THE CAIRO MOUSKY

Ladies' Mirror, Volume 3, Issue 4, 1 October 1924, Page 16

THE CAIRO MOUSKY

By GLADYS SANDFORD

Shopping in the Orient

A MORNING SHOPPING RAMBLE THROUGH A FAMOUS ORIENTAL BAZAAR

r HROUGH Opera Square and down into the main street of the Mousky our taxi-driver whirls us, shouting invectives to the pedestrians who overflow from the path on to the road. The narrow street is seething with a cosmopolitan crowd. Soudanese cooks returning from the market, their shiny black faces in striking contrast to the white turban above, heavy baskets of provisions slung across their backs, and gaunt, sparely feathered fowls tucked under their arms, push their way through the throng. French, Italians, Greeks and Assyrians, Jews of every nationality, dignified Copts and lower class native women with halfnaked babies sitting astride on shoulder, street hawkers with trays of sweetmeats and fruit, well-dressed women whose yasmaks of finest white georgette in no way hide their features, and filthy beggars exposing their horrid, festering sores and rotting limbs, all jostle each other. A babel of foreign languages, curses from the drivers of vehicles, and the cling clang of the drink seller caused by metal disc beaten against drinking cup, together with his monotonous cry of “Lemonade,” fill the air. A small opening in the traffic and our driver shoots ahead a few yards, again jams on his brakes, and we all perform an involuntary front incline. Accelerating again, and with shouts of “Oy’menak” (to the right), “Gy shemalak” (to the left) and “Oy rigglak” (mind your legs) we proceed to our destination. Turning sharply to the left, we proceed on foot through the slipper bazaar, which stands at the entrance of a labyrinth of extremely narrow paths, where only two people can walk abreast, and lined on either side with stalls and shops, some of the latter of quite imposing dimensions inside. On the right A\ ? e pass “Monsieur Jack” standing at the entrance to his shop— dapper little man wearing European clothes, red tarbush, and an exceedingly important manner, the latter more apparent than ever since the

sale of a Persian carpet to the Prince of Wales two years ago. But his shop is only for the wealthy, so we pass on, resisting the entreaties of the scent merchant in the next stall to “come and smell.” In tiny stalls on either side are festoons or strings of beads, leather bags, and beaten metal scarves. We stop for a few minutes to reply to the greetings of an elderly jeweller. In the glass eases before us are saucers full of semi-precious stones. For our benefit he opens a small safe and produces his show pieces, heavy neck ornaments in cumbersome settings, but the gems are beautiful. Then, paper after paper of precious stones are unfolded, diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. In a few minutes we were shown some thousands of pounds’ worth of jewels, and his “shop” consisted of a tiny box-like place not more than Oft. by sft. To this place come the higher class natives when they desire to turn their jewels into ready money, and hours will be spent haggling and arguing before a bargain is clinched. Always the jeweller’s small son of eight sits beside him like a detective, his eyes never moving from the goods that are being handled. Our next halt is at a tiny slipper stall. The owner, an elderly man, sits crosslegged below rows of gaily coloured slippers strung on lines above his head. We each fit ourselves with a pair. I ask “Cam Jelusse?” (how much?) and am told 75 piastres (15/-). I finally pay

him 8/-, and the old fellow presents us each with a small bundle of what appear to be cheroots, but are really sticks of incense, made up of various spices mixed together with cowdung. When burnt the odour is not disagreeable. From here onwards the path widens to twice the previous width. On each side now are stalls filled with brasses and china, and one or two shops that are filled with piles of Persian rugs. Small boys sit outside in the light, repairing damaged rugs, and do their job so well that often it is impossible to find the mended part. Inside, we gaze on carpets from every part of Persia—Bokharas, Kermanis, Sheraz, Herat!, and Shewan are there in bewildering variety. In a heap on the floor lie some smaller rugs, at first appearance very beautiful. The merchant immediately draw’s our attention to the wonderful sheen, and when I tell him that this sheen has been artilically produced by putting the rugs through hot greased rollers, he becomes confused. This process is often followed by unscrupulous merchants with the cheaper grade of rug, especially modern ones, and sales are effected by stating the sheen is caused by their great age! We saunter slowly, examining the wares on view at each shop, until we come almost to the old stone arch, through which one passes into the amber bazaar. Looking through this arch, the sunlight streams through on to the cases filled with amber, making a glowing golden mass of colour. Overhead, between the leaning tops of the buildings, is a glimpse of clear blue sky, against which rises the sharp outline of a minaret from the mosque at the end of the bazaar. And in the foreground the old, grey stone arch. Go there early in the morning, before the American tourist is on the warpath, and one finds one of the most beautiful scenes of Eastern life. The whole atmosphere is perfect— merchants in their silken robes, the working native in his rough blue cotton galibeah, red or yellow

