Taxi (English edition)

by Khaled Al Khamissi

  ‘I don’t know if it’s from the filth we have to breathe in the street or the food we poison ourselves with, or definitely from the pesticides that we keep spraying, but what I want to tell Mufid Fawzi is that every day about half the Egyptian nation goes to the Cancer Institute, and he’ll definitely know how to handle it. He must know the president and he’s bound to talk with him about this serious matter, and the president will definitely find a solution to this problem.’

  Fifty-five

  ‘I look at everyone who owns a private car as a criminal, a thief, no exaggeration I tell you, I look in their eyes and I see a bunch of criminals.

  ‘See that poor girl who’s standing there. Look at the car in front of us and what it’ll do. See, it’s pulled over and the guy’s trying with the girl. Now he’s gone off, rebuffed and humiliated. Didn’t I tell you that everyone with a car in this country is a criminal, chasing after things that aren’t theirs?

  ‘See those kids standing there, they’ve come out of that secretarial institute on the right. See that car, my God, that’s worth more than half a million pounds, he’s parked like a dirty thief looking in the mirror and waiting for someone to approach him.

  ‘It’s despicable and disgusting. Whenever I’m driving, I see cars bent on stealing. You know, a rich guy once told me: “The rich fuck the poor every moment of their lives.” If you go work for a rich man he’ll give you hell for three weeks and then he’ll fire you and tell you you’re no good, and he’ll bring someone else and do the same thing to him. They fuck them.

  ‘The trouble is they try to pick up girls aged sixteen or seventeen, or the girls at that institute we saw, young girls, poor things, and pretty, who are trying to learn and make an honest living, and those guys are acting like wolves who want to get their teeth into their flesh, and the poor girls are still so innocent they don’t understand the dirty minds of the criminals waiting in their cars.

  ‘See that car too, that’s got a Suez customs office plate, see how big it is, big as a bus, he’s parked there too, hanging around waiting to throw his dirt onto our street.’

  All along the way the driver continued to point out to me ‘the thieves of the road’, as he put it, and continued tirelessly to analyse the reason why each and every car was stopped by the side of the road. The strange thing is that I didn’t utter a word throughout the journey, from the moment I got in to the moment I got out. It was a long monologue about the criminal rich and I was scared to tell him I owned a car.

  Fifty-six

  The headache was killing me, though I rarely have headaches. In fact, until I was thirty I used to boast and tell everyone around me that I had never had a headache. Those days are past and here I was standing in Mohamed Farid Street downtown with an agonising headache.

  A taxi approached me and slowed down without stopping, so I had to shout out ‘Agouza . . . Agouza.’ The driver stopped thirty yards beyond me and I ran to catch him in case he might change his mind and leave me, which often happens for metaphysical reasons incomprehensible to poor people like me. I trod in a pool of sewage water that I had not noticed and that extended from under the car stopped on the side of the street.

  It was something to have found… a taxi but it was out of the frying pan into the fire. I found the driver was a young man of no more than twenty-five and he had turned up the volume on the cassette player to levels beyond international standards for the headache that was killing me.

  When I asked him, with the utmost politeness, to turn down the volume, I suddenly found he had leapt into the conversation at a stage we should not have reached for at least five minutes. ‘You mean, if that was the Quran, could you have told me to turn down the volume?’ he shouted.

  At first I didn’t understand the connection between my request and what he had said, then it dawned on me that he was listing to a sermon and then I noticed a large number of pictures of Pope Cyril and Pope Shenouda surrounding me on every side, to declare to everyone that he was Christian. I cannot deny that I was surprised at the driver’s behaviour, since Egypt’s Christians don’t generally rush into confrontations of this kind and since none of the Christian friends I know make much show of performing their religious duties. I never heard any of them say: “I’m going to church today”, unlike my Muslim friends, who never tire of announcing that they performed their prayers or fasted – “I performed the afternoon prayer” or “because I didn’t have time to perform the afternoon prayer” or “I’m really tired because I’m fasting.”’

