Koshari Heaven

Koshari – the national dish of Egypt

In my humble opinion, this is Egypt’s greatest national dish, and equally, it is the most delicious concoction of flavours to have ever graced my taste buds.

As you go through life, you may meet Egyptians that’ll tell you I’m over-exaggerating, but pay them no heed. Although this carbohydrate-loaded meal may not look like anything special, when you take a nice big spoonful of rice, pasta, lentils, chickpeas, tomato salsa and fried onions, what I can only describe as magic, begins to happen.

It’s not just the satisfying taste, but also the smell of the fried onions and the multiple layers of texture, that make every bite memorable. You’ll find yourself reminiscing with a close friend, ‘Remember bite 23? Ah, bite 23...’ But the soft rice and pasta, the slightly harder chickpeas and lentils and then the outrageously crunchy fried onions, really do leave you gasping for more.

If you happen to find yourself walking down any street in Cairo – as you do – and your stomach starts screaming for your attention, stick your nose into the air and locate that beautiful smell of fried onions. Next thing you know, you’ve hit Koshari Paradise!

Almost every Koshari shop in Egypt is identical to the next, and as one of the cheapest foods you’ll find in the country, eating in a Koshari shop will give you the perfect opportunity to spy on the natives.

The most famous Koshari shop in Cairo is called Abu Tarek, situated quite close to the heart of the city: Tahrir Square. Inside, it’s perpetually heaving with hungry Egyptians, and quite a healthy helping of tourists who are in search of a more memorable meal than their usual Big Mac.

Once you’ve seated yourself on the tin tables, a waiter will come quickly to take your order. Here in Koshari Paradise there is no need to furrow your brow over choosing what to eat – every dish is the same! - all you need to worry about is choosing small, medium or large. You can also order extra fried onions (recommended), lentils, salsa or anything else you fancy.

You’ll notice on the table two long wine-bottle-type bottles. In one of these you’ll find a red liquid and in another you’ll find a yellow liquid. Please, please don’t make the mistake of absent-mindedly pouring the red liquid into your bowl (as I have done before), as this is very, very spicy chilli sauce. The yellow liquid is something called Dakka, and it’s a mixture of vinegar, garlic and cumin.

In no time at all, the waiter will plonk onto the table your bowls of Koshari. If you wish to sample the red and/or yellow liquids, the way to do it is to stopper the top of the bottle with your (probably very grubby) thumb so as to leave a small gap (not the most hygienic invention in the World but at least it’ll boost your immune system). Gently lift the bottle, and pour the liquids sparingly, via said hole, onto your food.

Next it’s time to mix the bad boy up. Take the plastic/metal spoon that you’ve been allocated and carefully mix together all of the Koshari layers. Be careful because there’s usually not enough room in the bowl to mix it, so if you can do this without spilling half of the dish down your front, then please contact me as I’d like to learn from your superior wisdom.

It usually takes Egyptians on average 5.3 seconds to drain a bowl of Koshari, but I’d recommend that you take your time to savour the delicate nuances of the dish.

When you’ve crammed the last mouthful into your mouth, no matter how full you feel, you must try the traditional pudding served at all Koshari Houses – rice pudding. Then you can truly say that you’ve had a happy carbohydrate-filled Koshari day!

The walking dead

I got back to the airport at around 5pm. Boarding time for my flight was 6.15pm, and luckily this time I didn't miss it!

I'd walked around the majority of the Old City of Istanbul, visited many mosques, bought Turkish delight and drank Turkish coffee (although it was surprisingly disappointing compared to the Egyptian Turkish coffee I'd been used to drinking).

I really liked the diversity of the city and the fact that I could almost always hear someone speaking Arabic, even though it's not officially an Arabic-speaking country. I miss the comforting sound of Arabic when I'm in the UK.

Harrassment was practically nil, the weather was glorious and there were always interesting things to see and do.

But when I got back to the airport I was drained. I had to stand in line behind hoards of people once as soon as I entered the airport and another time for passort control.

It was in the passport control line that I had a series of intersting thoughts. 2 of these thoughts involved potential invention ideas.

The first invention was a collapsable chair with pull-out wheels that one could sit on when waiting in unbearable queues, and be pushed along.

The second invention/idea was that at the beginning of these long, long queues, there should be a metal-detector type machine that measures energy levels. Those with a low energy level score would be automatically bumped up to the front of the queue.

I was really struggling to keep myself vertical. My back ached from the rucksack I'd carried around the city, not to mention the hills and countless steps I'd climbed. I just about managed to stop myself from sitting on the floor and asking the Ukranian girl behind me to kick me along as the queue advanced.

Thankfully I made it past passport control, found a chair to rest on and waited for my London-bound flight.

Help a woman make a phone call, she offers you her son to marry

I left the restaurant and headed for the connecting line that would take me to the city centre.

As I was walking, a woman came running after me.

'Excuse me, excuse me. Can you help me please?'

The woman was trying to use a phone card but wasn't able to make a call to her home in Iran. I tried for a few minutes, moving from phone box to phone box, but I couldn't get the card/phone to work either.

Just as I'd thought my work there had been done the woman approached me with (what I now think) was her real reason for running after me.

'My son is looking for a woman for marriage. He doesn't want to marry an Iranian because they are too... [insert a series of facial contortions and arm flailing]. He wants to marry a girl from England or Germany or Turkey'.

The woman continued trying to persuade me to give her my details, or if I could help them out and try to find him a bride. Conscious that my time in Istanbul was sifting quickly away and the fact that I quite liked this lady, I gave her my email address.

As I walked away I realised that maybe I could contact her son for a language exchange, since I want to learn Persian and he may want to learn English, so I'll try to keep the communication avenues open if I can.

 

Eating kebap

So, to get into Turkey I learnt a few things:

1. Turkey isn't in the EU and I needed to buy a visa ($20 or 15 GBP)
2. That means they also don't use the Euro, but use the Turkish Lira, so I had to find somewhere to get my money changed
3. No one speaks English!

For going into the country for a few hours I felt like I had to do a hell of a lot of things but it was really worth it in the end.

After I figured out how to use the metro, change money and get a visa, I made my way to the city centre. At the airport I had bought a book on Istanbul and was hurriedly flicking through it on the metro ride, trying to learn anything I can about Turkey (I realise I knew almost nothing before).

One of my first observations was that Turkish men were one of the most attractive men I'd ever seen. Dark, chiselled features and some had light blue or green eyes. I couldn't believe that I'd never heard this from anyone before.

When I got off the metro I looked on the metro map. It looked like I had to get on another line to get to the city centre. When I left the metro building, I looked for this illustrious other line and couldn't find it anywhere.

It was at about this time that I realised how hungry I was, so I looked for somewhere to eat.

I went into a kebap shop and was handed a picture-menu. The waiter didn't speak any English and after a few minutes of gesticulating we understood one another and I had ordered some meat-based dish.

When the kebap sticks finally arrived, they were served with salad and a pomegranate salad dressing that I'd never seen or tasted before. The dressing complimented the salad and kebap well. Apparently the kebap is the traditional Turkish meal.

After I'd finished eating, the waiter timidly handed me a post-it note. On it, in beautiful cursive writing he'd written: Beautiful dishes? :)

I smiled from ear to ear. I think he went to the trouble of looking up the translation on his iPhone then, unsure of pronunciation, thought it was best to write it down.

 

The Egyptian government made me miss my connecting flight! (tenuous link)

My flight from India left at 5.55am. I stopped for 4 hours in Kuwait then flew to Cairo. I was incredibly sleep deprived the entire journey so when I got to Cairo instead of spending the 8 hours with my family, I accidentally slept for 6 hours, leaving only 2 hours for my family.

At midnight my aunt drove me to various family members for me to say goodbye to. I'm not sure when I'll be back in Egypt again, (it's really dependant on where I find work), so these goodbyes were quite important.

