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Title: Twelve Days to Kill, Ch. 8 Autostrad
Words: 3500
Draft/Editing: 1st draft & 1st edit
Author: Steven Digre
Copyright: Nov. 2003
Abstract:
Chapter eight from my
unpublished fiction novel "Twelve Days to Kill." This chapter details
a newcomers first drive down, what has been declared, the most
dangerous highway in the world. I post it here, simply because of the
sheer number of hours I invested in writing the piece.
Twelve Days to Kill,
Chapter 08
The Egyptian Autostrad
(The most dangerous
highway in the world)
The drawer slid silently on rails of glass and
clicked shut. The soft metal click echoed in the office, more than
tripling the perceived size of the room.
A trail of fingertip evidence left its wake in
the light coating of desert dust that had collected on the desktop, a
quick swipe of the palm destroyed the evidence. A soft blow of breath
and cautious swipe of the hand sent the erasers leavings to the floor.
A shoe brushed them under the desk and out of site.
Voices were heard outside.
The silence in the air-conditioned room was
deafening.
An ear pressed to the door, waiting, listening.
After thirty-seconds of quiet, moving quickly, a second drawer was
opened, and just like the others it clicked in to place and sounded
ten times louder than it was.
A pencil flipped between thumb and index finger
exposing eraser to paper, then set to task. This time the eraser
droppings were gathered into a neat pile and brushed into the
wastebasket.
The papers on the desktop were returned to their
undisturbed location, manila folders were sorted into their proper
order, and only then, were they returned to their holding place. The
pencil found its way back to its holding cup, the lights in the room
were dimmed, and an ear pressed to the door. Moments later, the door
opened, and clattered shut.
#
With luggage in tow Jon, Hany, and Ali
drove out of the spacious Cairo International Airport parking lot and
were immediately stopped at a checkpoint. The checkpoint was little
more than a wooden shack, about the size of a phone booth, with two
men seated next to it. A slender and fit police officer in white
walked to the SUV and peered in through the driver’s window. The
officer spoke to Ali in Arabic. Hany responded instead, and was
presented with a clipboard, which he promptly signed and handed back
to the officer. Clasping the clipboard under his arm, the police
officer flicked his fingers and waved them on. As the SUV passed, the
officer ducked his head a few inches and gave Jon a look-over of
curiosity.
“Check point,” Hany offered. “Recording your
final destination.”
Jon nodded in response, though didn’t process the
experience, he was focused on Ali’s adjustment of the air conditioner.
Jon’s nod to Hany had sent a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead
and onto his cheek. Jon felt drenched. The mere thought of it brought
more sweat to his forehead. Ali glanced in the rear-view mirror; made
eye contact with Jon, then cranked the fan full bore as he motioned to
Hany and back to Jon. Hany nodded as the SUV turned south.
The three exchanged small talk as they drove
south on the Autostrad. The road was well paved and painted with lines
as any other highway, but no one seemed to be driving between them.
Cars swerved, honked, sped, slowed, honked again and swerved back into
speeding traffic. Without warning traffic stopped. It resumed quickly,
and vehicles squeezed four lanes into the space marked for two.
A 1970s Peugeot slowed in the right lane then cut
an unexpected hard left hand turn in front of, and across, the four
lanes of speeding traffic. The lanes bent, swerved, and honked.
In the space left vacant by the Peugeot’s left
hand turn, now rode a boy on a wooden donkey cart. The boy thrashed
the reins to the donkey as they trudged fifty-empty-chicken crates
down Cairo’s busiest and most chaotic street, the crates were piled
ten feet high and appeared ready to topple at any moment. A late-model
silver BMW blew past the donkey cart and honked at an oncoming Fiat
taxi, which was driving in the right-center lane, but in reverse,
straight back into oncoming traffic. Jon’s foot slammed on an
imaginary back-seat brake. Hany and Ali didn’t react.
“I have to drive in this?” Jon said out loud
though speaking to himself.
Hany and Ali chuckled and spoke in Arabic as the
SUV passed another overloaded donkey cart, this one topped with crates
of potatoes and signs written in Arabic numerals - a store on wheels.
A stalled, blue and white, public transportation
bus slowed the moving potato store, and forced the four lanes of
traffic into three. A car shifted into reverse and backed up to
towards the potato cart, the driver jumped out and approached the
cart, further forcing four lanes of traffic into two. Jon unclenched
his jaw and felt his muscles ache from the pressure he had been
applying.
Moment’s later, the SUV cleared the stalled bus
and the highway sped to life, except no one was following the white
painted lines.
