Postcards from Cairo: June 2005

Tabbi Goes to Cairo - and Damascus

I am in Australia at the moment, demonstrating a little, teaching a little, freezing – frequently – and seeing family again.

My timing, as always, is atrocious. I had a commitment for the Sydney Quilt Show, and one for July. I didn’t even realise initially that this was the only time that Tabbi could use her reunion fare. She is an Arts/Law student at ANU.

Only a few days after I arrived in Australia Tabs left for Egypt.

The only slight advantage to that, as far as my blog is concerned, is that her emails home are much more interesting than my life here. Same places, different voice.

I have her permission to quote some excerpts so here they are. Square brackets are my bits of explanation.

[A PS to Bob’s announcement that she had arrived……]

Just a little PS from your sister/daughter - this is the most beautiful incredible house and I am besotted with it!! Particularly the garden - its just incredible!!!!!!! Awesome!!! You'll love it bro. I keep on telling Dad how beautiful it all is - like a gushing schoolgirl. But its fabulous! Love the sour cherry juice mum - delicious!

We're off! So exciting. Mum, i couldn't figure out how to text you
from the Egypt mobile - if possible can you send me a text so I have
your mobile number with the proper configuration in front? Thanks!

and it's hot!

[On arrival – with an almost imminent departure for Damascus, Syria……]

Hello everyone, really quick update just to let you know I've landed, that the house is INCREDIBLE and gigantic and straight out of Agatha Christie.

We're off to Syria this afternoon - exciting but I'll be wrecked. So good to see my darling father again!!!

Airports are funny things. Dubai was fabulous for its contrasts - Woman in the full all black not even eyes showing Islamic dress standing next to a bleached blonde euro-trash fake tanned cuffed shorts and midriff top. Odd. and a younger girl wearing an all hot pink hijab (traditional Arabic dress and headress) was like Britney Spears doing Islam

Love to all, sorry so brief but I NEED to have a shower!!!

[This one is as it arrived – and as I have struggled with other keyboards I am letting it go without the spellcheck and edit!]

…… apologies for any typos - foriegn keyboard. Arabic letters not English so I'm going bu feel.

Writing from the lobby of the Sultan hotel. The internet offered is behind the front desk, located next to a television playing the Arab version of video hits. It’s quite mesmerising. Songs sound the same, and the film clips feature bare arms as the height of sexiness. And the men are wearing Turkish Aladdin-esque pants.

Very entertaining.

The man at the front desk stumbled out as though I woke him up, and went through his morning routine in my presence - deodorant applied and morning 2 cigarettes consumed. Now he's mesmerised by the music videos - who can blame him?

The Sultan is a rather basic and uber cheap hotel - in a great location - 5 minute walk from the Souq (the main shopping market of Damascus, and one of the most incredible places I know) and resides above 2 Shwerma places (the original and the best form of what Australians call 'kebabs' in the Ali Baba sense), a baklava shop, and a sfiha place.

Sfiha cannot be described - its far too good for my feeble words. Come to Syria and try it.

Today we will go to the Souq, wander The Street called Straight, and just enjoy our visit to the worlds oldest consistenly occupied city. I'm waiting for Dad. The jetlag is in minor swing, and I woke at 5am bored and with nothing to do. Woke dad at 7am and he should be down to join me shortly. In'Sha'la.

Photos will be taken, but due to my lack of a digi-cam I will upload them on my return.

I should run, internt is not cheap. But before i do, may I advocate diplomacy as a career option to everone. It has been so nice to be swung through airports - no queing, to have a driver navigate the crisis that is Cairo driving, and having a father who has (and I quote) "A pass that gets me anywhere"

The house in Cairo is incredible too. You are most welcome to come and visit.

