Misssy M has been writing of the trials and tribulations of being a superstar (one that shines on the air waves) film reviewer. It sent me catapulting down memory lane.

Way back when, in my student days in Cairo, going to the cinema was a bit of a treat. A dodgy television that only seemed to receive BBC World was our window on the world outside of the internet cafe. Entertainment was limited to charades, G&T, dancing, G&T, eating, G&T, card games, G&T and G&T. Occasionally there would be a movie playing at the Ramsis (Ramzeeez) Hilton Mall, which is really not as grand as it sounds. Up endless escalators to the top of the mall we’d go, riding sideways, bums against the railings, torsos twisted forever up, denying the band of merry men and teenagers following us our glutei maximi to gawp at.

There were always plenty of banners advertising the films. “Oooh, look, that should be good!” we’d cry trying not to convey the mourning of Edinburgh’s Filmhouse or Cameo we knew we all felt. Off we went to get tickets. Next we’d find that despite having twenty different movie banners advertising twenty different Hollywood ‘greats’ the cinema with two screens was playing two Arabic-language movies.

Back to bums against elevator railings.

On the odd occasion where our bums ended up on seats rather than against railings, we would get our popcorn, relax and sink into chairs and get ready for 90 mins of ‘The West’.

For about a minute. Not longer.

Eyes would start watering, the tickle in the back of the throat would induce coughing and we’d realise that the reason we cou’ldn’t see anything wasn’t because the lights were off, it was that we were in an insufficiently ventilated room with 200 faces sucking cigarettes.

Made of strong stuff, and deep-pockets-short-arms student syndrome, we would stay and tough it out.

It would take roughly thirty seconds after the music stopped, the screen lit up and the curtains opened: dah de dah dah, dah de dah dah, dah de dah dah DAH (Nokia ringtone). Nobody answers. Dah de dah dah, dah de dah dah, dah de dah dah DAH.

“ALLO! ALLO! IZZAYEK INTA? ANA FI SINEMA. FFFIIII SSIIIINNNEEEMMMAA!” (in case you haven’t worked it out: Hello! Hello! How are you? I’m in the cinema. I’m in the cinema!). Dom Jolie and his over sized brick phone and parodied shouting would have been outclassed. “YES, YES, GOOD IDEA. I’LL COME OVER AFTER THE MOVIE AND THEN WE CAN GO FOR DINNER/JUICE/HAVE A CHAT/MEET X. THE MOVIE? OH I CAN’T REMEMBER THE NAME, OH YES, IT’S MISSION IMPOSSIBLE II. WHAT’S THAT? OH YES, IT’S JUST STARTING. TOM CRUISE IS SO GOOD THOUGH. OK THEN, I’LL SEE YOU LATER.”

The ever-so-British “tut’s” and exaggerated sighs were but a mere mouse breathing in a hurricane. The storm being about 15% of the other cinema-goers who were by this time smoking their way through a loud mobile phone conversation and the other 15% with ringing phones that they were looking at and thinking about answering (you can’t answer too quickly, it means you’re not busy…).

Yes, my dear astute readers, that left 70% who were not phone engaged at this time.

Like a well conducted choir, the canon continued all the way to intermission, making sure that most of the 70% got their turn. For some reason, it’s no fun to have a phone call at intermission. Well, I mean, come on, that’s the time to get more popcorn, more drinks and nip to the loo.

Lights down, curtains open and the next 45 mins of second hand smoking commences. This was the part where excersice was brought in. Squats: jumping up and down every two minutes as people meandered back in after getting a second jumbo popcorn, part of which would inevitably end up on whoever they squeezed past. Neck stretches: craning to see past the jack-in-the-boxes/mexian wave in front of you as other late comers squeezed back to their seats.

Dah de dah dah, dah de dah dah, dah de dah dah DAH.

