THREE
A view from the streets (driving in Cairo)

March, 2005
Two months in. Houston: we have daycare. This new state of affairs is a great boon after several weeks of corralling a pair of home-bound, wall-bouncing children full-time in one teeny-tiny, heavily-peopled apartment. There appear to be dismally few places to take small children out to play here in this fabled land. The street is dangerous and dirty from the traffic, potholes and fumes. The city parks have odd hours (the nearest one closes, incomprehensibly, from 1-4pm every day), and the park caretakers (stalwart protectors of the local flora) do not allow people to step on the cordoned-off grassy areas that occasionally and alluringly interrupt the concrete path. It is a strange and frustrating circumstance, and we miss things like playgrounds and enclosed areas of living green that are safe and accessible to children. At the apartment I spend much of my time trying to head off various acts of juvenile mischief: reaching for fragile nic-nacs, pressing forbidden buttons and disturbing people in prayer. It is exhausting. Thus, it was with great relief and optimism, both for the kids’ social and creative engagement, and for our parental sanity, that we discovered and enrolled the little beasties in a very nice, university-affiliated hadana or daycare center.

I linger for an hour every morning at the school, helping Sophia to acclimate to her new daytime environment. Quinlan dove into the morass of preschoolers with enthusiasm and nary a backward glance. She had been hungry for a little three-year-old-style social interaction. The teachers are warm, affectionate and temperate with the kids, and there are songs and crafts a-plenty. Knowing this enables me to depart, comforting myself that they are fine and even happy. (I know they are; still struggling with guilt over this decision, I sometimes peer from the bushes or window, like a common stalker, to be assured that they are ok.) Now, mercifully, I have some moments to myself: time to think, write, process information, and reflect on this new world we inhabit.

I have an office at the American University in Cairo where I am a Research Fellow. The office is small but I don’t have to share it with a single soul. It feels profoundly liberating to have a room all to myself (Virginia Woolf was right). I can close the door and not have anyone monitor, direct or address me in any way. I feel almost drunk with this new-found freedom. I slip through the door every weekday morning, closing it securely behind me. Already clammy from my walk in the April morning heat, I roll up sweat-soaked pants and sleeves; peel off damp socks and bra. Then I sit, cool myself, and smile.

It is glorious.

We make our morning commute to the university in Hani’s mother’s 1975 Chevy Nova extraordinaire which she generously lends us while we wait for our own car to arrive from transport limbo. Hani drives (it’s his mother’s car, after all) and the kids and I (literally) bounce around in the back, listening to our favorite imported children’s music tape and telling stories about SpiderZain (aka Quinlan) and her superhero friends as they battle evil (“los malos”), try to problem-solve without resorting to violence (my insertion) and eat cheese (Q’s contribution). I usually try to balance some breakfast food item for the girls while acting as a human shield against bumps and bangs and airborne children. Nobody uses (or in our case even has) seatbelts in their cars.

The nature of Cairo traffic is swervy and jerky. Being in the midst of its punctuated flow is akin to a ride down a whitewater rapid. Lanes form and dissipate, cars slide into impossibly small apertures, vehicles aggregate…condense… and then (WOOOSH!) release every few minutes or so. Hani, our stalwart chauffeur, alternately chats with us in the back and yells at the traffic or other drivers using expletives that Quinlan cheerfully repeats seconds later. His most vehement and indignant complaints are over acts that he himself perpetrates against other drivers.

“What the hell is that?! He’s taking a right from the left hand lane!” he explodes indignantly, as he takes a left from the right-hand lane.

“Actually,” I say, “he was just going straight.” (He was.)

“Oh,” he answers, subdued. Then he chuckles.

“Anyway, you were taking a left from the right-hand lane, Speedracer,” I remind him.

He smiles. “Yeah, I guess I was.”

If Hani is appalled by the cars (especially when we are walking), he is infuriated by the pedestrians (especially when we are driving).

“Why do they walk on the street?!! Why don’t they use the goddam sidewalk?! It’s right there!

“No,” I say, “it’s not. There isn’t one. Look, it ends there; they have nowhere else to walk.”

Silence.

But Hani has gotten quite good at negotiating the streets, in spite of the fact that driving here is notoriously harrowing. One of our taxi drivers informed us proudly that Egyptian drivers are the best in the world. It’s a fact, he said. Someone did research.

It’s like a video game, from what I’ve seen. What we would consider two lanes in the U.S. here translates to four or five. There are some lights, but most are blinking yellow and even if they change to red or green people don’t actually pay attention to them. They just creeeep out and GO (or some bold and opportunistic few begin the “go” process and the rest follow the flow until there’s a split-second gap in the traffic and BOOM, some bully drivers from the opposing traffic team edge out enough to block the previous flow and in this way shift the direction from north-south to east-west). Drivers employ bravado, bluff, forbearance, a bit of courtesy and a great deal of honking in their daily road battles.

