Cairo, taxis, pyramids and an Iraqi

They say that on a clear day you can see the Pyramids from here. But there are few clear days in Cairo, and I no longer bother to look. I’m jammed into the front seat of an ancient black cab, which means there’s no fixed fare. I glance at the driver, sizing him up. Fine cheekbones, button-bright eyes, and an accomplished mustache. He touches the ragged cardboard flag that dangles from his rear view mirror.
“I am Hassan. I am from Iraq.” His Arabic is softer than the guttural Egyptian I am used to. I ask how long he’s lived here.
“I am here from the Bush war.” For some reason, he’s switched to English. “War with George Bush and, how you say? Tony-Blair.” I nod, part of me wishing I hadn’t asked. I change the subject, ask how he feels about Egypt.
“Thanks be to God!” He smiles. “But is too-too big, and too-too busy. And the Egyptians, they are very loud, and always wanting money.” He is chewing manically, his eyes darting all over the place. We are in Mohandiseen, a drab suburb of office blocks, posh shopping, and western fast food. The heady souqs and dignified monuments of exotic Cairo are away over the river. This neighborhood is one big traffic jam.
Today’s chaos comes courtesy of a donkey cart. The driver, hunched between crates of tomatoes and a bundle of wilted leaves, is encouraging his donkey by beating it with a stick. With stoic insolence, the animal ignores both the blows and the braying car horns, and continues to block the road.
Hassan is the only person not leaning on his horn. He’s too busy watching the girls outside the Sports Café. One is wearing a bright yellow higab, complemented by figure-hugging jeans. The other has no headscarf, and her hazel colored curls pour down to her shoulders. The girls are young, giggling, and probably rich. Hassan is not the only man staring.
As if one forbidden thought has spawned another, he turns to me and says, “You know hashish? Hashish in Egypt very bad!” He casually lights what I hope is a cigarette; offers me one. We exhale in unison, the smoke tasting cleaner than the fug from the traffic.
The donkey driver has finally persuaded his beast to the side of the road, and it’s like the little boy has removed his thumb from the dyke. The traffic thunders through the gap, and I’m struck by how considerate a driver Hassan is. He pauses to let an old man cross the road. Dressed in a tattered galabaya, head bowed as he shuffles between the cars, he reminds me of the donkey: worn down but not out, swaddled in defiance and a remnant of dignity.
As I leave the cab, Hassan touches my arm. “One day, God willing, I shall visit your country. Do you have crowded there, like here?” Standing next to my house, breathing in the thick, sweet scent of jasmine and rotting garbage, I shrug. I want to explain how it’s not like here, but he’s already moved on.
BM