A fast, fancy taxi driver!
Expatriates like me who live in Cairo don't own a car. I own a car in England but my daughter uses it and I've more or less signed it over to her. I could not own a car in the craziest city in the World because it would not last one week! I've been driving for over forty years but there is no way that I am going to drive in Cairo--it is a mad, road-raged city with bumps every five minutes (I don't mean speed bumps)--and an impatience that would try a saint. So, like millions of others in our city, I use taxis. There's one every thirty seconds in most places and you can get about quite quickly, and cheaply. If you speak Arabic (I have a smattering), you can get about without being ripped off. If you have a little muslimesque beard like mine, the taxis cost close to zilch ("Mister is an English Muslim, Yes?). Mafeesh Mushkellah (no problem).
The other day I met Mohamed Shoemaker, a man who has no time for traffic snarl -ups or complicated routes. Of course, his black and white taxi is the finest in the Middle East with every luxury a tourist might demand. I am not going to mock Mr Shoemaker's taxi or jest about it's provisions --that must be left to a man who does not have a fine beard like mine, but rather I shall inform you of the pleasures that await you upon entering this special vehicle. The car in question is a Turkish Fiat and MS' car is a newer model called a Dogan S. It is a luxury version comparable, but better than, the Peugeot 504's of the taxi masters trolling Shehab Street and Tahrir square. It is indeed a luxury vehicle close to the limousine Toyotas that ply the Corniche.
Apart from the chrome adornments on the body of Mr Shoemaker's car (a beautiful Eagle set upon the bonnet a la Rolls Royce, and a plethora of antennas and buttons and signs (one proclaiming: Giza Taxi Number One), there are a few surprises as you enter the interior. There are, for your convenience, three rear view mirrors (can you be safer than this?), a tissue box disguised as a small couch or a small couch disguised as a tissue box (Cairo's pollution always kept in mind), a taxi meter (not working), and a miniature Koran dangling from one of the mirrors. Garfield is resting on the rear parcel shelf close to speakers chanting daily prayers and admonitions to thje unholy. You can request a reduction in volume but if you are not wearing a beard like mine you may be met by stony silence. Most taxi drivers smoke Cleopatra cigarettes but the requisite for Mr MS' car is Marlboro.They somehow go with the tone. Mr S. does not have air-con. He tells you that only Hyundai's--cheap Korean shit--have air con, but Turkey is working on it!
When seated and comfortable in the plastic-covered seats (to protect the original Turkish linen), Mr Shoemaker reveals his piece-de-resistance. He turns down the sun-visor on your side and lo and behold, there is a DVD screen running Lebanese pop songs.
So there you have it. A wonderful ride (sometimes at close to a hundred miles per hour --no speed limits in Cairo--and, apart from twenty near collisions, you can be assured that your driver has provided every luxury available to you as you grit your teeth.) You have the chanting of prayer behind you, a semi-naked Lebanese singer on your screen in front and three rear view mirrors and a couch with tissues to keep you safe and healthy.
What else could you ask for?
"