“This is Heliopolis,” Ali said in broken English.
“President Mubarak lives here.” Hany mumbled something in a dark tone
and Ali returned the same. The tone told Jon there was something in
their words, though now was not the time to ask. Obviously, they loved
or hated their President.
Heliopolis’ ten-story buildings enclosed the
Autostrad. A feeling of comfort came over Jon as the sun darkened,
just as the Chicago sky-scrappers would soak the afternoon sun.
Traffic slowed again, this time for three police officers standing in
the highway. The officers were, at random, selecting and directing
cars to the side of the road where, a second group of officers, seated
behind a cardboard table, collected papers from the drivers. The SUV
inched forward, unmarked, and Hany offered to the scene, “License
check.”
Ali drove through the license check and
was able to top off at 100km-an-hour as the SUV swam along with the
chaotic traffic. Billboards, sloping in fluid Arabic writing, raced by
Jon’s eyes. Blue-traffic signs appeared every so often, written in
both Arabic and English, every English word misspelled.
Ali maneuvered the SUV into a circular-midan,
joining the six lanes of traffic that converged there. Each direction
of traffic merged and circled the midan, then exited. No stopping, no
traffic lights, only fluidity of chaos. At the far end of the midan
were four black-uniformed men standing partially attentive,
each man shouldered an AK47.
“Who are--”
“Military police,” Hany interrupted pointing
towards the men. “You’ll see them everywhere. They are here to
maintain peace. Don’t worry though; each man has only one bullet,”
Hany said and chuckled with Ali. “It’s to prevent an overthrow of the
government.”
Ali mumbled something in Arabic. Again in what
Jon assumed was a dark tone, though new to the country, a dark,
grumbling tone, still communicates through any language. Jon wanted to
ask, but felt it better not to. Their mumbles meant something and he
would find out soon enough, he worked with them after all.
Another group of AK47 military police officers
passed into and out of view as the SUV flowed out of the circular
midan. Two of the AK47 officers were standing behind a metal-bullet
barricade, another three men sat in the back-end of a pickup truck.
The soldier’s uniforms were black and they looked hot under the
beating sun. And each of their faces, whether standing or seated, said
one thing - they were board out of their minds. Jon couldn’t remember
seeing faces so expressionless, it was like they were staring into a
bleak-emotional-futureless void.
A blue and white public transportation bus pulled
alongside the SUV. Even through the SUV’s closed windows, the engines
volume was intense. The bus was overloaded with at least
ninety-passengers and many were hanging onto the outside doors, the
engine roared, protesting the overloaded capacity, as it took a small
incline leaving a cloud of black exhaust in its wake. The SUV’s
interior filled with the smell of black-fumed exhaust.
Today, the Autostrad was proudly displaying every
conceivable make and model of vehicle. A 1958 Mercedes Benz, with a
top speed of 40km, swerved in front of the SUV and slowed as it took
the incline. A 2005 Mercedes Benz was jockeyed for position next to
the SUV. Ali veered left behind it.
Peugeot’s, Frances mid-size compact, were
everywhere, and they were by far the most popular selection of
vehicles in Cairo, most appeared in good health. Microbuses, white
topped with blue on the bottom, were not in good health and their
chaotic driving contributed the most to the highways chaos. The
driver’s style declared the road as theirs as they would slow in the
right lane to gain and deliver passengers, but they never came to a
complete stop. Men would run to catch the microbus where passengers
extended hands assisted them onboard.
A family of four on a scooter merged into an
imaginary lane in front of the SUV. Father, wife, and children were
cramped onto a Jawa motorcycle, Czech-republics finest motor offering.
Father drove as the woman held her young children in her lap; no one
wore helmets. The scooter swerved right of passing traffic. A
microbus, having completed passenger pickup and delivery,
swerved from the right side of the road, the Jawa rocked on
wheels edge and swerved to the left. A Peugeot swerved from the Jawa
and caused the 2004 BMW to slam on its brakes, which in turn,
accelerated behind the microbus and then passed it on the right.
“This is the Sadat Memorial,” Hany said undaunted
by the chaos.
“The former President of Egypt,” Ali added.
Hany nodded his head. “Sadat was assassinated
here on October 6th, 1981, and this is his memorial.
Radical Muslims resented his peace with Israel and put an end to his
reign,” Hany said, as he pointed to his
right, at a pyramid shaped structure, which rose eighty-feet into the
air.
