I will publish this in two parts. People get bored if they have to read more then 600 words, or so I am told.
Soft coolness sweeps through the streets as the sun touches the horizon and disappears. To stop the dust blowing into his shop, a man, using a plastic drinking bottle with a hole punched into its lid, squirts water across the packed-earth street in great, lazy arcs. It smells like fresh damp rain, a welcome relief from the day’s dry heat. We are taking refuge down a small dark alleyway away from main streets. It’s peaceful, quiet and pleasantly warm and I feel tired and sleepy. I know this can’t last. This is Egypt.
It is the ninth month of the Muslim calendar. We are into the second day of Ramadan, the 30 days where the Muslim faithful fast from sunrise to sunset, abstain from sexual relations and other, general sinful thoughts, speech and behaviour. Fasting is said to redirect the soul away from worldly activities, cleansing it of impurities. It is a lesson in self-discipline, self-control and sacrifice.
During the first few days of fasting, the Muslim world becomes a chaotic collection of throbbing headaches, parched throats, growling stomachs, flared tempers and mood swings. I discover a perverse satisfaction in walking the streets clutching an icy-dewy-bottle of water or ordering a falafel sandwich from a drooling waiter.
The whole world, hungry and late, are rushing home. I flag down a taxi and Scarlet and I climb in. It screeches away from the curb, cutting off a horse-drawn-cart piled high with sugar cane stalks. With one hand the driver thumps his horn, the other fiddles with the dials of his radio which has just started the 7 o’clock[1] edition of the call to prayer (during Ramadan, many radio and TV Stations broadcast the call to prayer live. The 7 o’clock version, which is also when everyone is officially able to eat again, often features an hour long sermon which, in my ears, sounds like a list of foods the Imam has been fantasizing about all day. “Allah bless that juicy hamburgeeeeeer/ give thanks to Allah for mango juicccccccce/ praise Allah the almighty, I can smoke agaaaaaain!”) The taxi driver turns to me (women are next to never addressed directly here), slicks back his greased hair and, with a nicotine stained smile, introduces himself.
“I Mahmoud maaann, where you wanna go?” He says ‘man’ like an American rapper, dragging out the ‘a’ uncomfortably long.
I tell him where we want to go.
“Mumkin Karnack? Yalla!”
Mahmoud plants his foot on the accelerator, pulling hard on the steering wheel. We dart alongside a rumbling truck which belches ozone-destroying fumes through my open window. We veer in front of a cursing rickshaw driver who is pumping out thumping Arabic infused dub-step music almost loud enough to silence his furious-guttural-sounding Arabic swear words. Mahmoud leans across me to shout something out my window and jab his hands in accusatory defiance at the rickshaw driver. Briefly glancing back towards the road, Mahmoud takes his foot off the accelerator and plants it firmly on the breaks. We screech past a scuttling, black-clad woman clutching the hand of a bare footed girl with wild hair. The women’s black eyes burn furiously from behind her veil. In the rear-view mirror, I watch as her daring, shadowy figure, framed by speeding car headlights, is swallowed by the indignant night.
Mahmoud finally tunes the radio onto a station which is not reciting prayers into the unthanking night. After a brief pause of static, the angry lyrics of Ahmed Mecky, one of my favourite Egyptian rappers, are punched into the darkening night sky; with raised fists they salute the disappearing yellow sun.
Jed Anderson-Habel
[1] The call to prayer is actually at around 6.45, 7 o'clock just sounds better!
Ahmed Mekky. You can work out what he is singing about from the video I think (I really have no idea what he is saying).
Soft coolness sweeps through the streets as the sun touches the horizon and disappears. To stop the dust blowing into his shop, a man, using a plastic drinking bottle with a hole punched into its lid, squirts water across the packed-earth street in great, lazy arcs. It smells like fresh damp rain, a welcome relief from the day’s dry heat. We are taking refuge down a small dark alleyway away from main streets. It’s peaceful, quiet and pleasantly warm and I feel tired and sleepy. I know this can’t last. This is Egypt.
It is the ninth month of the Muslim calendar. We are into the second day of Ramadan, the 30 days where the Muslim faithful fast from sunrise to sunset, abstain from sexual relations and other, general sinful thoughts, speech and behaviour. Fasting is said to redirect the soul away from worldly activities, cleansing it of impurities. It is a lesson in self-discipline, self-control and sacrifice.
During the first few days of fasting, the Muslim world becomes a chaotic collection of throbbing headaches, parched throats, growling stomachs, flared tempers and mood swings. I discover a perverse satisfaction in walking the streets clutching an icy-dewy-bottle of water or ordering a falafel sandwich from a drooling waiter.
The whole world, hungry and late, are rushing home. I flag down a taxi and Scarlet and I climb in. It screeches away from the curb, cutting off a horse-drawn-cart piled high with sugar cane stalks. With one hand the driver thumps his horn, the other fiddles with the dials of his radio which has just started the 7 o’clock[1] edition of the call to prayer (during Ramadan, many radio and TV Stations broadcast the call to prayer live. The 7 o’clock version, which is also when everyone is officially able to eat again, often features an hour long sermon which, in my ears, sounds like a list of foods the Imam has been fantasizing about all day. “Allah bless that juicy hamburgeeeeeer/ give thanks to Allah for mango juicccccccce/ praise Allah the almighty, I can smoke agaaaaaain!”) The taxi driver turns to me (women are next to never addressed directly here), slicks back his greased hair and, with a nicotine stained smile, introduces himself.
“I Mahmoud maaann, where you wanna go?” He says ‘man’ like an American rapper, dragging out the ‘a’ uncomfortably long.
I tell him where we want to go.
“Mumkin Karnack? Yalla!”
Mahmoud plants his foot on the accelerator, pulling hard on the steering wheel. We dart alongside a rumbling truck which belches ozone-destroying fumes through my open window. We veer in front of a cursing rickshaw driver who is pumping out thumping Arabic infused dub-step music almost loud enough to silence his furious-guttural-sounding Arabic swear words. Mahmoud leans across me to shout something out my window and jab his hands in accusatory defiance at the rickshaw driver. Briefly glancing back towards the road, Mahmoud takes his foot off the accelerator and plants it firmly on the breaks. We screech past a scuttling, black-clad woman clutching the hand of a bare footed girl with wild hair. The women’s black eyes burn furiously from behind her veil. In the rear-view mirror, I watch as her daring, shadowy figure, framed by speeding car headlights, is swallowed by the indignant night.
Mahmoud finally tunes the radio onto a station which is not reciting prayers into the unthanking night. After a brief pause of static, the angry lyrics of Ahmed Mecky, one of my favourite Egyptian rappers, are punched into the darkening night sky; with raised fists they salute the disappearing yellow sun.
Jed Anderson-Habel
[1] The call to prayer is actually at around 6.45, 7 o'clock just sounds better!
Ahmed Mekky. You can work out what he is singing about from the video I think (I really have no idea what he is saying).