Love to all, sorry for dull email, but nothing has really had a chance to happen yet ;)
Tabs

[The first Syria email]

When I left Canberra it was 5 degrees, raining and icy. When I arrived in Egypt it was almost 7 times that. Ouch. * The English voice-over on the Egypt Air flight to Damascus ended with a memorable "We hope you will endure your flight" - I found this highly entertaining.

*Upon arrival in Syria, I noticed some considerable changes had taken place in the 8 years or so since I last visited. The taxis, for example, are now newer cars, and they all have doors!! My fears based on adolescent memories of clinging to the car seat as a smoking driver screeched around corners through obscene levels of traffic were appeased! There was still plenty of smoking and screeching, but it wouldn't be Damascus without it.

* Mobile phones have become as prevalent in Syria as smoking. People are addicted. Cannot resist turning them on as we fly, despite warnings, for fear someone might call them. 90% have the same Nokia ring tone. It’s very disconcerting.

Damascus is the world's oldest continously occupied city (a title it vies for with Aleppo) and highlights how young a country Australia is. Houses are built onto the remains of Roman ruins everywhere, and among the 1970s apartment blocks are buildings that have been there for over 500 years. Everytime my father and I walked anywhere I'd keep stopping to admire. Made for some slow walking, but how could anyone just rush past such stunning buildings of marble and inlaid Islamic patterning?

Travelling with my Dad - Middle East expert and all round legend - gives depth to everything. It's fantastic.

OK, I apologise in advanced for the longwinded ambling nature of this e-mail. We have done so much over the last 3 days that I will break them into 2 e-mails. If you only have a moment to check your e-mails, save these until later in the evening when you can have a nice cup of tea and a leisurely read. Or you can just skim it ;)

DAY ONE
Dad and I had breakfast, then started with a saunter to Souq Hamidaya - the main souq (marketplace) of Damascus. As we headed toward it I noticed a structure down one of the connecting roads. After a typical "What's that Dad?" we detoured down to the roundabout containing a tall memorial in a park with picturesque bridges and fountains. We sat on a bench and I was treated to my own private lesson on Martyr's Square (which is actually a circle) - a tribute to the site where the Ottoman's executed Arab nationalists prior to the first world war. The brief history/politics lecture provided a foundation for much of the rest of the trip, including an appreciation of the differences between the Shiites and the Sunni branches of Islam.

We left Matyrs square and made our way to the souq, passing windows and windows of baklava, plump with green pistachios and gleaming with sweet syrup.

There were a large number of Iranian Shiites heading towards the souq. Wrapped in their all black synthetic fabric chadors; the site of them is sympathetically painful - it was over 36 degrees that day, and I was sweating in a skirt and short sleeved shirt.

Souq Hamadiya is a large cobble stoned pedestrian area, a frenzy of life and marketing, thriving with locals and foreigners. It is covered by a corrugated iron roof, punctured with bullet holes which produce shafts of light like little stars on the cobblestones. Its all wonderful and overwhelming. Store owners treat guests and special shoppers to little glasses of highly sweetened black tea, known as 'shai'.

At the souq we head first to Stephan’s - the shop containing the most exquisite Damascus silk, made by hand in the traditional way. After shai, I was treated to a tour of the backroom, where the silk is made. Creating a basic design using 2 colours of thread will produce 1 metre a day. A more complex design, using 6 colours takes a day to produce less than half a metre. Its a slow and tedious process, and the threads are so fine no modern day machinery can wield them.

It is truly glorious fabric.

As we continued down the cobblestones of Hamdiya we treated ourselves to a Syrian ice-cream at Bakdash - delicious waffle cones of welcome cold vanilla dipped into a crust of green sweet fresh pistachios and almonds. 50 cents apiece.

Next stop was Faisal's - a shop owned by a man named Faisal who has an incredible collection of antique embroidered Palestinian/Arab bedouin dresses and gorgeous old jewellery. We had some shai, then toured his shop and admired his wares. I purchased a Turkoman silver cuff with agate stones, over 60 years old.

