Basically, it’s all about “the man”.
The man might be the doorman for a building, or he might be a man whose office is the street corner, who has a fistful of business cards and who spends a lot of his time with his mobile phone attached to his ear. The man, whilst he is most certainly a businessman, is not dressed in a suit and tie; rather he is dressed in a grubby galibaya and a pair of sandals, and he’s badly in need of a shave. But he is a man who knows other men: men who are doormen in buildings with apartments to rent, or men who own buildings and who have apartments to rent, or men who know even more men who know about apartments to rent.
Every building has a doorman, someone whose responsibility it is to be security guard and janitor and handyman and owner’s representative, (and tenant’s representative, seemingly without any conflict of interest). The doorman is usually your entry into the building and your initial negotiator and how well he negotiates on your behalf will determine the size of the fee you pay him when your have been successful in your attempt to rent.
We are looking in Mohandessen, which Mohammed tells me is a “very good” area of Cairo. I figure it must be if the number of dentists per square kilometer is any indication. We look at some buildings from the outside, none of which to my eye are particularly promising but I know that in Egypt the outside may hide a very sumptuous interior. Mohammed keeps asking me “What do you think?” and I really don’t have an answer, so far I don’t know what to think. I figure wherever I settle I will just have to try it and see.
Eventually, the man we are to meet is back from Alexandria an hour early and so we can begin to look at apartments. We move off the main road and into the small winding streets that are so packed with cars parked two and occasionally three deep that there is room, just, for us to move through with about a coat of paint thickness to spare. Blaring horns and flashing lights let everyone know who is coming though and vehicles seem to be accommodated with the minimum of fuss, although to me it seems impossible. We go to the first apartment, on the first floor up the stairs, and now I know what I think: “Thank goodness it’s not the top floor” – there’s no lift.
The man who owns the apartment is very nice but I can’t help but feel shocked. By western standards this is not an apartment that is ready to rent. The rooms are bare and small and I have to ask if someone is still living there – there’s food and dirty plates in the kitchen and toothpaste and toothbrush in the bathroom. In fact the whole place looks as if it hasn’t been cleaned at all for months and the sofa in the small lounge is very grubby. I don’t mind the street – there’s a restaurant over the road and I joke with Mohammed that if it’s any good I may never have to cook. Not that I think I could bring myself to use the oven anyway. There’s a range of other shops including an up-market supermarket at the end of the street, and there’s a tree outside the front window – I could lean on the windowsill in its shade and watch the passing parade. But I’m just dreaming really.
Mohammed does some negotiation but the man wants 3 months rent and a bond up front, almost LE10, 000, and so we move on, saying if we are to take it we’ll get back to him. We’d be moving on anyway. We’re not going to get back to him.
We pick up “the man” and begin our hunt in earnest. The next apartment is several floors up but there is a very small private lift. The apartment is bigger and decorated in a very overblown Egyptian style, albeit down at heel. The owner is an older man who seems very nice and there’s a young girl watching TV. Again, given how the apartment is, I ask if anyone is living there. Again I’m told no, but the whole family lives in the building, different parts of the family on different floors, so I would be very secure the older man tells me. This is a much bigger place, and although older, it appeals to me more. There are still a lot of issues dirt wise but I figure I can get it cleaned if I have to. However, I am sure there must be something else out there so although once again Mohammed does some negotiation I figure we’ll keep looking. As it’s getting on towards dark by now I also tell Mohammed that I can stay in a hotel for a day or two while we find somewhere, but he tells me in return that I can rent an apartment for a month on what I would spend in a hotel in 3 days. We tell the man we’ll keep looking.
Once again the handful of business cards is consulted, the mobile phone is in play and we take another drive. We park and walk down a narrow street and go into a gate next to a shoe shop. (Those of you who know me will understand the irony of this!). We meet the doorman and he shows us into a small ground floor apartment that is certainly much cleaner than others we’ve seen and looks promising. It has one bedroom, one living area, small kitchen (that includes the washing machine) and small bathroom, with a side “sleepout” type room that has another 2 beds in it. The floor tiles are ornate and the small amount of furniture a sort of gold rococo style, but I figure I can live with it for 3 months or so. The doorman can clean the bathroom again while we go and eat and I can move in straight away. I can only have it for a maximum of 5 months as over summer apparently it can be rented for 3 times the winter asking price of LE3000 per month, for which I also get air-conditioning and a chandelier. Mohammed again negotiates and this time we are not required to pay any rent up front.
It’s interesting to sit alone on the lounge while Mohammed and the men go to another room to do all the talking and have a cigarette. At least Mohammed asks me (quietly and off to the side) what I think, so that he understands how I feel about each apartment and what I might need. However I am very conscious not only of not understanding the language but also of just how much a man’s world this is. Mohammed is very much cast in the role of my protector and his presence and his conduct of my business demonstrates that I have someone to look after me and that I am to be treated with all due respect and care.
So this is to be home for a few months. I continue to sit alone on the couch and try to imagine life here as I wait while Mohammed handles all the paperwork; no-one has any English and of course the paperwork is in Arabic. I sign where I’m told and trust implicitly that Mohammed has looked after my interests.
The first few days have, of course, highlighted all the things I didn’t notice at the time (after 24 hours of flying and a day of driving around Cairo). There’s some lateral thinking called for to adjust to life in my new home.
As Mohammed would say: “Here’s a first”. There are NO cupboards. Well, a couple in the kitchen, but none anywhere near the sink, none in the bathroom, none for linen and even in the kitchen not enough to keep the things you need to keep in a kitchen. So I have bought lots of plastic containers. It’s amazing what you can store in plastic containers.
“Here’s a second”. There’s NO hanging space of any description and so far we haven’t been able to buy any sort of a hanging rack. So everything sits folded on a shelf and I think it’s a good thing that I’m only into ironing things as I wear them.
“Here’s the third”. There’s NO way of keeping your shower from going all over the bathroom floor, and the toilet and anything you leave within about a six foot radius. But the bathroom is always spotless. Well, if not spotless then pretty clean. And while we’re on the bathroom not only are there no cupboards but there are NO towel racks, one small hook and one small broken hook. There’s one small glass shelf under a mirror. This will teach me to downsize my cosmetic and personal needs.
And there’s a fourth. I can’t get the washing machine in the kitchen past the stove and anywhere near the taps or the sink or the power point. I bucket water into the twin tub and when I need to drain it out it just gets to go out onto the floor. But the tiled floor is designed to slope into a rather large drain hole, so the kitchen floor is always spotless. Well, if not spotless then pretty clean. But once I’ve finished the washing “I have a fifth”. There’s NO clothes line and no drier. So I now have a drying rack but because it’s winter it takes about 2 days for the clothes to get anywhere near dry. But that means I have to get better at planning ahead.
And the last I’m still working on. There are windows along the side of the sleepout and along the side of my bedroom. However the bedroom windows are on the footpath (yes right on it like old Georgian cottages can be) and I’m therefore fair viewing for anyone walking along it if I open the curtains. So although I open the window from time to time I don’t open the curtain all that much. There’s also a window in the bathroom and kitchen that face out onto the back building, neither of which admit much light. And that’s about it in the window department, so it’s a bit like living in a cave and the lights need to be on all the time. But hey, that’s great encouragement to go out.
Oh yes, and thanks must go to the man for helping us to find me find an apartment. As we took him back to his street corner, Mohammed offers some money and a significant negotiation in loud and rapid Arabic ensues. I can’t tell if it’s too much money or not enough but I can take a guess. Finally, the money changes hands without any being added. At LE300 I consider it was a cheap service. But I’m pleased that Mohammed negotiates on my side.
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