Cairo

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 26^th July, a street that runs underneath 15^th 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.

Some river or other