Four thick-cement beams met at the structures
peak. Under that was an open space where two guards stood next to a
black sarcophagus. The guards could have worked at Buckingham Palace,
with their red-feathered caps and formal uniforms, frozen in guarded
pose. On the left side of the highway was a viewing stand for the
Sadat Memorial, enough seats for five hundred. The stands were empty,
sans a lone security guard.
Sour air filled the SUV and Ali adjusted the
air-conditioner. Hany turned it off.
“This is Muqattam,” Hany said waving the smell
from his nose. “Garbage City.”
To the left of the highway were what appeared to
be unfinished concrete homes; most were without doors or windows. The
houses were piled on top of one another, though not connected at the
base. They seemed to float in mid air. The rock where the city hovered
had been cut away in graduated progression; the houses planted in its
steps, suspended. The color of the rock backdrop was the same as the
Giza Pyramids. Jon wondered if this is where the pyramids were cut
from. The smell of rotting garbage now consumed the SUV’s interior.
The air-conditioner had been turned off to prevent further intake of
rotting garbage, though it didn’t seem to work, Jon suffered through
the smell as the sweat on his brow began to condense in the SUV’s
rising heat.
“We will be touring Muqattam in two days. It will
change you forever Jon. Egypt recycles ninety-percent of its waste,
the majority of that takes place here.”
Jon tried to imagine what Muqattam would look
like up close, suspended homes, floating over piles of garbage, just
imagining the smell of garbage up close turned his stomach. If it
smelled like this from here, it had to be worse than anything he could
imagine.
The stench of Muqattam faded and Jon kept a
watchful eye on Ali as he, once again, turned the air-conditioner full
bore. Traffic slowed, this time for a make shift pedestrian walkway.
Men, women, and children, each waved off oncoming traffic as they slid
between passing cars. Jon looked overhead, above the highway, at a
crosswalk, empty, then back to the road as thirty people made their
way through moving traffic and across the highway.
Two young girls, dressed in dark-brown robes ran
in front of the SUV, Jon’s right foot slammed on the floorboard, Ali
veered left. Jon’s grip strangled the door handle as the SUV tilted
and the girls darted past. Jon looked back, watching as the girls made
it safely to the median and were now crossing into the on-coming
lanes. Jon had to look away; ignore it, pretend to himself that he
wasn’t seeing children dart across a speeding highway. This was
something he never expected to see.
Hundreds of people stood on the sides of the road, many walked
straight into traffic, conversations between men were held in the
middle of the highway. Jon released his grip from the door handle, the
sweat in his palms cooled in the SUV’s tempered air.
“These houses look abandoned?” Jon asked looking
beyond the scene he had just witnessed and to the other side of the
road where thousands of tattered homes stood.
“Actually they’re graves,” Hany responded. “It’s
the City of the Dead. The roofs are left open so the dead have a
direct connection to the heavens.”
Thousands of gravesites ran for miles in every
direction, each a small one-room building attached to the next.
The road turned right and a large
structure exploded into view. Thirty-foot pock marked walls surrounded
the fortress. Two minarets towered over eight circular silver-domes,
the ninth dome, the tallest, stood high in the center. The entire
walled structure was larger than two football fields.
“This is the Citadel, the Mohammed Ali Mosque. A
fortress built in 1176 that changed hands and government control many
times over the years. It was eventually demolished and reconstructed
in 1830 by Mohammed Ali, not the fighter Jon... It’s basically a
tourist attraction now.”
Jon watched over his shoulder as the Citadel
faded from view. From this perspective Jon could see that the
structure stood high above the land that surrounded it and could be
seen throughout all of Cairo. The Citadel’s buildings had seen the
ravages of time and war, and stood as a monument to the country and
Islam.
As the Citadel faded, one hundred, perhaps a
thousand, Mosque Minarets populated the view to the west. The
minaret’s varied in size, shape, and design, though each rose high
above its Mosque and pointed one hundred feet towards the heavens. The
view of a thousand minarets was awe-inspiring. As far as his eyes
could see, as far as the smog would let him, Jon saw the tops of
Minarets rising to the heavens.
Then, out of the corner of his eye Jon thought he
saw the faint shape of a pyramid. Hazy, almost lost in the smog, Jon
squinted through it and the SUV’s bouncing ride. Then it was gone. The
SUV bounced, Jon’s head wobbled, and again he found it, as if it was
calling to him. But this time there were two pyramid shapes, far off
on the horizon, miles away. These were in fact the same Giza Pyramids
he had flown over while landing in Cairo. Squinting, amazed that he
could see them, right there, just right there in front of him. A wall
rose up, blocking his view, as the SUV descended and the pyramids were
gone.
