. Huge wooden beams joined together with thick cords of rope span the gap between to two mosques, forming an oaken roof high above our heads. Surreal shafts of light steam down on us through the cracks in the planks above, fine dust swirling about us and the hundreds of people coming and going.

Our guides tell us a little about the area in which we entering. It is one of the beating hearts of Islamic Cairo, and the area appears to us as it has for thousands of generations before us. The markets here provide jobs for hundreds and hundreds of merchants and artisans. Every month, hundreds of thousands of Cairenes come to shop here, just as they have for at least a millennia. 

We are asked to stick together in groups of at least three or four. Although we are relatively safe being led by people with experience and being followed by our trusted off-duty security officer, this is still a place where one should be on one's guard. There are pick-pockets. Thieves on motorbikes have been know to whiz by, snatching purses and satchels. Occasionally people are hurt or even killed. In 2005 and again in 2009, suicide bombers targeted areas within the Khan, and several people were killed. As we pass through we can still see the charred remains of the most recent bombing attack.

We continue on, down the narrow, winding street. At some point not too far in, the pavement gives way to a path of packed sand and crushed shell. Motorbikers and cyclists, some carrying deliveries of fresh pita above their heads, careen up and down the street. Water-sellers clang finger symbols together as children run to and fro, their mothers stopping to examine the richly embroidered fabrics that seem to burst from every stall along the road. It is almost impossible not to stop every couple of steps just to take it all in. We are strangers in a very strange, very unique land.

Eventually we approach an ancient stone gate, the type I have seen along Hadrian's Wall or in York, England only much, much larger. Dominated by a massive archway several stories high and flanked by towering minarets on either side, we are coming to the Bab Zuweila, one of the Great Gates of Old Cairo. It was built in the year 1092 just as the city of Cairo was being constructed. It was built as an access point to control merchant traffic and probably to tax those merchants before they could enter into to the markets of the community on the other side of the gate and walls. It is impossible not to believe that this gate was also designed and built to inspire awe and reverence. Hundreds of years ago, from the vantage point of the minarets high above, military scouts could have easily seen any kind of activity coming from what would have been the agricultural plains spread out below. Legends tell of platforms being built to span the two minarets all for the purposes of holding courts and conducting public executions. Other legends tell of ancient Sultans standing atop these minarets, announcing the beginning of the Hajj, the pilgrimage to Mecca that all Muslims are encouraged to take at least once in their lifetimes. Apparently after the Sultan's proclamation, the gates would open and thousands of Cairenes would issue forth, taking the first steps toward what would be their spiritual journal of a lifetime. 

Standing at the base of the Bab Zuweila, I am overwhelmed by the knowledge that I am here looking up at the soaring spires above me just as someone else no doubt did almost a thousand years ago; just as generations of people have done for over a millennia. I pause, letting the years and generations swirl and flow about me. For a brief and fleeting moment, I am at one with the current of humanity that has passed through these gates, just as I am about to pass through them. And then the moment passes, and I am once more present in the here and now, aware that we had a purpose today. 

I pass quietly and reverently through the gates. Along with the members of my group, we are slowly winding our way toward the part of the bazaar where the tent-makers reside. Before we go much further, I stop to look back on the imposing gates of the Bab Zuweila. There are times in my life where the image of what I have seen is so potent and powerful that I know I shall never forget. This is one of those times. I turn my back on the massive gates to catch up to the rest of the members of my group who have just entered into the tent-makers area. We are now much closer to finding Tariq, the famous tent-maker of Cairo.

*this week's images taken by Dana and Kyle Purpura