All language subtitles for Clive James Postcard from Cairo BBC 720p EN SUB

Out of the endless desert
rode a man with a mission.

The stranger bestrode his steed
with the ease of a warrior chieftain.

THEME FROM "LAWRENCE OF ARABIA"

Some said he was Omar Sharif

until he paused to reveal
his hawklike features.

Yes, here was a man in search of
something - an attention-getting
title sequence.

Two weeks before, I had arrived
in Cairo, capital city of the Arab
world's most liberal country.

But the liberal country
has a nervous government
which a fundamentalist movement

hopes to overthrow by letting off
bombs to discourage tourists,
thereby wrecking the economy.

No tourist is more easily
discouraged by that than I,

but the only danger I saw in the
streets came from wheeled vehicles.
BUS HORN

They're always on the point of
hitting each other, and will hit
you if you stand bewildered,

a state easy to achieve,
because you can't tell
what century you're in.

A lot of Cairo is modern looking
but you can get that anywhere.

What you get only here is
the turmoil of alleys and arcades

that have been like this since the
pyramids were just a set of plans.

In old Cairo everything's on sale,
for a price, but if you pay it
you're crazy.

What you have to do is bargain,
even for a camel.

I needed a camel for my
attention-getting title sequence.

I thought of renting one.

But if I bargained hard enough,
I could buy one
and perfect the riding technique

which had gone rusty since the old
days on the set of "Lawrence of
Arabia" when I taught Omar Sharif

how to shoot his rifle without
blowing the camel's head off.

SPEAKING ARABIC

Bargaining consisted of holding on
to each other's wrists. The last
one to let go got the camel.

I didn't see how I could lose.
All I had to do was hang in there

while they gave way to the panic
which always seemed to ensue
when the pressure was on.

MEN SHOUTING, CAMEL ROARING

Welcome. Good morning.
Glad to be here.

I was thinking of renting
one of these.

But I'm told I may as well buy one
and sell it back later.
How much do they cost? Those two...

er...3,000 Egyptian dollars.

That's six hundred quid.
Quite a lot. You want? Well, I...
Some of them are very handsome.

We were sizing each other up.
I'd spotted the camel I wanted,

and I knew how much I could afford
to bid under the tight system
of BBC accounting.

Now all I had to do
was stay cool.

ARGUING IN ARABIC

Half an hour went by
without anyone relaxing his grip.

But at the end, I'd beaten the
locals out of a camel they'd have
given their right hands for.

A couple had already done so since
my purchase had turned carnivorous
owing to mental instability.

But the price included garaging
and advance riding lessons
after dark, so I was satisfied.

Leaving my camel
at the psychiatrist's,
I plunged deep into the bazaar.

Most Cairenes are far from rich.

More and more people
share in poverty.

But the despair
that breeds fundamentalism
happens elsewhere in Egypt.

In Cairo, the less well-off lead
a stylish life in cafes which house
the city's most exciting sport.

Here, Cairo's leading dominoes
players, men who dominate dominoes,
gather to share the special thrill

known only to the players of top
level dominoes on a fast surface.

In the west, a place like this
would be called a bar
and serve alcohol.

But even in liberal Cairo,
Islam frowns on alcohol, so there's
nothing stronger than weak tea.

There's a water pipe available for
every customer. They don't yield
much in the way of nicotine.

All they offer is a mildly spiced
puff of smoke, like sucking dust
out of a vacuum cleaner.

But I wasn't going to let it lick
me, although I was uneasily aware
that other customers had licked it.

The locals were clearly impressed.

They paid me the supreme honour
of inviting me to join them
at dominoes.

In the interests of research,
I went along.

I wanted to know how they were
having such a good time
on just weak tea and thin smoke.

But I didn't want them to know that
when young I was a dominoes prodigy,
so I pretended incompetence.

CHORUS OF "NO, NO !"

He wins? Yes.

Let's play again.

When all the bets were in,
I started playing
up to my real form.

It was cruel dominoes,

ruthless dominoes,
but true dominoes.

They had seen Omar Sharif
play bridge like this.

But they had never seen anyone
play dominoes like this. They had
to admit they'd met their master.

And I had to admit I was meeting
a warm welcome. Where was Islam's
disdain for the west? Not in Cairo.

A whole day had gone by
with no bombs going off.
Not even a cross word.

The only thing that stunned me
was the charm of the people.

A new day, and once more Cairo's
pre-market economy engulfed me.

I was beginning to understand
the principle on which it worked.