#
Hany finished laying out Jon’s coming week as
they drove into Jon’s neighborhood. Hany carried an air of confidence
about him and was well spoken; Jon sensed an instant connection with
him. The three unloaded the SUV, shook hands, and Hany drove off,
declaring he was late for a meeting.
Ali lifted the smallest piece of luggage, which
was difficult for him to lift, and yelled in Arabic to a man seated at
the entrance of the building. Jon grabbed his two remaining bags and
clasped his carryon under his right arm. The man from the building was
at Jon’s side in seconds and grabbed the burden of the two heavy bags
from Jon and led him into the building. Looking up, Jon counted seven
floors and what appeared to be four flats per floor. The outward
appearance of the building was dirty and ragged with black soot, just
like all of the buildings in the area. Jon set his interior
expectations appropriately.
The small-compartment elevator, with room for
three people, lifted Ali and Jon seven flights to his flat. The worn
elevator creaked and groaned as it rose, giving the feeling that the
floor might giveaway at any moment. The building man had walked the
seven flights of stairs with one piece of luggage balanced on his
shoulder and the other drooping from his arm, his feet shuffled up the
concrete steps, almost too tired to lift them, easier to drag them
along.
“Enta-menein?” asked the building man as
he received a few tattered Egyptian pounds from Ali.
“Ana men Chicago fi Am-reeca,
isma-howwa Jon,” Ali responded.
With one look the building man seemed to
absorb everything about Jon. He smiled a broad smile, shook Jon’s
hand, and walked down the stairs. As the man left, Jon glanced over at
the old elevator, and wondered if he should take the stairs from now
on as well.
The flat was three times the size of Jon’s
company furnished apartment in Chicago. These walls were constructed
of poured concrete, the floors were tiled in marble, and the ceilings
were twelve feet high. The furniture had seen its better days, but
still had a few years left in it. The kitchen was adorned with marble
floors and counter tops. Hardwood floors covered each of the three
bedrooms and the bathroom was appropriately equipped with a washing
machine and exposed pill-shaped water heater that was attached high on
the wall. This was home.
“This flat has a great view,” Ali said as they
stood in front of the large bay window, watching as the sun painted
the sky with a red-fading sunset. This building was in fact the
tallest in the area and Jon’s view was unfettered.
“I took the liberty of stocking your kitchen,”
Ali said as he handed Jon the keys to the flat and told him about the
bawwab out front, the man who had carried his bags was in fact;
the security man, doorman, package deliverer, and car washer. The man
did it all.
“Hamde lives in the open space behind the
building, so if he’s not out front; check back there.”
A wave of exhaustion, sensory overload, and jet
lag ripped through Jon’s system. He was too tired to process the fact
that the bawwab lived outside, behind the building, in a small
cramped ten-by-five foot space along with his family of four.
Ali produced a cell phone from his pocket and a
wad of cash. “Twelve-hundred Egyptian pounds, about two-hundred US. It
should last you a few weeks.”
Ali turned to leave and added, “If you get locked
out of your flat. Ask one of your neighbors to try their key. There
are only seven key combinations in this area.”
Jon felt his face express what he felt inside.
“Don’t worry Jon. Crime is almost non-existent in
Egypt,” Ali said still reading Jon’s expression. “I’ll see what I can
do about changing your lock, ok?”
Jon nodded feeling the need for sleep come over
him, the sky outside darkened.
“I’ll drive you to work tomorrow,” Ali said as he
opened the door. “See you at eight, out front.”
Waving goodbye topped the limit of Jon’s energy
as he watched the door shut solid behind Ali. Alone, Jon turned in the
dark towards the kitchen where he fumbled for a light switch, and
finding none, bumped his hip into the corner of the marble counter
top. Even without light, Jon could still make out the white
refrigerator. Jon pulled the door open and recognized nothing. It was
well stocked, but with containers in shapes and sizes he had never
seen. Every package was labeled in swirling letters of Arabic. To
tired to dig now, he let the door close under its own weight.
As the light from the refrigerator triangled
shut, Jon recognized something. He flung the door open, crouched down
and indeed had found something familiar, a bottle of beer. Jon grabbed
the half-liter green-bottle of Stella Local and smiled at his dinner,
then turned back towards the counter top and popped the bottle top
with a firm snap of his palm against the marble counter top. The first
sip of the thick lager was heaven, the second, heavens heaven.
Feeling his way down the long darkened
hallway, Jon found the first bedroom, where thankfully a table lamp
had been left on, and was asleep before his third drink of beer.
Copyright Steve Digre 2004.
Contact:
E-mail:
Steve: steve@stevedigre.com
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