Ramadan

The hottest I’ve ever been? Up until now 104 was my record, back from 1987 in Utah but Cairo smashed that without even breaking a sweat. 
Which is more than I can say for our cabbie, Atun, who despite looking calm and relaxed, sported sweat stains all over his short-sleeved cotton shirt as he picked us up from Cairo International Airport on an evening in early May. He was all smiles and friendliness as he loaded our luggage into the trunk, zipping us off to Zamalek while the sun hung low and deep in the reddening, smoggy sky.

I sat back against the seat, looping that same thought that always comes to me when we travel, I can’t believe we’re here. How amazing. I can’t believe we’re here. 
Uhm Kalthum wound her way up and down the scale over the radio as we skimmed through the empty streets, windows open, so that my hair danced all over my face in the hot blast and I had to hold it back from my eyes to see the scene flying past. The hottest part of the day was just beginning to give way and the thick air  made it feel as if the world were on fire. 

We passed the grandstand where Anwar Sadat was assassinated, passed mosques and stadiums, past universities; the music had given way to other voices and Atun turned it up as we worked south toward the Kasr El Nile bridge and the island of Gezirah where the Cairo Tower emerged from the haze. A new voice began the azan, driving the faithful to prayer and bringing an element of familiarity.

“Do you mind if I drink?” Atun called to us with a slight bend of the head toward his shoulder.

“Of course not,” we said together and he reached for a waiting bottle of water in the console, twisted it open, and tipped his head back without taking his eyes off the road.

The end of the day, sunset, and the close of the day’s fast. 

After having booked everything for our trip to Egypt with about two weeks to go I’d had the thought, When Ramadan is this year? Followed by, It can’t be now–what are the odd?

But Google doesn’t lie–there it was, Ramadan: April 12-May 12 and I had a bit of a panic. Had I messed up? What would that mean for travel? Hotels? Restaurants? I’d been around the Middle East but never during the month of fasting. I knew the basics of what Ramadan meant, but not the practicalities.

Again Mighty Google assured me that hotels and restaurants would probably still be open, with smaller places staying closing during the day, and events might close earlier than typical to accommodate the evening meal. This was accompanied by the glass-half-empty-vs.-glass-half-full statement that while some things might be closed and people might be a little grumpy (particularly toward the end of the month) we should embrace the opportunity of seeing the festivities and culture. And since our tickets were non-refundable, I chose the latter philosophy and crossed my fingers that it wouldn’t cause a problem.

That’s why we’d had such a brisk run through the streets of Cairo–no traffic. Everyone was at home ready to feast at the nightly iftar. Atun’s thirst had been the first reminder of what we could expect, and my amazement only grew as the sun rose the next day.

It had cooled to 70 during the night and breakfast on the patio of the Sofitel Nil El Gezirah was pleasant, but by 10am the heat was pressing in all around. I’d been watching the temperatures for weeks and had noticed that Cairo, which could normally expect a lovely and pleasant 85 degrees on an average May, was being hit with unseasonably warm weather. Temperatures had been well above 100 for a while and we’d be heading south to Luxor by the end of the week, where it was always warmer by 10 degrees. 

I began feeling guilty at the breakfast buffet, knowing that staff were likely fasting, and my guilt only got worse as the day wore on. Whenever I’d need a drink I’d try to sneak it in on the side, like an alcoholic grabbing for a secret hip flask in a corner, wanting to be as respectful as I could–and, having fasted a few times myself, knowing how hard it can be to abstain in the right frame of mind when food and drink is all around you. 

But by the time we got to Giza I’d lost most of that self-control. We went as early as we could to beat the heat, but when it’s over 100 by 9am, there’s not much to do about it. I favor the old-fashioned yet effective approach to keeping cool in intense heat: I use a jaunty umbrella to keep myself in the shade. And considering that I avoid pants and stick to loose, flowing cotton skirts it created quite the Mary Poppins effect as we strolled the empty boardwalk past giants that had been standing guard over Giza before Christ, before Moses, before Abraham.