At the end of the cobblestones the corrugated iron roof gives way to a row of ancient Roman columns under blistering sunshine. Dead ahead is the Omayed Mosque which, together with the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem, is one of Islam's holiest sites. Built over 1200 years ago, it is unbelievable; but we visit the mosque later in our trip, and I do not want to get ahead of myself.

In front of the mosque I saw what quickly became an obsession – my first Toot Shami stand.

In Syria (and throughout the Middle East) there is a high risk of ameoba. Bottled water is safe, and to protect yourself from the risks of a painful bout of dysentry all travellers are advised to avoid salad vegetables that retain a high water content (like lettuce and cucumber) and to avoid glassware (as it is potentially just rinsed in local water) and to order all drinks 'bidoon thelj' – ‘without ice’.

The piles of fresh lush dark mulberries at the stall were too tempting so I took a chance. Dad, ever the sceptic clicked his tongue at me and muttered warnings along the lines of 'You have no-one to blame but yourself if anything happens'. I offered him a sip. He gave in and tried it and ordered his own cup. We'd go down together! the juice was like drinking a liquid mulberry pie - tart, mouth-watering and sweetly berried. The ying-yang of sweet and tang. Just awesome.
Its my new all time favourite drink.

After indulging ourselves, we headed across the square to the left of the mosque to Hassan’s. Hassan is an old family friend, with a thriving store in a great location. More shai was consumed, then purchases were made.

The next stop was Obeid's - known for its fantastic hand crafted gold jewellery. The gold in the middle east is purer and thus has a fantastic rich buttery colour. Obeids makes by far the BEST shai in the souq - the water is boiled with cinnamon and it’s truly delicious.

While at Obeids my father's mobile rang. The phone call we had been dreading - the embassy in Cairo had been advised he was required to return to present his ambassador's credentials to the president. However, the Egyptians would not say when, only that it was to happen next week. This meant no Aleppo visit, and that our stay would be cut to 3 days. It was unfortunate, but unavoidable. We decided to spend the time we had enjoying Damascus, as there is plenty to see and do in 3 days in the city.

Next stop was the perfume souq. It costs $3US for the Syrian perfume vendors to replicate any fragrance you desire in oils – I stocked up. I now own almost perfect replicas of Chanel Chance, Dior Addict, YSL Cinema, Nina Ricci 'Love in Paris', Burberry Brit, and Givenchy Hot Couture. Dad said if I buy any more Customs will catch me. We went and had Sfiha for lunch. Delicious.

So we did our bit to keep the Syrian economy afloat. The final destination of our trip was a walk along the 'Street called straight' of biblical fame, ending at Antiquo.

When I was a little girl and we'd visit Damascus, Antiquo was always my favorite shop. Not really because of the stock, but the wonderful pair who ran it – Ahmed and his son Mohammad. Ahmed died a couple of months ago, but Mohammad now runs the store as his own.

He has a fantastic sense of humour. My favorite story is of a time a lady came in wanting "something to put money in." at which point he promptly turned to her and opened out his pocket.

He hasn't changed at all. When he asked what we would like to drink I responded Shai. To which he answered, "I'm sorry, we only have tea today."

We sat under the fans and reminisced, finding a photo of Ahmed and Dad when he was first posted to Damascus back in 1979. I tried to pay for a lovely little turquoise brooch, but Mohammad insisted I take it as a gift.

By now it was 3pm and stinking hot. As we'd been active since 8am, we decided to head back to the hotel for a siesta.

At 8pm we went to the most exquisite restaurant. An old arab house (over 100 years) had been renovated to create incredible ambience. Coupled with delicious Syrian food, finished with a giant mug (think Oktoberfest) of Toot Shami – it was truly a perfect evening.

And that is just day one!

Don't worry – I'll keep the following days somewhat more brief for you.

I am, unfortunately, sick at the moment – must have picked up a bug in Syria, so there might be a considerable delay between e-mails.

