I spent the next few hours fretting about how I was going to fit everything I needed for my upcoming trip to Ladakh into one bag.  Three hours later and marginally less worried about my packaphobia, I ascended the three flights of stairs to the rooftop restaurant. Each step I rose brought me closer to the inferno.  The sun had barely risen and it was already well over 35C.

Breakfast was included, so I went native and ordered aloo parantha (potato-filled tortilla-like disks pan fried in ghee butter, yum) with curd (yogurt) and pickle (in this case, limes marinated in oil, lemon juice, salt and spices). Looking around I noticed four gentlemen on the roof across the street who were completely captivated by my scintillating newspaper reading. One stared fixedly, his toothbrush hanging limply from his gaping mouth. I too couldn’t help but stare. They were living on the roof, and I was looking right into their bathroom.

Birla Mandir, swastika central

Nandu arrived at the appointed time – early, in fact – and off we drove to the Lakshmi Temple, also known as the Birla Mandir, a large Hindu temple built in 1938. I removed my shoes and my toes wiggled in delight at the warm and spotlessly clean marble floors. I was followed, discretely, by a family fascinated by my enthusiastic embrace of Hindu ritual, including a large, tumeric-coloured bindi placed between my eyebrows by the priest who tended the colourful and sequined effigies of Vishnu and Lakshmi.

There was one very unsettling aspect to India I was going to have to get used to: the swastika. For someone raised with a Jewish identity and fed a diet of Holocaust remembrance, the sheer volume of swastikas – the ultimate symbol of Nazi aggression and anti Semitism – was overwhelming. Architecture, paintings, graffiti, t-shirts – India is swarming with swastikas! The Birla Mandir thoughtfully explained that a swastika is an implied prayer of success, accomplishment and perfection (it also reassured me that it didn’t matter if I do karma yoga at home or janya yoga in the jungle – I’m so relieved!), but all I could see was burning books, shattered glass and murdered babies. As a distraction I focused on all the men who walked nonchalantly holding hands with their buddies. That was also very weird.

Next stop was the Indira Gandhi museum where, no matter how fast or slowly I walked, the cleaner would be in front of me, wiping down the display I was trying to read. The day-of-death displays of her blood-stained sari and her son’s shredded clothing and dirty running shoes were unsettling. I preferred seeing the large but modest drawing room where Indira used to entertain world leaders.

Indira Gandhi. Indian Anne Frank?

Qutb Minar

After came the Qutb Minar complex, founded in the late 12th century by the first Muslim rulers of Delhi. It was extraordinarily hot and I shuffled along to an audio guide that fell just short of obnoxious. Nandu then dropped me off at the Baha’i House of Worship, a dramatic, white, lotus-shaped building presiding over acres of manicured lawns and sizzling-hot paths.

Baha'i Lotus Temple

I joined the long convoy of barefoot people climbing the stairs to the entrance. Before being allowed in we were instructed that absolute silence was required. Amazingly, everyone complied. I sat in the 1300-seat auditorium, enveloped in the wordless energy of hundreds of visitors, focusing on the sweat running down my spine, and listening to the whisper of people silently floating through space, punctured only by the shrill of birds in the rafters and the sound of my sticky palms lifting off the page as I scribbled. In 17 minutes I was running out of there, busting with desire to speak, yell, laugh, sing. I chattered moronically to Nandu as he drove me to Rajghat; he giggled politely. Rajghat, the black granite memorial on the site of Mahatma Gandhi’s cremation,

Searingly-hot Rajghat

is India’s most venerated symbol of nationalism. And, when you remove your shoes to visit, it feels like the cremation fires are still going.  I was fortunate to have the memorial to myself, but I could barely enjoy it given that my feet were being burned raw, notwithstanding the protective carpets. I madly hopped from foot to foot, taking an off-kilter photo, then ran like the devil back to my welcoming shoes.

I was starting to get anxious for food and water. I convinced a reluctant Nandu to come with me to Natraj, recommended for its dahi bhalla.  The problem was that Nataraj was located on Chandni Chok, a crazy, manic, insanely-busy street market in Old Delhi, and parking was a challenge. Nandu managed to wedge our Tata into a peripheral spot in the Red Fort parking lot and then badgered a bicycle rickshaw to take us to the restaurant.  Unfortunately, to get there we had to cross both lanes of traffic by foot, a frightening endeavour when facing a relentless stream of animal and mechanical traffic that takes no prisoners. Nandu was as cool as cucumber raita; I looked like bambi on Red Bull.