“HELLO AHMAD. YEAH, I’M IN THE MOVIE. YEAH, YEAH, IT’S MISSION IMPOSSIBLE II. WELL SO FAR….[full story]…YOU WANT TO COME AND SEEI IT? YES YOU SHOULD IT’S REALLY GOOD. YOUR MUM’S OK NOW AFTER THE OPERATION? OH GOOD. THAT’S GOOD. YES, WE’LL BE OUT IN AN HOUR. OK MEET YOU THERE.”

The few from the 70% who hadn’t received a call or finished a packet of cigarettes before the intermission, made up for lost time afterwards. Complete with rustling sweet packets, opening cans of coke and searching for lighters.

“Not bad, not bad.” We’d force out of our gritted teeth as our bums were back against the railings on the way out and strands of smoky hair fell in our faces, “Think I want to wash my hair though.”

First the stomach starts clenching. Next a rats nest of blazing fireball shoots up to my chest and sits, a burning cocktail of indignation and humiliation.

There are many things that caused this when I first moved here: taxi drivers’ roaming hands as they ‘opened’ the passenger door for me, getting ripped off, taxi drivers taking the ’short cut’ which always involved an extra 45 mins journey time (and therefore increased fare), sleazy comments made as I passed a group of men and being told something will take five minutes and then being made to wait an hour. And that is just for starters.

I have (I think) learned a great amount of patience on a number of different levels. I didn’t enjoy the process much, but it’s probably not a bad thing to have learned, especially as I held the double title of Miss Super Efficient and Miss Goody Two Shoes for all the years of my life pre-Egypt.

There are, however, two things that still get my goat and I cannot get over them. First up is the lack of respect for customers by supermarket staff. They have yet to realise that their behaviour towards customers impacts where the customer will shop in future. They have no qualms about pushing you aside to get past and under no circumstances if you meet where one needs to give way, like the entrance to a narrow aisle, will they give way to the customer. Ever.

The second fireball-inducing happening involves groups of pre-pubescent and teenage boys. For some reason, probably because they’ve seen their fathers/uncles/cousins doing it and want to be macho like them, they make sexually degrading comments (and depending on where you are, actions). Unlike the supermarket, where I show restraint, I am not usually so calm around these guys (and hey, better out than in, right?).

Today I passed six of them mincing towards me. The mutterings under their breath while simultaneously not taking their eyes off me was a pretty clear indication of what was coming. I knew they wouldn’t touch me, but the stomach clenching had begun. I let the first comment directly to me go unnoticed because sometimes they just leave it at that. This guy, incidentally the smallest of the group by a good half metre, obviously had to make up for his inadequacy by a second comment.

I have a bit of a frog in my throat (not from French classes) at the moment, which makes me sound like a 40 a day 60 year old fisherman’s wife, which happens to be a bit like an Egyptian Momma. “You think you’re so big? Huh?! You’re,” (hand gesture indicating 1 cm tall), “THIS small!” I growled loudly.

Of course, they cracked up repeating it and laughing. That’s normal (and hey, I have no idea how what I said actually translates socially/culturally in Arabic, it was just the first thing I could think of).

Part of the reason this enrages me so much is that, as is typical, when this incident happened, there were four fully grown men on the street, before and after the group of boys. Not one said or did anything, and they’d blatantly heard the comments.

Allied to this is the fact that it forces me to stop ignoring the fact that I am viewed by many, by virtue of my heritage and clothes (which were today, by the way, baggy, long sleeved and high necked), little more than a common hoar [ed. whore].

Not a good feeling to be left with.

The only thing I have found to make it better is to treat the next Egyptian male I meet with the respect I didn’t receive from the previous. Not always easy and not always reciprocated, but it makes Miss Goody Two Shoes feel at least she has the moral high ground.

Here’s what I received in my inbox today: The Egyptian Center for Women’s Rights is pleased to invite you to attend the second awareness day entitled “What have you gained from harassing someone?!!”

The subtitle of the awareness day is apparently: “Making our streets safer for everyone”.

