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Follow that tree!
Migrating to a new country and gettting accustomed with a
new language and the new ways of people, can provide many funny
memories.
In the middle of Cairo there is a mountain, although it looks
more like a gigantic rock, which from time to time breaks off and
crumbles, crushing whatever happens to be beneath it at the time.
The road that winds its way to the foot of the rock, is in-line
with a precipice, having no guards or railings, and falling
hundreds of meters onto solid, broken rock below.
People, as people do, get used to their conditions and what
others may see as positively disastrous, they see as perfectly
normal. Some may even shake their heads in surprise, wondering
why the others get so upset. Suicidal bus-drivers flying down the
rock at break-neck speed, sending hot-shot army officers clinging
to their seats in fear of death, all becomes ordinary after a
while. In fact after having traveled the rock a few times, the
sighs of relief when climbing out of the bus, become less intense.
The first time Sara drove her car, she was at the top of the rock.
One year of trying to catch buses had given her the courage
needed to drive a car. Not something fancy, just a little car,
ideal for the crowded roads. She settled down behind the steering
wheel. The children were safely in the back seat. She tried out
the gears a few times. It was strange to change gear with her
right hand and work the clutch with her left foot. "It would
only take some practice," she told herself.
"Say Bismillah and read Quran girls," she said
confidently. Carefully she reversed into the street and started
down the road. The street was quiet and the car hopped and jumped
a little but by the end of the street, they were driving along
smoothly. After two or three minutes they approached the road
leading its winding path down the slope of the rock. She dared
not look to her right, for across a narrow path of gravel, was a
sheer drop. She kept as close to the white line in the middle of
the road, as she dared, keeping in mind suicidal bus-drivers and
stray donkey carts. Not more than fifty meters down the road she
started to relax, there was a bit of traffic but she was keeping
up.
Then her windscreen shattered. She didn't hear or feel a stone or
any thump or anything. It just shattered. And all of a sudden she
couldn't see a thing in front of her. It was impossible to pull
over to the right because of the precipice and there was too much
traffic to pull over to the left. So she had to stop where she
was and try to ignore the angry beeps and honks and waving arms.
"What do they expect me to do?" she asked herself aloud.
There was nothing else to do. She had to get out of the car and
flag someone down to help her. The cars behind her had adjusted
to the new situation and passed her, dodging oncoming traffic.
She was ignored until she raised her hand to the next approaching
car. It was a small truck full of workers. It's not unusual for
women not to talk to men, so she just pointed to her windscreen
and shrugged her shoulders. Without a word, they got out of the
truck, smashed in the windscreen then with bare hands picked up
every piece of glass from her car, nodded and smiled and returned
to their truck and drove away.
"Well, here we are again kids, Just this time we have a bit
of a breeze." She continued down the rock, wearing
sunglasses to keep the dust out of her eyes and finally made it
to the bottom. "Now, how to get to Heliopolis?" she
thought. Then she saw a bus, with the number for the place where
she had to go. "That's it," she said aloud. "I'll
follow the bus." She had no idea how to get around Cairo.
Road maps were no good, they weren't the same as the streets.
Road signs were even more of a problem. How many times she
approached a junction, and read the sign above the road showing,
this way to this place and that way to that place. It sounded
easy enough until she got to the junction and found three roads!
It was much easier to follow the bus. People sitting at the back
of the bus started to stare, when they noticed her stop whenever
the bus stopped. She fought like crazy not to lose her place
behind it. She didn't allow any other car to swerve in front of
her, until she arrived at the place she knew.
Then she looked, blinked and looked again. "Perhaps some
dust got in my eye," she told herself. She was dead-set sure
she had seen a tree moving down th street. Even the children in
the back seat had leaned forward to get a better view. She rubbed
her eyes. Yes, it was a moving tree. This surely was not
Dunsinane and Macbeth was nowhere in sight, but that tree was not
only moving, it was swerving in and out of the traffic.
She was now in home-territory, so she decided to follow the
roving tree. It was an eight laned freeway and she moved along
with the other traffic behind the tree. No one was surprised. No
one even beeped, they just moved around it and it, in return,
helpfully kept to the right of the road. "Come on Mum, go in
front so we can see what it is!" the children cried. "Ok,
let's go."
She gunned the little motor and pulled alongside the tree. Still
they couldn't see anything, not even wheels. Then she edged in
front and through her rear-vision mirror she saw a little old man
riding an ancient bicycle absolutely surrounded by this enormous
tree. He had left a little space in front to see the way. This
was the road to the airport . "Where on earth could he be
going with that tree?"
They were so engrossed in the tree episode that she found herself
in unfamiliar territory. So she pulled over to the side of the
street, and waited for the number thirty one to come along.
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