In what Charles V of Spain (1500-1558) termed “los buenos dias viejos" and Taha Hussein in 1948 – “fii-l-ayyaam al-2adiima-TTayyiba" (the good old days), a man could leave home with LE20 on a trip to the supermarket for a bar of soap, and, three hours later, return empty-handed except for bits of loose change, a floppy lettuce and with breath reeking of the strongest ‘shisha' tobacco that can be consumed legally. In view of recent developments and increase in car ownership in the Greater Cairo area, such a scenario is unpopular. ‘I won't be long, dear.' Should these laconic, innocent syllables not fall in the category of famous last words? Ladies, ye who enjoy (or endure) the marital estate are likely to take this assurance with a dash of salt and shed a bitter tear over the misplaced optimism in transport and banking systems. Dateline: Somewhere in Heliopolis, Thursday March 21. You hail a taxi outside your apartment block, having told your uxorial partner that you will be but two shakes of a camel's tail to go to the bank in el-Korba, withdraw some money and embark on a series of transactions resulting in the possession of a selection of beverages that are stronger than tea, two stick loaves of bread of near-heaven, and nuts tastier than the Brazilian kind. This might prompt you, dear reader, to retort that your credulity is beginning to groan as it is stretched to the extent that spinal fluid threatens to ooze all over the kitchen floor. In other words, you would not ‘Bolivia' it. Now you are in a white taxi, the ‘chargers' of the public transport in more senses than one. And it is gridlock between Saint Fatima and Triumph squares. No problem, says your laconic host and chauffeur as he takes you to a parallel route that is occupied by vehicles of every shape and size, including a horse-drawn ‘rebabekia' cart (the horse was a superb artist with an extra-special sensitivity for line and form and a dab-hand with charcoal and egg tempura), on which rides a man pleading for offerings in the form of old car batteries and car spares through the microphone of his loudspeaker system. By the time the blockages had been eased, the microphone man would have been extremely wealthy with the proceeds of so much scrap metal in the streets. You pay LE10 for the privilege of sitting in a stationary vehicle for almost half an hour. You alight, deciding that the nearest branch of your friendly banker will oblige, courtesy of its ATM. You thread your way through lines of motorised vehicles that have become temporary dwellings on erstwhile thoroughfares. You dodge scooters and motorcycles, whose riders consider themselves above man-made laws. Besides, that hefty tip on delivery of that succulent pizza or ‘foul medames' with extra tabasco sauce makes mangling and permanently maiming a pedestrian or three on that narrow stretch of pavement left by a building site worthwhile. You reach your plan B bank ATM, but it is ‘out of order'. Why are you not surprised? After an audible groan that attracts quizzical looks from passers-by, you have a flash of inspiration. You recall that that friendly supermarket where the staff falls over themselves with indifference has an ATM that bears the logo of your friendly banker. Meanwhile, traffic has not moved. Diesel may be scarce, but manifestations of kinetic energy are even scarcer. You guessed right: the machine in the supermarket was not functioning. Why are you not surprised? After an audible selection of Anglo-Saxon invective that attracts quizzical looks from passers-by, you have no more flashes of inspiration. You decide to proceed on foot to el-Korba from Triumph Square. After the standstill comes the dearth of any transport between Safir and Salahuddin squares. As the founder of the Bank of Egypt, Talaat Harb might have commented: ‘Walla suguk' (Not a sausage). Finally, you reach the fountain of finance. That the policeman is in his cardboard upholstered chair next to the ATM is reassuring. You give him a LE5 tip because by this time, you love everybody. Purchases purchased, you remember you left your mobile at home, which you left two hours ago. Your helpmeet must have called you, only to hear your device on the sideboard belting out what William Shakespeare could have recorded in ‘As You Like It' - “In the spring time/The onely pretty ring tone/When phones do sing, hey ding a ding, ding". Never mind, it was the first day of Aries, whereafter, as Geoffrey Chaucer said in the Prologue to the ‘Canterbury Tales', “and the young sun/His half-course in the sign of the Ram has run", i.e. 1st April, but, judging by the total lack of movement on Heliopolis streets last Thursday, motorists would have seen it come and go, and they would still be looking at the same piece of tarmac, the same apartment block and the same number-plate of the vehicle in front of their bonnet. Again, hardly anything on four wheels that could take you home was present. Everyone in possession of a car must have been stuck in limbo between Nasr City and Mars, for all we knew. But hark, what yonder white taxi is this, negotiating a bend into Salahulddin Square? Halt! you plea. Halt! You take your seat in the back, due to the volume of purchases that include what you set out to buy and a bit more – tinned fruit, smoked salmon and let's try those barbecue coated nut thingies that seem not to be selling well in a well-known supermarket chain. Perhaps you will discover the reason why when you get home...If you get home. She had better be understanding three hours after your having left the marital abode. The last word should be left with that famous Arab playwright, Sheikh Zubair, aka Shakespeare: “Life is but a tale told by a wayward husband,/Full of excuses and embodied in a floppy ."