I decided to wear the green sari that I wore for the Study India programme closing event as I was doing my goodbye-rounds. Just thought I'd bring a little India to the family and all. I also decided that I wanted to get married in a sari and have all the guests where saris as well!

I flew from Cairo at 3am and arrived in Istanbul almost 3 hours later. I was amazed at the disorganisation at Istanbul airport. People with connecting flights had to stand in a massive, disorganised and sluggish queue.

Now, I'll now try to justify the reason I missed my connecting flight from Istanbul to London. The main reason was that my watch was one hour behind Turkish time. Now I blame the Egyptian government for this.

One of the first things they did in 2011 when they took 'power' was to abolish the summer daylight saving time. What this meant for me was that although Cairo and Istanbul look geographically like they should have the same time zones (actually if anything Cairo should be ahead of Istanbul) Cairo is in fact one hour behind Istanbul. To make matters worse, the in-flight TV was telling me that the time at origin and time at destination were exactly the same!

After I made it out of the queue I thoguht that I still had time to wander around the shops. Of course I was gravely mistaken and as I was debating whether to buy a book on Islam or one on learning Turkish, my plane was already in the air.

When my watch informed me that it was probably time to check the TV screen again, I was horrified to find that my flight was not even showing up on the screen. I frantically ran to the help desk where I was greeted by a woman who was half-asleep. Through half-opened eye lids she told me the gate number of my flight.

I tightened the straps of my rucksack so that it wouldn't swing right and left as I ran through the airport. I began cursing Istanbul and the Turkish and the Egyptian government and watches and slapping my head repeatedly.

I got to the gate and it was completely deserted. Only the cleaners were left.

'Finished madame', one of them said to me.

I didn't give up. I ran back to the help desk but a long queue had formed. I pushed to the front.

'Excuse me but could you get some more people to work behind the desk'. There was only one woman and a queue of 10 or so people waiting to be seen.

'There's another desk downstairs she whispered'.

Like a crazy fool I ran downstairs, right, left dodging people and bags as I went. I asked the woman at the desk and informed me of the fact that I'd missed the flight by at least an hour.

After taking a few deep breaths and clearing my head I asked if I could reschedule my flight.

'The only flight with space is in the evening, at 7pm', she said.

Dissapointment at having to wait for almost 12 hours gave way to excitement. This meant I'd be able to see Istanbul! And that's exactly what I did.

The girl with the twig in her nose

It was only during the last 10 minutes in Varanasi that I truly understood (and enjoyed) the city.

I had bought a bag from a small shop in one of the alleyways near my hotel. After a day's walking around the city, when I got back to the hotel to pick up my bigger bag I found that the outer layer of the bag I had just bought had been torn and the inner lining was poking out from the bottom.

I had an hour and a half before my train was due to depart from Varanasi to Delhi, so I had enough time to go back to the shop and complain about the bag.

The shop owner had shoulder-length hair and spoke in a slow, relaxed, calm way. I tried my best to stay calm as I pointed furiously at the gaping hole in my bag. Gently he took the bag from me and agreed to fix it.

He gestured for me to come into his shop (more like an extended cupboard in the wall) and I sat and waited.

A few minutes later a little girl walked up to the front of the shop. She had a very cute face and looked a lot like the girl that had sold me the body paints when I was waiting for the fire ceremony on the Ganges. Her English was also excellent.

'Do you want to buy my postcards', she asked.

'No thanks', I said automatically. She tried a little harder but in the end gave up and sat down next to me. After I asked her what she did with the money she earned, she told me that she gives it to her mother to pay for her school.

We kept talking and as we spoke more and more I felt like giving her the entire contents of my bag.

As I said before, she reminded me of the girl who sold me the paints by the river. I was determined to give this little girl in front of me as much confidence as I could so that she could go through the rest of her life believing in herself. I made sure compliment her on her language ability and her humour, which she made note of.

'You came to my shop very angry', the shop keeper told me. He continued to talk to me in a very relax, calm way. It was then that I realised I had come to Varanasi with completely the wrong mentality. I had come with the 'Delhi-city' mentality. The one where you have to constantly watch your back in case someone was about to put a knife into it (not literally). I had come to Varanasi very high strung and worked up about nothing.

'Life is easier than this', I thought to myself. Instantly I relaxed.

The little girl had edged closer to me and was leaning her little left arm on my leg. I got out my passport so that she could flick through it. As I looked closer I realised that she had a very small twig in her nose. I asked her about it and she told me it was because jewellery (and nail polish) were not allowed at her school.

A while later a tall, pale skinned man came to the shop, looking for the shop owner. He gave the little girl and me high fives then what followed was a few minutes of hilarious banter between the man and the little girl, covering topics like basketball and school. I was amazed at her incredible wit, at such a young age.

The tall man kept saying 'yalla' and 'habibi' but I didn't really register what he was saying until he was about to leave.

'You speak Arabic?' I asked. He told me he was Lebanese.

It's been only 3 weeks that I haven't been in a completely Arabic-speaking environment but it was a shock to the system to jump right into Arabic again. He told me he was in Varanasi for a month, waiting for his friend to make him a tatoo. He was also as laid-back and relaxed as the shop owner and I began to realise that this was the predominant attitude in Varanasi. Then I began to notice that everyone in Varanasi was actually a lot more gentle and easy-going than Delhi.

Suddenly, the skies above us turned grey. A huge monsoon storm was about to hit the city. My bag was fixed so I said goodbye to the Lebanese man, shop owner and sweet little girl. Before I left I bought a postcard from her then held her shoulders in my hands, looked into her eyes and told her she was very intelligent and that she had to go to school and learn lots of things. She agreed and smiled. The Lebanese man high-fived me and I made my way to the train station, with a completely new appreciation and understanding of the city.

As I walked the road to the rickshaw station, the sky grew darker and darker. Suddenly, a roar of thunder resonated across the skies and the skies opened. I never knew a road in India could be cleared so fast but almost instantly people, rickshaws and animals ran for cover under the shop roofs. I had no choice but to run in the rain, otherwise I'd miss my train to Delhi and who knew when I'd get back if I did.

With my green scarf over my head, I ran down the street. After a few attempts I found a rickshaw. He overcharged me ridiculously, considering there were five people in the rickshaw, but I didn't care. I just needed to get to the train station.

I was lodged under his left armpit, another boy similarly lodged under his right and three people and their luggage were squeezed into the back. The storm was getting stronger and stronger and each time the lightening struck the sky , the sky was completely lit up.

Thankfully we got to the station in time, I found my bed and slept until Delhi.

Bulls, cobras and water

I feel like I have writing diarrhoea (not a nice image, I'm sorry!). I haven't written in so long that everything I see or do in Varanasi feels like a writing opportunity.

I can't stop scratching my nose! Also, on the train journey to Varanasi I ate an apple that I thought I had previously washed. As I was eating, I felt like there was something on it but I ate it anyway. A few hours later I developed a rash on my top lip that has left my skin peeling. I'm also continuously scratching my mosquito bites, so as I walk down the street I'm having to do a strange solo dance that involves bending down to scratch my feet, scratching my nose then sometimes my back. It's really uncomfortable.

I took a cycle rickshaw to a restaurant called Madhur Milan, which was recommended  on the Lonely Planet website. For one reason or another I always seem to chose elderly rickshaw drivers. I'm amazed at their strength though! I laughed to myself as I was riding the rickshaw, when a man (clearly seeing that I as already   on a rickshaw) offered me to ride his rickshaw. What did he want me to do? Fall in love with his face then jump from my rickshaw into his arms?

When we got to the restaurant I paid him 20 rupees, but he wouldn't take one of my notes, saying that it was no good. I thought to myself, this isn't a car you're buying, this is a ten rupee note and if it has a staple through it no one's going to lose a little sleep over it! He wouldn't budge so I ended up raising my voice a little and leaving him the offending 10 rupee note on his rickshaw.

