Taxi Drivers of Cairo

With nearly 7 million people in Cairo and an estimated 50,000 taxis (not to mention other vehicles) a taxi ride is puzzling, amazing and sometimes downright dangerous. I was going to label this post "The Bipolar Taxi Driver" but somehow I think he was more of an anger management client. Of course, I had a little conversation today at the HSBC bank in Dokki when I opened up my first Egyptian account - 10,640 Egyptian pounds - not all that much really but at least three months worth of assistance toward food. The rest of the money goes directly into my American account in American dollars. Anyway, May, who helped me, has her degree in accounting but had actually wanted to get a degree in psychology at Stanford - BUT, much too expensive, hard to get in and parental disproval. Also, Egyptians by and large do not believe in therapy, psychiatrists, psychotherapy or any other form of assistance to the mentally ill. Which I feel that this man was over the top in crankiness. While it's true that Ramadan fasting can give rise to outbursts of anger, irritability, etc. since there is no intake of food or water from sunrise to sunset and yes, it is hot. In the words of Forrest Gump, You never know what you're going to get. Of course, he meant a box of chocolates but it could substitute for taxi driver.

Some of my friends know of my tales of taxi drivers on my travels. The taxi driver in Turkey who insisted on taking me to see a dam, not frankly my dear, I don't give a d... but an actual dam. And he kept talking to me in Turkish and all I could imagine in between deciphering a few words like fish and water was that he was going to tie me up, beat me and them throw me into the water where I would swim with the fishes. Not really, just my active imagination. And there was a truly creepy fat French taxi driver who insisted on pressing his liver lips to mine. Ugh. OK, so the Turkish driver must have thought I was an American woman of easy virtue because I sat in the front seat How did I know it meant I was that kind of woman? And there was the taxi driver in Amman, Jordan who drove around the entire city for an hour trying to find the YWCA and then wanted to charge us a gigantic taxi fare. But I have since learned, no one knows the streets or sites or hotels except for the ones they supply with unknowing tourists.

So back to my Cairo taxi drivers. Call me a glutton for punishment but I took three today. I am usually an anti-taxi kind of traveler and you can why with just those few examples. I sometimes have walked an extra oh, let's see, 5 or 6 miles to avoid taking one, getting lost in the process. I am selectively cheap. But today, first I got the nice man who spoke not a lick of English, except to say no English - he was so fervent a believer and so devout that his forehead had a huge raised callous on it from praying five times a day. He was so honest and reasonable for a fare from Zamalek to Dokki that when I gave him a 20 pound note, he actually gave me back a 5 pound note with 5 pounds in coins. Of course, and you should be laughing here as I was not in the thirty seconds after he sped away that he had taken me to the Spanish Language Institute. I know, I know and there was even a nicely dressed guy in his late 20s or early 30s who got in the taxi to show him where to go. hahaha on me. It took me three or four guys that I asked - not to be sexist, but most women do not know their streets or fancy this, do not understand me - to finally find the place. The Fulbright office that is. Eventually I found the office.

After signing papers, I went to the HSBC bank to open an account for my Egyptian stipend of 3000 pounds a month, roughly $550. Back to the Fulbright office to give them the 100 pounds for my resident visa. I had forgotten to bring along two passport photos but promised to get some made, knowing of course, that they would NOT be flattering like the ones I took of myself - it's all in the angle of the camera lens, ladies at a local Kodak store. At least the price is right - 10 pounds for 4 photos, less than $2. They take just as ugly pics in our photo places in the U.S. but you pay much more for the ugly photo AND you are stuck with it for several years, 10 years if it is on your passport. I think I should have a professional make up artist and maybe some liposuction before the next passport photo. Ha ha ha ha. I scream (and alternately laugh hysterically) every time I see my photo and think, who in the world is that? This is why people posting their pics on personal ads always use their old photos which are more flattering, then you meet them and think, oh no! Where did your hair go? Or else, where did your waist go? Where did your teeth go? And finally, why didn't I shoot myself in the foot before agreeing to meet you?

Well, anyway, I'm feeling hot, faint, and tired so I decide to get another taxi for the ride back to Zamalek. I had Hend write out in Arabic my apartment address in Arabic as well as the Diwan Bookstore on 26 July Street in Arabic to then hand over to a taxi driver. And another thing, they can barely read. And, I started noticing that most taxis have at least one dent, usually more. Well, no sooner than I had gotten into the taxi, when the Indy 500 began in our race to cross the Nile the fastest way possible narrowly missing cars by inches or more correctly centimeters (they are metric you know). No seat belts of course in the back seat but I grabbed onto the back of the passenger seat. And for the life of me, I could not remember the Arabic word for slow down! Over the bridge, he narrowly missed squishing a boy of around 11 or 12 and kept up a verbal harrangue with another taxi driver, yelling obscenities and perhaps giving him the finger. I was afraid to glance at his eyes imagining that they were by now glowing red like a demon. Shortly before we reached our destination, he swerved around a too slow car and a poor guy wearing a white cap (means you have gone on a haj) on a bicycle. Missed by .5 inch to my estimation. Almost killed the guy but the bicycle man was pretty philosophical about it, I suppose he was grateful to be alive. In the hood, he would have pulled out a gun or knife. My blood pressure shot up, developed quite the headache and when I saw Diwan Bookstore, said OK. I couldn't get out fast enough though my foot was temporary trapped in a broken down plastic bit of the door. I gave him 20 pounds for not killing me or anyone in front of me and he seemed OK with it. I probably overpaid. Instead of going into the bookstore, I went into Maison Thomas where I devoured a croque madame - basically a grilled cheese sandwich with tomato. Then I asked the waiter if he had heard of Alpha Market and he made a little pantomine to show me where -- around 10 minute walk, last street on 26 July and go right, then turn left two streets up. The Alpha supermarket is open 24 hours not that I would go at 3 am just nice to know I could. To be continued...