Miraculously I made it with all limbs attached, only to then be faced with the busiest – and most narrow – alley I had ever seen. I could not comprehend how people were able to move in such density. It would make an ant feel claustrophobic.

Alley outside Natraj, Chandni Chok

Luckily our destination was only a few feet into the alley, past a large, angry wok of boiling oil. We ascended a staircase barely wide enough for one person, and entered an authentic Indian establishment.  Everyone stared at me curiously, but by now I was getting used to it. My dahi bhalla was phenomenal – warm balls of deep-friend lentils immersed in a pool of cool yogurt, tangy tamarind sauce and fresh pomegranate seeds. I was transported.  Meanwhile, an ornary Nandu ordered a vegetable thali (assortment of dishes on one tray) and sent back his naan three times.  It was a side of him I hadn’t yet seen.  When he was finally pleased with his bread I got him to teach me to say “the food is delicious” in Hindi. (Khana atcha hei.)  When we left I asked if we could see what was down the alley. “No,” he answered perfunctorily.

Dahi bhalla at Natraj

Nandu

We returned to the head of Chandni Chok where we parted ways. Nandu would go ahead to the car and wait for me while I visited the Red Fort.  Alas, this meant crossing an even more ambitious intersection where every imaginable type of vehicle was converging in some kind of bizarre ballet choreography whose comprehension exceeded my intellect. I found some wise-looking Indians and followed them across like a quivering shadow. I cheered when I made it, attracting the attention of a young British man. He broke the bad news. “The Red Fort is closed for security reasons,” he advised. With Independence Day a week away, Delhi’s sites were starting to shut down. I nearly cried at the prospect of crossing the street again, but I managed.

I don’t know who was more shocked when I returned to the car – Nandu at seeing me so drastically ahead of schedule, or me at the site of him in an undershirt hiked up to his nipples, chewing on a toothpick and spitting inelegantly. While he scrambled to button up his shirt I asked if I could go to the Jami Masjid, India’s largest mosque. “No,” he answered bluntly. But we drove by it, providing a real flavour of Indian Muslim neighbourhoods: filthy, colourful, and full of chickens, goats, sticky dates and throngs of people.

Last stop of the day was Humayun’s Tomb, a quiet respite from the chaotic Delhi streets. I quietly strolled along shady grass, listening to the birds and entertained by India’s spindly, racing-striped chipmunks. As I sat and enjoyed the tomb’s view, said to be the inspiration for the Taj Mahal, I realized how exhausted I was.  It was time to go back, shower, and wind down the day.

Humayun's Tomb, Delhi

Munich airport history-making sex shop

outfits, giant purple dildos and a wide and imaginative selection of DVDs. The young man working there was very friendly and proudly told me that this was the first and only truly international sex shop in the world. Outside some young Chinese tourists were leaning against the glass, submerged in Gucci and Louis Vuitton bags and oblivious to their surroundings.  I felt like shaking them: “Don’t you realize you’re in the presence of history?! You may have the Great Wall, but this is the only no-man’s-land pornography in the world!”  I resisted.

My plane was delayed. I offered to upgrade myself to first class if business class was overbooked. I’ve never seen an airline employee laugh so hard.

Not that I’m complaining – my business class seat was very comfortable. It’s just too bad that the guy in the next row didn’t shut up the entire flight.  Every time I leapt over my poor seatmate to go to the bathroom I was stunned to see this magpie’s arms flailing to the beat of his endless patter. My earplugs couldn’t drown him out.  I threw myself intensely into Bride Wars, at loud volume.

When the plane touched down in Delhi and the door opened I was punched in the face by an immense force of heat, the heady smell of garbage and the bug-eyed curiosity of a team of small brown people.  Ah, yes. The Famous Indian Stare. Welcome to India.

Even with having to complete the extra forms for swine flu, arrival and bag collection was exceptionally fast. Having arranged a prior transfer, I confidently strode to the exit, ready to sail above the sea of touts, taxi drivers and scam artists.

My driver was not there.

In fact, as I stood there quietly seething, it occurred to me that I almost never have smooth arrivals, so why would India be any different?  Besides, this obstacle presented the agreeable opportunity to try the patience of airport security guards and to experience the germ-infested joys of the Airtel public phone kiosk.

