Foreign School Syndrome, or How I Learned to
Smoke Hash and Stay Away from Skinny Jeans
On another miserable Thursday night, Khaled and I make
our way toward headquarters. Our friend Kamba has a
company that sells chat sites and web-hosting services
from the ground floor of his apartment building, dubbed
The Headquarters, which we used for smoking hash.
Khaled says to me, “Douma, it is impossible to have a
good time in Cairo without women or money. Money
brings the women, and women are expensive.” It matched
his signature saying: “Bring me a car and I’ll bring you a
babe every night.”
I tell him that babes are part of an integrated system; you
join foreign-language schools, make friends with the girls
who will transform into babes dressed in skinny jeans,
curling their hair and staying out past nine. Babes make
friends with other babes, and the only way to be part of
that circle is to have parents with enough money to send
you to foreign-language schools. The best we can do is
smoke hash in Kampa’s miserable HQ.
Kampa utters his timeless phrase, which signals the start
of our night: “Everyone cough up five pounds so we can
score some hash.” We empty our pockets. Khaled’s phone
rings, and he picks up to find Karim on the other end.
“Man, we have an in with some babes. We’re going to the
After Eight club. Bring cash and come quick.” Without
hesitation, Khaled and I pull ourselves together and think
about how we can come up with the necessary money for
an evening out. Khaled informs me that our friend Ghost
knows someone who prints counterfeit money and sells a
hundred pounds for 35. We buy 200 pounds and head for
the After Eight.
Our childhood friend Karim is part of the Tourism
Department at the university, which is filled with babes,
unlike the engineering school where Khaled and I go. His
college sends him to meetings organized by student-ex-
change programs, where he meets foreigners — Ameri-
cans, mostly — and every once in a while he invites us to
parties filled with babes and stuff to drink. We enjoy these
late nights but prefer when they take place at the foreign-
ers’ homes, since that's cheaper.
We arrive at the After Eight. As usual, Karim does not dis-
appoint. There are 30 people with him; three quarters of
them are babes. Any one of them could bring our whole
neighborhood to a halt without much trouble. There was
also that son of a bitch Anthony, who we met for the first
time that night. As we’d later say, “He’s the best foreigner
you could meet in your whole life. It’s as if he’s one of us.”
(2)
The Luxurious Life, or How the After Eight
Taught Me to Care About Logistics
Anthony is a student at the prestigious Northwestern Uni-
versity, which he attends on an academic scholarship. He’s
from a poor family in an even poorer state called Maine.
His father works at a local bakery, so he spends on himself
using funds from the scholarship. He’s highly intelligent
and has ambitions to, someday, become the president of
the United States.
We feel more comfortable in cabarets than in more expen-
sive nightclubs like the After Eight. Like any other club,
there is a bar, a dance floor, and loud house music playing
in the background. We all know we won’t be able to hook
up with any of the women at the After Eight for purely
logistical reasons. You need a car, since there is no way you
can walk with her on the street if she’s wearing her usual
clothes. Then you need money, because you can’t just sit
with her on the Corniche or at an open-air shisha café.
These women are collectively outside the circle of people
we can hook up with. And yet, being here every once in a
while means we can live a life that we can’t afford, which
is a good thing even if we’re just observers.
In these situations, we resort to our standard plan: we
drink until drunk and dance like fools. This time, howev-
er, Anthony joined us. He later got in touch with us and
came to visit us in Shoubra, the week before he traveled
back to the States. He smoked with us, and, in a moment
of serenity, we promised him a place to stay if he ever
returned.
Two months later, Anthony called to let us know that he
was at the airport. We met him downtown and carried his
luggage to my apartment. I live on my own in an apart-
ment that’s separated from my father’s by a single floor.
My father is a righteous religious man who regularly raids
my apartment, in order to ensure my safety.
After two weeks of Anthony in my apartment, my father
launched a surprise raid and, as a result, kicked Anthony
out. I’m used to my father kicking my friends out, and
my friends are used to it, too. When we were at the café,
I told Anthony it wasn’t personal, and that my father just
didn’t like strangers, especially my friends. He understood
and we returned to the apartment.
Three days later, another raid happened, and I realized
then that my father would not let this go. We arranged for
Anthony to stay in a small room on the roof of Khaled’s
apartment building, which was brimming with pigeons.
It was a disgusting room, but Anthony never complained.
Between Anthony’s work, our studies, and our evening
meetups in his room to smoke hash, life resumed its
regular pace.
(3)
The Hash Crisis, Or How We Scammed Waheed
the Taxi Driver
Our country was hit with an excruciating hash crisis. A
piece of hash that had once cost us 25 pounds now went
for 80, and sometimes even 120, if you were lucky enough
to find it. What we did then was epic. Anyone we knew
who found a “way” would call the rest of us and would
pick up an extraordinary amount. We’d go all the way to
Al Hay Al Asher (in Nasr City), Obour, and El Nozha un-
til a friend traveled to the North Coast to purchase from
the Bedouins there. It was a miserable time, and it stayed
like that until Anthony got to know Waheed.
