Chapter 14. Chaos
Professor Simoon, completely drained of energy, could barely drag his feet towards the airport exit. It was an absolute ordeal to push through such a sea of people. Stepping out of Terminal 1 hit him like a slap of scorching air. Outside, under the fierce morning sun, thousands of stranded tourists were wheeling their massive suitcases around, shouting over one another, while desperate guides waved colourful placards in the air. People were shaking their phones or lifting them up to the sky, hoping to catch a signal, but the screens remained stubbornly blank.
He managed to find a black-and-white taxi relatively easily amidst the bewildered crowd.
The driver, a young man in his early twenties, turned on the radio immediately, but nothing came out of the speakers except a loud hiss, as if the device had swallowed sand.
"Not a single station is broadcasting," he said in an even tone, neither alarmed nor bored, speaking in surprisingly clean British English. "My name is Omar. Where to, sir?"
"Zamalek," the professor replied. "Shagaret El Dorr Street."
The car tore away with a screech of tyres, merging onto Salah Salem Boulevard. There, the professor’s jaw dropped. The metropolis had gone utterly mad!
In the endless labyrinth of buildings the colour of Saharan sand, soaring towers, and minarets like giant stone pencils, the thick air mixed with desert dust and the stifling heat gave the distinct impression of a mirage born of fever—a true Fata Morgana.
Down on the ground, however, everything was gridlocked. The dead traffic lights showed nothing, and the major intersections looked like colossal jigsaw puzzles. Coloured cars were hopelessly tangled up in one another. Drivers who had climbed out of their vehicles were swapping information... and rumours. Some were arguing, while others prayed to a punishing God, promising to lead a more modest life...
"I expect we shall be stuck here for a good while," Omar said. "Just look at that... there are no lanes left, just a massive crush of cars."
Right alongside them, on the professor’s side of the car, a blonde woman—presumably a tourist—in another taxi was trying to soothe her baby, who looked about ten or eleven months old and was crying non-stop. The poor thing's little face was bright red and drenched in tears.
A traffic policeman was blowing his whistle powerlessly, but his whistles were completely drowned out by the horns. Short honks went "beep-beep!", while long ones wailed like sirens...
Weaving between the bonnets of the cars, a street vendor was balancing on an old bicycle, carrying a massive two-metre-long wooden board on his head, piled high with round, warm loaves of bread called aish. Someone in a car of an uncertain colour gestured to the vendor. They wanted to buy bread, and, as if the other drivers had suddenly caught the hunger bug, more and more people started waving, growing increasingly frantic and desperate. People were turning their pockets inside out, searching for coins.
"Are you hungry, sir?" Omar asked. "Shall we buy some bread as well?"
"I haven't got any cash on me... none at all," Simoon replied, feeling rather embarrassed. "Don't worry about your payment, though; I shall pay for the fare once we reach our destination."
The driver leaned halfway out of the window, shouting towards the street vendor:
"Ya Captain! Hena, ya rayes!"
The moment the vendor spotted him, he flashed a wide, charming, perfect smile. Omar raised two fingers, indicating he wanted two loaves.
"Not to worry, Professor, you won't starve on my watch!"
Simoon was genuinely taken aback. It was only the warmth of the bread, now resting in his hands, that brought him back to reality and prompted him to ask the kind-hearted young man:
"Do we know each other? Have we met before?"
The young man took a hearty bite out of his own bread and nodded:
"We are beginning to move a bit... I know you, yes. I was part of a student group at the same archaeological site you were working on. You are a bit of a star to us, you see."
Along the edges of the boulevard, the gigantic digital billboards were now nothing more than windows into total darkness.
The taxi climbed the ramp onto the 6th of October Bridge, the elevated concrete motorway that cuts through the city high above the rooftops. From up there, the city looked even more frightening. A human anthill whose pheromones had suddenly been destroyed...
The cars crawled forward at a snail's pace, but at least they were moving... bumper to bumper. A few cars that had run out of fuel right in the middle of the road made progress even more difficult.
A stranded bus had all its windows thrown wide open. The passengers were fanning themselves with newspapers, fans, folders, and hats. Someone had lifted a tiny dog up to the window; it was barking confusingly, clearly having a bone to pick with a group of motorcyclists who were trying to squeeze millimetre by millimetric through the wing mirrors.
Just beneath the bridge, the sluggish Nile, gleaming hypnotically under the sun's rays, looked as if it belonged to an entirely different film, with its large wooden boats, called feluccas, floating motionless, flanked by tall palm trees with leaves shaped like gently swaying swords.
"I have some water too, if you like," Omar said. "Just to show you how splendidly lucky you are to have me at the wheel... my water is in a cool-bag. Here you are."
***
Time and the hour no longer held any relevance. After what felt like ages, the taxi finally descended from the bridge onto the island of Zamalek. A posh oasis of colonial-style villas and Jacaranda trees, their lilac flowers snowing down onto the pavements.
There was chaos here too, but it didn't feel quite as dizzying. People were milling about the streets, standing out on balconies, or gathering in the shade of buildings with large, ornate wrought-iron balconies.
The cafes were bursting at the seams, their elegant tables spilled right out onto the pavement. A mismatched crowd was discussing the situation while waiters rushed around with trays full of tea and coffee.
"Only cash!" could be heard repeatedly in the air, while people rummaged through their pockets.
From behind the high fences and ivy-covered walls of the large embassies, the powerful thrumming of emergency generators seemed to mock the blocks of flats, whose lifts were all completely stuck.
It felt as though a century had passed when, at long last, Omar asked:
"Shagaret El Dorr, you said? Which building is it, sir?"
Simoon simply pointed towards the old building.
"I do hope you don't live too high up..."
"On the first floor," Simoon said. "I shall be back in a minute with your money... Or perhaps you would like to come up for a cup of tea?"
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