The Shortest Distance Between Two Points is a Wacko Behind the Wheel

There is nothing like the first trip from the airport to give visitors an idea of what a city is like. San Francisco would be about the undulating terrain, views of the bay and fog. Seattle would be all about the treed mountain- and hill-sides. The route from the airport in Manila to my first usual destination, mom's house, would be the longest trip covering approximately 3km as the crow flies.

When I had cleared immigration in Cairo International, I stepped outside into the hot and still night of outer Cairo. Immediately, I was reminded of Manila, air heavy with pollution and overpopulation. Mind, it was past three in the morning, and contrary to my earlier opinion, I wouldn't have had it any other way. Imagine coming out of an airconditioned plane after 10 hours and stepping into 40°C and onto airport tarmac that would probably be hitting 60°C. Yeah, I'm glad I waited in the Amsterdam terminal for eight hours for my connecting flight.

I was greeted by the owner and manager of the Lialy Hostel, Mostafa, who is half responsible for the video at the head of this blog. That is us in his Proton Wira or somesuch, driving—nay, screaming down the highway at 90 kph, without seatbelts (on him), without headlights, and without his hands on the wheel whenever I pointed the camera at him which, really, delighted us both.

At one point, there was a driver on the highway who swerved in front of us, causing Mostafa to brake very quickly, the smoke and scream of burning rubber in the air and my bottled juice flying from in between my thighs to the floor.


Mostafa took me on a simple tour of Cairo, which I gladly obliged. He impressed me when he slowed down the car long enough for me to take this night photo of the Cairo Museum. The fact was, he decelerated without prompting from a goat crossing or an anti-tank landmine in our path. Not to say that one sees wild goats or landmines in the streets of Cairo—elsewhere in Egypt, I’m sure, it can be arranged for a small fee—but these Egyptians, they don’t brake for just anybody.

Mostafa took me on a couple of passes on the Tahrir Bridge which was like a slow parade where we in the cars were both the spectacle and the spectators, and likewise were the bystanders, the young girls blowing bubbles from the kalesh (horse drawn carriage), and the rest who were marching up and down ze bridge.



Mind, this is almost four in the morning. What were these people doing so late at night? I got the solid impression that these people just liked to party, and with 10 million people living in Cairo (yet another similarity with Manila) there have to be a couple of 100,000 that like to stay up all night.

Mostafa and I weren’t the only ones with our stereo blasting seductive rhythms. There were loads of cars full of people waving their hands out windows and clapping and were seemingly trying to get the rest of the city to wake up and join the party.

I asked Mostafa if I could have a copy of his music, and he said sure, he’ll burn me one later. At one point, the cd we were listening to was repeatedly skipping. Mostafa, in his festive ways, pulled the cd out, crushed it with his bare hands, and dropped it out the window into the street. Thus, the traditional ride from the airport was concluded, the union of land and sky consummated by near death and near life. We headed to the hostel. It was 3:45 am.