I'm taking a little turn from my stories from Egypt and returning to the land where I developed an interest in the Arabic culture: Palestine. Typically I veer from discussing the political situation in Palestine/Israel simply because my opinion has no weight in the matter; I have no interest in argument or government 'bashing' for the sake of it. The story that follows is not meant to hold any implications of my opinion of the political situation in this region of the world. This is a story of my experience.
Over four years ago I concluded a one and a half year period of my life that I spent as a teacher in East Jerusalem. Most of my interaction was with people of Palestinian origin, and I lived close to the region of the city which experienced a lot of conflict. I knew first hand what it was like to cross checkpoints, jump road blocks on foot, and be rerouted kilometers out of my way to travel what would have been a short distance. Just before I left, Israel started to build concrete borders around Palestinian neighborhoods in this region. I remember them being very large and very long, and the site of them made me think of the Berlin Wall. I saw several more pictures and heard many more stories, but they never quite effected my core; these borders were on the other side of town. Just after I left, I read in an American newspaper that they were beginning to build concrete borders in my former neighborhood. Could I have really felt the impact of this from so far away?
I returned to Jerusalem for the first time since I left, and stayed in the same neighborhood on the opposite side of the checkpoint. Immediately I noticed the change. Small barriers with barbed wire (similar to the ones we used to jump over in the past) were placed right down the middle of the road where the checkpoint is separating one side of the road from the other. Perplexed, I never really found out how one could actually get to the other side of the road. These barriers extended a hundred meters or so, and then...there it was. I saw it for the first time. It was large and gray and wound up into the hills of the region dividing it into sections like the materialized lines on a map which separate countries, states, counties, or villages. The first glance was almost surreal. All I wanted at that time was my camera. Still, this did not completely settle in my mind the reality of the situation.
The other evening the bus I was riding drove past my street, and I had to disembark slightly further up the road from where I was used to getting off. As I got down I looked right in front of me to see that huge, gray structure. I looked to my left and watched the bus depart through what seemed to be a large door in the road with barbed wire above it. This was the only entrance into the adjacent neighborhood and could obviously be opened or closed shut. I walked a bit farther up the street toward the place where I was staying, and after making a turn I had to walk right next to it. This is when the reality of the situation hit me. There it stood, four times my size in height, as permanent as one's bone structure, with an intricately, intertwined nest of barbed wire and fence at the top...the Wall.
One rhetorical question with a sarcastic overtone came to mind as I gazed up at this massive structure which looked as if it would never end: are the people on the other side of this Wall animals? I was reminded of the movie Jurassic Park where they had to put a large wall around the area where the dinosaurs lived. As I continued to walk by it, I remembered the words of a random man who had just prior to this given me directions. He said gidar. That's the Arabic word for it...Wall. I continued to repeat this word to myself. I will never again forget it. For a moment, fear flooded into my heart as I looked upon the Wall. I can only image how fearful the people were when it was being built and how fearful they are now as they must look on it every day. I continued to walk beside the Wall and remembered that one of my students lives in region on the other side of it. I looked in the direction of where his house should be, and I almost started to cry. He is over there on the other side. I turned to corner but continued to look back on it. It closed me off so completely from what was on the other side that it seemed almost like it was the end of the universe. But I know it wasn't. It was a Wall.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Friday, August 8, 2008
Most Recent Blog Posts
Here are the most recent posts to date:
7/18...A Letter to My Father from Upper Egypt
7/18...A Comfortable Ride on the Public Transport
8/07...Comments on The Voice of a Nation post
7/18...A Letter to My Father from Upper Egypt
7/18...A Comfortable Ride on the Public Transport
8/07...Comments on The Voice of a Nation post
Friday, July 18, 2008
A Letter to my Father from Upper Egypt