Waheed was a taxi driver who lived in Embaba. He told
Anthony that he could pick up any quantity of hash at
any time. We knew that he’d tag on an extra 50 pounds
every time, but we didn’t mind. The hash was more
expensive, but at least it was guaranteed, and, at the time,
that was rare. We started making regular trips to Embaba,
and he would meet us on Al-Wahda Street. We would
give him the money, and he would hand us the hash, then
drive us to Shoubra in his taxi to smoke a joint with us.
Once, while Waheed was driving Anthony back to Shou-
bra, the car got a flat tire, and he asked Anthony to lend
him 120 pounds to fix it. He later called and told him he
wouldn’t be returning the money. It was just that simple.
We decided to retrieve the cash no matter what. Khaled
remembered the counterfeit bills and suggested we use it
to buy 300 pounds worth of hash from Waheed. It would
cost us 105 pounds, which was a fair price for a piece
of hash worth 300. We agreed on the plan and called
Waheed. We went to meet him, but instead of taking the
money in exchange for the hash, he insisted we come to
his neighborhood to meet the dealer ourselves. The dealer
took the money without hesitation and gave us the hash,
then Waheed drove us back to Shoubra after smoking the
usual joint on the highway.
It was then that we discovered the pleasure of scamming.
The Hash of Victory, as we named it, was the best we’d
ever smoked in our lives. During that smoking session,
we decided to design a real plan to spend the counterfeit
money. The idea was that the three of us would conquer
Cairo night life at the lowest of costs.
(4)
A Guide for Spending Counterfeit Money in Night-
clubs and Cabarets
We set strict rules for using the money:
Do not spend the counterfeit bills individually;
The bills should be crumpled and placed between real
bills to appear used and so that they’d take on the smell of
money;
Motivated by my own morality, I added that the mon-
ey must only be spent in nightclubs and cabarets—“sin
should go toward sin.”
We agreed that, if we were ever caught, we would say that
it came to us by mistake somehow, and then we would
pay in real bills and go about our day in peace.
The plan was complete. “The son of a bitch Abu Sana
spent 100 pounds from Uncle Samy,” Khaled said enthu-
siastically.
“What?” I responded. “Uncle Samy is a poor soul who has
children.”
Khaled retorted, “Abu Sana is a pimp.”
We cursed him collectively before going to sleep that
night with a clear conscience.
During the next two months, we stayed up late in caba-
rets, bought our hash, and got drunk at bars in downtown
Cairo using counterfeit money. Not once did we get
caught. We finished our exams just as Anthony neared the
end of his vacation, and so we decided to come up with a
strategy for spending the rest of the counterfeit bills.
Kamba suggested a project involving fake Chinese hymens.
He knew plenty of women from the online chat servers he
ran, and they’d told him about the secret world of reinstat-
ing hymens through surgeries that cost up to 2000 pounds
each. He went on Google and showed us some of the ques-
tions women posted on medical websites about the surgery
and the Chinese hymen. Anthony said he could purchase
the hymens from sex stores upon his return and that he’d
mail them back to us, hidden between other items. A box
with two hymens cost 150 pounds, so we agreed that 1200
pounds would be a reasonable price for a single hymen.
I added that discretion is preferable to scandal, and that
the project was primarily a humanitarian one, which was
why we should make the prices flexible for difficult cases
and for the poor. The plan was set: Anthony would send us
the package, and Kamba would supply us with customers
who wanted to purchase them.
(5)
The Corrupt Government, or Why I Love the Fact
that I Have a Rich Friend Named Abdalla
On the appointed day, Khaled, Abdalla, and I went to the
post office to pick up the package, with 4000 pounds of
counterfeit money in our pockets. Abdalla works for a pet-
rol company and was always flush with cash. And, despite
his love of money, he always paid without hesitation in
important situations. And so he came with us, in case of an
emergency.
We were striking two birds with one stone: spending the
counterfeit money, and fulfilling our promise that “sin
should go toward sin.” We asked about the package, gave
the man the receipt, and handed him the counterfeit
money with an air of confidence. He accepted the money
and counted it three separate times while we trembled with
fear beneath our cool exteriors. He stamped the receipt
and handed the package to Abdalla, who accepted it before
heading back to his car with us right behind him. He’d
placed the package in the trunk of the car and taken his
seat behind the wheel when we heard a voice calling to us
in a formal tone, “Excuse me, Sir.”
Without even turning in his direction, we knew that he
was onto us. Abdalla sped off immediately while I turned
to the employee and said in an innocent voice, “How can
we help you?” His response was hostile, “This is counterfeit
money, Sir.”
We pretended to be surprised. Then Khaled spoke up:
“Counterfeit? How is that possible?”
The postal employee responded with an air of finality
that belonged on the stage, “In any case, the police have
arrived. You shall find out how it is possible.”
We recognized the police officers before the employee
could point them out: there had black clothes, mous-
taches, and the scent of Cleopatra cigarettes that could be
smelled from a mile away.