The honking is ubiquitous, a constant, dissonant accompaniment to life in the city. Egyptians drivers honk as much as they blink. It almost (but never quite) fades into the background. Drivers lay on the horns to tell others, “I’m here,” or “I’m coming” or “That peeved me mildly.” (short beep usually responded to with a conciliatory wave of the hand and “Sorry!”), or “That really pissed me off!” (long, deliberate beep). Occasionally someone does something that another driver considers egregious and the offended driver responds accordingly. Tempers flare, arms wave, and people hop out of cars. But following a brief interlude of yelling, posturing and complaint, (with crowds gathering close around to observe and offer aid or commentary) the situation is usually diffused. Considering that there are more than 18 million people here and over 2 million cars, there are remarkably few accidents and incidents. Maybe Egyptian drivers really are the best.

I have driven with Hani’s mother and this is a particularly thrilling ride. She combines typical Egyptian fearlessness with her own insouciance and just enough seeming lack of awareness to make my heart race. She doesn’t see the guy riding to our right on a bike carrying propane tanks (a common sight) as she curves into a right-hand turn. I catch my breath as he detours to safety, a look of pained consternation on his face (but remarkably no wild gestures or apparent anger). She doesn’t see (or doesn’t acknowledge?) the large bus that has decided to take a left from the lane to our right. Much beeping and honking occurs, as always. My particular favorite move is when she misses a turn-off from the main street, stops her car in mid-traffic amidst a chorus of BEEEEEEPS!, shifts into reverse untroubled by the temporary chaos she is creating (very Zen), and calmly accelerates backwards against oncoming traffic until she is able to shift again into drive and go her desired way. This is not atypical; I have seen many other drivers execute similar maneuvers.

The pedestrians are a chapter unto themselves. People have an adversarial relationship with the cars. Cars want to flow uninterrupted; people want to cross the streets, and they have only their wits and chutzpa to get them across. Generally they perch along the sides of the roads ready to enter and pass-pause-pass through traffic, one lane at the time, one car at a time, until they make it safely across. It would seem harrowing to Americans but people do this (mostly) seamlessly and without much affect. They are careful of the cars, but not cowed by them. Occasionally there is a close call which precipitates a round of hearty cursing. But the participants quickly are on their way with a mollifying “ma’lish” (it’s a pity/nevermind).

Adding to the morass of people and vehicles on the crowded streets are various (at least to our foreign eyes) incongruous sights. On any road coming in or out of the city there are antediluvian donkey-drawn carts laden with fresh, cheap produce. These rickety get-ups both compete with and are completely accepted by faster-moving traffic. They criss-cross the highway, seemingly oblivious to any danger or annoyance they might be causing. The sight delights Quinlan and Sophia (“Look momma, another DONKEY!”), though Q is usually concerned about the donkeys looking sad and tired from working too hard. (My warm-hearted little animal liberationist has quite forgotten about her regular betrayal of the herded beasts at the dinner table, and is ready to go to the picket line for them to fight for water breaks and an eight hour day.)

Donkey carts also troll the streets of neighborhoods with young men and boys pulling bottles from trash cans and calling out “Beckyahhhhh….beckya beckyaaaaaaahhh!” (a shortened version of robabeckya, which is a word of non-Arabic origin meaning anything very old). They invite residents of nearby apartments to bring out their unused, unwanted or broken goods for collection and minor remuneration. Recycling programs in the U.S. have nothing on Egypt.

Horses make an appearance, though less so than donkeys, and, as I mentioned in a previous chronicle, for the weeks preceding Eid, sheep, goats, cattle and other livestock line the streets awaiting their big day. In downtown areas young men careen through the streets on dilapidated bicycles with one-hand on the handlebars and the other balancing 4x4 foot trays of hot, baladi (country) bread atop their heads. This is truly impressive and although it must be the case that accidents sometimes occur, I have never seen a single fall, neither by individual nor loaf.

The vehicular profusion in Cairo translates to enough black-smoked exhaust to choke the lungs and brain. Fortunately, the nauseating effects of the fumes are tempered by the delicious aromas emanating from open, plentiful neighborhood bakeries and food stands peddling fooul (a very tasty bean dish), tamaya (deep-fried bean paste served with sauce and tomatoes in Arabic bread, like falafel), and shawarma (a sizzling seasoned meat dish served with grilled tomatoes and bell peppers). So it’s a mixed airbag, so to speak.

These are some of the sights (and sounds and scents) of our crowded, teeming urban environment. We continue to dwell with our long-suffering in-laws who tolerate our continued presence with love and forbearance. Our shipped goods still float somewhere out in the wide blue ocean on the “slowly boat” (a Quinlanism) and our own apartment continues to sit paid-for and unoccupied. One of these days, insha’Allah, we will get settled.

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