Daddy, I'm sailing on the Nile right now, and you'd be totally jealous of all the archaeological sights and the beautiful scenery I've seen. Just earlier I passed an area of the Nile that is used for farming. There were beautiful rushes all along the shallow banks of the river with black and brown cows drinking and bathing on the water and on the water's edge. The shoreline is flourishing with low tropical trees and agricultural lands from which we see a man in a long robe peak out every now and then. Beyond the flora are low desert hills as dry and barren as the Sahara. The aviary life on the edge of the river is quite active and stunning. The river is wide and calm, and I am just waiting to see an alligator stick up its head. As we sail, every now and then I'll see a little boat with oars or a small sail on the edge of the river or manned by a dark skinned figure going about his work as if seeing a large cruise ship was an everyday occurance. Yesterday our ship was surrounded by small merchant boats all around. They caught hold of our boat and were gathering together joining themselves with ropes. The men were shouting at us on all three decks trying to sell us various goods throwing the merchandise onto the ship and then demanding money. The scene was quite a hilarious one to behold! Since Friday, we've visited a handful of temples and archaeological sights which would make any archeology lover pee his pants. The artistic work and magnificence of it all is just mind blowing. We've received historical lectures with a tour guide from the university all along the way, and it is all more than I can digest. Nevertheless, I find it intriguing. To think that these structures have been present, whether above or below the silt of the Nile, for upwards to 4-6,000 years is outstanding! I cannot completely enjoy my little vacation because of my workload from school and my desire to be in the mountains (I should not keep reading about the mountains and climbing if I want to be content for the years I must spend in this desert). Just the same, I'm more than grateful for this opportunity!
A 'Comfortable' Ride in the Public Transport
The fact that I ride public transportation in Egypt is not one that I spread around to many people. From those that I have divulged this information to I have received a variety of responses: "You're crazy," "You're brave," "Good luck with that," "Don't you think the taxi ride is worth the extra couple dollars per week?" I am presenting this attitude toward the public transportation system in Egypt simply to set the backdrop of a day at the bus station. I am not at all ashamed to take public transport, and, yes, I often think that I have a few bolts loose in my head. Nevertheless, each penny I save in relishing the adventure of "The Bus Station" is worth it. Some days I despise my frugal efforts, and some days I just sit back and laugh.
In Cairo, it is only wise to plan approximately one hour in advance for traveling a distance which might otherwise take about 15 minutes. So, each morning I leave my house around 7:30 am to be to my 9 am class on time. The first several times I used the small, crowded bus stop under a bridge near my house I would have to casually ask just about everyone around me which bus went where and how I could get to my destination. This is an amusing process in which I simply state "Midan Ta7rir" and the head nods followed by a string of incomprehensible speech either affirm my guess or direct me to the next bus. After several attempts, a couple which landed me in some very strange neighborhoods, I finally got a hang on the "system of no system" and could distinguish which buses took me where I wanted to go. Of course, one can never truely know when the bus will arrive or depart. He has only to hope that he won't have to wait another hour to catch the bus.
Safety is as foreign a concept as are Timetables. The prevailing business strategy is, "Let's crowd as many people into this bus as we can to make as much money as we can." This strategy relinquishes any concept of "Maximum Limit" or "one person to a seat with standing room." Luckily, the buses usually start from the station near my house, so I am typically able to get a seat from the beginning. If I come a bit late, I can guarantee right off the bat that I'll be standing or sitting on the dust covered floor above the engine in the rear of the bus. As the driver proceeds on his route, another man walks from the front of the bus to the bus collecting the money and giving us these wonderful little tickets, which I have yet to discover their usefulness, and then sits near the rear door which becomes the only entrance onto the bus from that point in time. This door is the salvation for every passer-by who wishes to be to work relatively on time, thus all of the people continue to crowd in until men are hanging outside the bus by the railings and the distance between one person and another cannot even be measured by the width of a pencil. Sit down and enjoy the ride, because you'll be here for another 30 minutes! I equate exiting this amalgamation of people to the birthing process. I'll let you take the details from there.