A lot of people with not very much
money sold not very valuable goods
to each other, some edible,

thereby sustaining life so that
the whole process could begin again
with undiminished verve.

Every imaginable living creature
is for sale.

So is every imaginable part
of every living creature.

One living creature used to be
the calf,

whose chances of growing up
to be a cow are rendered slim

because Arab bridegrooms believe
that calves' knees are
a sure-fire aphrodisiac.

Arab men place a lot of emphasis
on their personal appeal.

Every block has a barber
who offers the full treatment.

I could see one wielding
a cut-throat razor, so I hesitated.

But only the brave
deserve the beautiful.

The process starts with a shave
calculated to leave the cheeks
smooth for high-speed camel riding.

But I had been promised
that the treatment would climax
with something uniquely Cairene:

a special technique
to tone the skin.

I couldn't see anything unique
about the baby oil.

I couldn't see anything unique
about the talcum powder.

But the next bit really was unique.

At first, I couldn't see
why he had to floss his teeth.

Then I found out that he was going
to floss my face.

It wasn't as painful as it looked.

It was MORE painful. But I had
to admit, it left my skin tingling,

although 20 lashes
with a stock-whip
would have done the same.

I thanked him by trying to say
"That feels very good" in Arabic.

Unfortunately,
I had learned the phrase for
"I find you very attractive".

I felt refreshed
and ready for a new challenge.

So I melted into the desert
after adopting a new identity -
Indiana James.

There was a sand-storm on the way,

so I headed for shelter in one of
the large pointed buildings nearby.

We archaeologists call it
the Great Pyramid.

The pyramid presents us
with an insoluble mystery.

So we always come back
to probe its secrets.

Some say the pyramid
is a navigational instrument
left behind by Martian spacemen.

Others say it's the work of a team

of ancient architects too dumb
to invent a roof. But this much
is certain: it's dangerous in there.

The passageways are worn smooth
by thousands of TV crews.

A less experienced explorer
might slip, fracture a hip,

and not be found
until five minutes later
by a vacation group from Minnesota.

And I was going in further than
tourists from America, Britain,
Australia, France,

Germany, and the back of Brazil.

I was going to where
the Japanese tourists were.

Beyond the danger of being crushed
by tourists there was the further
danger of being driven mad

by the puzzle
that haunts all adventurers in
the pyramid's miles of passageways.

There are no rolling boulders,
suddenly descending portcullises,
or poisoned spikes to perforate you.

There's just nothing in there.

The whole place
has been picked clean
by two millennia of tomb robbers.

Along a secret passage last used
by a 3-coach party from Thailand
the previous Saturday,

I wormed through into the chamber
devoted to the embalmed corpse of
the designer of the security system.

He had installed every protective
device including air-conditioning
and indirect lighting.

But still no answer to the eternal
question: why, if they were hiding
their bodies from thieves,

did the Pharaohs erect
a whacking great building

to tell everyone in 1,000 square
miles where they were buried?

Why not stick up a neon sign saying,
"Secretly buried here"?

When I got outside, the sand-storm
had come up, blotting all vision,

but I had an old Arab method
of finding my path.

"Which way is Cairo?
Is it that way? That way?"

Yes, ask an old Arab.

Back in town,
the sand-storm had moved on.

Endless opportunities beckoned
to buy an exotic gift
for that special person at home.

I was heading for a famous shop
that a strict interpretation
of Islamic law might frown on,

dealing in essences whose secrets
were old when slave-girl chorus
lines danced for the first Pharaoh.

Or so the perfume man said,
and he could say anything.

I will give you explanation about
how we make the essence. It will be
interesting for you to know.

After that, you can smell whatever
you like, and any quantity you want.

He spoke English
with stunning eloquence.

His stratagem was to list
all the western perfumes
his perfumes could outperform.

Sophia Loren, Sauvage, Chanel 5,
Chanel 19, Drakkar, Cartier, Azzarro,
Lacoste, Vichy, Paco Rabanne,

Christian Dior... I was already
battered into submission, but
he must have detected resistance.

Estee Lauder, Cacharel, Anais Anais,
Givenchy, Ysatis, Samsara,

Eternity, Paloma Picasso, Salvador
Dali... Now that he had softened me
up, he moved in for the hard sell.

Now, you'd like to smell something
French or something Egyptian?
Egyptian, I think.

I'll let you try the best for man,
called King Tutankamun. He used this
kind. Forbidden to find it outside.

Give me your hand. This hand?
No, the other one. A delicate touch,

and rub. Try it and smell it.