The restaurant was packed. I was put in a very tight space in front of two Indian men tucking into their dosas (stuffed deep-fried pancakes). Behind me, two British girls looked utterly lost in the chaos inside and left, without ordering anything, as soon as I sat down.

I ordered a masala dosa, aloo dam (spicy potatoes) and banana lassi. I realised my attempts at getting the waiter to explain the content of each dish is absolutely futile since he could barely string together the sentence 'What do you want'.

As I sat waiting for my food I got more and more irritated by the Indian men opposite me. One of them was coughing all over the table, making no attempt to guide his cough particles anywhere else. The other was letting out long, drawn-out burps then tapping himself on the stomach as if in congratulations. Under my breath I muttered a thousand Arabic curses, hoping my strange murmurings might alert them to my growing discomfort - it didn't.

The food came very quickly and it was delicious! The dosa in particular was very nice. Inside the deep-fried pancake was mashed potato and peas, spiced with masala. The lassi was also very nice, and really helped to extinguish the masala-enduced flames in my mouth.

On the way out I decided to buy some water. The water here is always 'packaged drinking water', never mineral water. If you're lucky you might pick up a bottle of 'packaged drinking water with added minerals', such as the one proudly sat in front of me on my desk.

After I bought the water a little boy with a turban started to follow me. 'Ma'am, hey ma'am'. I ignored him. He kept following me. Then to my horror I noticed what he was holding in his hands. He was holding the circular box that is used for carrying cobras.

'Oh crap!' I thought, if I don't give this kid money he's going to let his cobra out on me. I tried walking faster but in front of me a huge bull was blocking the road. The bull was very angry, tossing its head to the right and left and swatting its tail aggressively. I did a quick 360 and disappeared into a narrow lane, safe from bulls and cobras.

Cremation in Varanasi

Arriving in Varanasi, I completely forgot about the reason why I had wanted to come to this town in the first place. The streets are more chaotic than I've ever experienced before, and I find it hard to remember or concentrate on anything apart from how irritated I am at having to constantly look below me to avoid falling into the huge cow pats, look in front of me to avoid being flattened by motorcycles and look to my left and right for in coming rickshaws or cars.

The reason I wanted to come to Varanasi was because I wanted to see the Hindu cremation ceremonies that are synonymous with the city.

The travellers I'd met had not been to the main cremation area and were not planning to, so I didn't have much advice in that department. After searching for some information online I jumped onto a cycle rickshaw and made my way for the 'Burning ghat' (officially Manikarnika ghat).

On my boat ride in the morning, the boat driver had told me how it costs from 6,000 to 10,000 rupees (around 70-120 GBP) to burn a body, dependent on the quality of wood to be used and the size of the body This is actually quite a considerable sum for the normal Indian so often the bodies are not completed cremated, and what remains is just thrown straight into the river.

The cycle rickshaw stopped on the main road, close to the burning ghat and off I jumped. The alley leading to the ghat was flooded in 10cm of water, so I paced up and down trying to find another entrance. Eventually I realised I either need to get my feet wet, or just go back to the hotel. So I got my feet wet (it wouldn't be so bad if it as just water, but I suspect there was a fair bit of sewage floating around there. Then again, the Ganga comprises of a fair amount of sewage and people seem fine with gargling with it so walking through it isn't going to kill me, is it?).

I walked in the winding alleys for 10 minutes before I reached the Burning ghat. But I couldn't find any burning taking place. Just piles and piles of logs. Just as I was about to give up, I looked above me and saw towers of smoke.

I found the staircase that led my way up to the smoke and went up. When I got to the roof, overlooking the Ganga I found piles of wood in the centre, with Indian men on the periphery. I was the only woman there - Indian and foreign included - but apart from the odd curious stare, the men accommodated me very well.

It took me a while to realise it but to my right was a wrapped corpse lying on the floor. It was lying on a bamboo stretcher and had orange and silver decoration on it. It was surreal.

A few minutes later I looked again at the fire on the far left of the roof, and realised there was actually a body  amongst the flames. Then as my gaze shifted across the roof I saw that there were another three bodies on piles of wood, also burning.

The corpse that was on the far right of the roof was then carried by doms (Hindus from the lowest caste that have 'unclean' jobs like burning the dead) to a pile of wood and placed onto it. I was right next to the pile of wood and for a moment there I thought I would go queazy. The corpse seemed to be jelly-like under the wrappings, and I saw a flash of his right arm. The priests did some chanting, wood was piled onto the body, lighting fluid, and the body was set light to. The heat got unbearable and although I was covering my face with my scarf I couldn't stay there for too long.

I went down to the banks of the river and watched the first part of the cremation ceremony, when the bodies are submerged into the Ganges, to bless them with the holy water.

I couldn't believe how many bodies there were, it was like a conveyor belt of bodies. I later learnt that 300 people are cremated every day in Varanasi and each body takes 3 hours to burn.

An interesting fact: people bitten by snakes are not burnt because they are considered half-alive, half-dead. Instead they are bound tightly around where they were bitten and floated downstream in the hopes that they will be brought back to life. Lepars are also not burnt (just weighed down with large rocks and thrown into the river) because it is believed that leprosy is carried in the smoke.

Children and pregnant women are also not burnt because they are seen as pure and do not need to be cleansed by the fire. Interestingly, the wood used is brought from 300km away because it contains a special oil that prevents the smell of burning hair and skin - something I noticed the absence of as I watched the cremations.

What I did notice was the lack of tears/crying. There were hardly any women around anyway, and I was just thinking if this was Egypt there'd be women slapping their faces, pulling at their hair/hijab and wailing in a truly horrifying way. I later read that this was because the ceremony had to be a happy one if the soul of the deceased was to go to Nirvana and be joined with Brahman (the Supreme Being).

Varanasi sunrise

Last night I was planing on having a nice, long lie-in. I read travel accounts of people getting up at sunrise to see people bathing themselves in the Ganga (Ganges) but I thought to myself I'd rather sleep-in because I didn't know how much sleep I'd get on the train on the way back to Delhi. Lo and behold what time should I wake up but 15 minutes before sunrise. I contemplated trying to sleep a bit longer but then said, what the heck, it's not every day that I'll be in Varanasi.

It took me 10 minutes to get ready and head for the door. Unbeknownst to me all the doors of the hotel were locked, and the caretaker was asleep. I paced up and down trying to find an exit and even entertained the idea of trying to squeeze myself through the metal grates of the window. Luckily I went to the caretaker's door and found some keys hanging beside it. I chose one and tried my luck with the lock and voila, I was out.

The hotel is literally on the river bank, so it took 30 seconds to get to the river. In Varanasi there are stairs that go from the city down to the river and these are called ghats. I went down one of the ghats and saw dozens of people in the river, washing themselves with the holy water. I read yesterday that there is more than 100 times the safe level of a bacteria known as fetal coliform in the Ganga - it's one of the five most polluted rivers in the World. This fact didn't seem to deter the Hindus in the water who were gargling, ducking and diving in the water in front of me.

I saw a bunch of tourists board a boat so I went along to ask how much it would cost. Technically its illegal for boats to be out on the river because it's monsoon season and the water level is very high and fast flowing.

I went to ask the boat man how much it'd cost me and he told me 150 rupees. Although I thought it was reasonable I decided to be irritating and get the price a little lower. The next few minutes were a bit of a confused blur for me.

A man behind me was trying to tell me something. The boat man who had told me 150 rupees heard what this older man had said and lunged off the boat towards the man's throat. A 5-minute fist fight ensued  which was mainly the younger man pummeling the older man. I can't imagine what the older man had said to get the other one so angry.

