Category Archives: irks

Take the men out of Egypt's La Senza, Women's Secret and Nike Woman!

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Admittedly I’m in a grumpy mood today: I always am after a bad night’s sleep.

But, but BUT, I wasn’t last week when I went shopping and I was superbly pissed off then too.

I walked into La Senza at our local hypermarket/shopping centre. It was about 9.30am and there were seven guys in their twenties, two of whom were clearly behind the tills, the rest were just hanging out, chatting with the two female floor assistants. Of the guys there, four were clearly watching me as I perused the lingerie. One of the girls came to follow me around and smooth out anything I even breathed on.

I hate that. I don’t care if they do it when I’ve left the shop, but following me and straightening every, single hanger while I’m there, like I’m ruining their display of hanging garments, which is there so that people like me come and look and then, presumably, buy, drives me nuts. Team it with some sexually repressed spectators and, La Senza, there’s not a hope in hell of me getting out my credit card.

So, I left the shop last week without buying. Not before quick glance at the two guys who were still watching me, then the two cashiers, then the guys sitting around the changing rooms with the other floor assistant and saying, in Arabic, loud enough for them to hear, “So, this is where all the guys come to hang out?” and walking out.

Today I went in just to see if it was different. Instead of seven, there were five guys.

I just don’t get it. It’s lingerie. It’s a conservative society. Women are covered up to protect their modesty, and so as not to titillate men, but lingerie stores have men working the tills? I know that there are bra stalls in markets and women pick their bras in full view of everybody, not just the male stall holder, but this is (for Egypt) an upmarket, expensive store.

It’s not just La Senza. A few shops away is Women’s Secret. They have a female floor assistant with a man on the till. The same with Nike Woman. Is it that Egyptian women cannot count and so cannot be trusted with tills? Nope. Perhaps it’s the patriarchial society. I don’t know. I don’t CARE! I don’t want some guy folding my bras, checking out if I might need another size (what the hell does he know about how bras fit?!) by asking and taking a quick ‘glance’.

Egyptian women are smart. They are also really nice and friendly. I would have probably bought something in all three stores today had there not been men checking out what I was going to be wearing for Mr S (and him alone). Egyptian men are also smart, but there are plenty of other retail ‘experiences’ that talented men can work at, there is no reason for them to be pawing my panties!

The relationship between Amy Winehouse's hair and Cairo water

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There is an unwritten law that water cuts only occur at the worst moments. In Jordan it would happen without fail every time I returned from the desert, covered in a pale orange dust. Sometimes it would just not be on when I returned and other times it would let me get in the shower, half lather up and then just stop.

In Egypt it is usually on the hottest days. Now, that doesn’t just mean the stickiest days of Summer, but the warmest days for that season. And always, always, always, it is when you need it least to happen.

Like yesterday.

And today.

In fairness they haven’t been total stoppages for the most part, but there has not been more than a dribble from the showers.

This morning, I heard a definite gush of water as Mr S turned on the shower with pressure to rival any power shower (we don’t have one) and relaxed happy to know I could get a decent clean today, not just a spit and a lick.

I took my time, ready to enjoy the feeling of getting clean that incrementally increases the dirtier you are. I prepared my clothes, got my favourite creams and brushed, brushed, brushed away, at my hair turning the curls bushier-looking than ever before and stepped into the shower.

Tsssssssssss.

A mere dribble from the shower and definitely not enough to penetrate the hedge on my head.

And so it is that today, my modest crop of hair has turned into a beehive to beat Amy’s any day (or night) of the week.

A week's activity

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My quietness has been induced by the sort of cold that turns your brain to the colour and texture of mushy peas.

It hasn’t stopped all sorts of strange things going on in the world around me, and unfortunately I wasn’t hallucinating. First there was the all day power cut, somewhat of a pain because I couldn’t snuggle up on the sofa in front of rubbish daytime TV. The next day, there was a water cut. Fantastic really. Then the phone line was cut while I was talking to someone. No idea what happened, but guessing that someone in the Sentraaaal pulled out the wrong plug, or changed the wrong switch – and not for the first time. So, no home internet, but thanks to a local embassy that has a named and unsecured wireless connection, I could hop online and at least listen to Radio 4.

