EXHIBIT B
Though you would never know it to dodge the
drivers in Cairo, apparently you must actually be licensed to operate a vehicle
in Egypt. Ever abiding the law, or more accurately, ever abiding with
The Law, I dutifully made an
appointment to get my Egyptian driver’s license Tuesday last.
That morning, T and I walked The Lads to
school, hopped in our armored SUV and headed for the corniche, the harrowing highway that runs
parallel to the Nile. Fortified with
his Starbuck’s Breakfast Blend courtesy of Poppy and Nonni’s recent K-Cup care
package, The Husband navigated morning rush hour impressively. The distance from our flat in Maadi to
the American Embassy is a scant 9 miles; it took us 90 minutes to get there.
As The Husband alternately
idled bumper to bumper with most of Cairo’s other 9 million cars or weaved in
and out of this, that, these, and a little of this, some of that and one of these
like a gamer at the arcade playing this,
I offered silent prayers of encouragement from where I sat calmly in the passenger seat, with
the help of my own breakfast blend of Coke Zero and Xanax.
Finally, we neared the right
turn (typically executed from the far left lane-ish in Cairo) for the
street leading to the Embassy; the last street before traffic is forced to head
from the East bank of the Nile to the West. Granted our grasp of written Arabic is virtually
non-existent, but T and I are both still quite sure that there were no signs warning
of our road’s closure that morning.
In fact, since the Revolution, Cairo has been let’s say, experimenting,
with different traffic patterns, resulting in a daily morning surprise for
commuters as to which roads will be open and going in which direction. Flashing yellow arrows or traffic cops
could help but … maa’lesh (oh well, what are you going to do).
In ancient times the city to
the East of the Nile was reserved for The Living, while the West – where the sun set – was for The
Dead. After we returned from The Dead, we found an alternate route
to the Embassy and hurried to our rendezvous point with the expeditor who was to facilitate the procurement of our licenses.
In the
expeditor’s office, The Husband and I joined three other Expat/Egyptian driver’s license
hopefuls. We handed over copies of
our medical forms certifying our blood types and excellent (with corrective
lenses) vision, along with two pre-trimmed passport photos, as instructed. We also gave the expeditor our
Diplomatic Passports and our Diplomatic IDs and US driver’s licenses – two of the five ID cards I am meant to
carry on my person at all times – along with a processing fee of 40 LE.
Then our group was off. Somewhere in the bowels of the Embassy,
I passed the nurse from the health unit who had earlier administered my eye
exam. “Bring a book and
toilet paper,” she whispered conspiratorially. What I did bring was an extra Xanax.
After three
hours at the Cairo version of the DMV, I still can’t say that I was able to discern a process
or even a subtle pattern guiding the employees and patrons there. There was no LED sign showing the
number of the person being served, not even a paper deli counter ticket to indicate
who might be helped next. There
was no rope and stanchion for people to queue beside in an orderly manner. There were no queues at all, only a few small blue and white signs with
cryptic English translations – “Corporations”, “Expire”, “Struggle with
Violations”. Some carrels had
computers, some did not. Smoking
was unfettered. The constant
delivery of tea to the workers was the most efficiently flowing service
offered. The one standard
operating procedure I did witness was the giving away of small red fire
extinguishers to all customers like free toasters with a new checking account
at the bank. I’m really not sure
which frightens me more – that I have to carry around my own fire extinguisher
or my own toilet paper.
Then, without
reason or warning, our group was summoned by the expeditor to a small room in
the back corner. Inside were
half a dozen dead plants in clay pots (I suspect Second-hand Smoke ), five
chairs and two desks configured in an L shape and topped with a circa 1998 PC
and printer. Connected to the
computer was a digital camera nearly as old as the pyramids. The first of our group took a seat in
front of the camera while we all waited for the PC to be rebooted several
times. When that finally worked,
the camera did not. Much jiggling
of the power cords and shaking of the camera ensued until something finally clicked and
we could be photographed in turn.
We signed a paper which - don’t tell all the lawyers in my family - I could
not read, and returned to the
waiting area until further instruction.
A quarter of
an hour later, our group was called back into the small room with the Cairo
DMV’s one and only digital camera.
Apparently, our photos were not been saved the first time around. Could they use the photos we all were
asked to bring? No, they could
not. Snap, snap, snap, snap – four
of the five of us had our mugshots retaken. Our poor fifth waited and waited to
finally say cheese.
A few more tense moments followed as we wondered whether or
not the printer would work today, and then again as we saw four little laminated cards being carried toward us instead of five. Who would get the
short straw and have to come back next week?
Then, at long last, our expeditor bestowed upon all of us our new Egyptian driver’s licenses, valid – Alhamdulillah (thank God) - for 10 years.
Then, at long last, our expeditor bestowed upon all of us our new Egyptian driver’s licenses, valid – Alhamdulillah (thank God) - for 10 years.
/lkm in Cairo