I resumed my seat on the steps where I had been watching the Hindu bathers, a bit resentful that I was not on the boat and wishing I hadn't been so damn un-cooperative. A Hindu holy man (Sadhu) was sat just behind me. He kept saying 'photo, photo' to his friends. He was very sweet. When I eventually stood up to leave he seemed generally upset, as if our silent exchange, just sitting next to each other in front of the holy river Ganga was enough for us to consider each other friends.

I made my way up the ghat towards the Main Ghat, but I was stopped half way. A man was loading a boat with people and I was dragged along (willingly) with them.

The boat ride was pleasant enough. As we sailed along the bank we saw many colourful old palaces that have now become hotels. We made a stop at one of the principle ghats and the Hindu families that were aboard the boat with us got out and had a dip. Meanwhile the boat man gave me some very sweet Darjeeling tea, and now I think whenever I drink Darjeeling tea I will always remember that sunrise boat trip along the Ganga in Varanasi.

Varanasi, part 3

After my delicious lunch and talk with the interesting woman I headed out into the town. I made my way to the main temple (also known as the Golden Temple) and was once more overwhelmed by the smells, sights and noises.

I saw two foreigners sitting ear the temple and asked them how to get to the entrance. They pointed the way to me but told me cameras/cell phones etc. were not allowed in. They offered to hold onto my bag because they had two friends who were in the temple already and they were holding their bags. One guy was British, the other German and they were installing some radiotherapy equipment in South Delhi, and had just come to Varanasi for the weekend - like me.

'When you come out there may be two different guys holding your bag. They're not as good-looking as us though',. the older one quipped. I burst out laughing. Then I realised it has been so long that I've laughed like that - since being in Egypt.

After all of the kerfuffle I still didn't manage to get into the temple. They wanted my passport but I hadn't been given it back since I handed it in to the hotel. I started swearing at the police who wouldn't let me in (in Arabic of course and in a sing songy fashion that no one would have ever suspected my aggressive intentions).

I continued my walk through the narrow alleys and came to a stop at a sweet lassi shop. The reason I stopped was because there were so many Koreans there I thought it must be some good lassi! My stomach was still not 100% so I decided against getting some for myself. Lassi is a yoghurt-based drink which can be salty or sweet. I watched the man as he peeled an apple then crushed it into  large pot. he then added the yoghurt and a lot of sugar before serving it in a clay flower pot.

I continued walking. I bought a bell (for my Study India speech on Monday). a glue stick and a black marker pen. The chaotic Varanasi roads had now come to a complete standstill and a fruit cart, ten rickshaws and hoards of people tried to pass by the same point, at the same time.

Eventually I couldn't take anymore. I was scratching and sniffing continuously (I think there's some sort of powder that I'm allergic to in the air) and I was convinced that I was about to contract some deadly disease because the alleys were so narrow and everyone was spitting, coughing and scratching as well. happily though, there'd one major hygienic difference between Varanasi and Delhi. And that's in Varanasi me pee in designated areas, not like Delhi where peeing in new and innovative places is seen as something to aspire to.

I ducked into an internet cafe and did some research about Varanasi and what the hell I should be doing in this crazy town. Happily, I found that what I had been doing - randomly walking around - is exactly what the internet recommended me to do.'This is a town', I read, 'that is about seeing and experiencing life more than it is about visiting places'. Suits me fine, I thought, I love walking in new cities.

I also read online that every night at 7pm there is a religious ceremony on the main ghat in the River Ganges. I read somewhere that it is the oldest continuously-performed ceremony in the World, but a cafe owner told me that it was a hotel-chain ploy to bring in more tourists.

At 6.30 I made my way to the ghat (which is conveniently only 5 minutes away from the hotel). I sat near the front when a woman came up to me and offered me a flower garland with a candle in the centre that I was to light and put into the river (and make a wish/blessing for my family). I decided to do that if she'd take a picture of me. She unfortunately had ever handled a camera before, so her picture featured more of my feet than anything else. Luckily a younger man came to the rescue and gave me the photo I desired.

I then resumed sitting down on the step but once more I was interrupted. The holy man who was conducting the ceremony started shouting at me for sitting so close to the front. Up I got, and scuttled back. I noticed that throughout the ceremony, he was being very grumpy indeed and shouting at people left, right and centre. 'Not very religious and peace-loving' I thought to myself. May be the cafe owner had a point.

The final interruption cam from a very cute young girl. She opened up a box and started printing my arm in various patterns and colours. The girl was so sweet a nd beautiful that after she finished the print I was willing to give her 50 rupees just for it. Instead she was selling the entire box of colours for 100 rupees, and I agreed to buy them straight away. She let out a sweet 'Oh thank God' when I agreed.

'You're very pretty' she said to me. 'You're very pretty I said to her', meaning every word. She was also very intelligent and talented (at sales and art from the few minutes I spent with her). I was shocked by her reply. 'No I'm not pretty, my skin is black'.

Throughout the rest of the ceremony I was looking for that girl. I wanted to take her into a corner and tell her she was the most beautiful person in the World and that people all of the World would kill to look like her. But, I never saw her again.

The ceremony featured five strapping young men (did I just say strapping?) in orange garb. Three of them had shoulder-length hair, the other two short cut hair. They washed themselves in the Ganges before the ritual (I'm contemplating trying it too before I leave but the dead bodies in the river are a slight deterrence, what with all the diseases I may contract from them) then took their places behind five separate shrines. A half hour display of fire and incense twirling then followed. My favorite part was when all five of them blew loudly on conches, in honour of the mighty Ganges.

I started getting paranoid about things biting me about halfway though the ceremony when I noticed some black marks on my skin that hadn't been there before (not to my knowledge anyway). I began to pinch and scratch at my skin after I decided that it must be a tick lodged inside. Nothing came out but I was left with red mark all over my arm and strange stares from those around me.

Varanasi, part two

I was safely in the rickshaw and out of the scorching heat. Varanasi is everything I thought India would be - many times noisier, busier and chaotic than the commercial Delhi. I felt like Varanasi was assaulting my senses. 

The rickshaw driver stopped at the main road, because I think motorized vehicles are not allowed within a certain distance of the Ganges, and advised me to take a cycle rickshaw the rest of the way. I didn't disagree, the heat was really unbearable. 

I tipped the cycle rickshaw an extra 10 rupees because he was so old and cycled a fair bit in the horrendous heat (have I emphasized just how hot it was yet?).

My fist mission was to find the place I'd be staying. I chose a 'hotel' that self-identifies as 'not a hotel but a family home'. I was drawn to it because they said they were an NGO and they helped local projects in education and women's empowerment. It also had a library and seemed like a nice, relaxing, spiritual place.

To get there I had to go through winding alley after winding alley. Cows obstructed the entire alley, so I had to walk up onto the ledge of the adjacent shops. I found it interesting how cows are respected more than humans. A motorcycle passing by the side of the cow came to a complete stop and practically lifted his bike up over a few hairs of the cow's tail. When he had safely passed the cow he came full speed at me, and I had to jump off to the side to avoid being flattened.

I went through some alleys that stunk of ghee - my least favourite smell in the World. Then there was the incessant honking of horns, each one as if the motorcycle was inside my ear as it blasted out. Then of course the people and cows and dogs. It was at that point that the phrase formulated in my head that 'India assaults the senses'. Or may be abuses them? It's interesting how some Hindu philosophy teaches against succumbing to the senses, teaching that as humans we should rise up away from the animal-like sense- dependant world. Only in India, I thought, could this philosophy have been created.

As I was walking through these alleys my nausea from the previous day returned. I started visualizing the clean, spacious hotel room that I was to hopefully find myself in any moment now. Up and down the narrow alleys I plodded, sweat soaking my entire T-shirt. After half an hour of crossing and re-crossing myself I finally found it.

