Alone With the Nile

I wake as we begin the Cairo descent. At first I am confused by the way the land outside disappears into whiteness -- it takes me a second to recognize the bleached, stretching sands. Tiny adamant roads wend through the desert, vast and bright and imperturbable. I've never been awestruck by a landing before.

Shortly thereafter pits appear in the desert, then a clone army of sand-colored buildings, then the city itself, all dancing around the Nile. There must be some sort of ordinance or tradition that governs construction -- literally everything blends in with the desert.

We land. The air is warm and wet, almost perfumed. The sky is clear for a quarter mile or so before it disappears into the same smog I became used to in Addis. According to Lonely Planet, Cairo is in the running for world's most polluted city.

Visa is $15, dispensed cheerfully and without question at a bank branch before customs -- it is nothing more nor less than a tariff on travel. No pretense about regulation here.

Customs is quick. "Sorry, I grew a beard," I joke as he opens my passport. "It's that hair you should be worried about," he counters, then "All done! See? Very quick!"

At the baggage claim, my backpack is a no-show. I wait, in case it's just delayed like they say it might be. If only.

But wait! My faith is rewarded! Bag arrives separately. I flee happily for a cab -- no stand, but a two-fingered man asks, "Taxi?" and I nod. He quotes me $20 US for the trip to my hotel. I laugh, and so does he. But his boss corroborates, and I, feeling my inexperience, acquiesce.

I get a quick second to breathe on the way out of the airport as the driver stops to offer a sip of his bottled water to one of the guards. Then he slaps his gearshift and all hell breaks loose.

Taxi driving in Cairo turns out to be a blood sport. New York City cabbies look like rubes in comparison. Streets are packed to the brim with cars, few of which obey any traffic laws. Lane markers resemble international law: inconsistently delineated and optional even when clear. My driver clucks disapprovingly when I move to don my seatbelt, indicating that I should just spread out and enjoy the ride. I bet it has more to do with the shape the seatbelt is in: when he drapes his own across himself moments later, it lacks a buckle. Its only possible purpose is to forestall police attention -- does Egypt have seatbelt laws?

After a particularly knotted intersection, he grins and makes fish-through water hand motions to indicate that I should be impressed. I am: if we didn't leave any paint behind, it wasn't for lack of opportunity. I clap approvingly, and we share a laugh.

Lonely Planet suggests that any driver is more likely to take me to a hotel run by a friend of his than to the one I requested. This is exactly what happens. I pay him anyway, going so far as to add what must be perceived as a $1 Foolish American bonus, then get directions to my hostel and walk the necessary blocks, backpack in hand.

Along the way I stop for water. "Two pounds", says the man in the street stand. I give him a 100 and he hands me what turns out, after two countings, to be ten pounds less than the requisite c hange. I point this out. He touches his head to indicate that he must be losing his mind and hands me the additional 10.

Finally, I reach the hostel just fine and, after some wrangling, secure one of five beds in a shared room -- $8 US a night, breakfast included. It is noon, my first roommate offers an "I don't speak English but you seem okay" smile, and I am ready for Cairo!

(largely unedited from scribbled journal)