7 - 13 February 2002
Issue No.572
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Al-Ahram Weekly Online 7 - 13 February 2002 Issue No.572 |
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Hard times
THE DING DONG bazaar is perfectly placed. Perched on a corner of Tahrir square, it dominates the tourist run between the Egyptian museum and the packs of fast-food restaurants gathering outside AUC, writes Jasper Thornton.
The bazaar usually does a roaring trade, taking money in all currencies, selling to people from all places. But when Al-Ahram Weekly went to visit, though the door was jammed open, not a tourist was in sight. The owner, Madame Samira, sat swathed in a fat leather coat, huddling herself into a deep sagging seat. She complained that since 11 September her custom has dropped by 90 per cent and she can now barely afford to live. As she spoke, she shifted with the slow, jerky movements of depression. "What can we do?" she asked, attempting a doomed grin. Beside her sat Abduh, older, smiling, still trying to be sprightly, though the lines of worry score deep in his face. Between them a television flicked round untuned, black and white figures trailing each other in a lazy loop.
Once, ranks of tourists trooped in at the door, spending hours wading delightedly through the piles of bric-a- brac. And what bric-a-brac! Brass dishes, clocks, naked dancing girls from Sudan, ivory sages from China, masks from Nigeria, a samovar from Russia, and from Egypt, plates, paintings, crockery, gold, precious stones, fabric, lanterns, lamps, swinging mobiles, cups, knives and great curving swords -- every Arabian Nights cliché that the eye of Flaubert would delight in. But all that comes in the door now is traffic noise and dust, and the occasional hopeful wholesaler, regretfully turned away.
The bazaar has been in Samira's family since before the 1952 revolution -- first they kept shop at Khan Al-Khalili; now at their present location since the 1960s. It is like an orientalist fantasy -- all jewels, and bright colours, and glitter and Nubian statues glowering. No doubt deliberately so: Madam Samira and her family know their market. They speak fondly of the foreigners who come to buy their wares. The British, they say, are all abrupt and businesslike. "They march in and say: I want that, I'll pay this. And if the price is wrong, they turn right round and march out again; they waste no time!" But "The Italians! Oh, the Italians! They love to bargain! Hours and hours they sit here, sipping tea, pretending to be angry, happy, sad, until they march off with their prize, at a price that pleases them."
No Italians come now. This has been the hardest time in the bazaar's history: as bad as the Gulf War. Samira and Abduh haven't given up hope yet. What else, after all, is there to do? Meanwhile, the Nubian statues gather dust, and though the shelves are full, the spirit of the bazaar, like its till, is empty.
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