As soon as I stepped in I was seriously considering running away and finding somewhere else, anywhere else. It was completely dark, there wasn't a soul in sight. I found a staircase and wet up then found another level with a faded wall painting that read 'Office'. Inside, there was no one, until I looked behind the door and found a girl sat on the floor. I was restraining myself with much effort from running away. It's not like this was a cheap place or anything, it was actually pretty pricey because I had to become a 'member' before I could stay there. But since something in the place had attracted me online I decided to give it a go.

The girl showed me to my room and the first thing I noticed was the lack of privacy. Instead of doors there were curtains. The windows looked out on a construction site where Indian men in loin cloths toiled in the sun.The light was barely strong enough for me to see my own hands. All in all, not a great start.

I took an awkward shower (the washing lady was also using the shower to fill her bucket) then lied down on my bed, trying to get rid of my nausea. I couldn't open any windows because of the noise and the fact that the entire alley would be able to see me so I just sat in the dark, regretting my decision.

After an hour I wet upstairs to the dining area. Apparently breakfast and lunch were included in the price, so I went up to see if the lunch would be as disappointing as the room. Fortunately it was actually pretty damn yummy.

I met a Portuguese guest eating from a huge baking tray and she pointed me in the direction on the remaining trays to get my own. I ate rice cooked with cinnamon and tofu?, chickpeas and paneer (a type of Indian cheese that I LOVE!), an aubergine/tomato/onion combination that reminded me of my gran's Egyptian mesa'ah (A-M-A-Z-I-N-G!) and chapatti and poori (types of fried bread).

Across from me sat a beautiful woman with curly hair. I asked her how long she'd been in Varanasi, knowing full well that she wasn't a guest. She told me that she owned the house. She was a very interesting woman, She told us that she worked for Oxfam in Afghanistan, Lebanon and Africa, reaching the level of country director for them. She spoke Hindi, Urdu, French, Italian (her husband is Italian) and English. She told us that she didn't come to Varanasi often but decided to bring her son back because she felt he was losing his Hindi. 

It was funny because as she went through the countries she lived in I was convinced that she was a national of each one of them. For example she'd say Lebanon and I'd think 'Oh, she'd Lebanese', Italy and I'd say 'She's Italian'. It was complete insanity because she had told us she was from Kashmir but my mind could not understand that she was not also a pure bred Lebanese or Italian. She had one to those versatile faces that could be from any country in the World. How I envied her!

She told me a lot about working in NGOs and I really think that may be where my future is. I want to learn languages so that I can speak with people from that country in their language. Teaching English limits me to speaking English and not really interacting with people the way I want to, so it seems like NGOs are the way to go. She said that because I speak Arabic it'll be really easy for me to get my foot in the door in an Egyptian NGO. So maybe choosing this place was not so bad since I met a interesting woman (made a useful contact) and got some good advice.

Varanasi, India Part 1

So this is my first blog entry since being in India for three weeks. And the reason for that is because we have been very sheltered these last three weeks, going round the capital city in a huge group of 80 something British students, so not much eventful things actually happen. But today is different, today I'm in Varanasi, the oldest continuously inhabited city in India.

I woke up yesterday with a horrible headache and stomach problems (I won't elaborate). I took the day off to stay in bed, so I missed the last day of my internship at an educational NGO called STIR education.

The way the railway system in India works, is that if you buy a ticket online you will probably go onto a waiting list. You therefore do not know whether you will actually travel or not until a dozen emails later as your seat status is continuously changed.

So an hour before the train was to depart, I checked my emails and, lo and behold, I've got a seat. Now I was secretly hoping to not have a seat because that meant I could stay in bed the whole weekend and get better. Strangely, I'm becoming lazier with this travelling melarchy, and I seem to want to stay in one place rather than see as much as I can.

So, I packed my bags quickly and my room mate gave me way too much of this herbal remedy - concentrated thyme oil. So, we all thought that I would die because my body started going red and blotchy, but luckily all was well.

I took a rickshaw to the train station, still not feeling great. The train arrived as soon as I got to the platform, and I found my seat. It was the first time for me to travel in a sleeper carriage, and it was surprisingly easy to sleep.

I was, regrettably, surrounded by men who made no effort to conceal their stares. So I did the only thing I know how to do in those situations - I started speaking Arabic in whispers, as if casting some spell, with the general intention that they'd think I was crazy - and it worked!

I had to go to the toilet countless times but in general I was able to sleep very well. In the morning the man in the bunk under me started talking on his phone. He must have made at least 40 phone calls. And he loved the sound of his voice. 'Alooooooooo' he would begin, really drawing out the 'o'. Then there was the man walking up and down the corridor screaming 'chai, chai, chai, chai'. Then we had 'Mr. I can't eat without sounding like I'm vomiting' eating right next to my ear. I was so angry the only thought in my head was to buy some bloody chai and pour it on both of their bald heads. BREATHE.

I needed to get out of the claustrophobic confine I was in so I decided to visit the toilet again. A man was blocking the door of the carriage because he was making the strangest noises over the sink. Another man was standing outside and snarling at me, chewing ferociously at a stick. I turned to go to the other toilet and found another man with his T-shirt rolled up to expose his huge belly, and he too was leering at me. I panicked, didn't know what to do, so I just ran back to my bed and hid under the covers.

Finally, two hours later than the ticket said, I arrived at Varanasi. And it was HOT! Much hotter than Delhi. Countless rickshaw drivers pounced on me, and I was still feeling a bit nauseous from the day before. For some reason, the first thought I said to myself on leaving the station was 'If you want to catch a disease, this is where you come!'. So many ill looking people were sprawled on the floor.

Varanasi is one of the holiest city in Hinduism and the city where Buddhism was founded. Hindus believe that if they die here they will be liberated from samsara (the continuous cycle of birth, life, death and re-birth) and attain moksha (liberation). So it's a city with a lot of sick people! And I haven't stopped scratching since I arrived!

Egyptian home remedy for growing your very own face mole!

Ever wanted a mole on your face? Now you can have one with my grandmother's home remedy!

Step One: Take a needle and heat the end with a lighter
Step Two: Prick your face numerous times with said needle until your face bleeds
Step Three: Dab milk onto the self-inflicted wound
Step Four: Draw your desired mole onto this milk-stained wound, with an eyebrow pencil
Step Five: Leave your face alone for an entire day then when you wake up voila! You have your very own face mole to love and cherish as long as you both may live.

This was a genuine home-remedy during my grandmother's twenties and thirties. My mother's mole is in fact a product of this.

Getting conned in Khan el Khalili

I am almost going to swear to myself that I will NEVER go to any touristy areas in Egypt again - Luxor, Aswan, Khan el Khalili - all places that drive me crazy! I think I'll stick to Shubra from now on.

Yesterday I went with my sister and cousin to Sidna el Hussein/Khan el Khalili/El Mosky. I wanted to show my cousin a famous cafe called El Fishawi, but I had a feeling we wouldn't be enjoying our time there.

I swear not a single sentence was exchanged between the three of us during our entire time at the cafe. Instead we were shooing and heshing the salespeople and beggars that came at us from every angle. Not 5 seconds (no exaggeration!) went by without someone approaching us.

I took to keeping my head down, as if in some sort of hallucinatory trance. My little sister, was still not used to assertively telling the salespeople and beggars to 'TAKE A HIKE!!!' Instead, she gave them her beautiful smile and said in the kindest voice she could possible muster, 'La, shukran' (no, thank you).

I felt it was safe to lift my head out of my trance for a little while, just to survey the situation, when I found my sister looking at a set of 'genuine silver bracelets and earrings'.

'It's genuine, it's genuine', the salesperson (who looked like he'd just recently been released from jail) assured us. 'Look...', he then took it upon himself to set fire to the jewellery with his lighter, in an attempt to show us that the colour didn't disappear. He then kindly wrapped the bracelet around my sister's wrist, causing her much discomfort from the burning heat, radiating from the bracelet.

