Jonathan C. Lewis
Author and Artist
The Souk
A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.
Turning a corner, I spot the Al-Azhar Mosque minarets. Otherwise, without bearings I am lost inside the Khan el-Khalili Bazaar. I look for a street sign, but even if one existed, it would exist in Arabic which I can’t read.
I’m in a sprawling labyrinth of narrow streets and alleyways, of pocket-sized retail stalls and shops—a bustling, bewildering souk. Cairo’s historic city center, going back to the Mamluks, is noisy with commerce, the din of happy customers and happier merchants.
It’s like a Saturday at Costco, assuming Costco did not have walls, signage or checkout registers—or any parking spaces. And, if its flooring were cracked, uneven and littered.
The young woman sauntering past me—American college student, I’m guessing—is in a lime green halter top and baggy jeans hanging low off her hips. Apparently she didn’t get the memo about dressing appropriately in a Muslim country. If she did read it, she probably rebelled, sounding just like my teenage daughter, “It’s no one’s business, but mine. It’s just fashion.”
Two Japanese men—looking like they shopped at the same store at the same time—are sporting matching white tee shirts, black jeans, neon-painted sneakers. Judging from their bling, they’re not worried about the professional pickpockets prowling tourist areas.
An Egyptian woman strides by cradling a small bundle. Her gallibiyah is black with wavy, white piping. Her hijab is orange. She looks straight ahead, with resolve.
Swarms of sellers and shopkeepers buzz around me. Like American politicians pestering me for campaign money, Egyptian marketeers are pushy, sometimes obnoxiously so. In multiple languages, they fake desperation saying, “only one dollar” or “free to look.” “Where are you from” means “wherever you’re from, my cousin lives there too, so buy from me.” In the way American realtors negotiate housing prices to maximize profits, Egyptian retailers are skilled hagglers. I avert my eyes and keep walking, also with resolve.
In the 14th century, Cairo was the endpoint for a global supply chain of traders traversing North Africa leading camel caravans laden with merchandise for the city’s wealthy residents. Caravansaries were built to host these import-export dealers. Globalization is nothing new.
The market is a meze of spices, hookahs, jewelry, painted glassware, embroidered cushion covers, bejeweled slippers, Bedouin tapestries, artisan crafts, hammered metal lamps and lanterns, mother of pearl wood boxes, fine leather notebooks, alabaster vases, frankincense burners. For tourists, there are shops stuffed with repulsively ugly kitsch.
At the end of an unpromising passageway--five feet narrow, exposed electrical wiring, drying laundry, seeping sewage water, a smell strong enough to repel an invading army—there’s an artisan glassblower selling his own creations. In his tiny shop with one bare lightbulb, his hand-painted bottles, bud vases, glass candlesticks, incense burners glisten and shimmer.
Triumphantly, I leave the store carrying a hand-blown glass oil lamp in the hanging style that lit up ancient mosques. As I navigate my way, I’m focused on not stumbling.
I step on something squishy. I think it’s a wad of wet food wrappers, but it’s a dog’s excreted breakfast.
Without breaking stride, I start searching for a shoe seller.
