I pick up the taxi—one of the new metered cabs, not the old black and white ones that prowl the streets looking for prey—in front of the Sheraton in Doqqi. I figure it will be easier to get to my hotel in Zamalek from the Giza side rather than from the center of the city.
The driver is an old man, perhaps in his mid-70s (although he could be far younger—given his lack of teeth, he’s clearly had a hard life). As we pull away, he starts babbling away in one of the more fluent registers of Arablish I’ve heard from a cab driver—at least, one who hasn’t later revealed legal or medical training (both are respected professions, but neither is particularly well paid in Egypt).
When we reach the Qasr al-Nil bridge, it becomes apparent that all traffic is being funneled across to the center—apparently the traffic police are under the impression that no one will ever want to go from Giza to Zamalek. The driver finds a gap in the barricades large enough to accommodate the cab and pushes through. I’m happy he’s managed to to so—traffic isn’t moving on the bridge, and if we have to cross over to Tahrir Square it’ll add at least 20 minutes and god knows how much to the fare.
“Must be quick-quick!” he cackles. “No boliceman, kullu tamaam!”
I nod in agreement and hug my backpack to my chest just a little tighter. Fortunately, the new cabs are also equipped with seatbelts, and it is now apparently the law that drivers (but not passengers) must wear them.
We zip on past the Gezira club, changing lanes multiple times and, at times, inventing our own. This isn’t my first trip to the rodeo, as they say: roads with two lanes painted on the asphalt frequently accommodate three, four, or five actual lanes of traffic. Instead of taking the road along the river up past the Marriott, he decides to cut through the center of the island.
“Too much traffic,” he explains as we crawl past the rear entrance to the Marriott and the Gezira Art Centre. “Everyone has new car now. For what? Where it go? Cairo too crowded already. No room for new cars.”
He’s not wrong.
On the other hand, it seems as though he’s determined to deal with the overcrowded streets by ignoring the other drivers entirely. By the time we arrive at the hotel, the only thing really keeping me from jumping out of the cab and walking the remaining blocks is that I’m kind of afraid of him. He’s nearly run down a bicyclist, cut off several people, and used his horn like it might be banned tomorrow and he needs to get his last licks in. After I leave him in front of the hotel, he picks a fight with the policeman on the corner. I just decide to keep walking into the hotel and not look back.
My trip is almost over. In a few hours, I’ll head back to the airport and start the 24 hour journey home. I’ve had a good time here, but I’m ready to go. I’ve grown weary of paying for everything. I cringe every time I have to dig into the moneybelt that has been my constant girdle for the past week for another 100 pound note—I’ll have to do it again in a few minutes when I finish this meal.
Last summer when I was here, I had a weird feeling—I felt like I should have been enjoying myself more, dammit. This time, I feel like I’m “back.” But all the same, I’m ready to go.
Until next time, then.