The starting price was 80LE. It then went down to 50LE. We said we didn't want it. Then, things turned nasty.

'Where are the earrings?' he said.
'They're in your hands', we replied.
'No, no the other pair'.

We proceeded to search under the tables and chairs for the missing earrings. Something told me that he was setting us up but I went along with the act anyway.

When we didn't find the earrings he tried even harder to sell Yvonne the bracelet, blaming her for losing his precious merchandise. I couldn't take it any longer so I screamed at Yvonne, 'YVONNE SAY NO!!!!!!!!!!'

This got the entire cafe staff to crowd round us. The salesman was shouting that he wanted to take us to the police station. I didn't quite understand what was happening, but I knew we had to leave. The cafe staff were crowding round the salesman, and we slipped out from another entrance.

After buying a few souvenirs and gifts in the bazaars, it was time to go home. Our legs were as heavy as lead, and we could hardly bare to stay on our feet a moment longer. Unfortunately for us, not a single minibus had an empty seat.

After 10 minutes we heard a fight in one minibus, between the driver and a female passenger.

'Get out then!' the driver yelled.

'Yes, this is our chance!' I thought to myself. But we were too slow. A man jumped into one of the two vacated seats. But I didn't give up.

I jumped onto the minibus and sat on the only vacated seat. My sister jumped on after me and sat on my lap. Then my cousin sat on my sister's lap. Not a single one of us could be classed as 'child-sized', so this was quite a feat.

Three of us were sitting on a seat meant for one person. We couldn't even shut the minibus door, so as we sped over the bridge that connects El Hussein with the nearest metro station, the door was still open, and we were just waiting for a sharp turn to send us flying out onto the bridge.

Thankfully we made it all in one piece. One woman sitting behind us smiled at me and said, 'They should erect a statue in your honour'. I didn't understand what she meant exactly, but I think it was because I was carrying two almost fully-grown women on my lap, or maybe because I was crazy enough to even attempt such a ridiculous travel arrangement.

Drivers and motorcyclists that drove beside us pointed and laughed at the tower of bodies squashed into the minibus. I think what really shocked them - since this in a common occurrence in Egypt - was that two of the girls looked almost certainly as if they were tourists. Tourists in Egypt never ride minibuses, let alone form human towers in them. I couldn't stop laughing the entire way.

The lack of enforced rules in Egypt completely contrasts with England's strict regulations. But although the lack of enforced rules in Egypt may cause much chaos and confusion, it gives life plenty of flavour.

Cairo never ceases to surprise me

On any day I venture out into the big, bustling city of Cairo I know one thing for certain: I will see something I've never seen before, that will make me question humanity.

Today began quite normal. I had my Arabic lesson Down Town, battled with hundreds of flies (I do not take the word battle to be the slightest exaggeration. There, in the cafe that I take my lessons, I am faced with an endless assault of flies. They try to abuse me and violate me in any way that they can. At one point there were flies on my lips, flies on my eyes and flies all the way up my arm that it looked like I was doing some demented dance to wave them off), learnt some new Arabic words and drank tea.

Then, as I waited for my friend to use a restaurant toilet I took it upon myself to spy at a very unusual woman.

She was dressed in a pink suit and had her hair covered with a white swimming cap-type bonnet. She had a Styrofoam box in her hand which she was eating rice from. The way she ate was mesmerising. I think she may have had an eye problem, but she would put her face so close to her food that I though it might have ended up sticking to it, then when she had located the secret wherabouts of her food, she proceeded to take quick shovel-fulls of rice.

She was eating whilst standing up (as she had ordered take away), and she chose to stand under the big menu at the front of the shop. But in her attempt to make herself invisible in her conspicuous spot, she pushed her shoulder onto the nearby wall, as if trying to become one with the wall.

After she had finished eating she shuffled (she was either unable to or wished not to expend too much energy lifting her feet off the ground) to the nearby bin and threw her box in. She then shuffled back to the place under the menu that she had claimed her own.

I thought she had generously given me my fair share of entertainment but there was still more to come.

After rummaging through her brown bag she produced a large medicine bottle.

'Oh', I thought to myself, 'She's eaten her lunch so now she's gonna take her medecine'.

She opened the bottle and poured some of the illustrious liquid into the palm of her hand. She then rubbed it into her hands.

'Oh, so it's some sort of hand sanitiser', I decided.

Then she smothered her mouth with yet more liquid.

'Mouth sanitiser?'

Then she smeared it all over her clothes.

'Clothes sanitiser?????'

My friend reappeared and we made our way to the Metro. I was reluctant to leave that interesting woman, feeling a need to discover what she was about, but I decided not to pursue my inquiries in case she started beating me. I tried in vain to understand what was in that brown medicine bottle, but I had nothing.

The next incident of the afternoon was in the metro. The police were arresting the sellers that sell tissues, jewellery, tables, sweets and clothes on the metro, so there was a lot of commotion as these sellers tried to get away.

After one such episode a woman wearing the full face veil stood up and started addressing the metro carriage. I've obviously seen woman wearing the niqab (face veil) before, but this woman must have been 6 feet tall. From head to toe she was wearing black. There was not even a hole for her to see through - she had fabric over her eyes so I have no idea how she stopped herself from bumping into things.

The woman began by making a few statements about protecting our personal belongings and keeping our bags close to our bodies. She then went on to preaching about the need to read the Holy Qu'ran because it is the word of God.

Last week a woman was distributing leaflets that said some members of the State Police were wearing the niqab and going around telling people to dress properly. The leaflet (Muslim Brotherhood material) advised us to ignore these people and (in proper Egyptian fashion) to take off our shoes and begin beating them. I could just imagine myself doing that.

At the time I was trying to figure out whether this woman was part of the state police - 'Should I start hitting her with my shoes?', I wondered.

It was amazing to me that this woman, who was speaking to the entire carriage in a confident and authoritative voice, could have been ANYONE. Is it true then that anyone can speak to anyone if they do so in a confident and assured tone of voice? Can sounding confident help you to get away with anything?

Every day I venture out into the big, bustling city that is Cairo, I feel that I not only learn new things about the World and people, but through my interactions with said people I learn a lot about myself.

Cairo chaos - getting my leg stuck between the metro and the platform

I woke up this morning and decided to visit Saad Zaghloul's home, near the centre of Cairo.

Saad Zaghloul was the founder of the Wafd political party, one of the biggest parties in Egypt, until it was dissolved in the 1952 revolution. When the British exiled him to Malta then the Seychelles for his antagonistic political activities, the Egyptian people were furious and this was one of the major factors that caused the 1919 revolution. The occupying British forces had begun their occupation of Egypt in 1882 and after extensive striking, 1920 saw the end of the British protectorate of the county.  He was also the main writer of Egypt's first constitution, in 1923.

I got off at Saad Zaghloul, a metro station I had never got out of before. In front of me was a huge Ancient-Egyptian-esque temple, that the unhelpful men selling T-shirts around the metro entrance, told me was Saad Zaghloul's house. It turns out it was his mausoleum and after circling this structure for 15 minutes in the unbearable heat, I finally found the actual house.

Inside, I exchanged the usual 'question and answer session' of my origin, instigated by the combination of  Egyptian ID I presented to the door man and my Irish face. With these formalities over, I was shown around the house by a kind, smiling woman. There was another guest walking around with me, who after the tour, I found out that she was a half-Italian, half-Dutch Opera singer from Florence, with an audition later that day.

The house was very grand, and in very good condition, and the tour was really quite interesting. The woman explained to me that at the top of the wide staircase of the house were two parrots on either side of the large doorway. These parrots were trained to recognize Saad's footsteps on the stairs, and as he approached one parrot greeted him in French, the other in Arabic. He also had a very interested shower room, where he sat on a large green beach chair, as the shower water poured over him.