slippers and red tarbush, and tiny toddling children, eyes black with flies, running hither and thither. As we gaze on this scene a shrill childish voice, accompanied by loud, resounding "thwack," "thwack," is heard from the cross alley to the right. The finishing touch to an already perfect picture is added by the appearance of a tiny donkey, so heavily laden with green stuff that only his feet and head are visible, followed by a small boy in blue galibeah and white crocheted cap, who with the aid of a large stick and a cry of "hoosh," "hoosli," guides his beast of burden through the arch and up the track between the amber stalls. Voices again, but now the whole aspect changes. A party of American tourists, hornrimmed bespectacled (why do most American tourists wear glasses?) and led by a professional dragoman, follow in the wake of the donkey and his owner. For us, ,to-day at least, the glories of the amber bazaar are gone. Turning to the right our ears are assailed with the clanging of metal upon metal, and Ave find ourselves in the midst of the brassAvorkers. Small children are busy engraving pyramids and sphinxes on finger bowls and table bells; older boys and men, seated erosslegged before large trays, set in blocks of pitch, chisel out intricate patterns in the brass to a running fire of repartee, which fades into silence as we approach. Great competition ensues as to which shop will gain us for customers, but we tell them all "yimkin bukra" (perhaps to-morrow), and wend our way to a stall half-way down the alley. Here sits Hassan Mahmoud, of massive build, unshaven, and decidedly grubby, but one of the kindest hearts of all these Mousky merchants. He rises and salaams, takes my hand, then kisses his own, and lays it first on forehead, then on breast, as a mark of deep respect. To his inquiries after our health, Ave say Ave are well, and receive a fervent "Alii amdulillah" (Praise be to God) from Hassan. His shop consists of one small room about 12ft, by 14ft., with roAvs of shelves heavily laden with brass ornaments. Boavls, boxes, candlesticks, incense burners, and small salvers lie in dusty medley round the room. Leaning against the Avail stand several large round

brass tables, the wooden legs of which lie closed up in a heap in the corner. One of these is placed on the floor in position, and the small son of Hassan is told to collect chairs, which he proceeds to do from the neighbouring stalls. My friends having asked me to purchase' an incense burner, I proceed to show great interest in a pair of brass candlesticks. Soon the table is covered with an array of brass goods. Then Hassan produces the coveted burner. “How much I ask carelessly. “One hundred and twenty piastres (24/-). Very cheap,” says the old rascal with a smile. “One hundred and twenty piastres!” I exclaim. “It’s not worth 10/-.” A hurt look comes over his face, to be quickly replaced by a childlike smile as he says, “All right, for you 9 piastres (18/-).” I transfer my attention to the other goods on the table, and Hassan, seeing my interest waning, orders cigarettes to be brought by his small son, Mahommed Ibni Hassan. We are invited to take Persian tea or coffee, and in a few moments the wallah returns with a salver on which are three small cups set in brass holders of steaming, thick, black, siviet coffee, and two small tumblers decorated with blue flowers, a small teapot, and some lump sugar. Immediately Hassan continues his part of the bargaining, while my friends sit and wonder at our conversation, able to follow only by the expressions and gesticulation of Hassan Mahmoud. “A beautiful burner ‘y sit’ (my lady) at 10/-. I make no profit. I, Hassan Mahmoud, with my family of three sons and two daughters to keep.” I repeat that I am not anxious, and rising, we prepare to make our departure. Then the real part of the sale begins. He wrings his hands, and says he is giving it away at 12/-, always. concluding with the same cry, “Alishan enta” (for you), but I remain obdurate, and then the old rascal stages the final act. Blinking his eyes rapidly, until a lonely tear is forced out and slowly trickles down his cheek, he wrings his hands, and tells me his family will starve, he will have no dot saved for his daughters, and he will be shamed amongst men. But I shake my head. Instantly he wraps up the article of con-

tention, and witli a broad smile on his face says, “Enta mabsoot ? Anna mabsoot” (Are you satisfied I’m satisfied), at the same time accepting the 10/-. Hassan does not get much pleasure out of any easy sale, and when once in my presence he sold some finger bowls to an American tourist at about three times their value, he turned to me and said in Arabic, “No good this sale, too easy.” Time is no object to these people. To them it is always a case of “Bukra fil mich mieh.” (Any old time will do). Hassan salaams deeply as we leave, and judging by his expression, his daughters will certainly have their dot when the necessary time comes. Already we have dawdled three hours away, so we hurry through the narrow paths, as I am anxious for my friends to see the spice bazaar. This is on the other side of the main street, so we cross over, closely followed by Mahommed Ibni Hassan trotting behind, carrying our various purchases on his back. Down a very narrow path we go in single file, past rows of open sacks and boxes of wonderful spices. Here come the ladies of the harems, guarded closely by attendant eunuchs, to purchase special scents and spices. The most favourite spices are those which claim a fattening- quality, as the average Egyptian does not admire leanness in his womenfolk. One old man sits cross-legged in his scent shop for all the world like a threetiered wedding cake. He wears a wonderful robe of pale golden silk, a silken turban round his head, and yellow leather heelless slippers. He sits there dozingover his pipe a large “hubble-bubble” — his fat jowls hanging, his chin resting on his chest in three huge rolls of fat, and his hands clasped over his great paunch—a most unprepossessing object. Only a few minutes and our time is up, so our small escort runs ahead and secures an empty gharry for us. The driver lets down the spare seat, we crowd in, and giving a couple of piastres to young Mahommed, w-e direct the driver to Groppi’s, our minds full of the wonderful cup of tea so soon to quench our thirst, our arms crowded with purchases, and our laughter ringing over the many humorous incidents of the morning.