Ooops. I can’t believe they caught me! I’ve been running around grabbing guy’s arses, groping their manboobs and on lazier days, growling “I wanna fuck you” or, when I get tired from all the activity, just wolf whistling as I pass them in the street. Ooh, yes, the heady cocktail of BO and brylcream makes me cra-azy. I can’t help myself.

I thought nobody would ever know it was me though.

Damn it.

Anyway, I mean, come on, they just shouldn’t be allowed onto the streets like that. What are their mothers doing? They’re asking for it. If they want me to stop salivating at those deliciously sweaty, bouncing manboobies they should stay at home.

Or wear a blanket.

There was a large and deep looking puddle. In it a cocker-spanial type dog was slightly bemused. Looking at the muddy water and pulling its paws in and out of the new substance, it began turning slowly around. Twice.

Slowly it lowered its body into the dirty puddle and sat, semi submerged.

“I wanna fuuuuuck you!”

“What a crazy dog, the weather’s not even hot. I wonder if it’s ok….Hang on, what the hell was that?” I stopped walking and turned away from the dog to the guy who had just passed me.

Sure enough, as they always do after they say something, he turned around to check me out again.

What I yelled next cannot be printed, but suffice to say, my cold induced throaty voice sounded similar to a fifty-a-day-smoking fisherman’s wife.

Why, oh why, can men not see the link between a woman walking down the street and their own sister or mother? Aaah, yes, of course, I was wearing those sexy (not tight) jeans and a rollneck long jumper. Oh, and on top of that, I accessorised it with my blonde and uncovered hair.

I was, in other words, as good as a prostitute.

My friend was walking down a road in the Hood yesterday with her 1 year old daughter strapped onto her front. She is not Egyptian. She was wearing a V-neck loose-fitting T-shirt (so, not tight or too revealing). Her daughter was holding the hem of the V. A group of teenage boys was walking towards her. She knows something is going to happen: it always does.

Sure enough, the group approach her to touch the baby. One of them ‘accidentally’ touches her breast as he touches the baby’s hand.

They walk off giggling.

Now, perhaps, he really did touch her breast by mistake.

Perhaps.

Chances are slim though, given that a) he would have probably noticed her breast before the baby (if her husband was carrying the baby, would they have stopped?) and b) had the girl been his friend’s sister, you can bet your life he would have managed to NOT touch her breast.

What’s the difference between my friend and a hypothetical sister of his friend? Nothing, other than he wouldn’t want to disrespect his friend.

Nice, huh?

*Hoda Shaarawi was an Egyptian feminist who lived from 1879-1947.

I recently got in touch with a friend I hadn’t seen since uni (the joys of Facebook), who commented that my Arabic must be fluent by now. I explained that my Arabic is good, but not fluent, primarily because I’m female and as such it is impossible to get into a situation where it could become fluent, without getting married (becoming a professional belly dancer excepted). He expressed his sadness that I must have been subject to sexism over my time here.

It did (and does) make me laugh to think about sexism in Egypt. It’s not in the least bit funny, and it has affected me greatly, but so ingrained is sexism here, that I don’t even consider it as such: it’s just (a big) part of the culture. Sexism is almost too lofty of an intellectual concept to be applied! I’d put it more in terms of sexual harassment and then add that it is on a daily basis - almost every time you step out the door.

It’s strange what we can get used to.

I’m supposed to make a doctor’s appointment this evening. Another one. During my whole school career I barely had a day off sick. When everyone else in my house was at deaths’ door, I was still chirpily getting up and carrying on without so much as a sniffle.

All that changed once I came to Egypt. Within three weeks I had a stomach bug that ended up with me semi conscious in a taxi in the steamiest month of the year heading to a highly recommended doctor (one of a series) that insisted I strip so he could do a breast exam, before prescribing antibiotics.

And it always ends up with antibiotics. First you do the tests, then get the antibiotics, then you get the test results, then you get more antibiotics.

You can, of course, just go to the pharmacy (actually, you don’t need to go, they all deliver) and get the antibiotics without a prescription anyway. That saves the doctor fees, test fees and hours spent in the full waiting room for your appointment three hours ago with the doctor who has yet to turn up.