Snippets

Four days ago I was walking in Zamalek. It is school holidays now in Egypt, and the most vividly obvious sign of this is the absence of tooting cars blasting horns outside my house from one thirty to three as parents and drivers signal their children for pickups. Add in the cars that are just blasting because they want to get through, and the occasional one that comes the wrong way down the one way streeet I live in - and there are usually a lot of horns. I don't miss them at all. I have managed to get to a stage where I turn my music up and sometimes can be almost unaware of it. Sometimes I am annoyed - but it is not helpful, as it churns me up and does nothing to the hornblowers!

Back to the subject. I was out walking - and that is always inevitable, as without any parking on the island I walk everywhere. The aching muscles of the early days have gone now and I am undoubtedly fitter. The doctor who took my blood pressure the other day asked why I was taking tablets as my blood pressure was normal. I was tempted to say that that was probably because of the tablets, but just made a mental note to check it in Australia.

I walked past a couple of highwalled building with guard boxes. The guards wear white uniforms now, with crossed black strappings like bandoliers across the chest and black belts. I often think it looks like a design for a flag, with the black diagonal cross on white. I used to wonder why the guard groups seemed to have changed. When I arrived it seemed that all the men with guns were in black. It took a while to realise that it was actually the same men in different uniforms. Some of these guards are excellent and some are not. I have occasionally - well, maybe even often - seen them asleep in their guard boxes, sometimes looking disconcertingly dead with a white handkerchief spread carefully across the face to reduce the light.

Our guards have suits, and are very, very professional. There are not so many of them, and I now know all the names unless one is away and there is a short term replacement brought in. Ahmed is very tall and strong with a square jaw and seems more stern than the others, but his smile utterly alters his face. Bedawy is friendly and always smiling, and really lights up when you talk to him. Hamed (who I think is possibly Mohammed, or very like an earlier guard with a similar name) is balding, shorter and nice. Then there is Ayman - who actually starts with a letter we don't have in English - an ayn - which sounds like an a somewhat gargled in the back fo the throat. Every time I am tempted to laugh at a friend from another country who inadvertantly mispronounces a word to create a real howler I think of how I must sound to Arabs when I try to make this sound.

The short machine gun slung over the shoulder under the suit somewhat spoils the line of the jacket, particularly from behind, but they are nice men.

I am actually getting around to a little incident I saw! As I walked past a guard box I noticed a little girl sitting in there with a guard in white. Around the corner outside another building there were two guards, and two children. One was sitting on the bench in the box while his shoe was being firmly laced by one of the guards. My first thought was that the guard had noticed that his lace was untied as the child walked past. Then I realised that that was unlikely. This wasn't a street child. He was probably six, somewhat chubby and obviously well fed. He was overdressed - even wore a jumper and it was thirty seven degrees!

Then I realised what had happened. With economic changes in Cairo, more and more women are joining the workforce. This was Dads bringing the children to work. I found it oddly endearing that so many men with guns had small children with them.

I have been asked by the American University of Cairo to hold an exhibition of my work in September. I wish it was a bit further away so I could supply a bit more new work, but it is still nice to be planning a show. I was talking about the talks they want me to give - one floor talk, and a lecture to the full time students. I had pointed out that my move into textiles from painting had given me a way to earn something towards the family income with teaching which would not have been possible in painting, and suggested that that might be something to point out to the students.

Then the lady who manages the gallery made a comment that stopped me in my tracks, metaphorically, at least. She pointed out that the students at the American University do not ever really have to earn an income, and the problem is supplying enough activities of interest to stop them from being bored or getting into trouble. For me, this is a really mindblowing idea, that people could have enough money not to need to work, and how that affects the way the group is handled. A lot of students study art, as it provides and involving activity, which is of high status, even for women, and absorbing. Because fees are high at this private university, it naturally selects for these students.