Without wasting any time, the officers moved in our di-
rection and asked the employee, “Where is the counterfeit
money?” Without hesitation, he handed them the 4000
pounds. The officer took the money, then wet a finger in
his mouth and wiped one of the bills, which removed its
color. He turned toward us, a look of victory etched on
his face. “Is this your money?”
We knew our answer wouldn’t make any difference. I
cursed the officer’s routine procedure under my breath
while Khaled answered, “Yes.”
They took us to the Abedeen police station to be present-
ed to their superior officer. On the way, one of the officers
turned and asked us, “You’re engineers and seem to be
from good families. So what are you doing with counter-
feit money?”
Sticking to the plan we’d laid out, we said that we had
no idea it was counterfeit money and that we’d come by
the money accidentally somewhere. The officer turned
our IDs over in his hand and said in a meaningful tone,
“I’ll sort this situation out with my superior officer, don’t
worry. It doesn’t benefit me to see your lives ruined.” Then
he added that “you all come from good families, after all.”
Picking up on the signs, we replied in a single voice, “We
are in your hands.”
In this situation, I came to value the fact that I have a rich
friend named Abdalla. I called and told him that we were
at the Abedeen police station and that we needed 5000
pounds: 4000 to pay the post office, and another 1000 for
the police.
We arrived at the station, and the officers went to meet
the head officer with our IDs in hand. A representative of
the post office had arrived before us. The officers returned
after a short while and informed us that the “situation
has been sorted,” and that it was time for us to meet with
their supervisor.
(6)
The Interrogation Room, or
How Actor Ahmed Zaki Mind-fucked All Cops
I’ve learned from personal experience that police officers
have limited imaginations — ones that don’t match the
dramatized depictions of officers as seen in Ahmed Zaki’s
movies. We entered the room and met senior officer
Amin, who sat in a wide chair behind his desk. There
was a computer there, and an ashtray with a lit Marlboro
Light that was sending up plumes of smoke in front of his
face, as though he were trying to be mysterious.
He asked us who the money belonged to. We hesitated
slightly, so we wouldn’t give contradictory statements, but
Khaled quickly spoke up and claimed the money was his.
The officer asked how he’d ended up with the money, to
which Khaled said that he found it amidst a stack of cash
at home and didn’t know exactly where it had come from.
The officer lectured us about how we came from good
families and worked respectable jobs. Tired of hearing it, I
interrupted, “One of our friends is coming now with the
money we owe the post office. We already said we don’t
know where the counterfeit money came from so, on that
note, can we just let this slide?”
To our surprise, the officer didn’t flex his authority over
us. I couldn’t tell whether he was just uninterested in our
case, or whether the other officers sorting out the situation
had paid him off.
The officer called one of his underlings and handed him
our IDs. “Take them with you to wait for their friend.
Check their criminal records, too. If there’s nothing there,
take the money and tell them to screw off.” Never had the
words “screw off” filled me with such relief and happiness.
We left with the guard and sat on a small wooden bench
beside a desk and a metal cupboard for storing paperwork
— remnants from Pres. Nasser’s era. We were seated in
the far corner next to the holding cells. We heard screams
from inside a cell, but no one around us took any notice.
We asked the guard about the screams, and he said,
“That’s a young man on drugs who keeps banging his
head on the wall to hurt himself. I swear to God, even if
he dies, we’re not letting him out of this place.”
His words, coupled with the dark grey walls, the gov-
ernment offices, the stench of cigarettes, the tea, and the
mustached officers was making me feel seriously constrict-
ed. My life flashed before my eyes, and I thought about
my failures and wasted youth. Then Abdalla arrived with
the money: 4000 for the post office, 1000 for the officers.
(7)
Kampa’s Theory of our Arrest
Two months later, we were sitting at Kampa’s place smok-
ing hash, surrounded by boxes of fake Chinese hymens
that Kampa had failed to sell to his supposed chat-room
customers. He laughed hysterically whenever he remem-
bered the situation. Between me and Khaled, our phones
showed 35 missed calls from Abdalla, who kept calling us
demanding — for the millionth time— the 5000 pounds
he had lent us.
Khaled and I were talking about the same topic from two
months ago, as though it were an eternal dialogue that
would not end. I told him that we shouldn’t have broken
the rules that we’d set, since the one time we’d done so
was the time that we’d got caught.
As usual, Khaled’s face was etched with a look of unease
at my explanation, as though he was convinced there was
something left unsaid. I thought so, too.
Kampa took a long drag from the joint, then said in a
careless tone that didn’t match his great discovery, “Nah, it
isn’t that. Back then, you had Anthony with you.” Sensing
our confusion, he added, after another long drag from the
joint, “Man, no one questions a foreigner’s money, while
you two motherfuckers are naturally suspicious.”
We paused for a moment to consider this, eyeing each
other. Then, we burst into an uncontrollable fit of laugh-
ter, pausing only to cough whenever the joint passed
before us.