“Cross cultural exchange” – the informal way

Picture for a moment, a non-English speaking Muslim tourist in – name your location – Sydney, Amsterdam, New York. What are the chances she would be taken, literally, by the hand, by a group of uni students who knew absolutely nothing about her, and invited into their activities for the afternoon as if she were part of their peer group? Pretty slim I’d say.

Yet that’s effectively what happened to me in Cairo today. I had a productive morning of writing, and rather than sitting by the computer waiting for interview requests for tomorrow to come back in, I decided to go and explore the Citadel. Shortly after entering the city walls, three young women came up to me. “Welcome. What is your name?” This, I was soon to discover, was Ghada – a second year student at the Faculty of Science, and one of the most outgoing and endearing fellow human beings I have ever met. Her friend, Gehad, was significantly more reserved, and the third of the group, Zhraa, was a little older and seemed to play the role of big sister to the other two. With exams completed, today was the first day of their holidays.

Ghada took me by the hand and continued with the questions. “I want to know all about you!” she said enthusiastically. She wasn’t kidding. We took a seat in the shade outside the Mosque of Muhammad Ali to continue the conversation. Mostly it was driven by Ghada, with Gehad intervening to correct her English from time to time, and me mostly just struggling to keep up.

When they first found out that I was not with a group, they were nothing short of dumbfounded. “Your father? Are you with your father then?”  Their mixture of concern and amazement only escalated once they found out my father had died and, worse yet, I was an only child (not strictly true because of my wonderful foster sibs, but I thought trying to explain that one might be pushing the language barriers beyond breaking point!). No assurance by me of my complete capacity to look after myself was accepted. They made the decision –  I was to be part of their group for the day and that was that. What followed was one of the most enjoyable afternoons I have had in years.

Entering the mosque (which is stunning by the way), Ghada took it upon herself to teach me the Arabic alphabet. What followed attracted a crowd. It was Ghada and I, sitting with my (ever-present) notebook, upon which she wrote out the Arabic alphabet and proceeded to go over it in a repeat-after-me kind of fashion until I could read it for myself. I should mention that this was not a short process!!  My pronunciation is horrid. Even as she painstakingly broke each syllable down, I could not get my mouth to make the right shapes to replicate the sounds she made. Yet with patience and perseverance, she sat with me doing exaggerated mime actions of the shapes my tongue and lips should be taking for each letter, until I managed something that was at least not laugh-worthy.

With my recitation of the alphabet finally to a satisfactory level, we headed out to get some food. Leaving the Citadel, the guy hawking as a guide for tourists at the gate tried to stop the four of us, as we were walking out arm in arm. I couldn’t follow the conversation but as Ghada later recounted it, he was annoyed that I was going with them. No doubt.  I had turned down his offer of remunerated guidance when I had gone in, and come out with three splendid guides of my own. Ghada checked: “Are you sure you don’t want him to get you a taxi. You don’t have to come with us,” she said. “I want to” I replied without hesitation. She beamed.

Next stop was to pick up koshary. I had no hope of getting my newfound friends to let me pay for this myself. With plastic takeaway bowls in hand, we headed towards what one might describe loosely as a bus station – a lot of  minivans haphazardly gathered with, to my foreign eye, no apparent indication of where or when any of them might be going. Finally we made it onto one of the buses – and to be honest, it wasn’t entirely clear to me at that point where we were headed, but it also didn’t seem to matter. The four of us sat there, appreciating the small breeze that came with motion, eating our koshary, and chatting about boyfriends.

Eventually it was determined that we were going back to town. The trip that had cost me 20LE ($4) by taxi, cost 1LE by minibus. This is clearly the way to travel in Cairo, but I’m sure I couldn’t have worked out how to get one where I wanted to go had I been on my own. Next question: Did I want to go for a boat ride with them on the Nile? You bet!

Eight chaotic lanes of traffic later (with the three of them ensuring I was always had at least one of them holding my hand on either side), we climbed over the railing and onto the riverbank. The boat was packed with local families and young people – not a foreigner in sight. And for the princely sum of 5LE we spent the next glorious hour cruising the Nile. They got their boyfriends’ names written beside a loveheart in henna on their hands (sorry Ben – I didn’t think your name on my hand was quite the look I should be going for in my meetings at the Arab League tomorrow), and a couple of others on the boat started dancing to the music that was being pumped out. It was a festive atmosphere, all in a very family-friendly kind of way.

As we headed back to the riverbank, I explained that I had to get back to my hotel to do some work. With emails exchanged, and promises never to forget, Gehada hailed me a taxi and off I went – mind spinning with new letters, words, and experiences.