I am in Canberra now. I arrived last night, after a very long twenty seven hours from doorway to doorway. I am weary, but not as tired as I expected to be!

One last snippet. On the plane coming into Canberra they were going through the safety checks and the usual little talk beforehand as we taxied out to takeoff. I was sitting there thinking how lovely the Aussie voice is - that light and rather natural way of speaking with the warmth of our 'tipping-up at the ends of words' accent. Then the Chief steward said, "You can undo your seat belt by lick...sorry, flicking the buckle" - and the whole plane broke up in helpless laughter. The man beside me muttered that he didn't think he had that much physical dexterity, and I said that people would have to do each other's. There were obviously similar comments going on around the plane as there were scattered bursts of laughter for some time. Even later there ws still the odd choke as someone got the giggles.

It was a lovely homecoming!

Mucking around in boats

I have been longing for a ride on a falucca. This is a very elegant Egyptian boat with a single A-shaped sail. At least, they look incredibly elegant out on the water. Close up I have decided they have the width and solidity of the older Manly ferries. It doesn’t go with elegant, ponderous might be better, but they can really move on the water. Even better, this is the sort of boat trip where you can take a camera, and wine, and a picnic as even though a felucca can heel over occasionally it is very rare for one to actually tip.

So – I took a camera. We have had a few trips away from the city recently, and yesterday – for my driving practice – I went out to a club near the road to Alexandria. Looking up, the sky was blue. Looking over to Cairo showed a heavy grey pall over dulled pale gray buildings in the smog. I find it a bit worrying – supposedly the second worst (if I can say such a thing) smog in the world. Mexico City is supposed to be the worst, but it is graded on proportion of oxygen to junk, and they are so high that they have less oxygen. I cough in Cairo, and it tends to ease when I am away.

Fishermen

Fishermen
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

Ahmed lounging on the tiller, with the island where greenhouses go to die behind

Ahmed lounging on the tiller, with the island where greenhouses go to die behind
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

The sail above us

The sail above us
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

Ahmed, our ‘captain’ lounged in various poses (always picturesque) and barely moved as he took the boat down river towards Cairo, tacking into the wind, then flipped it back to run downwind (with zero sail until Bob suggested a bit of speed might be nice). The tacking was particularly interesting as he would run us fast towards the reed beds at the edge of the river until we were looking at each other and certain that this time we were going straight in. With this much speed up, how could a tub this wide and heavy possibly turn in time? But – he always did. We dodged islands as we went, watched fishermen pulling in a catch, or empty nets, watched women washing dishes in the Nile, and me catching ferries. We passed other faluccas and compared them unfavorably to our own.

An evening at the edge of the river

An evening at the edge of the river
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

Fishermens' boats in the reeds

Fishermens' boats inth reeds
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

Washing dishes

Washing dishes
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

Ahmed, lounging with cigarette

Ahmed, lounging with cigarette
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

Sunset on the Nile

Sunset on the Nile
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

Even the beautiful sunset over water last night was a little clouded by the fact that at seven thirty the sun was a stunning large red ball on the horizon, and you could look at it and photograph it without worrying about damaging your eyes or camera.

Tonight we have another boat trip – this time a thank you to all our hard working Embassy for the impossible time of the Defence Minister’s visit.

View through the meshrabieh in the Artists' Khan

View through the meshrabieh in the Artists' Khan
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

Half the door at Madrasa al-Sultan El-Ashraf Barsbay

Half the door at Madrasa al-Sultan El-Ashraf Barsbay
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

Detail of woodcarving and inlay

Detail of woodcarving and inlay
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

A spectacular ceiling

A spectacular ceiling
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

Carved words from the Koran

Carved words from the Koran
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