I also learnt that Saad Zaghloul died on the 23rd of August 1927, and that the British exiled him from Egypt on the 23rd of December (of some year, that I have forgotten and can't find on wikipedia!). On the day he died, his wife stopped turning the dial on the beautiful French mechanical calendar they had in their bedroom, stopped forever on the 23rd of August.

Then of course, the constitution was written in 1923. I really believe that this number, 23, is important. It features highly in my life (I was born on the 23rd of July -the anniversary of the 1952 Egyptian revolution-, among other instances), and I do not want to dismiss it as purely coincidence. (I refuse to be affected by the negative implications of Jim Carrey's horror film, The Number 23, which my slight obsession with the number begun way before the release of said film).

I walked through the market next to the house, with the Italian girl. She spent a while arguing with an electronics' vendor, who she had a sneaking suspicion was trying to take too much money from her, but in the end she just accepted his reasoning. I bought some bananas and grapes, and handed over a 100 pound note. The change was given to me with 10 pounds less than it should have been, and I nearly didn't notice it. 'Hagg, I need 10 pounds' I shouted. He handed it over without looking sheepish or questioning the validity of my statement. That told me that he had intentionally given me the wrong change and that he was used to playing that trick with foreigners.

This kind of incident has been on the rise in the last few weeks. I handed a kiosk vendor a 100 pound note, which he conveniently forgot to give me the additional 50 pounds change that he owed me. Luckily I didn't let him get away with it.

I decided to go to Attaba to find some headphones for my phone. I spent several consecutive days looking for my pair, but I have finally concluded that they were picked out of my bag whilst I was being jostled in Tahrir Square on Sunday.

As I left the metro, there were crowds and crowd of people trying to get on. I thought I'd be safe if I kept close behind the woman in front of me, as she battled to make her way out of the metro carriage. I was taking very small baby steps to get off behind her when, Whooooooooooooosh! My leg slid down from under me between the gap the metro made with the platform.

I just sat there, one leg dangling in the gap (the entire leg, by backside was actually sitting on the platform edge), whilst women all around me screamed and screeched. In the moment that I fell through the gap, I was overcome by a surprising calm, despite the very really danger that I was in, of losing my leg from the upper thigh downwards. Instead I just felt the presence of the women around me, and blamed them slightly for what happened to me, wanting them to feel guilt for what I decided that they had done to me. An evil part of me wanted the metro to pull my leg off, just so the women would be sorry... (Twisted, very twisted thinking I realise).

One fast-thinking woman pulled me up and I walked away with a relieved smile on my face and a temporary pain searing through my inner thigh. My aunt later told me how the women could have carried on boarding the carriage regardless of my fall, marching on top of me in their blind determination to make it onto the carriage, and how I was very lucky that they hadn't.

I was surprised with how fast I found the headphones in Attaba (one of the busiest places in Cairo, I feel like an ant when I go there, imagining what all the people must look like from a bird's eye view), and even managed to find a book I wanted to read ever since my friend recommended it to me - Paolo Cuello's The Alchemist.

I was not spared peace of mind on the metro ride home either. A woman selling belts in the ridiculously busy carriage kept smacking me on the back of my head with her entire stock of belts, as she swung them onto her right shoulder. The first time she did it, I was startled. The second time she did it, I was angry. The third time she did it, I was calm, telling myself ''she's gotta do, what she's gotta do to make a living!'' How quickly my emotions fluctuate here in Cairo, I thought to myself.

When my metro stop came, I jumped off the carriage and made it home in record time. I recounted the details of my day to my family, tried to read my current book (The World's Religions, by Huston Smith), but instead I lulled myself into a deep, tired sleep.

Cairo is exhausting. But it's where Life happens.

Morsy becomes president of Egypt, and I think I'm about to die in the Tahrir Square crowds

I was walking around the Tahrir Square vicinity, planning on catching the metro home. I had a choice when I came to a fork in the road, I could turn right and get on the nearest metro, or I could turn left and see what all the fuss was about in Tahrir, after seeing throngs of people shouting, chanting, smiling and waving huge Egyptian flags in the sky. I chose to go to the left.

I have never been somewhere so crowded in my life. Cars that passed were beeping the 'wedding march' song and others were singing a faintly familiar football tune, but with the word Morsy repeated numerously. The happiness in the air was infectious as groups of teenagers took to dancing in the streets.

I felt satisfied with my solo-exploration to the outskirts of Midan Tahrir, and I decided to catch the metro. The first metro entrance I met was closed. The second was literally jam-packed with people and I didn't fancy being stuck underground. I gave my aunt a call and she suggested that I go to the next metro station which would be less crowded. I agreed, and made my way through the square - huge mistake!

With every step I took to get to the other metro station, I was unknowlingly pushing myself deeper and deeper into the sea of men standing in the square. Every step I took I thought I was getting closer to leaving the square, but reality soon hit me.

Men were squashed around me on all sides. Some were gentlemenly and let me pass as best as they could in the crowded area. Others, could not be said the same about.

One man grabbed me from behind, so I spun round just in time to see his hand retreating. I looked him in the eye then punched him in the shoulder. He retorted defensively, either pretending or genuinely unsure why this foreign girl just punched him and then started swearing at him. My Egyptian friend who I told about the incident, reassured me that he was most probably the culprit, since he was so defensive about himself.

It was the bearded men who were surprisingly the most gentlemenly, and they made way for me to pass, instead of trying to touch me like the disgusting men behind me were doing.

Soon, I found myself unable to escape. The men towered around me on all sides, and there really was NO WHERE for me to go. A boy about my age told me in English 'You must go. Too crowded'. No, you don't say? 'Where shall I go??????????????????' I screamed to him in Arabic.

Seeing me in desperate need of being rescued, he took me by my wrist and literally fought his way out of the sea of men surrounding us. A few minutes into the escape, a genuine thought came into my head ; 'I'm going die. So here is where it is going to happen, in the heart of Tahrir Square, squashed and suffocated by men.' I truly embraced this thought and calmed myself with the thought that 'We've all got to go sometime'. I guess it should have been shocking how quickly I embraced my possible death.

Actually, after I had this thought, another thought entered my mind. And that was the sort of the two frogs in the tub of milk. One frog gave up trying to escape from the milk, and died. The other one kept paddling his feet in the milk until he churned it into butter, then hopped out into freedom. For a brief second I was going to succumb to being the first, dead, frog. I was going to stop moving and just sit down on the floor, tired of struggling through the sea of bodies. Then, the second frog made its appearance, and I decided to be brave and keep fighting through the crowds.

When I felt a blast of cool wind hit my face, I was so relieved and felt so much gratitude for the man who had led me out, of what I honestly thought would be my death. I shook his hand firmly and thanked him curtly, before he got the idea to try to further any kind of relationship with me.

On my way out of the square, I spied another foreigner girl. She was on her own, taking pictures, and after my ordeal I felt that my social barriers had been demolished, and I just went up to the girl and started talking to her. She was German, but lived in England for the last 6 years, and was working for a newspaper (I think) in Egypt.

To get home, I had to catch the metro that I was going to take if I had just turned right, instead of left and going into tahrir. To get to the metro I had to cross one of the most famous bridges in Cairo - Asr el Nil. There was a loud, noisy fanfare, that I expect will continue all the way into the night, and there were more than frequent shouts of 'Morsy'.

My political opinion of the results (I can't believe I actually wrote, my policial opinion! I never thought I would write that, as I am generally apathetic to British politics, so I extended this belief to all politics. However, coming to Egypt has really shaken things up for me, in terms of how to view the importance of politics for me personally) is that it was better for Morsy to win. This way Egypt has avoided a nasty backlash that would have resulted if Shafik (tied up with the old regime) had won. Morsy, the Muslim Brotherhood candidate, however, is a very weak personality, and I believe that he will be controlled by higher figures, so in effect will be just the puppet in the political arena.

