Muhammad Ali Pasha al-Mas'ud ibn Agha (Not the boxer)

"Hello" they recite in unison. A group of school girls are trying out
their english.

"Hello." Dad replies. "How are you?"

This is met with giggles. They're not sure what he is asking them.

"Mr. Where. Are. You. From." They slowly pronounce each word as they
practiced in class.

"Canada." Dad smiles at his flock of admirers.

"Oh yes. Canada Dry. Nice. Nice." They reply.

This is the first time we have had this response. We will hear it many
more times before we head home.

"We won't get anywhere if he keeps encouraging him." Alice says. We
joined Alice and her daughter Erica along with the guide Essam for our
Egyptian vacation.

Alice talks. I'm not sure how she manages to get oxygen into her
lungs. I have known her for three hours now and I know she is from
California, worked in banking until her bank was taken over by the
Fed., has a troubled relationship with her daughter, lost her father,
loves to travel, has a police officer husband, hates Obama, has Greek
ancestry, had a bad European tour experience, loves Hawaii, and
Mexico, has been to Egypt before, drinks coffee not tea... She is the
embodiment of the "American" tourist, but seems genuine and kind. So,
I swallow my prejudice and try to engage her.

"Shake a leg." Essam calls and holds up his blue clipboard as a beacon
for us to follow.

We head to the entrance of Muhammad Ali's mosque. Essam hands us
tickets. We line up at metal detectors for a cursory inspection of our
bags and persons. Essam heads through first and shakes hands with
everyone he encounters. The same men line up to search our bags.

Father of modern Egypt. Reformed the military. Headed land reform.
Built a central bureaucracy. Essam fills us with more details that we
can possibly hold onto. I start to learn how deep the history of this
country runs. I am reminded of how young Canada is.

Muhammad Ali's Mosque
I love the architectural details in moorish influenced buildings. The
arches, the curved doorways, and window details combine to create an
elegant facade. The details remind me of the buildings in Seville.

The mosque's courtyard houses a few women holding out white modesty
gowns. I dressed with modesty in mind this morning. My skirt covers my
knees. My shirt covers my shoulders. That doesn't stop the man behind
us from pushing women forward and demanding I wrap myself in a gown.
Two women lift my arms and start robing me. In arabic, they firmly
demand something from me. I'm pretty sure it's money they are looking
for.

Essam realizes that Treesa and I have fallen behind the group. He
returns to the entrance looking for us. Short sharp words are
exchanged with the man in charge of the gowns. Then the handshake
where palms never meet occurs. Money was passed between them, and
Essam herds us off to meet up with our group.

"Privatization." he says. "This man has been hired recently to run the
gown rental. It used to be run by the government. He is "stricter" in
his assessment of acceptable dress."

Even religious institutions need to drive a profit these days.

It is beautiful. The court yard's alabaster reflects the sun. The
interior of the mosque is painted in green and gold and hurricane
style lights are suspended from the ceiling. The floors are covered in
persian carpets. We pad about barefoot and learn about Mamluk
architecture, the height of the mihrab and Muhammad's son whose death
inspired the building.

As we leave the mosque we are approached by women who disrobe Treesa
and me. I step into my shoes and out into the sun. Cairo lies at our
feet. I can see why Muhammad came to this mountain.

www.adogabroadayear.wordpress.com for images