Taking the bus or the minibus from the larger, more central station near the Egyptian Museum is another story. Upon entering the station you pass by a plethora of vendors selling everything from sweets to socks, watered down juice to grilled corn, shoe shining services to old clothes. Of course I draw quite a bit of attention when I enter this fiasco, but I have to admit that it is not often that I actually experience any kind of harassment. Occasionally I hear the whistle or the call of a desperate man or a curious boy, but I've learned to just ignore that. It is at this point in time that I cross through a labyrinth of minibuses driving in all directions shouting out the location to where they are going, people hopping in and out of vehicles, potholes the size of large watermelons, and buses which enter the station with no regard as to whom or what is in front of it. Once I find the supposed location as to where my bus will arrive, again devoid of any timetable, I must sit underneath the bridge to shade myself from the unrelenting sun and inhale the fumes from the surrounding vehicles which hang in the air with the sole purpose of suffocating every individual they can. Then I wait, and wait, and wait, and wait.
The most vital task I must set myself to as I wait is looking in the direction of where the bus will be coming from. The reason for this becomes quite apparent if you know the chain of events once the bus comes into sight. When the bus begins to pull into the station, men, woman and children run toward the bus entrances before it has even stopped and crowd into both entrances to appropriate one of the hard plastic seats that line the only ventilation system on the bus, the windows. This process includes a non-biased method of pushing, shoving, and pulling, but "when push comes to shove," the Egyptian system of manners (which is quite a strong one) does prevail and you find people making way and giving up seats for older women, pregnant women, women with small children, and white foreign girls. Many days I am fortunate enough to acquire a hard plastic seat or the edge of a step to rest on, but equally as often I get the joy of standing cramped as tightly as possible in between the rows of seats next to men who are quite good at keeping their physical distance from me as much as is in their power.
After this riveting exhibition when I've settled into my new environment, I realize the quality of the air that I've been inhaling since entering the little enclave under the bridge. It is one of those discoveries which would persuade anyone to encourage the efforts of building electric cars. The exhaust and pollution choke the life out of every alveolus in my lungs. The worst part about it is that you are stuck in a bus where the air outside is the same as inside under a bridge that allows for no circulation of clean air in the least. Every vehicle that crowds in and out of that station exhausts polluted fumes that hang in the air exasperated by the heat and high concentration of people. This wait can be anywhere from a few minutes to thirty or forty minutes depending on the number of people that get on the bus, the time of day, the number of buses going to entirely different places ahead of my bus, or the mood of the driver. Freedom comes at last as the bus leaves the station and continues toward its destination repeating the same confusing dance as described before.
The other modes of public transport carry their own little distinctions. For example, riding minibuses (white, 12 person vans which usually carry around 16 passengers) presents challenges like finding a vehicle that has a complete floor without holes, never really knowing whether the driver is high or sober, squeezing your way in and out of the vehicle after having effectively communicated your desire to "descend" at a specific location (which, if you don't know how to do this, don't ride them or you'll never get off), and listening to the arguments between the driver and passengers when he doesn't get all the money he thinks he's supposed to or he decides to take a route slightly different from that which was originally assumed by the passengers. Riding the metro, which is quite often a relatively normal and enjoyable event, can get interesting during the rush hours when people, previously hidden from sight, descend in mass from all directions to squeeze into the train cars with no adherence to "enter on the right, exit on the left." Regardless, this is the system, or the non-system of the public transportation in Cairo. Enjoy your ride!
The most vital task I must set myself to as I wait is looking in the direction of where the bus will be coming from. The reason for this becomes quite apparent if you know the chain of events once the bus comes into sight. When the bus begins to pull into the station, men, woman and children run toward the bus entrances before it has even stopped and crowd into both entrances to appropriate one of the hard plastic seats that line the only ventilation system on the bus, the windows. This process includes a non-biased method of pushing, shoving, and pulling, but "when push comes to shove," the Egyptian system of manners (which is quite a strong one) does prevail and you find people making way and giving up seats for older women, pregnant women, women with small children, and white foreign girls. Many days I am fortunate enough to acquire a hard plastic seat or the edge of a step to rest on, but equally as often I get the joy of standing cramped as tightly as possible in between the rows of seats next to men who are quite good at keeping their physical distance from me as much as is in their power.
