Taxi to Cairo burning

As the streets of Cairo turn into a battlefield with thousands protesting against Hosni Mubarak's government, Rahul daCunha writes of driving through the alleys just a week before the revolt, seeing no hint of rebellion, except for a stray comment from his driver Faroukh

IT was a cloudy Cairo morning. The thick fog shrouded the Feluccas, as they sailed down the Nile. We were zig-zagging our way through the crowded Khan-el-Khalili Bazaar. It was Friday and the prayers had begun; the muezzin's voice wafting its way through the alleyways and mosques of the brown cityscape.

We were shooting portraits, my friend Prashant and I. Faces of all sortsu00a0-- craggy cloth merchants, harried tentmakers, jolly butchers, and curious shepherds puffing hard on their sheeshas. One thing united these men -- a sense of unhurried calm, as they worked hard to make a living.

One bazaar vendor, selling all sorts of Egyptian wares -- scents, scarves, sweaters, and scarabs tried desperately to palm off a set of miniature plastic pyramids and a very sorry looking Sphinx.

He was steadfast in his pricing -- "Hello..hello...please buy..original pyramid... only 20 Egyptian pound... okay 18... ok...17 ufffdok... 14, last price...14...good price...what you want to pay...12.... ok... I give you for 10... only 10... good quality... 8 Egyptian...7...6..."

I finally turned around a tad annoyed. "We don't want it, thank you!" The seller, alarmed at my vitriol, apologised profusely for the intrusion. I realised in that moment, that anger is not an emotion expressed in this peaceful Middle Eastern country. The seller asked disarmingly, "Where you from, my friend?" When I said India, he thumped me warmly on the back. "Ah India... India... Amitabh Bashan... welcome....welcome... come to my store... it is speshal Sharrrookh Khan shop."

We retreated hurriedly into the jasmine-smelling taxi driven by our driver, Faroukh; 4 feet 11 inches of chain smoking dynamite. As we sped off into Islamic Cairo, nearly running over a camel, Faroukh told me usefully, "Raoool, I have two wives.... six children... I am driver in Cairo for 40 years. In the day, I drive and pray five times... in the night I keep my wives happy..even at age 65!"

What did he think of Hosni Mubarak, I asked. His jovial face didn't change expression as he answered, "Mubarak has turned all of us into a country of beggars and thieves. He is not a good man... not a good man". Political conversation over.

And he went back to pointing out the merits of the Ibn Tulun Mosque. The world passed by in slow motion, as we hurtled through Old Cairo. This didn't seem like a city of beggars and thieves. These were unhurried, happy people. Poor, but proud. Proud of their heritage, proud of Egypt's vast history, down to the last hieroglyphic.

United in their poverty. United in their faith in Allah. In the cafes of Alexandria, the souks of Luxor, or the 'ahwas' of Cairo, you felt their joie de vivre, always thirty seconds away from a joke, an anecdote, a point of view, aware of the significance of their civilisation.

Which is why seven days later, I am stumped at this incredible revolution. I swear on Tutankhamun's Tomb, I never felt it brewing, anywhere in this most populous of North African countries.

On our last evening, we had a 'shai' with Faroukh. It was a small roadside dhaba like cafe, an hour outside the city -- the sun was setting over the Step Pyramid, in Dashur, the oldest pyramid in Egypt. (More powerful than their over-hyped brethren in Giza).

He looked at me and asked, "Raouul, when your aeroplane go into sky?" I asked him, if he'd ever been out of Egypt. Faroukh smiled a Sphinx-like smile, "No, my dear, this is my country. It will take care of me."
Rahul daCunha is a world traveller, and occasionally writes plays