The piece de la resistance came yesterday morning, when (phone line and internet connection working again) the internet service provider (well, service in its loosest form) sent a notification that we owe money for October and for November. Had, in September, we not paid three months in advance, I would have no quibble, but given that we did, that this was the third time we received the message and that after visiting the branch office we were provided with a paper that said the company owed us money, I was quibbling rather strongly.
So, it was with great delight that this morning I found a Customer Experience Survey in my inbox. Rubbing my hands with glee, I opened it. Check out this cracker:

What method of notification would you prefer? (Rate the below methods of notification according to you preference: 1 is highest, 0 is not applicable)

E-mail 0 1 2 3
SMS 0 1 2 3
Notification Page 0 1 2 3
Other: 0 1 2 3

I’m not altogether sure what 2 and 3 are doing. Probably likely that it goes something like this: Email – 0 not applicable, 1 highest, 2 lower, 3 lowest. Alongside stationary, questionnaires are up there with my favourite things. Badly designed questionnaires are like fingernails down an old chalk blackboard.

Given that this company doesn’t have a complaints department, or anybody who can actually deal with complaints in Customer Services (according to a call centre worker when I asked before), I’m not sure if there’s too much point in filling it out. I will, however, tick some boxes in the hope that (as USAID and similar organisations plan) perhaps something as simple as consumer rights might one day lead to democracy.

Not, of course, that there isn’t a democracy here already.

Bangin' choons

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Being in The Hood, I have my finger on a delayed pulse of the hip and happening Egyptian music scene. So, despite buying the year’s hottest CD a few months ago, today was the first time I listened to it all the way through.

Far be it for me to comment on the musical genius that is Amr Diab and his bulging bank account, but he is a giant unparalleled in Western music. An album release by this guy is followed less than a week later by his songs being played in all taxis (that are not playing the Quran) and the entire Middle East knowing the words to the entire album by the end of the same week. Not that the lyrics are particularly complex, but still…

Just in case we were in any doubt as to the arteest’s patrons, the latest album cover has two corporate logos on the front: Pepsi and Rotana (a Saudi owned record label that has six music channels on which it airs its artists – Simon Cowell is nothing compared to Prince Al Waleed bin Talal).

So that you too can keep up to date with the bangin’ Egyptian music scene, I’ve popped in a little video of the first track on his latest album. Before you watch it though, an interesting point: check out him following Natalie Martinez at the beginning. This is exactly what teenage boys frequently do to girls walking down the street here. It seems to be more fun when she’s blonde and they think she doesn’t understand what they are saying. It has a tendency to bring out an anti stalking rage in me unparalleled to most other things!

Did you notice the product placement at the beginning? Oh, yes, he may be the King of Cheese, but never let it be said that he’s an impoverished arteest.

After all, looking 20 when you are in fact 46 doesn’t come cheap, not even in Egypt.

One way or another, The Mogama'a will get you

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In what seemed nothing short of a miracle after the past couple of days, I arrived in The Mogama’a, reached Window Number Four with no problem and my passport was sitting waiting to be collected.

Walking on air at the thought of beating the system and not having to return to the building for a whole, entire year, I was struck by a fleeting notion that I was too happy and that this was too good to be true. I thought I’d better check that the stamp was there. Rumaging in my bag, I pulled out my newly reclaimed little book and yes, sure enough the stamp was there. I closed the passport. Then I thought I’d better check that it is valid for seven entries, as that was what I’d asked for. Cue the defeated smile. In too much of a rush to leave yesterday, I didn’t bother turning over the form to read the Arabic and check the two read the same. My mistake then that I entered the number seven onto the line marked “How many times?”. It should have read either “How much time?” or “How many months?”.

Yep, I have a year’s multiple entry visa that expires in July with the multiple entries expiring in January.