After this riveting exhibition when I've settled into my new environment, I realize the quality of the air that I've been inhaling since entering the little enclave under the bridge. It is one of those discoveries which would persuade anyone to encourage the efforts of building electric cars. The exhaust and pollution choke the life out of every alveolus in my lungs. The worst part about it is that you are stuck in a bus where the air outside is the same as inside under a bridge that allows for no circulation of clean air in the least. Every vehicle that crowds in and out of that station exhausts polluted fumes that hang in the air exasperated by the heat and high concentration of people. This wait can be anywhere from a few minutes to thirty or forty minutes depending on the number of people that get on the bus, the time of day, the number of buses going to entirely different places ahead of my bus, or the mood of the driver. Freedom comes at last as the bus leaves the station and continues toward its destination repeating the same confusing dance as described before.
The other modes of public transport carry their own little distinctions. For example, riding minibuses (white, 12 person vans which usually carry around 16 passengers) presents challenges like finding a vehicle that has a complete floor without holes, never really knowing whether the driver is high or sober, squeezing your way in and out of the vehicle after having effectively communicated your desire to "descend" at a specific location (which, if you don't know how to do this, don't ride them or you'll never get off), and listening to the arguments between the driver and passengers when he doesn't get all the money he thinks he's supposed to or he decides to take a route slightly different from that which was originally assumed by the passengers. Riding the metro, which is quite often a relatively normal and enjoyable event, can get interesting during the rush hours when people, previously hidden from sight, descend in mass from all directions to squeeze into the train cars with no adherence to "enter on the right, exit on the left." Regardless, this is the system, or the non-system of the public transportation in Cairo. Enjoy your ride!
Saturday, May 17, 2008
An Easy Morning Jog through the Labyrinth
Today I discovered the most effective way to go jogging in Cairo without becoming bored with the doldrum, monotonous (though always amusing) surroundings: go for a jog in Ma'adi. First I must describe to you the district of Cairo known as Ma'adi. I come here once a week or every few weeks for church and as a little vacation. Via bus and metro it takes me around an hour or less to get to Ma'adi, and when I arrive, I feel as though I've entered another dimension. This district is known mainly for one group of residents: the foreigners. If you're homesick for the West, go to Ma'adi. If you want to see green trees, beautiful public and private gardens, and relatively orderly streets, go to Ma'adi. If you want to see quite wealthy residences and a lot of foreigners, go to Ma'adi. It's in the southern part of Cairo where everything is more spacious and spread out, comparatively. I definitely wouldn't call it spacious compared to Springfield, Missouri, but spacious. As this city becomes more crowded, people, especially those with more money, are moving to the outskirts. This is Ma'adi: an international haven leagues away from the reality of Cairo.
After church this weekend, I decided to stay in the area to visit with friends, attend an open mic night with the young adults from my church, relax after a stressful week, and so on. With the opportunity to spend a morning in this beautiful area of town, I decided to plan on going for a lovely run. This would provide me the rare opportunity to actually run in the shade of trees in a pair of modest shorts (rather than my heat inducing pants) and not have to be concerned with choking on the pollution, becoming a moving target for the ever-present traffic, providing the local pedestrians and loiterers free amusement, and becoming the subject to practice their English-speaking skills ("Welcome to Egypt" is what they always say). I anticipated an easy, relaxing jog. It turned out slightly different.
I've always quite detested jogging in cities. You pass by so many people and buildings and shops, and though it seems as though you've jogged at least 2 miles based on the ever changing scenery, you've really only gone about 200 meters. I constantly find myself looking at my watch, and asking myself how much longer I have to hop over construction areas, weave in and out of cars, or circle the same block. How I do miss the long, barren roads of upstate New York and the forest trails of Jackson Hole Wyoming! Nevertheless, today I did not find myself getting bored at all with my city jog.
There is the one distinct quality about Ma'adi which never ceases to amaze newcomers to the community and locals alike: the layout of the streets. The streets were very cleverly named with numbers ranging from 9 to 539 in no apparent order, and they were constructed and laid out in a way which enhances the internal navigation system of the local driver (aka...they weave in an out of each other with random round-abouts placed in between in a most confusing, often frustrating manor). I do believe that even Ferdinand Magellan would have become frustrated navigating in this community even after living here for several years.