Not all doctors are like this. But enough are.

When the system works well, however, it is wonderful. Test results within days, sometimes hours, appointments in the evenings, appointments on the day you need, doctors who provide their business cards so you can call them if there is a problem, or to update them on your progress.

But it all makes you wonder. I have been told I need invasive surgery on average about once a year. I only had it once, and I genuinely needed it, and I’m still doing ok.

When the doctor treating you will benefit financially if you go under the knife, a large wall of cynism develops.

There may be many complaints about the NHS, but one thing for sure: if you don’t need surgery, there is no way the cash-strapped Service shall open you up.

In my attempt to miss the regular mayhem, I timed my arrival at the local multinational hypermarket this morning in time to be one of the first in. “Blease, blease!” I heard from a group of suited guys as I sauntered through the attached mall that lines the walkway to the hypermarket. “Blease, it’s not open yet.” A sleazy smile accompanied this, and his cohorts were all looking a bit smarmy. Not in the mood for this kind of thing in the morning, I carried on walking and said, “It’s ok, I’ll wait there.” I picked up speed and didn’t turn around, and whilst facing forward, checked in the shop windows to figure out who was following me.

Having shaken off the suited follower, and completed my march of the mall, I arrived at the closed entrance and began my wait. At about two minutes before opening time, a whole group of people appeared at once. So here I have to hold my hands up. It turned out the mall itself was closed, and everybody had been sitting in the food court waiting to go to the hypermarket, watching the arrogant foreigner march off. Yep, this time it was my fault, the suited guys were security, smarmy or otherwise.

So, there I am in a bastion of modern French globalism and it seems I am incredibly attractive to the shelf stackers. All of them. There was not ONE who didn’t make a point of stopping and staring at me, such was my astoundingly radiant morning beauty. One was so intent on staring that I asked him if everything was ok. After that, I just decided to think about how much electricity is needed to run a store that size as I bought my chilled Egyptian yogurts and Bulgarian cheese.

Live Earth, broadcast to the whole world at the weekend reached Egypt last night. Either technology is crap, or Egypt is part of the whole world. Anyway, too tired from self-inflicted over exhaustion last night, I couldn’t watch (what the hell was up with the sound in Hamburg anyway?) the highlights. As luck would have it, I wasn’t totally left out of the global phenomenon because MBC4 is repeating it as I type.

Curtain lifts with a fantastic holographic Al Gore in Tokyo. Pretty cool. His speech was subtitled in Arabic. As was the introduction of the first band up. For some reason the band’s name was written in English: The Black Eyed Beas.

Today is a day of celebration. Not because it’s my birthday (ooh yes, the big three zero is another year closer), but because I have managed to keep our plants alive for two months! It has been a bit of a challenge, no pomegranates from what is apparently a pomegranate tree (not sure I’ll believe it is until I see a plump purple ball growing) although it’s only a metre high, and some confusion over whether shriveled up sticks are alive or dead, but finally they are all happy and green.

Rather like my time in Egypt. I arrived at this time in 2000. Little did I know how much easier it was to live here then, than now, but I hated it so much I cried almost every day for six months. Taxis were the bain of my life. First were fleas. Then there was the sly groping: reaching over to the back passenger door to help me open it and ‘accidentally’ grazing my knee – or breasts – and feeling so impotent to do anything about it. There was the taxi I got into and my foot slipped on the marbled lino on the floor. I closed the door, we drove off and I realized it wasn’t marbled lino, it was vomit. There was the driver who reversed into me as I stood behind him waiting to cross the street, because he wanted 25 piastres more for the trip than I’d given him (worth about 5p then), there was the driver who crashed into the bus in front of us because he was too busy straining look down my friend’s top in the rear view mirror. There were the drivers who on a daily basis would take a detour, insisting this was the only route, increasing journeys by about an hour at times.