A really beautiful dome

A really beautiful dome
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

The covered area

The covered area
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

The courtyard

The courtyard
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

The bread baker at Kebabgy

The bread baker at Kebabgy
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

The bread baker at Kebabgy

The bread baker at Kebabgy
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

More Y-Fronts

We have workmen in the house. This is an old house, built in the 1930’s. It is one of the few properties owned by the Australian government now, and is probably worth a fortune as it is one of the older houses on the island. Old houses can be beautiful but come with all sorts of built-in problems. Nothing is ever simple here. Painters in every repaint since the 30’s have happily painted over hinges and door fittings and window latches. A recent attempt to open a just-painted cupboard door (we had to re-plaster a wall so great lumps of plaster would stop falling onto the bed the minister would sleep in, but that is another story) was curiously difficult as the doors resisted. Then there was an odd popping sound, and the floor was suddenly covered in hinge-shaped curves of paint, like long thin acrylic finger nails.

Some of our windows wouldn’t open. Many wouldn’t close. Shutters had been put in but painted so many times that they ended up half an inch wider than they had started. Any attempt to close them forced the shutters off their hinges – and my staff kept attempting to close them. So they hung somewhat drunkenly on loose hinges.

Any hint of wind had all the glass in our windows rattling like a manic cocktail party. This was not conducive to an easy night’s sleep.

Worst of all, the house just fills with large amounts of dust. Last time an Aussie property inspection team came through they pointed out that the curved windows didn’t fit at the top – to the extent that many had gaps between frame and glass that you could put a hand through. These panes were each held in with four nails, wedged at angles from the outside, but not visible inside.

We have the authority to fix windows and shutters. The contract has been allocated, and the foreman and chief engineer (sounds funny, but everyone here seems to be an engineer) sat down with me to plan the calendar.

He wanted to take all the windows out on a floor at a time, take them away to work on them, and then come back six weeks later to put them back. I wanted one room done at a time, windows removed, completed, and put back. Many ‘windows’ are actually French windows so they double as doors, and they were not talking about just removing glass, but every frame and every support for the frame. He assured me that they would not take the shutters off at the same time – we would always have one or the other for security. I pointed out that security was all very well, but I didn’t want the whole top floor open to mosquitoes and dust, and unable to be cooled as the temperature climbs.

We eventually agreed to the roof rooms (my studio) first, then half the bedroom floor followed by the other half. Then, after this month when we stop having lunches and dinners for official guests they will start on the ground floor, but will always leave one room which can be closed and cooled.

They arrived yesterday and attacked the studio and my reading room. I had quilters visiting, so had to traipse them around downstairs, with a brief flit to the roof to see my shrouded studio.

At about three in the afternoon I headed upstairs to check that they had used plastic to seal the holes where the windows had been. Bob was out for the night so I had planned to sew.

I walked into the reading room and backed out fast. A man was in the process of changing, with his back hastily turned to me and his white underpants below his shirt, bare legs below.

I shot back downstairs, waited till all cars had gone, then skulked back, very embarrassed.

By morning I had decided to brazen it out with a cheery greeting, and just ignore the whole thing. I heard them arrive and troop up the back stairs, then went up. I walked into my studio this time – to find two men with their pants down.

There may have been more – but I was off.

I was really upset. It is funny – but I love those rooms, they are mine and I spend most of my time in them, and this felt like a total misuse of my space.

We have arranged (not me, I have been scared to go up and face them) for a room for them to change in, but I am still feeling stressed and angry.

I had a really interesting morning two days ago with a meeting for the Asian Diplomatic Wives Association – and believe it or not, I am a member. The diplomatic corps here is divided into regions as there are a huge number of embassies. They discussed the Spring Song Festival which we have just had, the Bazaar which looms terrifyingly on the horizon (I don’t do bazaars, but am not brave enough to say so) and then had a huge lunch – at eleven thirty! Then the belly dancer arrived to teach us to belly dance. Now the only thing that horrifies me more than solo singing in public is dancing in public. The demonstration was terrific – as you will see in the photos. Somehow this dance combines sinuous fluidity with a snappy bump and grind which would have any male hyperventilating. How does anyone keep the upper body still while the hips flick left and right and the arms undulate around each other? Have a look at the photos.