I discovered that if I want to go for a long run, go to Ma'adi. It's quite logical, really. You start your jog simply trying to remember the direction from which you came. After a very short time of enjoying the trees, flowers, and beautiful houses, all of the roads and intersections begin to mesh together in your brain, everything looks as though you've seen it in the recent past, and your internal compass confuses north and south with up and down, in and out, right and left, and stop and go. You find yourself in a labyrinth of Middle Eastern expat land. Your easy, relaxing, thirty minute jog has turned into an all-day adventure and a first-hand lesson in reorientation and navigation. Today I simply had to succumb to asking directions. Of course the language barrier is always an enjoyment trying to work through with my limited vocabulary and the limited patience of people around me, but after a very long jog, a lengthy conversation with a couple guards, a ride with a random local guy on his way to work, and a second ride with a lovely foreign woman who was shopping for flowers, I arrived at my destination with a fresh image of Ma'adi: "What deranged, unbalanced maniac made the layout for this district?!" Regardless, I always enjoy an adventure and never regret all of the detours that must be taken to reach my goal. It’s all a learning experience which has the potential to create some good relationships and always ends up becoming a good story. Yes, I will jog in Ma’adi again. Next time I'm just going to bring a few pounds with the anticipation that I'll be having to catch a taxi from whatever far-out land I end up in.
After church this weekend, I decided to stay in the area to visit with friends, attend an open mic night with the young adults from my church, relax after a stressful week, and so on. With the opportunity to spend a morning in this beautiful area of town, I decided to plan on going for a lovely run. This would provide me the rare opportunity to actually run in the shade of trees in a pair of modest shorts (rather than my heat inducing pants) and not have to be concerned with choking on the pollution, becoming a moving target for the ever-present traffic, providing the local pedestrians and loiterers free amusement, and becoming the subject to practice their English-speaking skills ("Welcome to Egypt" is what they always say). I anticipated an easy, relaxing jog. It turned out slightly different.
I've always quite detested jogging in cities. You pass by so many people and buildings and shops, and though it seems as though you've jogged at least 2 miles based on the ever changing scenery, you've really only gone about 200 meters. I constantly find myself looking at my watch, and asking myself how much longer I have to hop over construction areas, weave in and out of cars, or circle the same block. How I do miss the long, barren roads of upstate New York and the forest trails of Jackson Hole Wyoming! Nevertheless, today I did not find myself getting bored at all with my city jog.
There is the one distinct quality about Ma'adi which never ceases to amaze newcomers to the community and locals alike: the layout of the streets. The streets were very cleverly named with numbers ranging from 9 to 539 in no apparent order, and they were constructed and laid out in a way which enhances the internal navigation system of the local driver (aka...they weave in an out of each other with random round-abouts placed in between in a most confusing, often frustrating manor). I do believe that even Ferdinand Magellan would have become frustrated navigating in this community even after living here for several years.
I discovered that if I want to go for a long run, go to Ma'adi. It's quite logical, really. You start your jog simply trying to remember the direction from which you came. After a very short time of enjoying the trees, flowers, and beautiful houses, all of the roads and intersections begin to mesh together in your brain, everything looks as though you've seen it in the recent past, and your internal compass confuses north and south with up and down, in and out, right and left, and stop and go. You find yourself in a labyrinth of Middle Eastern expat land. Your easy, relaxing, thirty minute jog has turned into an all-day adventure and a first-hand lesson in reorientation and navigation. Today I simply had to succumb to asking directions. Of course the language barrier is always an enjoyment trying to work through with my limited vocabulary and the limited patience of people around me, but after a very long jog, a lengthy conversation with a couple guards, a ride with a random local guy on his way to work, and a second ride with a lovely foreign woman who was shopping for flowers, I arrived at my destination with a fresh image of Ma'adi: "What deranged, unbalanced maniac made the layout for this district?!" Regardless, I always enjoy an adventure and never regret all of the detours that must be taken to reach my goal. It’s all a learning experience which has the potential to create some good relationships and always ends up becoming a good story. Yes, I will jog in Ma’adi again. Next time I'm just going to bring a few pounds with the anticipation that I'll be having to catch a taxi from whatever far-out land I end up in.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
The Voice of a Nation
I was more of a musician in the past, but I guess that I am still a musician. If you have the talent and passion in your heart for the 'voice of the heavens' (aka music), you can never lose that identity. As a musician and as one who studied music for a time, I realize the power and impact that it can have on a person, an industry, an idea, or even a nation. Little did I know the impact of Umm Kalthum on
It is tradition at ALI to have an end of the ‘torture’/semester party. I don’t think I realized what a big deal this party was until I arrived that afternoon and the room was packed full with students, teachers, administrators, and other college officials who came for more than just the bountiful banquet that followed the presentations. Maybe I had gotten the idea that the party wasn’t very important based on the fact that the competition for Arabic writing submissions was announced last minute, or the presentations that were being prepared all seemed spontaneous and unorganized. Of course, this shouldn’t surprise me based on the nature of the Egyptian culture where so many events seem to happen spontaneously and without distinct organization.
