Sounds of Silence

I've now gone to two Egyptian yoga classes, both in the residential neighborhood of Ma'adi. 

The first class was outdoors in a garden under jacaranda trees and the moon. There were three Egyptian students, our Indian teacher, and myself. We spent most of the time in seated postures and then he told us to go into shavasana. Shavasana means "corpse pose" in Sanskrit and in America this relaxing supine position typically signals the end of the class. Because our teacher told us to go into shavasana only 30 minutes into the class, I was a bit annoyed--a 30 minute yoga class is definitely a rip-off. However, he then told us to get up and continue the practice. He did this several times. 

In yogic tradition, this is essentially like asking corpses to rise from the grave. Although I ultimately enjoyed the varied pace of the class, when we went into our final shavasana, I was relieved.

The second yoga class was more American, largely because the teacher and the three other women in the class were American ex-pats. In an empty room in an apartment with tile floors, we moved quickly through standing and seated postures with instrumental music playing from an i-pod in the corner. I enjoyed the class, and when the end rolled around, I was looking forward to my shavasana. It never came. Instead, we ended the class standing with our hands in a prayer position.

I was perturbed. I tried to go into shavasana by myself, but then the lights turned on, people started stepping over me, and I gave up. In the never-ending parade of sound and movement that is Cairo, I look forward to all rare moments of stillness. I also look forward to the chance to formally acquaint myself with the sounds of my environment.

In my L.A. shavasanas I can sometimes hear the Pacific ocean. In my Chicago shavasanas I could hear a homeless woman yelling and the hustle of the downstairs neighborhood joint the Valois Cafeteria. As I lay in corpse pose in my first Egyptian yoga class, I could hear the honking of distant horns, the rustling of the grass, and a group of young girls singing in Arabic in a nearby garden.

I find it remarkable that in such a loud city I have to remind myself to listen. Luckily, here in Egypt, I don't have just the shavasana as my tool-- I also have my Marantz tape recorder, and I can't wait to use it.

My Traffic is Comfortable

"Gazmati morieha." My shoes are comfortable.

Well, that's what I meant to say. What I actually said was, "Zahmati morieha." My traffic is comfortable. 

I said this to the small gesticulating man who told me to relax and take off my shoes as we sat on the ground waiting for our flight to take off from JFK. Almost 24 hours later, in my new home in Cairo, I've now finally experienced this ubiquitous "zahma"-- one of my first Egyptian vocab words--first hand.

Traffic sets the soundtrack for this city of 18 million people. Because of the traffic, Cairo is arguably one of the noisiest cities in the world. In an article in the New York Times in April 2008, the author cites a study conducted by the National Research Center that concluded that the average noise in Cairo from 7 a.m. to 10 p.m. is 85 decibels, a bit louder than a freight train only 15 feet away. Today my friend and I were in that decibel range. We drove around the city and heard the cries of a funeral procession in the poorer quarters of the City of the Dead, the clanging bells of donkey carts teetering along the Nile, and the angry honking and heckling of bystanders when we, accidentally, drove backwards down a one-way street. For an aspiring radio journalist like me, it's a great place to be.

Now I am spending my first night here in one of Cairo's quieter neighborhoods, Ma'adi. Full of low-hanging Eucalyptus trees and middle class homes, I am looking forward to returning here soon for a "low key" yoga class with my friend's Mom.

From my present perch, I'd say the traffic is still comfortable--even welcome. But after a day of traveling, my shoes are a different story.