He actually used this? Mm-hm.
How could they tell
he actually used this?

How do you know Tutankamun used
this? From the story, you know.

And also from the history. Uh-huh?
You must read history very well.

I'll let you try also something
that's too famous in Egypt, for lady,
called Queen Cleopatra.

Queen Cleopatra was using this kind.

This is Cleopatra's perfume?
Yes, that's right.

She had this on when she met
Richard Burton, right? Yes.
Which kind you like?

I think maybe the Cleopatra,
a little bottle of Cleopatra.
I'll let you see the small size.

That size.

That's not too small !
How much does that cost?

Could be a thousand pounds. 1,000
pounds ?! Yes, it's a pure essence.
You could mix it with others.

1,000 pounds is a lot of money.

Just a little one. Haven't you got
a special little one?

All right. For that,
I'll let you see the student size.
It's called teeny-weeny.

Teeny-weeny? Yeah.

That size. This is the student size.

Ah! You be student again. That's
more like it. How much is one of
those? Could be 100 Egyptian pounds.

It's still a lot, but yeah, yeah.
Can I have one of those
full of Cleopatra? Cleopatra.

Actually, 100 Egyptian pounds
is only about £20 sterling, and you
get a lot of Cleopatra for it,

probably a lifetime's supply,
because the stuff lingers
like concentrated orange juice.

It was kind of a pity
to see such a gifted flim-flam man
wasting his eloquence.

He could have made it
as a disc jockey, if his English
had been worse. Any something else?

Uh...that's enough,
it's all the money I've got.

Good luck for 1,000 years.
Good luck for 1,000 years!

In the old days, English
was the language of government,

the British ruled,
King Farouk pretended to rule,

and these Art Deco buildings were
the town houses of a smart set.

Now they have little to boast
on the outside, except a couple
of government-supplied armed guards

without whom no private residence
is complete. Among the people they
protect from the encroaching dust

is one of the last shining lights
of the beau monde that was,
Victor Samaika.

While his Nubian servant waited
to dart forward with a Gin Sling,

I asked what Cairo used to be like.

It was gay, it was elegant.
Very elegant.

There was a royal family.

And...

A class of people who lived
graciously, and who had lovely homes.

And there was the fishing fleet,
you know what that was? No, tell me.

The young debutantes that came
in winter to catch a husband.
It was heaven!

Where did they do their fishing?
Mostly at the Gezira Sporting Club.

Oh? It was, without exaggeration,
the most beautiful club in the world.

You had three polo grounds, two
playing in the afternoon, 16 chukkas
on every ground, 3 times a week.

No such thing
as "weather permitting",
because it was always lovely weather.

And then all the other games as well.

But you could go and spend the whole
day, have lunch, have dinner.
Lovely changing rooms.

Pool... It was...
Everything you needed.

Bits of the genteel world that
Victor once adorned are still there,

although nowadays you take
the rough with the smooth.

The Gezira Club's race track still
exists, but now anyone can get in,

even the Egyptians who were once
lucky to clean up after the horses.

The refined European ladies are
gone, probably never to be replaced.

Among the men, there are no diamond
tie-pins because there are no ties.

But a horse is still a horse,
with something a camel hasn't got -
big money-making potential.

The Cairenes back the gee-gees
with almost fundamentalist fervour.

I was a bit confused at the betting
stand because all the horses' names
were in Arabic,

and there was an accumulator system
in a version of ancient Egyptian.

I stuck on a bundle at random
without being quite certain whether
I was backing a horse or buying it.

A man who seemed to be
a student of form was interested
in what I'd just done.

Up in the stand,
he started explaining it to me.

I had bet my roll on the same horse
he had gone for himself.
It was a sure-fire winner,

and in return for a percentage,
he would show me how to bet my
enormous winnings on further horses

so that the final total
would exceed the national debt.

A third man eavesdropped
surreptitiously.

Going backward? They're all going
backward. Yeah, right.
So what are these?

Dream. Dream? Yes, Dream. Dream.
Dream. I like the sound of that.

The third man was hitching
a free ride, but I held no grudge.
There would be plenty for everybody.

Before long I'd be joining the
high-rollers in their private boxes.

SHOUTING HORSE'S NAME

It won! It did! My horse had come
in, and I was about to be buried
under a pyramid of piastres.

There was nothing left to do except
saunter down and collect the take.

I feared they wouldn't let me bet
the whole fortune on the next race,

but I could pay off my camel's
fuel bills and take the rest
to the bank in a van.