Students are encouraged and often times coerced into contributing to the entertainment at this party. This entertainment can be anything from a simple play in Arabic to singing songs in Arabic about
Five days before the party, my teacher gave me the words to a song by Umm Kalthum called Al Atlal written in Arabic and told me that I was practicing with a person who’d play the oud to accompany me a few days later. I looked at the words and put them in my bag to not touch them until a few days later. How in world could I practice it without a recording or without knowing the pronunciation? On top of that, I really didn’t particularly care for Arab music mainly because I don’t understand its structure and I can’t hear the sound of it. It’s just not what I’m used to. Thinking that I was singing this simple song with a simple accompaniment without a lot of onlookers/hubbub/exposure, I arrived in the practice room a few days later with several musicians and onlookers present to have the main musician explain to me (in Arabic, nonetheless) that this song was one of Egypt’s most popular, well-known, and loved songs. He briefly explained the importance of Umm Kalthum and that everyone knows this song. Perfect! Now I can’t screw up.
After a brief hour-long session where I felt like my teeth were being pulled out, I was sent home with the music, told to download a copy of the song from the internet and do nothing but listen to it for the next two days before I was supposed to perform it. I would come to find out that Umm Kalthum was a twentieth century Egyptian singer whose songs, sung in Fusha (the Standard Arabic language, not the spoken Egyptian dialect), inspired the nation to unit during times of hardship and breathed life into the language of the people. The artistry and richness of the poetry of her songs would make crowds go crazy when she sung. At listening to her voice, I could hear why the deep, rich, almost jazz-like qualities of her singing captured people. The very same day I started practicing Al Atlal, I found a series of documentaries on NPR about Umm Kalthum. I learned that her funeral was one of the most attended funerals in all of
So there I was at the party put on stage with an oud, a drum, a tambourine, long earrings, a sparkly necklace, and a scarf in my hand that I was told to compulsively wave around as I sung. Part of me hoped that the song would be so popular that everyone would start singing or clap along and drown out my voice just in case I did mess up the words (which, even to this day, I don’t quite know what I was singing about – something about a lover and walking in the moonlight; if it was any other Arab song I would guess that I was singing about “habibty” [trans. my darling] and her brown eyes). This didn’t quite happen, but right away I could tell the impact of Umm Kalthum and Al Atlal. People oohhed and aahhed just at the introduction of the song and sat with anticipation and a glint in their eyes. Immediately I felt as though I had in my hand a precious Egyptian treasure that it was my responsibility to deliver with power and conviction. This feeling was quite different than what I’d felt a few days before when I was wondering why in the world I had ever agreed to sing THIS song. Nevertheless, I sang.
