The Cairo Bazaar

Backtracking to earlier in the day; two free hours between our rooftop lunch overlooking the pyramids and actually getting to enter the site, we are promised free time in a bazaar. We have had very little free time and I imagine that I am finally going to be able to step into the side streets of Cairo and loose myself in the tiny shops crammed full of incredible temptations. Von leads our satellite group of about 20 along the sidewalk towards the bazaar. She is not an employee of Young Living, nor an employee of the tour company, but as a strong woman, she has taken on a leadership role in this tour. She is confident and straight forward and I like her. I believe that she is as bewildered as I am, when the directions given her, take us up a stone stairway and into a multilevel "department" store. I have an immediate gut wrenching reaction when I enter the ground floor to see "Papyrus" paintings illuminated, gallery style along the walls of a large show room. This is not a bazaar, but a government run shop and without thinking, I vocalize my displeasure. I exclaim that I do not want to be here. Visions of being trapped in government run stores in China flash through my mind, a horror endured some years ago on a first class tour to China. I head for the door and the freedom of the sunlit street outside, but already, many of our group have been enticed towards the stairway leading to the second floor. Reluctantly, I go upstairs, my intentions simply to tell the others in my group that I am going elsewhere and will meet them later, but I am derailed when I step onto the second level. The second floor is a visual delight of inlaid boxes, jewelry and tapestries. My comrades have already gravitated to the jewelry counters and several are engaged with sales personal discussing a custom design for a cartouche pendant. I lean over the shoulders of a few of my fellow travelers, curious as to what purchase they are contemplating. As a jeweler, I know the cost of gold per gram and I expect the shop to make a reasonable profit on both labor and materials; but I am floored when the prices quoted for the jewelry is two or three times what I might charge. Things are happening quickly within this large showroom and I flit between one counter and another, trying to take in all the action. One man within our group is negotiating with a salesman over a $2000.00 dollar cartouche. Stepping forward, I graciously ask to look at the piece and tell the man that the quality of the gold and workmanship is first rate, but also that the price is exorbitant. The man immediately changes his mind about purchasing the piece and I feel badly. Perhaps it was the significance of the piece, more than the price that was of importance to my fellow traveler and I know that the sale was important to the shop; but I also know that their prices are extremely inflated. The angry eyes of the salesman follow me as I walk over to another counter where a young woman within our group is in the process of choosing another custom cartouch. I like this young woman and want to help her. My expertise is of great help to her and within a couple of minutes she is able to mindfully negotiate the price nearly in half. At this point the eyes of the establishment are all focused upon me and the previous salesman brushes by me venomonisly. I don't remember his exact words, but he hisses at me; about ruining his large sale. I am straightforward and ask if I can see where the jewelry is made? I don't think that this is a usual request but the establishment is anxious to get rid of me. After all, if I am not in the showroom, they may be able to close several sales without my interference.

Within 30 seconds, a young man is authorized to take us down to the workshop. Stephanie, the woman who is purchasing the custom cartouche and myself are led outside and down a narrow iron stairway. The stairway is an accident waiting to happen and upon our final descent we wind into a dark basement workshop. A lone man sits in a windowless room surrounded with the appropriate tools of his trade. He is 5 or 10 years older than I am, and is somewhat taken aback by our invasion. It turns out that it is his son who has escorted us downstairs and the elder jeweler quickly warms to us, taking several custom neckpieces from his safe to show us. I soon learn that the symbols for each custom cartouche are stamped, not cast and he shows me the huge press that creates the stampings. The press is archaic, 4 feet in diameter and I am immediately humbled by the authentic process that is used to create the jewelry sold above.