Six rupees (about 15 cents CAD) and countless microorganisms later I found my driver at the other exit (why when travelling do we so often overlook the obvious?). Nandu was a short, moustached man of about 40 years who was difficult to understand but had a great sense of humour. (I would eventually learn that it didn’t matter what I said – he would laugh. I could have declared, “My heart has stopped beating and I’m going into cardiac arrest,” and he undoubtedly would have chuckled heartily.)  As he briskly pushed the cart we passed a sea of motorcycles to arrive at a white Tata sedan. It reminded me of my own car at home, “the marshmallow”. I smiled.

The road was forced to snake around the massive construction of the new Metro link to the airport, a project I presumed would be underway for the next five years. I was shocked to learn that they were trying to get this and other new Metro lines ready for the Commonwealth games… in 2010? Next year?! Who did they think they were – China?

View from my hotel room of beautiful Karol Bagh

I found the Delhi arrival experience underwhelming. I expected to see a city teeming with infamous Indian street life, but it was mostly construction hoardings or forest. And lots and lots of traffic.  It reminded me of Cairo.

The hotel was not what I was expecting based on the web site; pretty common for India, apparently. It was small and dark, but friendly. My bedroom had a fan that sounded like a helicopter – good for drowning out the construction noises – and a bathroom fan that opened directly to the outside air. I turned it on immediately to discourage inquisitive mosquitoes. After washing some clothes I put in earplugs, slipped on my Bose noise-cancelling headphones and, with all respect to Chris Anderson, listened to his audiobook “Free” to lull me into a delicious post-travel slumber.

When I awoke I was driven about four blocks to the travel agency. Then, the fun began. With explicit instructions how to return to the hotel, I was let loose into Karol Bagh, one of India’s largest market neighbourhoods and target of terrorist bombings in September 2008 (a discovery made fortunately after I returned home and a fact thankfully still unknown to my family). I made it to the McDonald’s, a guiding light of blessed familiarity for the directionally

Best name for an Indian coach company

challenged, and then went the wrong way. The wide, busy streets became an even busier network of narrow alleys with evil-looking wires dangling from above, piles of garbage underfoot, and unfathomable numbers of men. I was serially assaulted by the smells of incense, urine, rotting food and jasmine. There were no other Westerners to be found – for that matter, there were no other women in sight! Backtracking my steps, I eventually found my way back to the McDonald’s and, after two more false starts, went down the right street to my hotel.

Now a veteran of Indian street life, it was time to try out Delhi’s relatively new Metro. I walked the three large blocks from the hotel (and didn’t get lost!), and for 8 rupees (less than two cents) purchased a featherweight, light blue plastic token.  I walked through the women’s metal detector and was patted down as my bag glided through the security belt.  Instinctively I knew which direction to go, but forgetting that the tracks were reversed (India is left-hand drive like the UK) I chose the wrong side.  But given that the next train was still 11 minutes, my margin of error was large enough to be corrected.

I tried to stand close to other women, but eleven minutes in a city of 15 million people is a long time to wait for a train, so the open-air platform was soon full, of men.  When the train arrived my heart filled with dread. It was packed.  But given that I was only going three stops and couldn’t bear another eleven minutes on the platform, I charged forward.

In the car my closest neighbour was a rather hirsute and sweaty man. I mustered every muscle to try to keep a paper’s width of space between me and his robust beard. At the next stop even more people pushed on – how was it possible? As the train moved out of the station into the sunshine I visualized how I looked to the outside world: a white woman in a sea of brown, face smushed against the glass door, doing a full body press against a human orangutan while the hair from the shorter man in front of her crawls up her nostrils, her knuckles chafing while trying to hold her zippered pant pocket closed and thinking she feels probing fingers on her thigh but she can’t tell because they may be her own hands, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.  However, when even more people crammed on at the next stop I wasn’t laughing anymore because I began imagining things like fire, bombings, derailment, lice, leprosy, hepatitis. When I arrived at Connaught Place I was shot out of the train like a ruptured aneurism. And that was the end of my Delhi Metro career.

During my wanderings around Connaught Place I saw a Hindu temple with monkeys, Sadhus (Hindu ascetics) dressed in ochre with paste-covered faces, and market with entry by metal detector. After relaxing by the Jantar Mantar, a park filled with large astronomical instruments built in the early 1700s, I decided to try my first auto rickshaw, the three-wheeled ubiquitous Indian tuk tuk. A turbaned, bespectacled Sikh driver caught my wave.

“How much to Karol Bagh?” I asked.

He looked me over. “I’m on my last shift of the day. You pay what you want.”

In hindsight the right response would have been, “Ok. I don’t want to pay anything. So, now you tell me what you want to be paid,” but I just shrugged. I had a plan.

