by Katrina Valenzuela

‘Fear does not prevent death, it prevents life.’ Naguib Mahfouz

‘Every traveler on life’s journey is a messenger, and every destination is the start of a new journey.’ Anon

Stepping from the airport terminal into the blinding sunlight, I’m intoxicated by the scent of Cairo… jasmine with camel dung and cumin, accented by a spritz of diesel and a note of Drakkar Noir.

Strange, how scent can evoke so many memories and emotions.

Sometimes on a dark winter’s day in New England, I open my empty suitcase just to savor the lingering scent of Egypt. If only perfume oil could be blended from this, it could make the long absences tolerable.

Moving past the crush of taxi drivers all shouting and frantically gesturing for attention, I spot my regular driver, Hassan.

I learned long ago that having a taxi driver of one’s own is the easiest way to manage living here. I’m well aware that driving in Cairo traffic would put a serious strain on my nervous system and I wouldn’t be as pleasant on the road as those patient Egyptians around me. Hassan has become an essential part of my life in Egypt.

The old black and white taxi gleams freshly washed in the sunlight and Hassan stands apart in his best clothes, his wide eyes searching the crowd for me. His face lights up, childlike, when he spots me. “Ahlen we Sahlen,” he calls, “welcome home.”

He places my luggage in the car and we take off in a cloud of dust toward the city, the latest song from Egyptian superstar Amr Diab blaring, the taxi bumping and shimmying to the beat on what seem to be no shocks at all.

“You need new shocks, Hassan. New shocks,” I call out above the music.

“Socks? You need socks? No problem, we stop on the way.”

I don’t try to explain, but instead inquire about his family, noting a new photo on the dashboard of a tiny girl with dark curls. “My new daughter, Hadiyya.” Hassan beams with pride as he hands me the photo.

I sigh and look closely at the child’s remarkable eyes. “Masha’Allah, she is ‘hadiyya’ for sure, truly a gift.”

Hassan turns fully around in the driver’s seat to chat with me about his new baby, laughing and offering a Cleopatra cigarette as the car appears to steer itself. He knows I don’t smoke and never have, but he must offer out of politeness and tradition.

Along Sharia el Haram, Pyramids Road, the heavily loaded camels and donkeys vie for space alongside new black Mercedes and colorful tour buses, as pedestrians dart nonchalantly through the confusion.

I can just make out the hazy outline of the pyramids from here, nearly obscured by the smog and dust of the encroaching city.

We careen toward an oncoming donkey cart piled high with garlic cloves; a small boy perched high atop the cargo waves at the cars below. “You are welcome in Egypt!” he calls out, proud of his few words in English.

His father waves too, a miswak, or poor man’s toothbrush, between his teeth. I wave back and my heart jumps to my throat as we narrowly miss the cart.

“Relax, sit back,” Hassan reassures me. “You are safe now, everything is good. You’re home now in Egypt. Mafeesh mushkelat, no problems here.”

Honking his horn in concert with hundreds of other drivers, all of them honking for no particular reason, he navigates the traffic. Red lights are merely a gentle suggestion and lanes are an ever-changing creation.

Spotting an opening in the gridlock, Hassan gestures with his right hand from his forehead, focuses his gaze and points his index finger directly ahead, moving through the parting rows of cars. This gesture is for the benefit of other drivers, who acquiesce without a hint of annoyance.

He then deftly grabs the wheel with his right hand and his left arm reaches out the window. He opens and closes his hand in an absurd grabbing manner to create a flashing signal.

“Is that supposed to be your directional? Very creative!” I tease.

Hassan laughs in response as he continues to weave around donkeys, camels, and trucks.

A family of five passes, helmet-less, loaded down with black plastic grocery bags, everyone piled circus-style on an old moped. An infant is tied onto the mother’s back and looks around, serene and happy.

At last, we break free of the worst of the gridlock and I resume breathing, recalling the old proverb, ‘Trust in Allah, but tether your camel.’ All camels tethered as best as possible, there’s no choice now but to surrender and trust.

The late afternoon call to prayer begins to drone as I relax against the threadbare backrest.

I’ve always loved the sound of the muezzin call as it echoes from the East.

Lying half awake in the morning, I would often imagine the first rays of sunlight touching the forehead of The Sphinx as it has for millennia, moving in a serpentine pattern across the vast city, the haunting cry weaving and dancing its way into the villages.

Five times a day the world is reminded to pause, be silent, and turn its attention to God. I love this tradition and am certain it contributes to the calm good nature of Egyptians.

The air is sweet with late summer Jasmine and I nod off as I begin to feel the rhythm of Egypt sink into my being. A warm feeling of joy washes over me at hearing the deep, musical sound of the Egyptian dialect I grew up with. The traffic noise, the chaos, the alarming lack of normal caution all become oddly acceptable.

Hassan is right, I reflect – I am home now in the arms of Mother Egypt. The much-loved song about Egypt goes round and round in my mind… ‘Um el Dunya,’ Mother of the World.

Photographs courtesy of Katrina Valenzuela