  I’ve never known the reason for that. Does it have something to do with the nature of each religion? Or is it because Christians are a minority in Egypt, or maybe I don’t know because the headache has a hold on my head like a thug holding the shirt of the man he’s beating.

  I thought of withdrawing from the conversation but I decided to respond:

  ‘Yes, I would tell you to turn it down,’ I said. ‘And for your information, as soon as I get in a taxi and find the driver playing the Quran and chatting with me, I quote the Quran at him: “And when the Quran is recited, then listen to it and remain silent, that mercy may be shown to you.” (7:204), and I ask him to turn the tape off.’

  The driver grew more irritated, as if he hadn’t heard what I said. ‘I won’t turn it down and if you don’t like it you can get out,’ he said.

  Now I pretended to be irritated. ‘For a start, how do you know I’m Muslim? Is it written on my forehead? Couldn’t I be a Christian with a headache? Or must I hang a cross around my neck or have a prayer mark on my forehead so you can classify your passengers?’ I said.

  ‘Look, this is my taxi,’ the driver said. ‘I won’t turn it down. I want to listen. Are you going to get out or shall I carry on?’

  I held my tongue and he drove on. I thought of talking to him about the principle of moderation in the exercise of one’s rights and that his right must end where the rights of others start. But then I remembered that what I was thinking was meaningless nonsense in the streets of Egypt, which ring with shouts of every kind, where loudspeakers surround us and no one can open his mouth.

  One side of the tape had ended and the driver quickly put the other side on. Silence reigned for some moments as we waited at the traffic light near the High Court building. I noticed that the tensed muscles of his face began to relax a little. I began to examine him from where I was sitting behind. He was younger than I expected, perhaps twenty years old, and it looked like his hair had not seen a comb for ages. From the way he spoke he did not appear to have much education. Possibly just primary school.

  I took out a piece of chocolate and offered it to him in the hope that it would relieve a little of the tension. When he turned it down, I said: ‘It’s better than smoking cigarettes. Go on then, smoke.’

  He took the chocolate reluctantly.

  ‘Why are you so fanatical?’ I asked him.

  ‘What makes you think I’m a fanatic?’ he answered.

  ‘Go on, tell me what the matter is.’

  We were close to the ramp up to the Sixth of October Bridge and at the start of the ramp a crowd of people came forward to shout out their destinations in the hope that the driver would stop for them. He turned off the tape to hear their shouts – Embaba, el-Warrak, Boulak el-Dakrour. He didn’t stop but drove up the ramp. The bridge was jam-packed and after a long silence, he sighed and started to speak:

  ‘My brother spoke to me just now. He’s the only success in our family. That brother’s a genius, a lecturer in the sociology department of the Faculty of Humanities.’

  ‘Everything’s fine I hope,’ I said.

  ‘Today the professor who’s supervising his thesis postponed the examination yet again. The son of a bitch has been stringing him along for several years. Frankly he’s persecuting him because he’s Christian. In the Faculty of Literature they gang up to obstruct anyone who’s Christian.’

  Any objection from me would have unleashed an enormous outburst of anger inside him and, besides,
what he said might be true. I had witnessed and known about such cases before. I didn’t know exactly what I should say so I decided to keep quiet, silent like all the silent people in society around me.

  Fifty-seven

  ‘I’ve been thinking about this day for four months. Every day I’ve kept telling myself: “Fifty days to go” or “Forty-five days to go”. It’s been a nightmare haunting me. It’s been like a curse hanging over me that I have no hope of escaping. You see, renewing your driving licence comes around every three years and every time you obliterate the memory of what happens in those few days. The three years pass in a flash and you find you don’t know what to do.

  ‘Anyway, I’ll tell you the story of this exhausting task and by the time we reach Shubra I’ll have finished the story for you and we’ll fill the time.