Then there was the street. Arms would remain by sides, but hands would dart out at the last minute for a grope of my behind (or worse), guys walking towards me, playing chicken I could never win: either I moved first or they got to feel my breasts on them as they ‘accidentally’ walked into me. Then there were the comments. Ooooh the comments. It’s awful to not understand what is being said as you walk past. The kissing noises that are just plain rude, the laughing, the ‘fuck me’ uttered as you pass a dirty, smelly man – or even a ten year old boy. People following me. Women grabbing my hair, well intentioned, but a little scary to be surrounded by five big fat women aggressively ‘playing’ with the interesting wavy blonde locks.

And then something happens, one day, and all of a sudden it is all normal. The women are just illiterate country folk whose idea of tenderness and admiration is touching the strange hair, not noticing that by doing so they are actually pushing you down a flight of stairs. The comments are either ignored or replied to, but understanding means that not all voices heard relate to the person walking past. The groping reduces significantly as a don’t-mess-with-me face is developed. Fighting skills are learned, as are screaming and shouting techniques at 100 decibels louder than the traffic noise to draw attention to the idiots. And the idiots become people to feel sorry for because they truly don’t know any better in a lot of cases. Even if it is that they cannot see the blonde as a women like their mother or sister, because the only blondes they see are in Western porn movies.

That stage feels like the ultimate, the goal reached. Egyptians start calling you Egyptian, ‘You’re one of us now’, and actually mean it. It is an achievement, one that most foreigners never get to because it requires a lot of heartache and pretty terrible experiences.

The effort put into this is evident when returning to somewhere like London. Naked without sunglasses, double efforts are taken to avert eyes from the men walking past. Upper body stooped over as protection, head towards the pavement and eyes looking at chest level, but scrutinizing body movements below, and turns of the head above. Scanning, constant scanning of what is coming. Doorways, alleys, people crossing the road, men standing at the side of the pavement. Noises behind. Footsteps: advancing directly, or moving to the side. Keep moving. Whatever happens, don’t stop. Red man: slow down to avoid stopping for long, start crossing at moment traffic begins to stop. Scanning. All the time scanning. A man just passed twice. Move into a shop, look at items in a darker corner, but attention never off the window. Enough time has passed. Move towards the door nonchalantly, scanning the pavement as it nears. Keep moving. Keep scanning. No eye contact.

And then one day it hits: the energy spent on achieving and maintaining this goal has been exhausted.

A period of rest. Then time for a new goal.

Waiting for some pomegranates to appear is an enticing option.

There’s something that happens in Egypt. Time changes its meaning. A meeting at 4 means you leave the house at 4.15 for your hour drive across town. The movie at the cinema starting at 6pm starts at 7pm - and that’s just the trailers.

But time is an easy thing to deal with usually. The problem is the minor inconveniences. One at a time they pile up and there comes a point, usually every six months or so, where it’s too much and a meltdown occurs. After that everything goes back to zero and the build up starts again.

Today was one of the meltdown days. Just as well really because had I not been back at zero, the lorry load of policemen who were stuck in traffic next to me as I walked along the pavement with my bro, his friend and Mr S, may have just caused me to commit some heinous crime. The only one who had nothing to yell at me seemed to be the driver and that was because he couldn’t see me because the guy in the passenger seat was leaning out of the window. I have to admit to being dressed in relatively revealing and sexy clothes (knee-length baggy shorts and a strappy t-shirt - such a turn on, I know), so really gov, I was asking for it.

Post meltdown (and pre-lorry incident) we went to the pyramids. Now, the Channel Tunnel has apparently just been voted one of the modern Wonders of the World and I agree, it is a wonder, however, the pyramids are something in a quite different league. The fact that we have only just figured out how they were built is indicative of their magnificence. Imagine if the ancient Egyptians had had our technology combined with their resources, labour force and knowhow. Well, actually I can’t, but I’m sure they would do something a bit more spectacular than a transport link. Mind you, I guess it’s more useful than a burial chamber!