He's counting it out in huge heaps.

Is that it? Is that it?

Is that it? Yes. That's it.
COUNTS IN ARABIC

That's OK.

MUEZZIN CALLS TO PRAYER

Next morning, after a long night
of camel training,
I woke late and hungry.

Luckily, back-street Cairo is
well equipped to provide breakfast.

I passed a man who looked
as if he was trying
to attract my attention.

He was engaged in the manufacture
of Cairo's favourite fast food
which is called futir.

Before the fully qualified futir
manufacturer can get the thing
looking like a parachute,

he must first conquer fear. A man
frightened when forming a futir
ends up wrapped like a mummy.

Can I have one? One? One.
Wahed. One.

The price of the ingredients
eats the profits at the same rate
as the consumer eats the product.

As with almost the whole Egyptian
economy except tourism, there's
hardly anything to put in the bank.

It was just oiled pastry dusted
with sugar, but it had a flavour
hard to define,

a sort of oily, dusty, sugary,
pastry sort of quality.

Long after I had finished it,
I could still taste it,
so I suppose it was value for money.

In Cairo, a little foreign cash
can get you a long way.

Amidst the faded glories
of the railway station
I caught the train for Ismailia,

where Omar Sharif had gone
to escape the heat.

Like the Art Deco buildings,
the race track, even the pyramids,

the station is an eloquent leftover
from before Nasser's revolution.
Most trains show signs of wear,

but they still run fast enough
so that you have to run after them
if you're late.

Once everybody is on the train,
it goes only slightly quicker
than a camel,

but at least
you don't have to hustle.

The Cairenes enjoy their leisure,
and Ismailia is
a favourite resort area.

It's Cairo's equivalent of Brighton
or Bondi or Coney Island, but
it's not bathed by ocean breakers,

it's lulled by the less glamorous
waters of the Suez Canal.

When I first came through the canal
on my way from Australia to Britain
more than 30 years ago,

they'd only just cleared
the mines and wrecked ships

left after Britain and France,
who had both run Egypt before,
teamed up to run it again,

on the patronising assumption that
the Egyptians could never operate
the canal by themselves.

Now confident young Egyptians are
in possession of the beach club

and only their parents can remember
when the Israelis were camped
on the other bank.

But we westerners
have still got the know-how.

It takes a long tradition
of sailing the world's oceans

to have the sixth sense
that men call seamanship.

SHIP'S HOOTER

Lucky I had training, or I'd have
been heading for the Persian Gulf,

where a strange westerner clinging
to a tanker's bows might be jailed.

Back in Cairo, the strange
westerner faces no such threat.
Egyptian Islam welcomes the infidel.

Some of the mosques are
architectural masterpieces,
miracles of spacious poise.

The carpets are threadbare
and the colours on the walls
have been eaten pale by the dust,

but that only adds to the beauty,

making the buildings feel
like giant bubbles
blown from biscuit mixture.

No Christian cathedral feels so
uncluttered, and no oriental shrine
gives such a sense of shelter.

Unfortunately, the stairs
to the minarets are a killer.

Once, a man used to climb up
and call the faithful to prayer.

Now it's through a loudspeaker,
and only foreign tourists go up
in search of a vision.

I had my first vision halfway up,
a vision of myself on life-support.

But when I arrived wheezing at
the top, there really was a vision.

It was Cairo.

MUEZZIN CALLS

From that Allah-like altitude,

you can see the origins
of the city's strange air
of eternity and evaporation.

It's because the concrete and the
dust are made from the same stuff,

so eventually the dust has to win,
because there's more of it.

But the dust will always be there
and so will Islam. The only
question is, which version.

So far, Cairo has the mild version.

SINGING A PRAYER

The men pray at required times but
won't preach at you if you don't.

Christianity used to be
less tolerant.

Despite the fundamentalists'
efforts to make invisibility
compulsory,

women still have a choice about
whether or not to wear the veil.
Some women don't.

Some women do.

And some women really do!

In the 1960s in London, freedom
from convention was my religion.

Now London is a city where
a woman can't walk home alone.

Cairo's women are safe.
Does that make them less free?
What kind of cover-up is the veil ?

I asked a teacher of English
at the American University
in Cairo, Sanaa Maklouf.

I think the root of it in Islam
is to cover what is very attractive
in a woman's body.

And I think it has to be done in
a whole community, a whole society.

Because when it's done,
when women follow this system,

without any implications that
women are dependent and repressed
and so on, just their appearance,

the society may become a healthier
society in terms of less crime,
less violence, less women abuse.

