A Tale of Two Cities

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was the quietest of nights. It was the loudest of nights. It was the safest night I’ve spent in Egypt. It was the most dangerous night I’ve spent in Egypt.

For those of you who haven’t read up on your African sporting events lately, this past Thursday Egypt cemented their spot in the final football (soccer) match of the African Cup of Nations by toppling an ominous Ivory Coast with no more than a whim. Tonight, however, The Pharaohs soared into a sandy foot-to-foot battle with Cameroon's Indomitable Lions. And for a repeat championship title, the presiding champions indeed buried the now quivering street cats. Perhaps it was the cow they stabbed and slaughtered this week in practice. Perhaps it was luck, or it may have just been a superior skill set. I cannot give an answer, mostly because when living with an expat family, tuning into local television is near impossible unless you brave the chilly evening air and watch in the guard booth with the nearest officers and boabs. Final score 1-0. Egypt.

But the excitement leading to the game is not what I care to recount tonight. Instead, please allow me to drift back through a night in civilized Maadi, Egypt, where the respectable Egyptians coincide with the various expats.

We begin at the commencement of the second half of play.

I sat down around 8:00 p.m. to find out when the first kick would swoop through the air. To my surprise, I had already missed the first half entirely. But I had found the BBC Sports live updates web site. Score 0-0. Impressed, I called a friend who I knew had access to the appropriate channels.

A significant amount of time spent while I skipped the streets of the now ghostly Maadi. I could have waltzed down the middle of the street had I been so moved. The town was unprecedentedly silent. I actually heard a pin drop. That's not true, but in a city where I can hardly hear myself think, if someone had dropped a pin, I would have heard it. But without warning, as if assigned with simultaneous purpose, the soundless streets erupted with a merriment visible only by ears. [zooms out bird's eye view from street to city, then country, then continent, then space - still audible]

I glanced over at Kev, chuckled, and decided that Egypt must have just scored a goal. Never in my short little life have I ever been in the presence of such unanimous, synchronized joy. By the time we had arrived at the TV, another clamor at least as loud as the previous pierced even the concrete walls of the building. Victory chants joined our party, with no regard to invitation. Mere moments had past when the danger-seeking photographer on our team texted to ask if anyone wanted to join her on an expedition downtown. With a face of realization, we, in our own concurrent fashion, realized the implications: madness. Madness? THIS...IS...EGYPT! [followed by a Cameroonian soccer player kicked into an inhospitably dooming well-pit]

We decided not to go downtown when flames arose into the dark night sky above the inching traffic at Victory medan*. My attempts to describe the atmosphere can only be articulated as the antithesis of the streets Kevin and I had walked less than an hour before. Cars honking the popular Egyptian cheer - long, long, short, short, long - quickly overtakes your now tapping fingers to the same pattern. The everyday exhaust fumes bow to the sweet scent of victory spewing from the aerosol bug spray cans when coupled with matches and lighters to mutate into handheld flamethrowers. Anything red, white and/or black paint the sky as shoddy Egyptian-like flags blot out the moon and stars. Arabic shouts sear the noise air chanting "Masr Ah ra toul!" (Egypt Forever!) yet are consistently breached by the infamous "Ole! Ole! Ole! Ole!..." Young men on the shoulders of friends and strangers. Police failing to direct traffic or supress the masses. Faces painted, wigs waggling atop banging heads, air horns vibrating to the core of one's soul. Oh, and strike me down lest I forget to mention the multitudes of adolescents and adults alike protruding from cars like blurry growths at 60 kph, perched upon every open window, velcroed only by a scratching grapple to the underside of the car roof; dangling off hoods, trunks and severely overcrowed truck beds; crying out obscene Egyptian victory mantras just like any good adrenaline junkie would during a typical death-inviting action. Delirious dancing dented hoods and pronounced pandemonium solicited low blowing fireworks tailgated by forgiving laughter and renewed vibrance.

The olfactory bouquets of burning gunpowder, the impetuous, singeing warmth of illuminating torch light, taunting 8x11 signs displaying a broken english "Bay Bay Cameroon", and fist pumping mosh pits nearly trampling and hurrahing officers of the law - all will not soon be forgotten. Here rests the national pride on his pharonic golden seat. Here lies the unifying factor for this slumping nation. For it is a far, far better thing that they do, than they have ever done (except for perhaps the Pyramids); and this night is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.

*medan - a roundabout intersection of many streets