On packets of dates and in glossy travel brochures they call Cairo 'Mother of the World', although they omit its other traditional names of 'Father of Traffic', 'Uncle of too much street noise in the middle of the night' and 'Grandfather of your snot turning black.'
We live on Aziz Abaza Street, a few blocks
north of 26th July, a street that runs underneath 15th
May Bridge. The Egyptians love
naming streets after the dates of dubious military victories over Israel. We are three doors down from the Indian
embassy, and two down from the wholesome-sounding Russian Information Agency,
who haven’t yet invited us round for tea.
The apartment has a fabulous Nile view,
where the occasional felucca or suicidal windsurfer can be seen dodging the neon-flashing party
boats. These play the latest hits
at full volume, an ideal accompaniment to a romantic cruise on the river. And it’s not just the boats – if you
hire a horse and cart for a spin around Zamalek it will have booming speakers.
Of the fifty-odd shops within five minutes
walk are two gun shops, two small supermarkets and a Subway – the rest sell a
mix of soft furnishings and antiques.
Many sell lamps, and possibly magic carpets.
Zamalek is an old part of Cairo, and was
very much not built for cars. That
hasn’t stopped the cars from trying, and the streets host the traditional
Cairene traffic jam pretty much all the time, apart from at Friday morning
prayer time. Colleagues who drive
to work arrive two hours late about once a fortnight after being stuck in epic
traffic jams – at least that’s what they tell me.
Downstairs in our apartment building you
will find the bawabs, which are a cross between doormen, bodyguards, errand
boys and moral guardians, and basically run a kind of protection racket. Opposite is a primary school, and we
are awoken daily by shrill voices chanting numbers and warbling the national
anthem.
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| Some river or other |