Doesn't wearing the veil
imply submission,
lessen women's independence?

When you live here, you see how we
live, you see that wearing the veil

has nothing to do with our
individuality and our independence.

I remember my mother in the 60s.

It was short skirts, sleeveless
dresses - not my mother necessarily,
but our older generation -

but they were more conservative
in many ways. Socially they were.
Lots of them were not working.

They didn't drive or have jobs.

I am veiled, I'm a university
professor in an American university,

There's no problem whatsoever.
I socialise, I go out with anyone,
friends, family...

There's no control whatsoever,
no relationship between being veiled
and being dependent.

Will you be able to travel abroad
without your husband's permission?

Well, according to Islamic law,
a woman, a wife, should not travel
without her husband's approval.

Er, but...I'm married
to a very broadminded husband
who's a good Muslim.

He would give me approval, and
I would travel, and I have done it.

But within the wide limits set
by the Koran, Cairo still has
a soft spot for western ways.

The rich keep their money in the
west, bringing only enough home

to pay for the odd modest little
shindig behind closed doors.

Tipped off that Omar Sharif
would be among the revellers,

I gatecrashed
a high society wedding.

The bride's dress was ordered
directly from the catwalk
of a Paris couture collection.

WOMEN ULULATING

If the bridegroom had eaten calves'
knees, he was discreet about it.

The formidable mothers of the
betrothed do the organising.

Lost somewhere in the background,
all the fathers do is fork out
from their Swiss bank accounts.

The bill is colossal.

PIERCING TRUMPET TUNE

The whole deal is like
a multi-media production.

There's a video unit present
to create an instant TV programme

transmitted to the revellers
on giant screens.

ULULATING

The revellers generate their
high spirits unaided by alcohol,
at any rate in theory.

Some of the boys seemed to be doing
very well on iced tea (!)

Fifi Abdou is the belly dancer
for A-list weddings.
Her overheads are immense.

Her back-up band costs a fortune
to hire.

For most of her routines, Fifi was
diaphanously clad, but would allow
filming only when wearing her shirt,

just in case western male audiences
were driven mad with desire
and bit pieces out of the TV set.

Then another orchestra took over
while a major production number
raised the question

of whether the challenge of Islam
to the west was really as serious

as the challenge of the Andrew
Lloyd Webber musical to the east.

If the marriage lasted as long
as the wedding, those two would be
all right. But I was short of time.

On my last day in town, I plunged
once again into the bazaar
where the word was already out

that the westerner who had been
training at midnight on a mad camel
might be in search of a galabiyah,

the Arab one-piece nightshirt
for day wear.

Aware that I knew how to bargain,
two renowned galabiyah salesmen
coaxed me to their boutique.

No? I'll go in here.

Something you've never seen before.
Oh, right.

This is my brother. Hi. Hi.
What's your name? My name's Clive.
Nice to meet you. Abdu, and Sama.

Something extra large. I have.
For you or somebody else? For me.
OK. My brother show you. Dress?

With sleeves. Sleeves? Long arm?
But now it's summer,
we have short sleeves.

Where I'm going
I need it with long arms. Right.

That's it? Something like this?
Plain design, long arms.
Extra large. Elephant size.

That isn't the way I'd have put it
myself, but that's extra large?
OK. Looks great.

How much is that? I'll give it
to you 200 Egyptian pounds.

I've been here a while now,
I've learnt a bit about bargaining.
I'd say...30 ? Oh, my goodness!

You want to break my heart,
my neck, my legs? 200 is too much.

I'll give it to you little bit
discount, but not this price.
How much? 160 Egyptian pounds.

Leave out the 100, say 60. 60.

Huh? Uh...I lose my brother!
Can my brother give it to you
more discount. How much you say?

I say 160 Egyptian pounds. How much
you want? 60. English pounds,
US dollars? No, Egyptian pounds.

We lose if we give it for this
price. But I want to help you.
Not 160 and not 60. OK ?

What about 145 ? What about...
what about 90 ? What about 143 ?

What about...91 ? Oh...!
140, OK ? 100.

135. 100. I'm sorry.
100...110.

130. 130 ? Yes. 125.

Good luck! Make a deal. Deal ?
All right, my friend.

Well, I've learned to hold my own.

I had beaten them up to less than
five times my starting price!

Later I heard that they sold
their business that same week
and went into retirement.

Thanks, fellas. See you! Goodbye.
Have a nice time. You're welcome.
Goodbye, my friend.