His subsequent conversation was relentlessly money focused. “You have tour for tomorrow? How much you pay? How much you pay for your trip to Ladakh? How much does a sari cost in the market? 400 rupees?? Not possible!” and on and on. We went out of our way to stop by the “House of Textiles”, the best place in Delhi to by clothes, of course. What a surprise! I didn’t bite.

He didn’t want to stop in front of the hotel, preferring to turn left at the corner, but I asked him to drop me off in front. Then I said, “Please wait one moment,” and ran inside before he could reply. I asked Reception the appropriate payment and, when I returned to my driver with 50 rupees, he said that he was hurt that I didn’t trust him, that he might have charged me less.  “Then you should have given me a price,” I responded. Too bad.

That evening Nandu took me to India Gate,

Evening at India Gate

a large arch commemorating India’s war efforts in the Afghan wars and World War I. A popular gathering spot for Delhi-ites in the evening, India Gate had a festive air, with family picnics, fluorescent blue comets launched by erstwhile vendors and bright pink candy floss.

I was taken to Pindi Restaurant on Pandara Road, a popular place for tourists. Despite my coaxing Nandu stayed with the car. My first official Indian meal began with strong pickle, mint sauce and marinated onions that tasted like the hallways of Lincoln Avenue, the multi-ethnic Montreal apartment building in which I lived during second-year university. I really enjoyed my paneer tika masala, aloo nan, lime soda and pineapple  raita, even if the latter had an unfamiliar dairy taste.  I shared my leftovers with Nandu and, feeling quite full and happy I survived my first day in India, returned to my hotel.

First dinner

When her hockey tour to Scotland/South Africa was cancelled, I persuaded my friend Alison to join in my African adventure. I reassured her multiple times that the tour hyperlink was correct – yes, I know it’s not my usual style of travel, but really, I’m okay with camping, no really, I’ve already paid my deposit, I won’t back out, seriously, let’s do it. My charms finally beat her into submission.

In the month preceding the trip I had been enthusiastically (one might say compulsively) studying Swahili on line, so our Kenya Airways flight to Nairobi afforded the first bona fide opportunity to showcase my skills. I successfully conveyed “I drink water” and “I want chicken” to the flight staff, but I knew I still had a ways to go when I translated one of the signs on the plane as “toilets are animals”.

Baby elephant and rhino orphanage, Nairobi

Our African adventure began shortly after arriving at 5 am. Before we had even left the airport grounds, Ali and I saw zebras. Zebras! Right there on the side of the road.  As our tour didn’t officially begin until that evening, our driver offered to take us to Nairobi’s local animal shelters. We began with an orphanage for abandoned baby elephants, which would have been a lovely experience except for the two hundred other people who were there with us, and that we were positioned precisely between two guides who were talking simultaneously with different scripts. Disheartened by our “African Lion Safari” experience, we cautiously moved onto the next stop, the Giraffe Centre.

Giraffe hoping for food

The Giraffe Centre was an absolute delight.  Alison immediately fell in love, which I worried would result in her acquiring a staggering volume of giraffes in various forms and materials before she returned home.  It was a giraffe feeding sanctuary, which, by being on a raised platform, allowed immediate contact with these animals by way of giant giraffe tongues delicately copping food pellets from our lips.

We then had to decide if we should go to the Nairobi National Reserve: would it be another touristy disaster like the elephants, or transformative like the giraffes? Our hearts filled with dread when we entered the safari walk: it was a zoo.  A zoo with a twist, as it turned out.  Its residents had been rescued from the wild for various reasons, which meant that they were used to human contact. Unlike lions and leopards, who can never be kept into adulthood despite human raising, cheetahs adapt and bond with humans for the rest of their lives, a good thing given that we were taken right to a cheetah for petting.

Pet cat, African style

Like a massively overfed house cat, it snuggled and purred.  Yes, the zoo-not-a-zoo thing was confusing, but it gave us the chance to see animals we weren’t guaranteed to see in the wild, or at least not that closely.

Prior to meeting our fellow travellers, Ali and I had just enough time to squeeze in a drink.  Picture this: kicking back on a second floor patio, drinking chilled 500 ml bottles of Tusker beer, the sun setting gently behind the high rises, overhead a half moon encircled by birds. Now imagine the waiter coming to us with great concern because our bags were sitting on the table, not clutched by a death grip in our laps.  I’ll remind you this was a second floor patio, and we were the only ones on it. Nairobbery indeed.

