Cairo, Cairo

The office manager was extremely polite and courteous and asked me mid-morning if I’d like to see the sound-and-light show at the pyramids with his young daughter that evening. Of course, I said that I would, having missed seeing one of the world’s wonders from the air on the previous day. It was yet another ‘chance of a lifetime’. So, after a long afternoon swim in the hotel pool, during which my adrenaline levels began to subside, I dressed as sensibly as my wardrobe allowed for the evening’s entertainment.

Still glowing from too many hours in the afternoon sun, I re-boarded the manager’s Fiat and met his daughter at about six in the evening, just as it was getting dark. Like her father, the daughter was clearly intelligent and outgoing. She was also surprisingly alert for the time of night. I doubted whether Rob and Anne would have been so bright after an early start and a hot and uncomfortable day. The only explanation for her alertness, it seemed, was the renewed adrenaline rush provided by Cairo’s traffic. Like the occupants of Cypriot cars, their Egyptian counterparts couldn’t afford to stare mindlessly into the distance. There was much too much going on around them.

Clearing the hotel’s driveway, and passing our office on the right, we headed towards the airport initially. I noted again the level of security on the streets. In the still considerable heat, the tourist police in their black, ill fitting, woollen uniforms seemed to be the most uncomfortable. As they lolled about at all the major traffic intersections, with AK-47 assault rifles slung casually over their shoulders, the red and silver insignia on their berets stood out almost as much as the distinctive armbands.

From watch towers lining the primary thoroughfares, I could see other security forces, this time dressed in green fatigues. Their similarly sleepy and disinterested poses seemed to reflect most Egyptians’ easy-going hospitality. However, the potential firepower they possessed was undeniable, and I’m sure that it was the massive and overt security presence that made Cairo feel safe to me. Although the threat to tourists was real, the sheer number of armed police and soldiers on the streets was a more than adequate deterrent, it seemed. The Egyptian Government’s annual income from tourism, of several billion dollars, appeared to be secure from the actions of Islamic militants.

Such matters were too weighty for me that evening though. I had enough difficulty taking in the sights and sounds that bombarded my every sense as we lurched from one suburb to another. Moving in from the suburbs and approaching the centre of the city, dust-coloured government buildings became more apparent, perhaps because some were floodlit.

The private structures in between them were also attractive in their way, certainly in comparison to the grey housing blocks that I'd seen earlier in the day. Rampant commercial pollution spoilt many of them though, in the form of gaudy signs for Western delicacies such as Pepsi Cola and McDonalds. However, the mess was not entirely Western in origin. From time to time, I’d encounter giant hoardings with oversized caricatures of Middle East theatre stars. The stars’ smiles beamed out at potential audiences and demanded their attention. My host told me that Egyptians were renowned in the Arab world for their excellent wit and humour.

At one point in our journey, we stopped at some traffic lights, a chore that seemed necessary in Egypt unlike Cyprus, perhaps because of the sheer volume of traffic. Whilst I waited for the lights to turn green, an authentically dressed man in flowing white robes appeared. The effect of his appearance was to overload my frantic attempts to understand everything that was going on around me. I had to stop for a moment and just stare at him intently. The man was driving a brightly decorated mule and cart, which clearly provided him with a living.

Suddenly, another inhabitant of this vibrant city came into view. He ignored the old man and his cart, and hailed one of the beaten-up mechanical taxis that also prowled the boulevards. Nearby, his wife - who was almost twice his width - stood passively, awaiting the outcome of his arm waving and shouting. A black chador covered her from head to toe. Not even her eyes were showing. The man’s negotiations with the taxi driver complete, he returned to collect his wife, lead her to the vehicle and then shoehorn her into the back seat. He tumbled in after her.