  ‘I went to the Cairo Traffic Department in Salam City, and I live in Dar el-Salam, That makes two Salams, but to get from my place to the traffic department I have to take three buses, with a fight for each one, in other words it takes me at least two hours. I reached the Traffic Department and found out what was needed – a police document with my fingerprints, and a photograph, social insurance, a certificate from the union payment receipts, in other words, and a medical examination certificate.

  ‘Of course to get from the traffic department to the insurance place, Basatin branch, which is in Maadi, takes three hours, because that’s in the far north of the city and the other’s in the far south, so I would have arrived after they closed.

  ‘The next day I went to the insurance office and went in to see the official who assesses the insurance, and he said: “Go and pay and then come back to me.” So I went to the cashier’s office and the queue was unbelievable. I paid about 424 pounds for the three years and went back to the first guy. He made out the receipt for me and told me to go upstairs to sign and get a stamp and then come back to him. I went upstairs and went in to see the woman there. “Please I want to sign and get a stamp,” I said. She told me to go see Mrs So-and-so. Mrs So-and-so sent me to Mrs Such-and-such. I did a complete circle. Anyway, I signed and she told me to go to the manager woman’s office for her to stamp my papers in the other room. I went in and the manager was in the bathroom. Would she come out and show her face? No way. I thought she must be giving birth in there! Anyway after about an hour she finally showed up and stamped the papers. All well and good. I went downstairs to the first clerk and sat waiting about half an hour. He had a look at the paper and said: “That’s fine, off you go.” OK, but couldn’t I have left right from the start, without hanging around to see him? Anyway I was out.

  ‘Of course you can’t do the union bit the same day because they are naturally in two different directions, because the union’s in Abdou Pasha in Abbasia, and getting from Maadi to Abbasia is another story.

  ‘The next day I went to the union in Abdou Pasha: We exchanged good mornings and I gave him the old union cards and he asked for 105 pounds. “Why 105 for God’s sake?” I asked him. “It’s gone up, didn’t you know?” he said. “No, really, no one told me. They hide these things from me because I have a bad heart,” I said. “Anyway, it’s hanging on the wall there, go and see for yourself,” he said. “OK,” I said. I went to see the piece of paper on the wall and added up the fees and found the total came to eighty-three pounds. I went back to him and said: “Look, it’s eighty-three pounds, so how come you’re saying it’s 105?” “It’s being implemented retroactively and you have to pay the increase for the last three years.” “The three years I paid for three years ago?” I said. He nodded his head. “Is there even such a thing as retroactively effective?” I said. “If you pass a law, it should come into effect when it’s passed.” He waved his hand. “That’s the system,” he said. “Are you going to pay or aren’t you?”

  ‘I didn’t have a choice so of course I’d pay. I paid but there was a question bugging me. “Can I ask you an honest question?” “Go ahead.” “What do we benefit from all this money we pay?” “Nothing.” He said. “You say it straight to my face, in all simplicity, thank you.”

  ‘Anyway, what caught my attention was another guy who was paying his union fees and was asking why this and why that. They told him it’s a friendship fund. He told them “I just want to pay the union, I don’t need anyone to come to my funeral when I die. That’s none of your business. I don’t want to pay for the friendship fund.” Anyway when I left the argument was still raging and I don’t know what happened with the guy.

  ‘I haven’t put you to sleep, I hope. No. You still look awake so I’ll carry on. The next day I went up to the police document place for my district in the Basatin police station. Anyway I went to the station, and it was a run around and torture. Why? I’ll tell you.

  ‘After I’d stood in a long queue the policeman told me to go get a police stamp. I went in to get the police stamp and they told me: “No, go to the police station in Maadi or Khalifa.” “Why there?” I said, “the stamps there look nicer?” “No, funny guy,” they said, “There they have police stamps and here we don’t.” “What do you mean? Isn’t this a police station as well so how come you don’t have any? You want me to go all the way to Maadi?” “Please, don’t hold us up. Get out of the way. Next, please.”