The bellydancer

The bellydancer
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

twirl....

twirl....
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

more .....

more .....
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

The Flame Trees of Cairo, and Assorted Fruits

The Poinciana trees are in full and amazing flower, great arches of scarlet and green vault over the roads and gardens of the city in a sort of high gothic exuberance. Crimson flowers cover the roads and pavements. They are called flame trees here, but are not what I usually call flame trees. On each flower the longest perfect petal is scarlet and gold or scarlet and white. My lawn has a sprinkling of the last of the purple jacarandas and the first fall of scarlet. It is amazing how good this untidy city can look draped intermittently in scarlet. It is enough to tempt me to try a hibiscus behind my ear sometime.

Bob is in Libya and I am on my own this evening. There was a cocktail party invitation, but it would feel a bit odd to brave one of these on my own. I am not sure why, as I am always on my own from the first minute, as groups of men and women always seem to talk separately, but I have chosen to stay home.

I have been at a friend’s house this afternoon, making wedding invitations for her daughter’s wedding. There is a wonderful paper suq here where they make invitations to order, and they have a huge selection of plain cards and envelopes. You are supposed to choose a blank and have them printed, but my friend bought blanks, and has stamped them in a beautiful elegant blend of gold with a hint of colour through it. She has printed the invitation of clear vellum (onionskin?) which we were trimming and tucking inside with two tiny spots of glue. We punched two holes in the front and threaded ribbon through them, tying it in a soft reef knot. My friend commented that she didn’t know why she hadn’t just ordered printed invitations.

As we worked we talked about the things we do while away to try to make sure our families know that we are trying to still be part of the family. I vividly remember making a wedding dress for my daughter Kim, in a hotel in Cyprus where we were evacuated during the first Gulf War. I couldn’t get to the wedding, but it seemed so important to me to make the dress.

I walked home. At six o’clock, it was still 34 degrees and so humid that my linen pants were sticking and sweat was running down my legs. I walked past a young woman. She was in the traditional long skirt and long sleeved top, and wearing a white headscarf – the outfit known as hijjab. As she walked she was sobbing quietly. It has absolutely rattled me. I asked her if I could help and she looked at me for one moment with bloodshot eyes and tears pooling on her lower lids - just a long look full of silent desolation. Then she moved on, and I did too, minding my own business.

I feel as if I have taken on a portion of her misery. It came down like a black cloud as she moved away. I can only hope that she feels a bit better.

It is my mother’s birthday tomorrow and I wish I was home. I will be in just a few weeks. Less actually, I leave on Monday.

We had an interesting trip out to a farm at the weekend. We had lunch with a group of Egyptian businessmen and their wives. We drove through desert on a highway until suddenly there was a green area on one side of the road, and nothing but sand on the other. The whole area was all farms. It is extraordinary to me that you can pour water on to plants in the desert and they will just grow. There seem to me to be no nutrients, and nothing to help hold the water. However, in this sand our host grows thirty four different types of vegetable and fruit.

There was a large blue tent set up for us. It was lined with ‘Persian’ carpets – not the real thing, but there must have been thirty large rugs. One this were tables and chairs and a formal square of deep blue velvet chairs for the men.

Lunches here follow a pattern. The invitation was for twelve o’clock, and we left home at eleven as it was a long way. We drank soft drink and talked. There were only a handful of people there for the first hour and a half, our host, and two of his friends, and us. Then some more men arrived. At about two his wife and sons and their wives arrived just when I had absolutely decided that this was supposed to be a men-only lunch and Bob had got it wrong.

The women moved to a different table and I joined them. At about three there was movement among the men, though the women did not stir. Bob doubled back to tell me they were going out to see the fish. I joined them.