There were nine of us in the group plus Jean-Luc, our French, Spain-based tour company representative who joined us on this trip’s maiden voyage. All Canadian (no Americans to blame), mostly from Toronto, and lovely: Jim and Merilee, retired from BC; Sherry and Emilio, the latter a firefighter (a fellow traveller who saves lives for a living!); Lilah, with her impressive bag of vitamins and weird superstitions, like single people shouldn’t sit at table corners; and Beth from Ottawa.  And then there was Darcy.  Darcy, who showed up late for our first-day animal sanctuary tours wearing a “Girls do it better and look better doing it” midriff t-shirt, fully equipped with digital camcorder, digital camera, I-Pod, and a complaint for nearly everything. This is someone who while in India ate at Pizza Hut every day.  We were genuinely puzzled by her purpose in Africa.

We had our first dinner together at a hopping restaurant, Kosewe. I had coconut fish, ugali (the national staple starch, like cream of wheat-flavoured polenta), and a green vegetable that tasted exactly like a tea bag. The atmosphere was enlivened by a Kenyan army high life band doing crowd favourites like La Bamba. I particularly liked eating the ugali which is broken off by (a Purell detoxed) hand then rolled into a ball for dipping into food.  Anyone who’s seen me eat a muffin knows that I’m comfortable with this technique.

During the day, in the heat of the day in fact, we agreed to rent bikes and ride to Hell’s Gate, one of the few National Parks you can ride or walk in unaccompanied by a ranger. I thought it was named Hell’s Gate because of the ride there, but it’s really called Hell’s Gate because of the ride back.

Fitting ten people with African bikes was no quick feat. For example, the back brakes didn’t work on the first bike I tried, and when Jean-Luc tried to fix it the brake handle broke off in his hand. With an improved second bike, off we went with 2 pm sun beating on our heads. The first part of the ride was fine, along a road lined with little children delightedly singing “how-ah-yoo? how-ah-yoo?” as we rode past. But then we turned right. We had to make our way one kilometre up a gradual incline on a road that was almost completely covered with settled dust. Have you ever tried to ride in sand? We were desperately grateful to reach the gate of Hell, and after paying our $15 entrance fee, rode into the park.

Bike ride to hell

All that hard work was worth it.  This was Africa of the animals. Look — there are zebras! What’s that leaping, a Thomson gazelle? Is that a mama warthog with her brood? Is that wildebeest in the distance? After riding a considerable distance (with Nanopod Girl plugged into her music the entire time), we came upon our next Outward Bound challenge: descending into the gorge. The gorge was beautiful, full of hot springs, and harrowing to navigate. As we delicately lowered ourselves over tricky rock formations trying not to tumble into the water below, nature’s treachery was exacerbated by Nanopod’s frequent shrieking of “Soaker!!! We’re gonna have a Soa-kah!!!!”  I was not amused, and was relieved that neither I nor anyone else became the “Soaker.”

It was alarmingly close to sundown by the time we got back on our bikes. But if beating the sun seemed daunting, we also had to contend with buffalo.  The animals in Hell’s Gate are generally people-friendly; however, buffalo can be crusty old codgers who aren’t afraid to throw their weight around.  And there were a lot of buffalo, materializing seemingly out of the dust.  We stuck together protectively each time we passed a group (the largest of which was 28 – I counted), buffaloes and humans eying each other warily.

We survived the park ungored and unscathed, and made it back to the bike rental place within minutes of complete darkness. It really was a wonderful day! So I was joking about it being hellish. Hell’s Gate is so called because of the sudden volcano eruption thousands of years ago that buried animals and humans alive in the area in which the park sits. We definitely got off easy.

Friendly chaos

streets are awash with people, pedestrians carrying innumerable bread products, carpets, livestock on their heads.  I used a friend’s Arabic cheat sheet to chat with our cabbie who spoke no English. I quickly mastered how to say “I do not understand” which complemented my blank look quite well. Our destination? The pyramids of Giza and the Sphinx.

Upon our arrival I reluctantly agreed to take the horseback tour with a sketchy-looking fellow named Adan.

Would you rent a horse from this dude?

Next thing I knew, Alison and I were on a couple of horses (she on Mickey Mouse, and I – wait for it – Charlie Brown) heading in the opposite direction from the pyramids into a very local neighbourhood.  Not the most auspicious beginning.  After about 30 minutes we finally picked up Adan’s horse (Rambo) and, thank goodness, ascended to the pyramids.