Having stashed my galabiyah
at the camel garage,
I headed for my last appointment.

Omar Sharif's agent had told me
that this time he would definitely
be there

at his favourite secret restaurant
beside the Nile, best reachable by
ferry. He said not to tell anyone.

It looked as if
there was no-one left to tell.

LOUD POP MUSIC

Once on board, the Cairenes
were soon drumming up their usual
good time out of next to nothing.

They did it
with a surplus of enthusiasm
and a total absence of violence.

A group of young British football
supporters would have reduced
the boat to matchwood in minutes.

But all the Cairenes did
was to spontaneously combine
in a belly-dancing competition.

Some of the best young male belly
dancers vibrated with an abandon

that left Fifi Abdou
looking low on batteries.

But the word must have got out
that the infidel happened to be

one of the great belly dancers
of the western world.
I was reluctant to humiliate them.

But belly dancing is one of
those talents it's death to hide.

Hiding it becomes impossible,
so you might as well flaunt it.

One man who never needed to flaunt
it, but has certainly got it, was
the man I'd tried to pin down -

film star, bridge player, the most
famous Egyptian since Tutankamun,

the Nemesis from the Oasis himself,
Omar Sharif.

Does the man in the street envy you
your international life? No.
You know, they identify with me.

In other words, all these leading
ladies I've held in my arms,
THEY held in their arms.

They... On screen, I'm saying!
They feel very proud,
as if it happened to them.

Would a young person starting off
now, to do what you've done,
stand a chance?

I think the young generation have
a much harder time than we had,
or the intermediate generation had.

It's very tough to be a young person
today. Some of those young people
are really worrying, in a sense.

Is that where fundamentalism
is coming from, from frustration?
Um...I don't believe that Egyptians

are in danger of fundamentalism,
really, because I know these people.
I can't imagine them being...

I think there are probably...
I don't know, maybe 5,000 people.

All this is about 5,000 people
who are very poor - despair has
something to do with it -

and who are being paid to do that.
This is not something
from within the country,

it's something that's happening
from outside the country towards
the inside, I'm pretty certain.

You mean, the more extreme Arab
states? Yes. Because Egypt is...

If Egypt goes fundamentalist,
that's the end of the Middle East.
A big victory for fundamentalists.

How about the increased number of
women taking the veil, is that part
of it? Well, it's economical also.

I daren't pronounce myself on that.
These are very treacherous grounds
for me to tread but, you know,

I find that in our business, the
theatre business, a lot of actresses
are starting to wear the veil.

Except that they're usually...
over 45, you know,
they're getting a little bit fat,

they're a little past their...
let's say their star prime,

and so it's a good time
to start covering up all this.

It's treacherous! Some people
are really religious, also! You
sound like a dominant Arab male.

No! No, no, no, not at all !
You know that the Arab females
are the strongest,

and they are the ones
who are most...have most influence
of any women I met in the world.

All the males, the Arab males, are
completely dominated by their women,
completely, I can assure you!

They have a way of doing it
in an underhand manner
that people don't realise they are.

They're very strong! I know. My wife
was my boss when I was married.

It gets to you, this place.
Anything beautiful's got dust on it,
but the dust is beautiful.

It's wonderful, it's slow,
it's a kind of life that...

the kind of rhythm
that is disappearing slowly,

and you only find it in this part
of the world. Even this river
inspires you with slowness.

It's not a fast river. It's slow.
It's kind of eternal, and it makes
you want to take your time.

You sit for a long time
before you do something active.
I left Omar to be lynched

by older Egyptian actresses.
It was time to say my goodbyes
to Cairo.

In the City of the Dead,
more than a million people
live among the tombs.

Most of the people in Egypt are in
Cairo, and too many of the people
in Cairo live in the cemetery.

But in Rio de Janeiro
they'd be living on garbage tips,
in New York they'd be panhandling,

in London and Tokyo they'd be
sleeping in cardboard boxes.

Few Cairenes believe fundamentalism
knows how to make things better,
so they take what comes.

People have always lived
among the tombs.

Around here, 1,000 years is just
the time it takes for the sand
in an hour-glass to swap ends.

Yes, there are moments when
at least one jaded westerner longs
for the purity of the desert.

So he dons his flowing robes,
springs to his ivory saddle,

and speaks to his camel
in a secret language, saying,

"Take me to my destiny
in the everlasting sands,
for it is written."

And the camel says,
"I will take you to the airport,
for it is getting late."