CAIRO: It is winter 2009 in Cairo. I’m walking through the City of the Dead – a sprawling district of crumbling and collapsing cenotaphs and mausoleums built out of brick and limestone, near the Citadel. This decrepit cemetery dates back to the Mamluk rule of Egypt: 13th to 16th Century. Taxis, herds of goats, stray cats and wild dogs, make their way down slender meandering streets, which house some of Cairo’s poorest people – a place where no tour buses could fit. The City of the Dead is one of the forgotten, or less talked about neighborhoods in this megalopolis, where perhaps a hundred thousand of Cairo’s poor squat in the tombs of their ancestors. I’ve been told impoverished Cairenes sometimes simply show-up to these tombs and construct make-shift shanties to live in, this, in order to escape the extortionate price of proper housing. I wanted to see for myself the living conditions of Cairo’s more impecunious citizens. I did not arrive easily to this disreputable part of town: a local Egyptian who acted as my dragoman (an Arabic loan word, incidentally) assured me that he had arranged for a knowledgeable driver to take us, though, when we passed through the mysterious City of the Dead, the driver abruptly turned onto the traffic-crammed Autostrada, then sped out to the remote desert community of Qattamiyya. A new cemetery is under construction there, and he had wanted to show me. When I politely informed my dragoman-friend that I couldn’t care less about seeing a new cemetery, that rather, I wanted to see the crumbling and intriguing City of the Dead, he told me the driver refused to go: “there are no police there. There is no law there. There are thieves, and pimps and drug-dealers. People who are low and dangerous. And you would do well to stay away.†But a little encouragement and a little baksheesh changed his mind, and the driver took us into the City of the Dead. We approached one such cenotaph. Inside, two small hoopoe birds – with pinkish-brown bodies, black and white wings, long slender beaks, and equally long slender crests extending back from their heads – were pecking in the dirt for food: the hoopoe bears striking resemblance to the cartoon character, Woody Woodpecker. The birds flew away as the doors clanged opened. “The Wisdom Bird,†my friend told me, while pointing at the ostentatious hoopoe birds in flight. “In the Qur’an he told riddles to Solomon, and carried his messages to the Queen of Sheba. There is much poetry devoted to The Wisdom Bird.†We came to a large stone mausoleum – considerably larger than the family cenotaph the driver had shown me. This building was immense. Heavy wood doors with peeling green paint stood ten foot tall – and ajar. I looked inside: a woman wearing a clean white galabiyya was standing near the door with her ten year-old daughter. The woman sensed my curiosity, and came to the doorway. I let the dragoman take over: she immediately invited us into her home – the tomb of her husband’s great-great-great-grandfather. In the back of the vestibule, a spacious room with sixteen foot high ceilings, there was a large catafalque with a sarcophagus on top. This was behind a large dark wood latticework – this screening, mashrabiyya, is seen everywhere in Cairo. Above the entrance was a gray marble plaque: and carved into the plaque was the sinewy Arabic script, interrupted by dots – telling who the deceased were. The woman’s husband emerged, a tall smiling handsome man – perhaps in his thirties – and warmly greeted me. He immediately instructed his wife to bring us tea. We politely declined their offer. I wanted to see the other rooms – where they lived, slept, and ate. I was taken farther back into the mausoleum: humble rooms had been sectioned-off. There was a modest refrigerator. A small sink and kitchen area was neatly arranged and dutifully kept clean. I inquired anent their toilet facilities, and was taken back to the vestibule. A small wooden shed had been constructed with care and craftsmanship: inside were a tiny porcelain sink, an aluminum shower head projected from the wall that simply ran into a drain in the middle of the tiled floor, and the type of toilet one would see in a mosque – a sort of recessed basin built into the floor to squat over – with a water hose next to it, with which to clean one’s self when finished. I was curious as to how the water and electricity services came to this mausoleum-home, well over one hundred years old, as domesticity in such places was not consented by permit. Electricity came in through wires strung from street lamps, outside the nearby mosque. And the husband, I soon learnt, was a plumber by