A Taxi in the Desert

It was time to order dessert. We had finished the main course and dragged our feet with the bottle of wine standing on our table. 

Will you be needing something else, sir?

Can I have a look at the dessert menu, please?

The waiter obliged me begrudgingly. There was a long line of guests waiting to occupy our table, and the waiter’s smile didn’t hide his eagerness for us to vacate the premises. I wasn’t hungry anymore, and I don’t usually order dessert. No one else at the table expressed interest in dessert, but I needed a legitimate reason to justify our prolonged-beyond-reason meal.

Here is the sweet list, sir.

I will need a minute to look at it. Thanks!

A world of options consisting of four items. A laminated page half the size of a standard page size. Indeed, it was a list rather than a menu. Generally, I prefer establishments that focus on a handful of items, an excuse to roam back and forth and marvel at my choices, but not this time so I chose the freshly baked Omm Ali. 

I will ask the kitchen to prepare it in a slow oven, sir.

I smiled at the waiter with anger, and he smiled back with smugness. I redirected my gaze back to the table to signal the end of our dialogue. Egyptians are world athletes in passive aggression, and I’m no different. The dialogue was lost on my Austrian guests, that was probably a good thing. I started recounting the history behind the desert while checking my phone to evaluate the availability of a ride back to our hotel. My earlier attempts to schedule our return kept getting canceled. I dreaded the ride back from the desert of 6th of October City to the jungle of downtown Cairo if we managed at all to find someone to take us back.   

The restaurant is located on a barren hill in the middle of the desert. A logical place to enjoy a dining experience for those with a car or a roaming Bedouin desiring a change in their daily diet; we were neither. I should’ve considered all the travel aspects of this desert adventure. Instead, I looked at the dessert, which was too full to eat and getting cold. I resigned to my fate and paid the bill so I could dedicate all my attention to finding a ride back home. I wanted to curse the hardship of technological advancement and the need to stare at my smartphone as I saw all the potential rides that could take me wherever I needed. I was frustrated, but not to the point of losing all rationality. 

I still remember a time in Cairo when spotting a taxi was an omen of good fortune. If the taxi was vacant, you couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed with hope and possibilities. You would murmur a little prayer and raise your arm in the most respectful way. Under no circumstances may you raise your hand with the confidence or, God forbid, the privilege that the taxi would stop. Such chances couldn’t be taken for granted. If you were a pious man, then the taxi might stop for a silent, however invasive, interview. If your overall demeanor appealed to the driv,er he would ask you where you were heading. You could try and take a chance to get in the taxi without stating your destination, you wouldn’t be the first and certainly not the last.

Eventually, someone accepted my digital request. Hooray! A white Peugeot 5008, fancy! I could see a small photo of his face on my screen. Surprisingly his name wasn’t Mohamed, it was Ahmed, obviously. My friends talked to each other in German with the distinctive Austrian accent as I stared at my phone, willing Ahmed not to cancel the ride like all his predecessors. I could see the tiny car shape on the map moving north and south and back and forth. I sensed he was about to cancel and decided to give him a motivational call.

Ahmed, I’m waiting for you at the pickup point.

Sir, the map is taking me on a merry-go-round. Where are you exactly?

I’m in front of the restaurant.

Which restaurant?

I found the question infuriating, but I knew that was my high anxiety rather than his low common sense. There was only one restaurant, and there was us, the seekers of grilled chicken in the desert. I told him to stay true on the single road that drove up the hill. ‘Just keep driving, and you will find us anxiously waiting for you.’ Ahmed made it, the triumph of technology over the poor network signal in a desolate place. We hurried into the car, my friends in the back and I beside my hero, Ahmed, the Uber driver. As of the moment we are in the car, the fight is between him and technology to get us where we need to go. I did my part; the rest was between him and intricate alleys of the interwebs.

I saw you have a French number, sir.

Yes, I live in France.

I don’t like France.

I’m sorry to hear that, Ahmed.

I hate Macron.

Many people share this opinion, including the French.

He hates Muslims.

It may seem so.

You don’t think he hates Muslims!

I don’t know him personally, nor do I believe that politicians share their true convictions.

He banned Muslim girls from wearing the hijab, Sir.

I know for a fact this debate predates Macron.

I sensed a certain hostility in his voice. He expected from me an immediate endorsement of his views that he didn’t get. Ironically, I didn’t care for this French interpretation of secularism. I found it an exclusionary and discriminatory policy masked behind French laïcité. But I knew this was not what Ahmed, our driver, meant; I didn’t think Ahmed believed in unrestricted self-expression or civil liberties altogether. I found the idea that he debated me on French local politics as if I were a French policymaker, outrageous but amusing. I have often watched it with my partner when she gets blamed for America’s policies. It doesn’t matter if she herself disagrees with her country’s foreign policy and conservative politics. Unlike my partner, I have a great appetite for the ridiculous and the absurd.

“The West is decaying from within, sir, but we shall be victorious, trust me. They’re coming after us because they see the threat we pose with our faith and conviction. They try to shake our convictions and attack our sisters and brethren when and where they can, but believe me, very soon, they shall fail by the might and will of God. We are at war, Sir. Never lose sight of Allah; prayer and fasting are your shield and protection.”

There is a war, and soon we shall win! I wondered how soon, was very soon! For decades I’ve heard the same speech over and over. A thousand times, a thousand versions, the same words from different mouths. An invisible war that few see and many believe. Ahmed believed he was a soldier in this holy war; his armor was his conviction, and his weapon was his tongue. Today, he fights the French alongside his Egyptian brother, whom he has just met, from the comfort of his French car.

You know I was about to cancel the ride when you called me.

I know. Tell me, is this your only job or something you do in your spare time?

I worked for a long time as an accountant, but now I do this full-time.

And what do you do when you’re not driving?

Nothing, I spend time with my family and friends.

That’s not nothing. Do you have kids?

I’m not married yet.

Marriage completes your faith, Ahmed.

God hasn’t blessed me yet, Sir.

Divorced?

Astaghfar Allah! No, may Allah protect us from this curse. I was never married.

How old are you?

I’m 40 years old.

Ahmed was a man of delightful contradictions. I turned in my seat to have a good look at him. I wanted to clue in my friends, but they were fast asleep. I had bored them to death, it seemed so I redirected my attention to Ahmed to examine the contours of his face. We, Egyptians, have a particular sense of humor, and I needed to parse out the serious from the outrageous. I saw he meant everything he said, but I also saw a man who showed an elevated version of himself. 

I don’t believe it.

What is it that you don’t believe?

I don’t believe you’re never married.

I can show you my ID, it will show Aazab, single, I swear.

Ahmed, you don’t look like a 40-year-old virgin. You can show me all the legal documents you like. Your face tells me you get laid and rather often. Good for you, man!

It was his turn to turn in his seat to look at me. I looked ahead, not to evade his gaze but to tease him. The entire dialogue had gone theatrical, and I needed to add a dramatic touch. He waited for me to look back at him, but he needed to look back at the road. Once he looked at the road, I looked at him for a fleeting moment before I looked back straight ahead. 

I’m right, am I not?

How could you tell?

Now we have established you sin like the rest of us, why the evangelizing?

I’m only human. I try to do better, but I don’t always succeed.

That’s all we can; try.

How could you tell?

A man in his forties who’s never laid his hand on a woman wouldn’t carry himself with the conviction and ease you do. 

Is it easy to find a job in France?

Ahmed, you’re full of surprises, buddy. I wish I could help you!

What do you do for a living, sir?

I write.

What about?

The absurdity of humans.