I was quite surprised that the votes were not rigged for Shafik to win though, since it would have been in the best interest of the Supreme Council of Armed Forces for him to win, and they are the ones calling the shots at the moment.

I speculate that Morsy's election will have appeased the rebellious masses, but SCAF will still retain the majority of power, and the president will effectively be powerless - I mean, the Muslim Brotherhood majority parliament was dissolved last week, with a flick of SCAF's wrist, so what's stopping them from doing the same to Morsy? I think may be a month will pass (or less) before the non-existnnece of Morsy's presidential powers will emerge.

The Egyptian elections

I woke up early-ish this morning, to make my way to Cairo's Down Town to meet my freind and Arabic teacher in one of the many ahwas (cafes) that were dotted around the centre.

T took my camera with me, just in case I saw something unusual, it was after all a significiant day in Egypt's history!

On the way to the metro I saw a huge desert-yellow tank gliding along the street, with soldiers wearning bright red hats standing out from the top. It resembled a strange parade, of soldiers surrounded by the usual hustle and bustle of Cairo's Shubra Street.

When I returned from my lesson, I went with my aunt to the polling station. My aunt had already been, to take my gran to vote, and she told me that there had been minibuses shipping poor farmers and labourers to the polling station. These people were all voting for Ahmed Shafik or Amr Mouusa - both men from the previous regime.

These men have many things going for them, and have the biggest chance of winning. Egyptians that are afraid of the Muslim Brotherhood coming to power, are likely to vote for them. Egyptians that are convinced that the country has descended into chaos since the revolution and those that were not aware of the atrocities that the previous regime committed, are likely to vote for them. Egyptians who benefitted from the previous regime, are likely to vote for them.

Even if they do not win legitimately, many believe that the army generals who currently make up the transitional government, will see to it that they are in power.

We will see what happens on Friday when the results are announced.

The day before the Egyptian elections - a day of family fights

Yesterday was the kind of day that happens once every five years in normal, quite households that do not suffer from hypertension, melodrama and severe mood swings. In my family it happens at least once a month.

Yesterday our house was up in flames (almost a literal description if I had been allowed to do what I threatened to do), people were crying, screaming from the deepest part of their being and of course, slapping their faces with great frequency and gusto.

Yesterday my uncle was due to fly to the Gabon, where he works for 3 months on and off on a ship. Yesterday my gran was feeling very agitated and had wound herself up tightly, ready to release all of her tension on whoever was unlucky enough to get in her way.

The result of this tension was that my aunt started to rip her hair out and pack her bags, swearing to take her children and move anywhere else. My uncle (not the one travelling) ended up getting into a fight with the neighbours in the street and just managed to stop himself from whacking them round the head with a large metal stick.

These events were spurred on from a single sentence my gran (who was anxiously waiting to get to the airport, wanting to get there 5 hours before we needed to be there) said to both my aunt and my uncle. That was "If you don't want to take him to the airport he can get a taxi". BANG, the fire had been lit, and everything that happened after only set to anger it more.

In the end we managed to get my uncle to the airport (albeit to the wrong terminal because he hadn't taken the liberty to actually check his ticket before we left) and he got on his flight.

On the way back, my cousin called my aunt, panic in her voice. She had heard a lot of commotion in the street in front of us and went to see what had happened. 3 people had been shot dead by passing security forces, and their bodies had been left in the street for long enough for most of our neighboorhood to see them. Apparently they had been a group of hooligans trying to rob a shop, so they were stopped in their tracks by their security forces.

It's difficult to believe anything you hear here. It seems as though you cannot get an unbiased account of anything - evereything that happens is tightly bound in conspiracy, politics and strong unfounded beliefs.

In fact, yesterday I was thinking to myself how inadequate I felt that I didn't know much about Egyptian history. Then I said to myself, but how can I be sure that what I read online or in history books is the actual truth? How can bwe believe any history that we hear? During Mubarak's reign, history taught at schools in Egypt had been 'modified' to teach innocent minds that Mubarak had countless significant achievements under his belt, that were all either fake or done before his time.

How do we know what is actually true? Ever?

This thought made me feel a bit depressed. I have now decided to just learn from any source I can, but also not to forget the source that I learned it from, instead of blindly believing anything that interested me. In short, yesterday I decided that I would stop being GULLIBLE.

QNET

So, I have recently had a very detailed introduction into the illustrious world of QNET. A business I had not heard anything about until I made my way to Egypt this year.

The basic principle of the business is that there are some expensive products for sale, in return for a theoretical part of the business. When you buy one of these products (which includes a 'chi pendant' one that supposedly improves your health, various holidays and a $600 water filter (price not verified)) then you are part of the network, of the business.

If you wish to earn money in the business it is your responsibility to 'spread the word' about the company and try to recruit as many people as you can. These people will be 'underneath you', on the business tree.

One of my ex-students and a business partner of hers, gave me a very detailed introduction to the business, that lasted 2-and-a-half hours. My ex-student then took me to one of the weekly gatherings in Nasr City, in a very grand hotel.

This gathering consisted of around 500 QNET-ers, gathered into a beautiful ballroom, four floors under ground level of the Inter Continental hotel in Nasr City. The main speaker was a man called Khalid, who my friend told me was the person who brought QNET to Egypt, and subsequently has made millions upon millions of dollars (allegedly).

This man spoke for an entire hour. He was a tall, elegantly-clad young man, who spoke in a precise, measured way. The only problem I had is that during the entire hour I think he said only 5 minutes worth of content. He must have repeated the word 'belief' 500 times.

These weekly meetings are a QNET initiative to help motivate and encourage their employees, so that they go into the world and 'chew it up vigorously' (translated directly from Arabic which is why it sounds awkward and wrong).

I have to admit, there was a hell of a lot of positive energy bouncing around in that majestic hall. There was loud, uplifting music, cheering from the audience, and a standing salute to the 'top dogs' of the QNET Egypt company as they came on stage.

I really started to think that this was a religion, or cult of some sort. I then began to imagine that this was how the first religious missionaries converted people to join their religion. If you can convince yourself to truly believe in something, then that alone can be powerful enough to make others believe in it as well.

Khalid, the boss-guy, said:
'You must believe in yourself, you must believe in QNET and you must believe in your team to succeed.'

It is this belief that makes anything possible. Khalid really had me convinced - I could very well make someone part from anything between $400 and $5000, for a product that they may not necessarily want, by promising them that if they work hard in the business they will 'learn tons about themselves', 'earn tons of money' and 'join a dynamic, young network that will motivate them to excel in all and any walks of life'.

Anything, I realized after today's meeting, can be sold to anyone, if you believe in it strongly enough, and you know which strings to pull on the person you are trying to sell to.

Anyway, for me it's not money that I want at the moment, but the personal development opportunities that this project seems to promise. But actually, above that what I really wanted was something to believe in. I feel I have been sufficiently westernized and liberalized in the sense that I no longer have any rock-solid institutionalized beliefs that I can honestly make myself believe in. I thought of QNET as my opportunity to re-gain these beliefs, no matter how superficial they may be.

I kept thinking and going backwards and forwards, umming and ahhing. My friend had planted a seed-idea into my mind, and it was ferociously attacking my thoughts from all sides. I was constantly combating it with negatives, draw backs and side effects.

I finally said to her that it was not the right time for me to join. I want to learn Arabic and solely focus my attention on that. She warned me about the 'cost of delay'. Delaying entry into QNET meant less money could be made. In my mind delaying entry into QNET meant less stress and worry on my behalf.

I think I have been thoroughly convinced by this project, but the time is not quite right.

*I would like to make an amendment to the above - I believe that QNET is an excellent brain-washing concept that plays on the human traits of greed, self-improvement and belonging to a group. In all of these senses QNET is a brilliant concept. Absolutely ingenious. But I've decided to stay out of it. I think that's best.