It was about thirty seven and humid, and we were in full sun as we walked towards the rows of fruit trees, unfortunately still too small to give any real shade. Our host took us on a tour of his orchards, with frequent tasting of the fruit – and the peaches were so succulent and delicious. The grapes were fat and green and will be ready in a few weeks. Figs and mangoes were still a long way off. Pomegranates were each individually wrapped in gaily printed pages from an Arabic women’s magazine and tied with string to save them from the birds. We decided against the apricots as he broke one open to show us that they were crawling with grubs – which were invisible from the outside.

Apples worthy of the Garden of Eden, with just a sprinkling of sand

Apples worthy of the Garden of Eden, with just a sprinkling of sand
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

Figs

Figs
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

Grapes

Grapes
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

In a large square tank was the water that he is allocated from the Nile channel that supports the area. He is given water every second day. Years ago they had problems with mosquitoes breeding in it, and it turned dark green with algae and smelt bad. Someone suggested fish, so he put some in. Every year they harvest two big catches of Nile perch. We all watched fascinated as two men climbed into the water (fully dressed) and proceeded to set up a net with a long straight rod on each end. They caught twenty large fish in about ten minutes, throwing dozens of small ones back.

The tank and pumping house

The tank and pumping house
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

Catching the fish

Catching the fish
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

Fish jumping as they are passed up

Fish jumping as they are passed up
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

Lunch was served just before four o’clock, and this is not an unusual lunch time. Perhaps it was a bit later than usual as they were waiting for one couple to arrive. It was delicious, but to my surprise it did not feature fish.

Then came the best part of all. He let the ostriches out. They flounced like the front line at the Moulin Rouge, circling each other and dancing in pleasure at their freedom. I was amazed at how tame they were, happily coming over to the keeper, who was obviously very proud of them. They were only a year old and they must have been over six foot tall!

I will let the photos show you. Once again, be prepared to scroll through them even if they have pushed others off into the archives. I MISS my blog fairy. I actually discovered a horrifying typo in something I had already put up a few days back when writing about my flight with Kuwait. It was so bad that I was forced to work out for myself how to fix it – and I am very proud that I did. I had written that a young woman in nekkeb (full face cover) had a flap which allowed her to put food and drunks under the flap. I meant drinks of course, but could not leave it as it was. It would have been appallingly offensive. As a joke against me it is somehow more permissible.

Ostriches dancing

Ostriches dancing
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

A lady greets her guests with a few well-chosen words of wisdom...

A lady greets her guests with a few well-chosen words of wisdom...
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

..and show a little curousity out of politeness....

..and show a little curousity out of politeness....
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

A lady stands with her feet together

A lady stands with her feet together
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

A lady holds her head high as she walks

A lady holds her head high as she walks
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

A lady shows as much elegance as she leaves as when she approaches.

A lady shows as much elegance as she leaves as when she approaches.
Originally uploaded by jennybowker.

Kuwait Quilt Show

I have sent a lot of pictures of quilts straight to the blog. These are all from the Kuwait show and they are marvelous. It is a great indication of what happens when a group of women have a few good teachers, but are otherwise quite isolated from the great big quilt world out there. Because my blog fairy is away I am afraid they will slot in, each as a separate posting, fill the first page with the first ten pictures, then slide off into the archives for June. Please persist and keep looking – they really are great quilts and the winners are at the bottom of the pile!

I would have sent more – but I am embarrassed to find I have forgotten many names I should remember. I have sent a few without names, so please email me if you know them and I will put them in when I can. If I have forgotten yours, I apologise, it is worst when I can picture the person exactly, and I usually can.

Kuwait, with great generosity, ran a challenge for the whole region, and had quilts from six different countries in the Middle East. The challenge was “Let me introduce Myself” and it could be interpreted in any way within a size limit. They were wonderful quilts, and the most exciting thing for me was seeing influences from other cultures in the quilts. The first few I have sent are not from the challenge, but the rest are.

It was a really wonderful show with a very high standard of work.