trade – which explained the toilet. This man holds a respectable job: he works six days a week, and likely well over ten hours a day, in order to provide for his loving family. I asked the man, who has lived in this mausoleum his entire life, if he would ever consider residing elsewhere – or if he preferred his life here. He explained that although he would prefer to buy a house or let an apartment for his family, that the cost was simply prohibitive. But one day he hoped to do so. The family seemed almost as intrigued by me, as I was them. I thanked the family for their hospitality and we left. # In the more posh neighborhoods, it is not uncommon to see conscripted police praying at their posts, in front of the polished pink granite façades of palatial villas – the police, in black wool uniforms, boots removed, and with aging Kalashnikov rifles held to their hips by hand, as they kneel and press their heads to the ground while practicing the faith of Arabia. But I never saw any police in the City of the Dead. # At another make-shift house in the sprawling cemetery we saw a young girl standing in the doorway of the entrance. She waved us in, and then went to fetch her mother. The mother, a cheerful stout middle-aged woman, invited us to walk throughout the expansive courtyard at our whim. In the back, were three enormous white marble sarcophagi. They appeared to have been styled after the baroque, with undulating curved edges that were almost aqueous. There was intricate calligraphic Arabic script carved into the white marble face, with complex geometric designs arranged around the writing – mostly in repetitive and concentric rotating squares. The most important of these three men lay in the middle, the second one to his right, the third his left. Across from the dramatic sarcophagi, was another less elaborate burial plot, where the more recently deceased family members are interred – and more so, in the style that the driver had earlier shown me. Family have been living in this expansive burial plot for over one hundred and twenty-five years, the woman told us. We went into their living quarters, which were considerably more upscale than the first home we visited. Rich oriental carpets were lain on the floor, a large new television sat silent, a fish tank had many brightly-colored little fishes darting around inside, large broken shards of cobalt blue glass rested in thin wood window frames. A bouquet of white roses stood in a vase on the corner table – qui fleurit sa maison fleurit son coeur. Sweet-smelling jasmine incense burned in a small brass tray in the corner. Shiny Mylar Christmas decorations were draped from the ceiling, and too, a small plastic wreath on the wall – indications of the impending Western and Coptic Christmas celebrations. The woman explained that though they were Muslim, they celebrate all holidays. The woman repeatedly offered us tea, though, we again declined – while sitting on her comfortable divans. The young gal hovered, while looking at her mother as though maybe she should indeed bring us tea, regardless of our protestations. The woman’s husband was at work – he was a car salesman, and she pointed to a calendar on the wall that displayed a new model Jeep Liberty. Then she pointed to one of the rich Persian carpets on the floor, and joked that while her husband sells cars, that the family preferred traveling by flying carpet. I asked the woman if she would rather live elsewhere, and she said, “no, absolutely not.†This had been their home for generations, and would continue to be such. I complimented the woman on her lush garden as we left. After seeking her mother’s approval, the daughter climbed onto a wooden box, picked an orange, and gave it to me. # A walking tour of Cairo’s eclectic neighborhoods can make for a taxing day. Perhaps sensing my fatigue, my guide and dragoman, asked me if I had seen what I had wanted to see, and if I were satisfied with the day’s excursion. I certainly was, and much more than he probably would’ve understood – his being native Cairene. On the drive back, I thought about one of my favorite quotes by Ibn Khaldun, the Fourteenth Century Islamic historian and philosopher, who spent many years travelling throughout the Maghreb and Arabia, holding various judicial posts, and too, lecturing here at Al-Azhar University. When describing his impression of Cairo, Khaldun said, “what one sees in dreams surpasses reality. But all that one could dream of Cairo, falls short of the truth.†**Willows is a Canadian freelance writer who studied at the American University in Cairo. He now resides in the Toronto area with his family. BM
