ONE MORNING IN CAIRO

I awoke this morning with a favorite image in my mind, one that I’ve been carrying with me since a warm October morning in Cairo, 1988. It's a

magical scene that my subconscious chose to save and it now serves to comfort me just as a warm oversized blanket on a cool day. I never really understand why it comes to me, but I always welcome it like a call from an old dear friend.

That morning I had to rise before dawn to get back to Mother’s flat in Cairo. She wanted to take a little excursion that day and I had stayed in Giza with my Spanish boyfriend, Cesar. I understood the cab ride would take two hours to get across Cairo in the consistently congested traffic. After spending a month in Cairo, I had finally learned that taking a cab in Cairo, I had to give up any iota of control over my future. Egyptian law states that all cars are only responsible for what is in front of them; drivers use their horns to tell each other where they are. There were no traffic lights. For me, the trick was to concentrate on something else; the prayers being sung over the loud speaker, the radio droning out an Arabic tune, the driver mumbling to himself.... It wasn’t easy but so necessary.

I was in a dreamy fog that morning, running through the festivities of the previous night. All new information, an adventure that would undoubtly never happen again. Cesar and I had gone out to a very exclusive disco; a place where Saudi women came to reveal themselves, where their traditional veils weren't required. Here they could wear their western wear and flirt and dance and generally let out all their pent up energy. It was quite a sight to see. And yet I had to watch out of the corner of my eye or Cesar would describe what he saw in a whisper to me. I dared him to dance with the most flamboyant of them. He refused. He knew he would have to satisfy all of her desires or he would risk his life. It was well known that hit men could be dispatched just to save face. I had been warned and I had learned that the rules here were not ones I could ever fathom. This was no joke. I did as I was told. I never looked anyone in the eye as we danced the night away: Forever searing the image into my memory, an image that would never be relived.

Now, sitting in traffic, the sun was just rising in front of us, a big fiery ball over the horizon as my cab driver chanted along with a tune from his radio. The drive was slow and bumpy as we made our way towards Heliopolis, the part of Cairo the English Ex-pats used to inhabit. I kept quiet in the back seat, again with the understanding that the rules were different here.

It was unusual for a "western woman" to take a cab for such a long distance, alone. I could hear the prayers starting up over the loud speakers throughout the city. I had grown to love the melodic yet monotone drone. I tried to concentrate on the faces of the people on the street, their drawn deep folds of experience and hardship on their sunken eyes. Emotion always welled up and made me want to hold them with all my might, wanting to tell them that the next life would be better. I wanted to say something, anything to take away the pain of their poverty stricken existence. And yet I was reminded that this place had touched a place in my heart that I had not known before. I had learned that this existence for them had it's own lessons, one of which I yearned to live myself. I wanted so much to emulate their ability to live in the moment and not think into tomorrow. This was their secret, their way of life… Their survival. It gave me a sense of liberation I had not known before.

I concentrated on letting the rays of the sun streaming into the cab warm my face. My heart was so full as I gazed at the magnificent mosques and then the brilliant English mansions now crumbling from disrepair. Suddenly a familiar sound emerged from the din of the traffic, but I was lost to place the sound in my experience…a clop, clop, clop which got louder, stronger and faster as I realized it was coming up from behind the cab. I turned around and scanned through the sea of cars and people, trying to find the source. A figure caught my eye: A young boy dressed in a white galabeya, his black and white head piece covering most of his face, maneuvering his beautiful stallion through the traffic at a full canter over the old cobblestone street. A rhythm emerged as the horses hooves hit the stones, the boys long black hair and white dress waving in motion while he deftly held on to his horses’ mane. He rode without a saddle or bridle. They both knew where they were going. It was truly a sight to behold: Two friends in a full cantor amidst the modern throws of Cairo traffic….

I was mesmerized by the movement against the backdrop of a city in a constant state of frenetic transition. I wanted to be that boy, to savor the past and ride into the present, paying no mind to the future. I wanted to be able to feel the cobblestones underneath me and know that I trusted the horse on which I rode. At that moment I wanted to stay in Cairo forever and yet I knew this moment could be only that: A moment in time.

I watched as this beautiful young boy and his horse passed the cab. I dared to ask the driver in my broken Arabic where the boy was going. He replied, "He is late for school. They are both in trouble"...Why? I wondered. What had kept this boy from getting where he needed to go? I now realize that this image comes to me when I think I may be late. This morning my alarm didn’t go off…. I wish I had that stallion to take me where I needed to go. I wish I had the freedom to be late. I wish I there was something in my life so all consuming that I lost track of time...I wish...

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