As I pondered this feat, I was startled by a young girl who spoke to me in Arabic through the open passenger window. She proffered a box of tissues and, sensing that I was a foreigner new to the art of shopping at traffic lights, a young friend of hers joined in. The second girl, no more than ten years of age I guessed, was hoping to sell me a string of heavily scented Jasmine flowers. Seeing that the manager’s rear view mirror had no pennants or beads, I reached into my pocket to make an impulse purchase, feeling sad that people so young had to make their living this way. Before they could close their sales though, the lights turned green and Fiat’s tyres span on the road surface again. This time, the little car was ready to do its master’s bidding, and I lost sight of the girls quickly in my side mirror, in the melee that ensued.

Cairo’s highways reminded me of the busy ant runs that I'd seen in Cyprus. Most of the ants walked directly to some unknown destination from some unseen start point, very fast and nose to tail. Only a few wandered about aimlessly, as if they’d lost their way or forgotten their purpose. Some ants travelled light, whilst others hauled great loads about many times their own weight, almost staggering under the strain. Most strikingly of all, was the sheer number of ants; it was huge, thousands upon thousands.

Yes, the maddest drivers that I'd seen anywhere in the world abused Cairo’s roads. I'd survived Britain’s M1, M6 and M25 motorways, in all weather conditions, at all times of the day and night. I’d lived in London for several years, where the traffic was simply awful, particularly during rush hours. I’d visited Paris and Athens at peak times. I’d driven round Barcelona, Hamburg and Cologne. Hell, I’d even survived Limassol’s roads for several weeks! Therefore, I was qualified to judge.

Driving in Cairo was like barging about in a fairground ‘dodge ‘em’ car, only in three-dimensions rather than two, and with deadly consequences for the losers. Left … right … accelerate … watch out for trucks descending from slip roads above and below … brake … don’t collide with the car in front … blast the horn, just in case. This was no fun fairground attraction though. It was mayhem, with deadly consequences!

What I couldn’t understand was why Cairo hadn’t produced a Formula One champion. If its drivers could exchange bananas through the open side windows of ordinary cars, whilst negotiating potholes at significant speed, then surely a race at Silverstone would present very few problems. The lunatics that I saw that night were so skilled at in-flight driver refuelling, that I guessed banana passing was as much a pastime as kite flying on hot Egyptian evenings.

Having negotiated Cairo’s elevated roadways, at a height not far below the rooftop kite fliers sometimes, we reached our destination. To my huge surprise, flanking the pyramids on two sides were major housing developments. To my relief, there were few peddlers and tourists about. Consequently, we entered the site unmolested and had the pick of the seats. I was awe struck by the son-et-lumiere. The pyramids and sphinx were magnificent; their size and presence made me feel very humble. My visit to ‘one of the Seven Wonders of the World’ that night was a magical experience. One that I shall never forget.

On our way back to my hotel, we crossed the Nile using one of its bridges. The crossing seemed to take ages, not because the traffic was bad, but because the river was so wide. We must have driven over it earlier but, such was my wonder that night, the river hadn’t made an impact. Now it did though, and a very big one. The black water sparkled as a million and one lights from the shores danced on it. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine small sail boats tacking to-and-fro against the wind and current, even a crocodile or two. Neither was there in reality, but this was a night to savour and I saw no reason why I shouldn’t embroider my memories a little. What a place ... so many amazing sights ... so many intriguing sounds ... so many tantalising smells ... all those people in such a small space ... day and night the city was alive.

My intoxication abated slowly. In a lucid moment, I asked my host why so many people picnicked on the central reservations of busy dual carriageways at night. I could see whole families, several generations, dodging between the crowded pavements and equally crowded grass strips. What was the attraction? Most were sitting about talking, or eating their suppers, or playing ball. It was a bit like the people of West London meeting on the central reservation of the A40 during rush hours to eat their tea and enjoy an impromptu game of cricket. Crazy! Frustratingly, my host couldn’t shed much light on the matter.

Breathless and exhausted, I went to bed and delighted in my recollections. My stopover in Cairo was ending much too soon. Having seen one cross section of the city, I wanted to see more, but had to content myself with the knowledge that I'd be returning soon. The next day, I wrestled my way through the crowds at Cairo Airport to catch a flight to Malta.