7 -13 December 2000
Issue No.511
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Al-Ahram Weekly On-line 7 -13 December 2000 Issue No.511 |
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| Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 | Current issue | Previous issue | Site map | ||
Disposable dinosaurs
By Nigel Ryan
The voice could only be described as theatrical. "I am the mattress man," it boomed, from no direction in particular, and with the kind of projection that went out of fashion with Victorian actor managers. Turning, it was impossible to make out the point of origin. The entire floor was empty. But then it came again. "I AM the mattress man." Slightly modulated, a different stress, but still as theatrical, and still no one insight. And then he appeared, from behind the soft furnishing and towelling counter, an imposing figure, grin slightly askew, weaving in and out of the sofa beds. Despite the rolling gait, the circuitous route necessary to avoid the objects in his path, it was perfectly clear -- the mattress man was heading in my direction.
"What do you want?"
The question was perfunctory. If terse, it was at least to the point, and given that this particular mattress man was strolling towards me on the top floor of Omar Effendi, on Talaat Harb, it was clearly intended to be business-like. And it was. Within half an hour of dragging out mattresses and spreading them on the floor, another half an hour of bouncing up and down on them, I made my purchase.
I had arrived at half past seven, iftar was over, and waited on the pavement for five minutes before being allowed into the store. I had to buy a mattress, and I had to buy it now, to accommodate yet more unexpected guests arriving that evening. And after several emergency consultations in the office over the dilemma created by the ratio of guest arrivals to beds in my apartment, I had been advised, in no uncertain terms, to go to Omar Effendi.
I did, and though it was not quite the first time I had ventured into one or other of the stores in a decade of living in Cairo, it was still a novel experience, and a surprisingly enjoyable one. No advocate of shopping therapy (in truth I find it rather too much of a chore), I was taken aback by the fact that everyone I met was in perfect humour. And in the time that elapsed between my first meeting with the mattress man and final departure from the store as the proud owner of two new mattresses I met an awful lot of people, from the cashiers on the ground floor, to the woman in charge of tailoring fabrics, not to mention the entire delivery staff. It was a perfect reminder of the wonders that can be worked simply by being surrounded by happy people.
And truth be told, I've always had a soft spot for department stores, those dinosaurs of the high street that have, for so long now, been an endangered species. Not that this particular Omar Effendi is a prime example -- the first floor is all but derelict, a dark, cavernous space, cordoned off by broken display cabinets and a few sadly mutilated mannequins. Its only advantage, apart from the smiley, post-iftar staff -- a priceless asset and, given their off-the-wall photogenicity, one that could easily spearhead an advertising campaign and in the process make of mattress man a star -- was its closeness to home.
Far more distinguished, architecturally at least, is the Abdel-Aziz street sister store, which has wonderful wrought iron canopies on its two street facades and a galleried two storey central shop floor, a far from efficient use of selling space, perhaps, but undoubtedly impressive. It was subject to a half-hearted attempt at renovation several years ago, possibly, rumour had it at the time, as a precursor to the eventual privatisation of the government owned department store chains, though that particular sale remains bogged down in a seemingly bottomless mire of problems over valuation.
Shortly before that particular renovation the Sednaoui store in Ataba was given a more thorough going-over, which included the regilding of its two monumental domes, and repairs to the impressive glass ceiling that tops the panelled, central space.
Sednaoui's Ataba shop is perhaps the most impressive of the city's dinosaur shops: clearly conceived as its flagship store, it is a fine example of the genre, a commercial outlet that has assumed all the trappings of a major, civic building. And if there is a slight bombast to the main facade, it is entirely appropriate to a building that was planned to announce that this is the place, the only place, in which to shop. Whatever the technical merits of its refurbishment, though, it has -- if only because of location -- served to emphasise the obsolescence of the beast. Smart shopping has moved far away from Ataba, leaving Sednaoui's stranded with its eccentric window displays of acrylic knitwear, Bohemian glass and gold plated canteens of cutlery.
What hope, one wonders, for this once lustrous name that dominated the smarter end of the retail market before 1952? And more important, what hope for the stores built to enhance the prestige of those names?
The last private department store to be built before the 1952 revolution, Chemla, on 26th of July Street, opened its doors to the public in early 1951. Its present reincarnation as a shopping mall does little to inspire confidence in the future of these high street giants. A remarkably elegant example of mid-century modernism, its interior space was brutally carved up five years ago to provide the maximum number of shopping units that have, in recent years, been rented by an endless number of retailers whose life span seldom appears to exceed six months.
There are, of course, the on-going whispers about privatisation. One can only hope that, when a final valuation is agreed upon -- and that doesn't look as if it is going to happen anytime soon -- some sensible provision is made that will ensure that the most important of these landmarks are not bull-dozed into oblivion. High streets spawn symbols like anywhere else -- indeed, in our commercially-minded era, perhaps more symbols than anywhere else. It is just that some of them become too embedded in the urban landscape to be dispensed with according to the crassly commercial logic from which they were born.
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