  ‘Anyway I took a taxi back and forth to Maadi police station and paid twelve pounds to get a three-pound police stamp. Then I went back to stand at the back of the queue. It was real torture. Anyway that was Thursday and they told me I could pick up the police document on Saturday. I went first thing on Saturday to pick it up. Of course I was dreaming. I waited outside and the pashas were having beans for breakfast. The paper still hadn’t turned up. Anyway in the end I got the document but I couldn’t get to the traffic department the same day. Disaster, because the owner of the taxi was going to get another driver to replace me.

  ‘The next day I went to the traffic department, from Dar el-Salam to Salam City, toughened from all the battles I had been through and with the papers in my pocket. They told me: “The medical department.” I went out to the medical department and found people standing selling medical certificates. “Yes, yes, anyone want certificates, anyone want certificates?” one guy was shouting. Like pedlars, I mean. Anyway, I got a form from him and asked him how much it was. He said two pounds. A guy who by chance was passing by in the street told me: “Hey man, they’ll give you those for free upstairs.” The pedlars gave the man who told me a dirty look. The man who had sold me the paper came up and said: “If my paper doesn’t work, bring it back and I’ll give you the money.”

  ‘I went upstairs to the window and the man took the photograph off the piece of paper I had bought for two pounds. I asked him: “Don’t you want that paper?” He said no, so I said: “Well, give it to me.” I took it and went downstairs to the man who was selling them and said: “Up to your word?” He said OK and I got two pounds from him.

  ‘Anyway we fixed a time for the medical. I’d made it for Saturday but they said: “Come on Tuesday.” I thought I’d grab the chance and while I was at it do the traffic violations document because for sure they would ask for it. So I went to do it and outside I found every layabout in town.

  “Sir, sir, can we do the violations certificate for you?” “How much will it cost?” I asked. “Ten pounds, five pounds that the guy inside takes and five pounds towards our livelihood.” “What do you mean, livelihood?” “As sustenance from God, and for our trouble and effort,” he said. “Well, if you find a livelihood lying around then give me a call. We all need a livelihood,” I said. “You’ll stand in the line and go through hell and you won’t be able to finish your business with the people inside,” he said. “I don’t have anything else to do,” I said, “the day’s completely ruined and I’m waiting for the medical.”

  ‘I left him and stood in the queue. Of course we waited ages. I bought the form for five pounds and handed it in to the traffic department. He took another five pounds, although I didn’t have any traffic offe
nces. But they have to take money. They call it winter relief or summer relief or anything. I waited about two hours and of course there was no shade or anything and we were scorched by the sun until we couldn’t take any more. Then they called us on the loudspeaker and I got my certificate and off I went. It was a tough day.

  ‘Fallen asleep? Wake up. All of this is just talk – imagine what would have happened to you if you were with me. OK, I’ll carry on, though it’s clear you’d rather sleep than hear my voice.

  ‘I waited till Tuesday and I don’t want to tell you how crowded it was. There were queues around the block. I waited in a queue as long as a snake and the man was standing there shouting out all the time: “Come on, everyone get ready and tell us good morning.” Of course, this “good morning” meant everyone should give him a tip. I paid a pound and I went in, thank God, and did the form and then we went into the doctor to have our nerves and our eyes checked. A very strange thing happened to do with glasses. The driver right in front of me was renewing his licence and it had expired about six years ago. He kept saying he wanted to take the test with his glasses on but the doctor refused. She said: “No, see what the traffic department says first. It’s been six years since you renewed the licence and your photo on the licence is without glasses.” The man said: “How am I going to earn a living?” Anyway she told him to take the test without glasses and he said he wouldn’t see anything. She said: “Really, go and ask at the traffic department.” The man went out screaming. I went in after him feeling jittery. I was holding the glasses in my hand and my hand was shaking. I’d just had them made about a week ago for the test. I said to her: “In the photo I’m not wearing glasses.” She said: “Never mind, come and put on your glasses, no problem.” Then in a loud voice she said: “See how we don’t want to make life complicated for you. Here’s an old guy whose licence hasn’t expired and he’s renewing it, no problem, and I’ll write on the test: “With glasses.”