I’d been warned about claustrophobia inside of the Great Pyramid, but it was surprisingly cool and pleasant along the slanting corridors leading to the austere tomb at the center of the Khufu’s monument. Climbing the ramps, we crept deeper and deeper into the center until we crawled through a low passageway and stood up in a chamber lit by weak florescent bulbs in the far corners. In the center lay an undecorated rectangular sarcophagus, bigger than the passageway we'd just come through. Though it was only six or so feet in length and maybe four feet high, it felt as if the entire pyramid was contained in that small space.

After having adjusted to the comfortable dimness, once back outside it was like walking out onto the surface of the sun. We explored the complex, wandering and wondering and taking our pictures but once we returned to the air-conditioned van with we grabbed our water bottles and drank like we hadn’t seen moisture in months. I felt ashamed to gurgle and glub away, water splashing over my face and lips and gasping for the occasional breath, but it was down to pure survival instincts. 

I apologized to the driver for my lack of self-control but he smiled. “We are used to the heat. We are used to this.” He shrugged, “You are not.”

Which well sums up how the Egyptians seemed to regard us. Americans see the news and fear the Middle East. The image of intolerance and extremism is the theme of every news hour, but it’s been my experience that people are–generally, and with great oversimplification–more tolerant of different beliefs and practices than my fellow Americans. As the United States braces itself for a new, woke era of leftist McCarthism, where people are canceled for the slightest infraction against the collective social conscious, Egyptians look at western tourists and grant them a blanket, “You Do You” pass, with no expectations that visitors live by same Islamic codes that govern their own lives. And they seem to think no less of us for it.

I didn’t realize it, but Cairo was quiet that week. The hotel had guests, but it felt empty and still. “COVID,” I’d thought. “It’s hitting everywhere.”

Then we went south to Luxor where we learned what real heat was. It’s true that it’s always 10 degrees warmer there, and the Valley of the Kings acts like a concave mirror, focusing the sun’s rays to the point that I wondered how it was that Tutankhamun hadn’t burned to ashes long ago.

How do people live here? I thought. As if people haven’t been asking that same question for thousands of years.

The apex was 114. But it was a dry heat–the kind you get when you turn your oven on.

Continuing farther south, we sailed along the Nile toward Aswan, which is where we were when Ramadan ended. The night of May 12th we were somewhere between Edfu and Gebel el Silsila, eating dinner on deck the Agatha and enjoying the sunset. Knowing that this was the last day of Ramadan I asked Hassan, our purser, “Will there be a feast for the crew tonight? For Eid al-Fatr?

“We will see,” he said. “It may not be that it is ending.”

“What?” I asked in disbelief.

“It will depend on the moon. It may be that it ends tomorrow.”

Which is how I learned of the big plot twist: You’re not guaranteed of the finish line. The local imams will watch for the new moon. If they see it, this shawwal moon, then they will declare Ramadan to be over. If not, the fasting will continue the next day and they will look for the new moon tomorrow.

Which is exactly what happened. May 12th came and went with no shawwal moon. But the next night it happened.

I first heard the sounds of celebration coming from a boat across the river and I looked up to see the sliver of light in the sky and knew what it meant. Our own crew were subdued in their enthusiasm, keeping their iftar below deck quiet and restrained, but that night they were all smiles and cheer. After the meal they pushed the tables and brought out the instruments for singing and dancing and seemed as if they were a different group of men.

And Egypt lit up. 

I’d forgotten that Ramadan includes abstaining from smoking and sex and dancing as well as food and drink and with the new moon came the parties. Everyone reached for their packs of Cleopatras (yes, that is the popular brand in Egypt, I'm sure the queen would be gratified) and took a long, hard drag.

Returning to Cairo from Aswan, we stayed at the same hotel but it wasn’t the same at all. Marriages that had been delayed for Ramadan were now in full swing and the hotel was brimming with guests and bridal parties and glittering sequins. There were photo shoots and dancing and feasting like I’d never seen, with sparkling, jeweled women with dark flowing hair and men primped in western suits. All six elevators were packed every moment of the day, with people coming and going with the noise of their chatter filling the lobby. 

And the traffic! Everywhere cars jammed the streets. Everyone was suddenly on the move, filled with energy and things to do. 

It’s as if there are three separate countries: Egypt Before, Egypt During, and Egypt After Ramadan and if you’ve only seen one, you haven’t seen it at all.