roof turned floor
on cardboard boxes
red brick cubes framed
in concrete matrix
dust whirling in the mid-afternoon sun
light brown icing on a
colony of carmine cubes
antennae protruding from
unfinished roofs just incomplete floors
on top of other people's ceilings
like a hive of upturned
quadrangular ants their legs sticking out
and unmoving in the hot air
maybe in a year or two or ten
someone will have the money to build
another floor fresh metal feelers
curiously peeking out of concrete pillars
the present ones already rust-baked
and dust-covered buried in the walls
of the flat of the new inhabitants
another floor turned
roof fresh bricks eagerly awaiting
the afternoon for their initiation with
Cairo's ubiquitous yellow dust brought in from
the western desert.
How many more floors until the first one gives way?
(300300/160500)
The Metro's rhythmic rattling mingles with the
chattering of a hundred women's voices
words tumbling through the thick hot stale air
with efforts trying to reach their recipients
hands whirling through the air, gestures
telling stories instead of faces
behind black blue green veils
every story enhanced becomes
a thousand times more important
accompanied by waving arms and
yelps of excitement, annoyance or sadness
when a moment of silence like
an invisible bubble of utter
speechlessness manifests itself framed in bright orange of
a carriage door at the end of the aisle, just a small
moment a black-veiled woman, black gauze even
covering her eyes, her black-gloved hands holding
a book clad in worn black leather
golden lettering spelling out Qur'an - in
the rattling wind of open train windows all sound gone -
the moment of silence only disturbed
by what sounds like a butterfly
buzzing in imitation of a fly, words
fluttering at the edge of perception twirling
in a low voice
lingering in the silence as if all the chit-chat of women's voices
had been blocked out by a single woman's voice
reciting holy words in the morning in the first carriage on a Cairo Metro train.
(070400/160500)
"Habibi" squealing from a worn-out speaker
one of a dozen tapes scattered on a dusty carpet of blue plush draped around a gloves compartment without lid
a small golden ornament with Arabic squiggles on it suspended from a once-golden cord safely tied to the rear mirror turns and shakes and tingles with little bells probably praising Allah and asking for guidance -
in obtaining money from tourists, avoiding crashes and maintaining the car and your sanity
three people sweating in a black and white taxi that has surely been around for a while has seen better days surely during last century
happily the driver, singing along to his favourite tunes on tape, changes lanes - from the far left to the far right, all four, on a street that only has two lanes
car's horns like muezzins - after a while you try to ignore them works fine for calls to prayer but the honking around you just seems to go on and on and on and on another language another one that I can only understand in tiny bits sometimes you understand what tune the driver has to honk in order to tell the one in front to get out of the way RIGHT NOW and sometimes you can tell him directions - 'ala tuul, straight on!
but then the world of understanding collapses again into unintelligible chaos of horns and shouting plastic covered seats, the pride of your driver - you can wash them with a sponge! stick to your butt only seconds after sitting
down toxic fumes crawling in from outside through open windows that have long since lost the ability to close again eternally open
suicidal driving you might think and the first five minutes are the worst, but then insh' Allah! you get used to it
christmas tree tinsel and blinking multicoloured lights adorn the back of the car and if you are lucky to sit in the back you can also look at the beautiful photos sealed in the seat condoms in front of you
bumpy ride and nothing for the faint of heart if the goal was chasing pedestrians every one of the battered black and white tin boxes on wobbly wheels would be a winner
Allah looks after his children - they might shout and run and curse but don't get run over
Allah aleyk! another favourite tune the driver wails along to and starts clapping his hands nearly misses a bus
(310300/200500)
Mummies at the Museum don't frighten you?
Long dead kings, queens, commoners,
tastefully displayed in low-lighted specially made glass cases,
right temperature and combination of gases supplied,
and no one allowed to utter a sound at this
pious display of human transience
change of scenery
back alley in Cairo, downtown
but no tourists ever visit this place without a name
one among countless unnamed alleys connecting
two of the main streets many fashionable places lining them
places to be and to be seen at,
in that alley rubbish heaps rub against run-down houses' walls,
ankle-deep dust covers the ground
made of century-old trampled mud,
rotting vegetables and plastic bottles line the path,
and in a corner lies
a mummy.
A shock for sure, as the little cat must have died weeks, months, years ago
of exhaustion maybe some unknown sickness
looking like a sleeping kitten
were it not for the shape of its corpse. The bloating
of dead bodies long gone, all that remains
now flat like an inflatable toy forgotten in a corner
of the garden in summer discovered on a cold winter's night
the cat lying on its side
a perfect little mummy unwrapped with its
slightly ruffled tabby fur and its little head
resting against an empty plastic water bottle,
"Baraka", blessing that is, even the bugs and maggots are gone.
Just an empty husk of what once was
the object of veneration for a whole country
Bastet the Great, what has become of you?
(050400/160500)
I've had another hard hot day
of lurking about in Al-Qahira, the city
once more victorious in defeating cold European logic
hustlebustling brimming with life in the evening and now this -
the airport at night, in preparation
for an early morning flight
strange people scattered in the looming hall,
some sleeping on benches
some on their bags or in bags
apparently been sleeping for a few hours already
the minutes seem to play backgammon with the seconds in a timeless coffee-house of stretching hours
I struggle to stay awake
I left my alarm clock with my maid at the hotel
small stupid gift but she was so happy
cleaning people start pouring water
from big buckets on the floor, two scrubbing,
two mopping up in a bizarre ballet,
four men and four brooms in an endless puddle of
increasingly dirty water when
one of them comes sliding towards me on my lonely bench
at the edge of the hall I notice
he is happily singing to himself "Allah aleyk!"
that song again
seems to be a big hit around here
totally oblivious to his surroundings
skidding across the wet floor
like an ice skater in blue dungarees
and worn-out sandals trying to impress
invisible judges
probably the minutes and seconds
along with the hours playing dominoes now and
again this city makes me smile to hell with European logic
(100400/200500)
Terminal silence at the midan
as a longlong train crawls through a clutter of cars like a giant rectangular metal caterpillar pushing through a battlefield of freshly killed tin bugs at night.
Twenty minutes.
And pandemonium starts again.
(090400)