My Dinner with Ali
A wild ride, bowls of molokhiyya and neighbors walking in and out

by Tim Poor, Spring 2006 Gatekeeper Editor
Reprinted with permission of St. Louis Post-Dispatch

CAIRO, Egypt � Ali Mohamed Ali picked us up at our hotel around 7 p.m. to take us to his home for dinner.

A short, cheerful, dark-haired man of about 40, he wore tinted glasses and flashed a smile that revealed a missing tooth and the warm demeanor that was typical of the Cairenes we encountered during our two-week visit to the Egyptian capital.

The four of us squeezed into his black, Daewoo subcompact car and sped into the city. We'd previously seen the nightmare that is Cairo traffic from a high perch on our tour bus. Now, Ali was giving us an up-close view. He swerved around cars and pedestrians, honking his horn constantly and narrowly missing taxis, motor scooters and street vendors that jammed the streets along the way.

Like the other drivers, he ignored the few lane markings and traffic signals we encountered. And like many, he did not use his headlights. His radio was tuned to a station that played verses of the Quran. The air conditioning was on, full-blast.

As he drove, he filled us in on his background. An itinerant cook, he worked at a variety of restaurants and hotels, staying until another offered him more money. He had worked in Germany, Canada, and had been to the United States for 15 days. He had never had Americans in his home before.

Asked about the government, Ali politely demurred.

"I like Islam," he said.

After about 15 minutes, we were in his neighborhood, Imbaba. The narrow, unpaved streets were filled with vendors, pedestrians, children and garbage. We pulled up to his apartment building and parked in the alley. He said this was one of the nicer buildings in the neighborhood.

We entered and walked up four flights of unlit, stone steps, Ali leading the way with a flashlight.

His wife, Azza, greeted us warmly at the apartment door. She wore a pink and red galabiyya -- the traditional Egyptian gown -- with a scarf covering her hair and neck. We removed our shoes and took seats in the tiny living room, just large enough to hold a sofa and two chairs surrounding a small table. A hanging mural of Lake Lausanne, Switzerland, covered the wall behind us.

Their son, Ahmed, 6, bounced into the room, eager to meet the visitors. He showed us into his room, and was especially proud of the computer on which he played video games. They were not connected to the Internet, Ali said, because of the "inappropriate" material on it.

We returned to the living room and sat around the table, talking to Ali with the help of an interpreter. Azza brought 7UP and coffee to drink, then returned to the kitchen to finish preparing dinner. The smell of garlic wafted through the apartment.

Ali said his family liked action movies on the English-language TV. They stayed away from romances, again because of the "inappropriate" scenes -- such as kissing. He reads a newspaper that is based in Lebanon because he doesn't trust the Egyptian government-controlled media. He watches al-Jazeera, because "it shows the truth."

He repeatedly told us how well off he was, especially compared with others in the neighborhood. His wife doesn't have to work, he shops at the finest stores, and he sends his son to a private school, at a cost of about $500 a year. At one point he passed around his several credit cards, and insisted we look at the monthly statements as well.

It was time for dinner. Azza spread a newspaper on the table and then brought the food. She had gone all out: stuffed cabbage and grape leaves, pita bread, salad, and lamb chunks. Guests had plates, but the family and interpreter ate directly from the serving platters. We dunked our bread in bowls of molokhiyya, a dark green, garlicky soup made from the leaves of a summer vegetable.

As we waded in, Ali and Azza periodically urged us to "eat more!" In the middle of the table they placed a box of tissues, to be used as napkins. Then, chocolate bars for dessert.

Throughout dinner, neighbors from across the hall walked in and out of the apartment. Ali said he had followed the Egyptian maxim: when choosing a place to live, pick your neighbors first. They were like family, he said.

Ali said that in Egypt, it's not what you know but who you know. Getting a driver's license can take hours if you don't know someone at the agency. Getting a good job is impossible unless you know someone. Might this change? "Never," he said.

When we were finished, Azza scooped what we didn't eat onto the newspaper. Egyptians don't generally save leftovers, our interpreter explained. Ahmed ran in, roller skates in hand and a helmet on his head. He left to go play in the street, though it was after 9 p.m. The streets are safe, Ali said.

After another cup of coffee, it was time to go. As he had throughout our visit, Ali told us how much he enjoyed having us in his home, and that we would always be welcome. We responded in kind, thanking him and his wife for their hospitality.

After our extended good-byes, we followed Ali back down the stairs and into the alley. We got into his car for the trip back to the hotel and readied ourselves for another wild ride.

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