We were surprised to find ourselves in a desert! I had heard that the pyramids abutted a fast food empire (who hasn’t heard about the KFC across from the Sphinx), but that was not my first impression.  All I saw were Egyptians on horses and camels, sand dunes, and pyramids. I was impressed. We even went into one of the pyramids; a hilarious experience.  The passage was extremely narrow, the ceiling about three feet high, the air quite close. Now imagine passing a group of shell-shocked Japanese tourists, having a traditionally-dressed Muslim man screaming at you in Arabic about an empty sarcophagus and not giving him a tip (so I presumed), and then passing a group of about 20 children on the way back up, in the dark, each of them greeting you with an enthusiastic “hello!!!”  Egyptians are pretty friendly.

And we came upon a desert...

The view from Charlie Brown

Sphinx

Back on the horses, Adan decided to spice things up by telling our cartoon characters to pick up the pace. As we broke into a gallop, I was relieved that my childhood horse-riding experience kicked in — I comfortably posted to Charlie’s rapid gait.  Alison, however, began screaming in panic and begging Adan to tell her horse to stop as she bounced alarmingly in the saddle. Being a sympathetic friend, I shrieked uncontrollably with laughter. It was then I learned this was Alison’s first time *ever* on a horse.  I gave her a lot of credit… and laughed even harder. Clearly impressed by my horsemanship, Adan offered me his hand in marriage, and asked would I like to ride an Arabian horse tomorrow?  I politely declined both opportunities.

Upon returning to the hotel to freshen up, I discovered Charlie’s saddle had torn a small hole in my jeans (Alison saw this as revenge for my laughing at her), but this was no setback with my complimentary sewing kit!  Newly tailored we ventured downtown where we were befriended by “Friday” who – imagine that – took us to his family’s shop. Cynicism aside, Ali and I had a lovely time hanging out with his brother Mohamed. We were provided with tea and adorned with Lotus and Desert Flower essential oils. (She purchased; I did not.)

The face of Khan el Khalili

Camel for dinner?

Colourful Khalili

When we finally made it to the more touristy chaos of el Khalili, we were endlessly bombarded by plucky vendors with “Hello! Where are you from?”  (the response: Canada Dry, that joke again? sigh) until finally I said, okay, I’ve had enough, I’m going to learn how to say “hello” in Arabic. I was a little suspicious of the Arabic cheat sheet my friend had given me; the expression for hello was beautiful and just a little too lyrical.  Sure enough, upon its use I was met with surprised, albeit friendly looks.  I found out later that it meant roughly “welcome to my home”; no wonder they began asking me if I lived in Cairo. Ali meanwhile was mastering various ways to communicate her lack of interest in the incalculable trinket offerings. We ended up in one lively shop where, inspired by the middle eastern music and the metal castanets placed on my fingers by the proprietor, I began to dance like I learned in belly dancing lessons (that is, before I became I belly-dancing dropout).  Wouldn’t you know everyone working in the store (about ten males, ranging from 15 yrs to 40) instantly dropped what they were doing, started smiling, clapping, and closing in on me, while others walking by on the street also stopped what they were doing, started clapping, smiling, and closing in on me. Turning bright red, I gave them one final figure eight with my hips and graciously thanked them.  Those three lessons finally paid off!

The day’s highlight, however, was the fabulous meal at an authentic Egyptian restaurant, Abou el Sid, hosted by my friends.

An Egyptian feast

We began with assab (a sugar cane drink) and Stella, a local pilsner. Then began the parade of delicacies: foul (fava bean stew, rhymes with pool); tamiya (like a Krispy Kreme donut made of foul); mombar (rice and seasonings in sheep’s gut, putting a most definite closure on my vegetarian days); bamya (okra stew); sharka seya (chicken with walnuts, served on rice); merguez sausage; stuffed vine leaves; lessan asfour (which means tongues of birds, but more appetizingly comprises chicken stew with tiny pasta); arnab (rabbit); molokheya (a green vegetable stew made with rabbit stock, onions, cilantro, and garlic, whose traditional method of preparation includes a giant gasp, which in my case would be as I spilled it on the floor); keshk (chicken stock, flour, yoghurt with dried onions — doubles as wallpaper paste); and roasted eggplant. For dessert: om ali (a bread pudding made with croissant – heaven); mokhala beya (pudding of milk and cream), and fetir (a multi-layered pancake of filo made with black honey).  And if that wasn’t enough, Alison and I completed our Egyptian dining experience by smoking a toffa (apple) shisha.  Welcome to my home, all right!

Welcome to my home