Transportation in Modern Day Egypt

       When I was a child we had a junk drawer conveniently located between the fridge and the stove. Though it wasn't intended to be used as a junk drawer it still collected the odds and ends that didn't necessarily have a home. This drawer could at one time contain nails, birthday candles, buttons, batteries, ketchup packets, water balloons, inkless pens, and the nail clippers that could never actually be found when most needed. The Egyptian transportation system as a whole is this junk drawer.

Taxis, cars, buses, motorcycles, camels, and cats weave in and out at unsettling speeds with a possible pause for some brave soul jaunting across the street, playing Frogger. Taxi drivers slam on their brakes, honk, and try to hail the pedestrians hoping they can find some tourist to overcharge. BMWs, Jaguars, and Mercedes speed around condescendingly honking their horns and tailgating. The buses are overcrowded and have men hanging out the doors barely hitting the perched motorcyclists practically making love to their bikes as they swerve over bumps and past traffic jams. I've seen donkeys hauling around a flat trailer of fruit and toddlers coming within inches of being destroyed by impatient drivers. I've seen a body in the middle of a six lane highway, defended only by a line of people standing there trying to diverge the traffic from their hurting friend. I've seen cars driving the wrong way down the highway to avoid a roundabout. Overall, it’s like Allah threw up civilization all over the street.

In Egypt I experienced enough problems with the transportation system to want to return to the states forever. One afternoon I took a bus downtown, and in the time period of the bus ride I learned the intricate details of Helen's life story and she learned about mine, then we took a nap, woke up, developed a new language, sipped a cocktail, and invented the cotton gin, then we arrived at our destination.

In order to return to campus we called an Arabic speaking Jordinian to talk to the directionless cab driver we finally flagged down. Though better than the cabby that drove us in to the desert and demanded money or he'd leave me there, this creep drove us in circles blaring Arabic techno music and smoking. We finally made it back to the university, but only after we were charged twice what we should have been.

I have called bus companies, chased after busses, been left in the middle of a random street, stumbled upon a missing driver that was sleeping in the back seat, argued prices, and sat within a menagerie dusty Tchotchkies that decorated the bus like some sort of carnie explosion. The transportation of Egypt is a beautiful, cultural clusterfuck that never ceases to amaze. It’s like, "Mom, do you know where a rubber band is?" "Check the junk drawer. Is it there?" "No, but I found a green cheeto and the toe ring I lost when I was 7." There are no schedules, no plans, no backup system, no phone numbers, no stop lights, no road signs, and no rules.  Did I mention I saw a cow inside a van and camels in the back of a pickup ready for slaughter? How about the taxis with 84 bags piled on top, secured with one piece of fishing line? It is just a big, crazy mess that one can attempt to clean up, but like a junk drawer will always show up again.

The Impending eXXXodus

At the age of 26 I finally returned to the city of sin, Las Vegas, and promptly found a part of myself that I knew was missing. No, I didn't run in to my long lost twin. I didn't discover the most amazing culinary cuisine of all time. And I certainly did not meet the Chip n' Dales man of my dreams, regretfully.

I did however find a calling that, should this teacher thing not work out, I would pursue with great fervor. Though it would be a great undertaking to repel all sense of Christian morals and the fair amount of self respect that I've aquired over the years, being a Flamingo XXX Burlesque Dancer would fulfill my thespian side. It isn't Footloose, Guys n' Dolls, or Cats; rather a superior form of art that requires a costume that can only be attained after countless hours at a gym or really a great gene pool.

Though highly disrespected, many female exotic entertainers are incredibly athletic. If paired to compete against a female basketball player for strength and agility, I'd bet on the dancer. The most fantastic thing about all of this is that dancing has become increasingly LESS taboo and pole dancing classes are springing up faster than, well, the guys watching. Pretty soon they will even have pole dancing for seniors at various homes and 50+ living communities. For the young entrepreneur this could really be a luctrative business (without having to own a stipper bar or an adult store).

If the educational system of American continues to lay off teachers, I predict a mass exodus toward the dancing world- rulers in hand.

You heard it here first!

"Have Time To Spare? Go By Air."

When I was 17 I decided it would be really bad ass to get a private pilot’s license. Sandra Bullock had one and word on the street was that Angelina Jolie was aspiring to accomplish the task in order to fly around the world collecting babies. That, and knowing that my dad would forever love me as his first little pilot, motivated me to finish the lessons, written tests, and a 5 hour FAA exam with the oldest, driest most horrendously sexist FAA examiner I have ever met in my life. (He may be the only FAA examiner I’ve ever met. Not sure.) Still, I often find myself shoeless, belt-less, and watching someone pull my 3 ounce containers and underwear out of my backpack while they ask me if I’ve had them in my possession at all times.

While traveling to Brazil my hatred for commercial airports hit its peak. Due to flight restrictions and my moving to DC after purchasing my incredibly dealtastic ticket, I had to fly from Baltimore, to Charlotte, to Charleston, to Charlotte, to Miami, to Manaus. With each exchange I found myself frantically running to other terminals to get on my next flight and was luckily greeted upon my sweaty arrival with, “Are you Jamie? Great! You just made it.” That is, until I got to Charlotte for the second time that day to take my flight to Miami where I would meet my cousins for the night and we’d be back at the airport the next morning at 5AM departing for Brazil.

In Charlotte, the flight was conveniently delayed. Then, as I feared, the cancellation announcement came over the loud speaker. “Flight to Miami has been canceled. Please see attendants outside of security for re-booking information.” Suddenly 350 people started running towards the United Airlines ticketing counters. Women in heels were toppling over in their pathetic attempt to sprint. Toddlers were being checked and tackled left and right, all in order to be first in line at the ticket counter. Lucky for me, my keen navigational skills and bat-like hearing led me to the East ticket counter while the rest of the sheep were running west and I was third in line. The two people ahead of me spent approximately 40 minutes attempting to kill the poor UnitedAir messenger and as I approached I could tell she was prepping for yet another ass burning. . .

My mother always always always has to respond to any plea for advice with a good ole cliché antidote like “don’t kill the messenger” or “kill them with kindness”, all of which never give any useful advice and typically make me feel like I’m talking to Yoda. But I remember them often and in this case I had just hung up with my mother as I was frantically searching for help in finding a school bus, pony, or Segway to Miami before my Brazil flight left in the morning. I smiled at the UnitedAir lady, asked her if she was okay, and she amazingly found me the last seat to Fort Lauderdale, as long as I could make it through security and to the very end of terminal C in the next 10 minutes.

I hiked up my sweatpants and ran faster than I ever had in my life.

Though I had gone through security with the same carry-on luggage four times that day, this was the time the crazy goons decided to check my bag. After some brief harassment about the purpose of a Nook and a firm patting of my undercarriage, I was released and running at top speed to the gate.

With four minutes to spare, I approached the gate counter and the gentlemen told me that he believed all seats were full. I cried. Or maybe I was just sweating out of my eyeballs. After a brief explanation of my need to make an international flight and toss of my greasy travel hair the man smiled and said, “Just go find any seat you can and I'll cover you. [wink]”

I made it to Miami with a few hours to spare before the next morning’s flight, and lucky for me Brazilian airlines are far superior to our own and I had a whole row of seats to myself, free wine, and sleeping pills.


Oh,
and my Mother’s response to the whole ordeal, “Have time to spare? Go by Air.”
:)