I ended to an up roaring applause and grins of complete satisfaction on the faces of my teacher and the musicians that accompanied me. How ever I did it I don’t know, but for a few minutes, I, a foreigner whose exposure to such a rich language has been so brief, brought to life a voice that impacted a nation. I think that I did make an impact in that room that day. A teacher lives through his or her students. A teacher teaches to impart what he or she knows into another. He or she teaches to bring forth life and ability in his or her students so that the students can soar to heights even greater than those attained by the teacher. The teachers in that audience could relate first hand to what I was singing and also had the satisfaction to know that I was a product of their hard, passionate work: an encouragement to continue reaching toward their goal. And for me…I found Umm Kalthum. Though her music may still be strange to my ear, I too have been captured and long for the day when I can feel the richness of her words as well.
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On a side note (and to make proud the Rotarians who made my scholarship possible), I took first prize in the writing competition for the Elementary Arabic level. Woohoo! I won my first book in Arabic. I can’t wait until I can actually read it.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
101 Reasons to Honk Your Horn
In an Egyptian vehicle, the signaling horn (referred to as a hooter in British colloquial) is usually the most used part of the vehicle; used even more than the brakes. This is a list compiled from direct observations made by myself and Huma the Great of the methods of communication on the roadway infrastructure in Cairo collected through the course of our stay. The following observations are subject to the prejudices and personal postulations of the aforementioned observers. All supposed conclusions and explanations have no direct bearing on the actual intentions of the motor vehicle operators.
1. Tired of waiting for the traffic police
2. Merging
3. Exiting
4. Singing along with music
5. Celebrate something while you're driving
6. Inform a pedestrian that you're coming
7. Ask directions from the car next to you
8. To say hello
9. To wave at a person
10. Accompany the curses of unjust doings
11. Encouraging the action of another driver
12. For no reason other than simple entertainment
13. Inform the donkey drivers that you are coming
14. Warn other drivers that you are going the wrong direction
15. To catch the attention of cute women
16. Find customers (Taxi drivers)
17. Request for another driver to get out of the way
18. When there is a build-up of cars in a one way street
19. To communicate how two cars going opposite ways on a one-way street will get around each other
20. Wake up the neighbors
21. The owner doesn't know how to operate the car alarm
22. Because the car directly in front of you just randomly stopped
23. Get the attention of a shop owner
24. Wedding celebrations
25. Soccer victories
26. The horn is used like Morris Code using beep patterns to communicate (i.e. affection, curse words)
27. Changing "lanes" (whatever that means)
28. Inform bus drivers that you are in their blind spot (which is every spot)
29. Simply beeping to let others know you have a cool horn
30. The horn is broken on your car and never stops
31 through 101. Variations on the previous thirty applied to specific situations.
DISCLAIMER: For those of you who do not know me all that well, I am adding this post-par tum disclaimer stating that all of the above information is purely out of jest simply for the fun of it! Enjoy (especially all of you Egyptians who know you honk your own horns)!
1. Tired of waiting for the traffic police
2. Merging
3. Exiting
4. Singing along with music
5. Celebrate something while you're driving
6. Inform a pedestrian that you're coming
7. Ask directions from the car next to you
8. To say hello
9. To wave at a person
10. Accompany the curses of unjust doings
11. Encouraging the action of another driver
12. For no reason other than simple entertainment
13. Inform the donkey drivers that you are coming
14. Warn other drivers that you are going the wrong direction
15. To catch the attention of cute women
16. Find customers (Taxi drivers)
17. Request for another driver to get out of the way
18. When there is a build-up of cars in a one way street
19. To communicate how two cars going opposite ways on a one-way street will get around each other
20. Wake up the neighbors
21. The owner doesn't know how to operate the car alarm
22. Because the car directly in front of you just randomly stopped
23. Get the attention of a shop owner
24. Wedding celebrations
25. Soccer victories
26. The horn is used like Morris Code using beep patterns to communicate (i.e. affection, curse words)
27. Changing "lanes" (whatever that means)
28. Inform bus drivers that you are in their blind spot (which is every spot)
29. Simply beeping to let others know you have a cool horn
30. The horn is broken on your car and never stops
31 through 101. Variations on the previous thirty applied to specific situations.
DISCLAIMER: For those of you who do not know me all that well, I am adding this post-par tum disclaimer stating that all of the above information is purely out of jest simply for the fun of it! Enjoy (especially all of you Egyptians who know you honk your own horns)!
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