11:50AM. 26 July St. En route with Robin from Dokki to Zamalek.
-Germany? From where?
-La, Amreeka.
-Obama!
-Aywa, Obama kwayyes. (Yes, Obama is good.)
-La, mosh kwayyes! (No! Not good!)
-Ah, okay.
Surely he doesn't like US foreign policy...
-'Alshan aswad. Black. (Because he's black.)
-Naam? (Uhh, yes?)
-Black mosh helw. (Black is not pretty.)
Well, this just got awkward. More importantly, is this a joke? Our driver is definitely black by all reasonable measures. However, we got the feeling he would be pretty offended by that. He kept going...
-Wa Clinton, Clinton kan kwayyes. (But Clinton was good!)
-Mhmm.
-Wa Bush!! (And Bush!)
-La, Bush msh kwayyes. (No, not Bush.)
-AYWA, KWAYYES! Kwayyes awy. (Yesss, good! Very good!)
What?! Not a single human I've ever met in the Middle East has praised George Bush, not one. Puzzling over what to make of this odd interaction, we arrive at our destination and never find out.
* * *
11:50PM. En route from Zamalek to Dokki.
I stand waiting for a cab at the corner of 26 July and Shagaret El Dor in Zamalek, outside a glowing benzina (gas station). As I start to walk, a groaning white jalopy pulls up beside me. I peer inside to get a good look at the driver. If he's over 45, I'll take it. He's at least ten years over my minimum, so I get in. He has a heavy aquiline nose and a rugged but sagging face topped by a close-cropped tuft of gray.
-Dokki?
He nods.
-Medan El Mesaha, inshallah.
-Inshallah ya madame.
We ride without speaking across the 15 May Bridge. The windows are down and a cool breeze laps at my face. Umm Kolsoum is on. Her crooning fills the silence. The driver lights a cigarette and holds it against the steering wheel between his thumb and pointer. The tip of that cigarette is the only light inside the car. Outside, the neon signs marking the Nile dinner boats light the dark Corniche. Anyone here will tell you that Cairo is best seen at night, but I'm almost never alone enough to feel it. Umm Kolsoum crescendos. This is the Cairo I don't want to leave. We reach Maglis El Dawla and the driver turns toward the Medan. I see the white Cilantro sign glowing a few blocks ahead.
When we reach the square, I address the driver for the first time since I got in.
-Momken taleff keda? I gesture to turn toward my building.
-Araby is very good, madame.
-Allah yekhaleek. Alshan 'aisha hena. Thank you -- it's because I live here.
We arrive at my door.
-Ma' el salama ya madame. It means goodnight. Ma el salama, ma el salama.
I get out and the car putters off into the dark.
-Germany? From where?
-La, Amreeka.
-Obama!
-Aywa, Obama kwayyes. (Yes, Obama is good.)
-La, mosh kwayyes! (No! Not good!)
-Ah, okay.
Surely he doesn't like US foreign policy...
-'Alshan aswad. Black. (Because he's black.)
-Naam? (Uhh, yes?)
-Black mosh helw. (Black is not pretty.)
Well, this just got awkward. More importantly, is this a joke? Our driver is definitely black by all reasonable measures. However, we got the feeling he would be pretty offended by that. He kept going...
-Wa Clinton, Clinton kan kwayyes. (But Clinton was good!)
-Mhmm.
-Wa Bush!! (And Bush!)
-La, Bush msh kwayyes. (No, not Bush.)
-AYWA, KWAYYES! Kwayyes awy. (Yesss, good! Very good!)
What?! Not a single human I've ever met in the Middle East has praised George Bush, not one. Puzzling over what to make of this odd interaction, we arrive at our destination and never find out.
* * *
11:50PM. En route from Zamalek to Dokki.
I stand waiting for a cab at the corner of 26 July and Shagaret El Dor in Zamalek, outside a glowing benzina (gas station). As I start to walk, a groaning white jalopy pulls up beside me. I peer inside to get a good look at the driver. If he's over 45, I'll take it. He's at least ten years over my minimum, so I get in. He has a heavy aquiline nose and a rugged but sagging face topped by a close-cropped tuft of gray.
-Dokki?
He nods.
-Medan El Mesaha, inshallah.
-Inshallah ya madame.
We ride without speaking across the 15 May Bridge. The windows are down and a cool breeze laps at my face. Umm Kolsoum is on. Her crooning fills the silence. The driver lights a cigarette and holds it against the steering wheel between his thumb and pointer. The tip of that cigarette is the only light inside the car. Outside, the neon signs marking the Nile dinner boats light the dark Corniche. Anyone here will tell you that Cairo is best seen at night, but I'm almost never alone enough to feel it. Umm Kolsoum crescendos. This is the Cairo I don't want to leave. We reach Maglis El Dawla and the driver turns toward the Medan. I see the white Cilantro sign glowing a few blocks ahead.
When we reach the square, I address the driver for the first time since I got in.
-Momken taleff keda? I gesture to turn toward my building.
-Araby is very good, madame.
-Allah yekhaleek. Alshan 'aisha hena. Thank you -- it's because I live here.
We arrive at my door.
-Ma' el salama ya madame. It means goodnight. Ma el salama, ma el salama.
I get out and the car putters off into the dark.
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