It's Ethnographic!

"It's ethnographic" has become a bit of a mantra for me while here in Cairo. I recite it to myself whenever I am frustrated by the events of daily life, or something occurs to which my normal response would be impatience, frustration, or petulance. Quotidian hassles slide right off me, melting away with these seemingly magic words: “It’s ethnographic!” Instead of feeling frustrated, I feel productive. Great reserves of patience have revealed themselves at opportune times, all because of this refrain.

Ripped off by a taxi? It’s ethnographic!

Hassled while walking down the street? It’s ethnographic.

Crushed into a subway car so packed that I can hardly breathe, only to be buffeted by the crowd of people trying to get out when the doors open? That too is ethnographic!

Shortly after moving into my apartment, I had a Skype date set up with my husband for 9am on a Saturday. We hadn’t yet been able to get internet set up in our apartment, and having encountered a series of bureaucratic hurdles the process was taking longer than we had hoped. (My response to these annoyances, such as the guy with the router not coming when he said he would, finally getting a router only to find that it was broken, and so on? Yep, that’s right: “It’s ethnographic.” If I’d been at home, I would have been cursing AT&T and complaining about what terrible service they had. But here, I just chalked it up to ethnography).

So, on this particular morning, I found myself in front of the nearby internet café at 9am, or actually a few minutes before. The sign said it was to open at 9, so I waited. And waited. And waited some more.

I popped into the bookstore next door and browsed their collection. I read some short children’s books, which I quite enjoy doing as I can understand them without trouble. I try not to let the fact that their target audience is (more than) two decades younger than I am dampen the pride I feel upon completing one.

I went back to the café; still no signs of life. I ran across to the pharmacy and picked up some necessities. But, with no other tasks to distract me, I returned to the Internet Café and loitered in front

Under normal circumstances, I would have been annoyed, wondering why the shop wasn't open, frustrated that I had to wait and at the time I was wasting. And while I wasn't thrilled about waiting outside on a street corner, I wasn’t upset. Instead I saw it as an ethnographic opportunity to observe Cairo life. It was a rare chance to see the city wake up.

As I looked around me, I noticed the shopkeeper taking the grates off his store windows one by one. After he had carried each one inside and stowed it away, he returned with Windex and a rag and proceeded to wash the windows. Cairo is so dirty and dusty; nearly everything is covered with a thin layer of grime. Watching the shop keeper attempt to combat the inevitable film that would coat the windows by the end of the day was touching. At least this morning, his wares would be clearly visible through the brightly gleaming glass.

Every time a bus or taxi pulled up, I glanced at the passengers expectantly; hoping one of them would be the owner of the internet café. I watched wistfully as each bus pulled away, its passengers scattering to buy bread, go to the coffeehouse next door, or just disappear into the side streets.

A bright white van came to a halt directly in front of me. It looked like no minibus I knew of, but nonetheless I held out hope that it might contain the keeper of the café. Instead, a young man jumped out caring bales of newspapers. He tossed two of the bales into the coffeehouse and carried on, distributing the papers to all of the shops and apartment buildings nearby. I watched as he came back through to pick up the second and third bales, making quick work of his distributions.

At some point, I began to wonder about the shop. Of course, opening a few minutes late is a normal part of Cairene life. But really, by 9:30 I had expected it to be open. The street which had been nearly empty when I arrived was more trafficked. There were more men sitting out at the coffeehouse next door. More people buying drinks from the kiosk across the way. A woman walked by with a bouquet of flowers. Where was she headed, I wondered?

A man sweeping the street came by. As he tended to the area in front of the internet café he looked at me, then the internet place and back at me a few times. Finally, after considering the oddity of a foreign woman lingering on the street at this early hour on a Saturday morning, he stopped sweeping and said “It opens at 10.” He even held up his ten fingers for emphasis, or to make sure I understood in case I couldn’t speak Arabic. (He, of course, didn’t know that numbers are well with the purview of my able-to-read-children’s-books level Arabic!)

With fifteen minutes left, I went home rather than continue my vigil in front of the store. And when I returned, I found that that indeed, he was right, the cafe opened at 10. I went in and spoke with D about the side of Cairo life I’d seen while waiting for it to open.

“It’s ethnographic,” in my head, is properly sung to the tune of “The Electric Slide.” So while walking down the street, picking my way through the unevenly paved road and the occasional piles of trash, you might find me grooving a bit to that inexplicably popular hit.

“You’ve gotta see it. It’s ethnographic!

"You’ve gotta feel it. It’s ethnographic!”

- Pen