Horse or Bird - you decide

Patrick & I want to buy a new phone, but we disagree about which one to buy. We have narrowed it down to two choices.

The horse:

Or the bird:

In the name of domestic harmony, we have decided to throw the choice open to the forces of democracy. You choose: horse or bird. Vote on the poll opposite.*

Voting closes on Christmas Eve at midnight in some time zone or other.

*Terms and conditions may or may not apply. I don't know. I'm not a lawyer. Whatever, really. But I promise we will abide by the results, give or take availability in store, or domestic crisis, or my right to get really stroppy and stamp my feet if I don't get my own way.

The infamous Egyptian taxi driver.

I recently read a blog post written by a friend of Patrick’s sister, who lives and works in Libya. In it, she describes the traffic in Tripoli in all it’s terror-inspiring madness. You can read her blog post here.  The picture is all too familiar to us here in Alexandria, especially the bit about every journey feeling like a fairground ride, with the added dimension of possible death.

It is fair to say that most taxi drivers here (with a few honourable exceptions) are entirely mad – not so much as a screw loose, more like one single screw holding their sanity together.

However it is necessary to award them a certain degree of admiration for their death-defying antics. A particular favourite of mine is what we have termed the “Magician Manoeuvre.” In one hand he holds his mobile phone so he can update his wife that yes, he is still driving down Abu Qir Street, as he has been all day; in the other hand he waves a lit cigarette; with the other hand he adjusts the radio, and with the fourth hand he changes gear. In between calls to his wife he sings along to the radio, gesticulates at people trying to  cross the road, chats to his passengers or shouts greetings to fellow taxi drivers through the open window. Throughout the whole process he weaves constantly back and forth across 3 lanes of traffic, dodging cars, motorbikes, bicycles, pedestrians, traffic cops, horses, donkeys, fruit and veg handcarts, kids playing football, etc.

A skilled driver does not let such a minor thing as lanes interfere with his quest. He thinks nothing of nipping into the fast lane for 2 seconds to overtake a solitary car, before cutting back across 5 lanes of traffic to make a right turn.

Here’s a fun game: Taxi Tat Bingo. Last week we rode in a taxi with 4 sets of furry dice, 2 dangly Quranic verses, 3 pictures of his kids, a fake-fur dashboard cover with matching parcel shelf, a golden tissue box and 7 auxiliary mirrors. There was no air freshener or 4x4 sticker, or it would have been a full house.

The Overcharger. You know you’re going to be overcharged by a couple of subtle signs: the driver changes the music to Celine Dion or Whitney Houston, and tries to befriend you in a particular type of English used only in taxis, by touts at the pyramids, and by young men in Luxor.

Our strangest (and scariest) taxi ride happened a few weeks ago. A few minutes into the journey, the driver pulled over, said “two seconds” and disappeared, leaving the engine running. When he reappeared he was clutching something in a plastic bag. It turned out to be a can of beer, which he opened and polished off as we continued on our way (making all the manoeuvres described above). I shut my eyes and prayed… and thankfully the back streets were relatively empty. But we decided to get out of the taxi before we got to Big Scary Main Road, as for once it was less scary to cross six lanes of traffic on foot than with a drink-and-driver.

Anyway, onto those notable exceptions:

• Patrick's new best friend: one morning, Patrick forgot his bag, and had to get out of the taxi on the way to classes and go back for it. In his second taxi, the driver started chatting in Arabic. “Where are you from? Ah, England. Welcome to Egypt! We are very pleased you are here! Do you like Alexandria? Oh, good, I am very glad!...” etc etc. When they got to the language centre he refused payment, because he was so happy that Patrick was studying Arabic.

• The philosopher: a few days later our driver started speaking to us in English. At first (of course) we suspected that he might be an Overcharger, but no. It transpired that he studied philosophy at university, and we were treated to some choice (long) quotes from Bertrand Russell. Nothing like a bit of philosophising before breakfast.

• The good driver: we were privileged to experience Alexandria’s one good taxi driver  - possibly the only one who has actually taken driving lessons. He stopped at traffic lights (the only one doing so), did what the traffic police asked, stopped to let old ladies cross the road – and made sure other drivers did the same. He might be related to this guy here

Anyway, it turns out that driving carefully and respectfully is a much more effective way of earning a higher fare than regaling us with Misses Dion and Houston, or shaving 5 seconds off the journey time by cutting up 14 vehicles and a donkey in a diagonal screech across the wrong side of the road. We voluntarily paid this guy double for the joy and delight of arriving with our nerves intact. Now if only a few other taxi drivers would follow his example!!

Venice of the East

Winter has started with a bang – literally. On Saturday night an enormous clap of thunder split the sky right above the café where we were sitting, to the extent that we waited in silence for a few moments, expecting the building to fall down, or all known life to be destroyed by a nuclear blast.

A nice lady we chatted to in the café said she was very pleased that she had bought an umbrella on a trip to Manchester in the summer, as she knew it would be good enough to withstand the rain. (Incidentally, she also said that one of the things that impressed her most about England was the queuing. This is not something I have ever thought particularly characterised our nation, but yes, I agree with her – standing in line quietly, rather than joining a massive scrum and getting shunted around, is something I do miss!)

On Sunday morning on the way to Arabic classes, we faced an unexpected dilemma: a lake at the bottom of our road:

  

While we were waiting for a taxi the hailstones started:

This is Abu Qir Street, one of the city's main roads:

On our way home again, our taxi took to the water once more in a very unconvincing gondola impression:

 

There is some very watery footage on youtube too:

But fear not, my friends at home, once more in the grip of the ‘arctic chill’. The Egyptian winter seems to have thundered itself to a halt. Today (Tuesday) is sunny again, with temperatures pleasant for the rest of the week:

Drastic measures for combating homesickness #1

Missing the sub-zero temperatures and snow-covered wasteland of home?

Why not recreate the experience by defrosting the freezer and building a snowman out of the ice?

But remember: this will only be a brief experience, as your new friend will quickly succumb to the 20 degree air temperature ;-)

The weather (don't hate me)

Britain has apparently been plunged into a new ice age - at least judging by the facebook updates of most of my friends.

Meanwhile, Egypt is currently enjoying unseasonably warm temperatures. The days languish in the mid-twenties, while the nights never dip below the mid-teens. Nevertheless, the police have changed into their winter uniforms (black instead of white; long-sleeves instead of short; jackets and boots) which is the cue for everyone else to switch wardrobe too. Suddenly everyone is in long sleeves and jumpers, even coats. At night, kids are wrapped up in hats and scarves, and babies are swaddled in fleecy blankets. Fur-lined boots even make the odd appearance.

It's like the British summer - you know, when we insist on short-sleeves, sandals, cotton and linen, never mind that it's 4 degrees and raining.

Looking at everyone's snowy pictures, I felt a few pangs of jealousy yesterday. I love snow. I also like bundling up in winter clothes, the smell of cold air, and the lovely feeling of coming into a warm house afterwards. But then I looked out into our garden where the sun is shining through the palm trees, silhouetted against the blue sky, and decided that actually it's not so bad here after all. Like I said in the title, don't hate me!

View from our flat window