Kabul to Cairo

It started with a pre-dawn rush through the swampy mud streets of Kabul, the rain still drizzling, to the Serena hotel, where I hoped the internet would be working so I could print out my plane ticket for the first leg of my trip to Abu Dhabi.

Less than 24 hours later, I was making my way slowly, through the grey dawn and eerily empty streets of Cairo, scene of a historic, if often violent, uprising that for some reason I felt compelled to see for myself. I have to admit there were times, many, many times over the past week that I questioned my own judgement about going to Cairo. How would I get to the hotel if there was a nighttime curfew? What of the vigilantes and police who were targeting journalists? What would I do when I got there?

 I had half expected Etihad to cancel the flight from Abu Dhabi, but was surprised, and perhaps relieved, to see about 100 people on board. All Egyptians, all clutching their green passports. If they were going back, perhaps it was not so bad as the media was making out.

My first real wobble came when I went through immigration at Abu Dhabi, and the guy looked at my passport, at my old visa for the Abu Dhabi Media Company, and said, “Oh, a journalist. Good luck.” Fuck, I'd been lumbered. I then went through my bag, throwing out all the name cards that labelled me as a journalist, something I would regret a bit later.

Four hours later we were in Cairo, and from the pilot's announcement , you could be forgiven for not knowing there was an uprising. “The time is 3:20am and the weather is 16 degrees. Have a pleasant stay in Cairo. We hope to see you again.”

I breezed through immigration and customs. and found a taxi almost immediately. Megahed Zaghloul, my driver, not only kept up a running commentary of Cairo's sights .. "This is the military academy, the biggest in the Middle East", "This is the soccer stadium .." but his easy going attitude with the countless military blockades ( I lost count after eight) meant we stayed out of trouble for the most part.

Every 200 metres or so, two Bradley tanks blocked our way forward. On the first couple of stops, the military barely glanced in my direction, just checked my driver's ID and waved us through. Some of the soldiers were sleeping on top of their tanks, wrapped up in blankets against the chilly night air. “The army are good, friendly,” Megahed said. He then pointed to a few guys in plain clothes ... “those are the police, see they are not doing anything”.

As if to emphasise this point, we approach our first police checkpoint. One man holds a long iron pole on the top of which he has attached a serrated knife. They peer into the car. I wave and say salaam. They check my passport, and I hold my breath. Please, please don't look at my Abu Dhabi visa. Since the protests started Jan 25, one journalist has been killed and nearly everyone I know has been roughed up in some way. Others have been detained by the military police or roaming groups of vigilantes.

They take away my passport and there is some conferring, before it is handed back to me and we move on.

As we trawl through the night-time streets, all along the roads are small bonfires, and groups of men with baseball bats and sticks .. .protecting their homes from looters and the thugs hired by supporters of the president, Hosni Mubarak. “I have been a driver for 35 years and I have never seen it like this,” Megahed tells me time and time again as he points out how the streets are usually full of people on a Friday night. "Cairo is a 24-hour city."

Another checkpoint, more tanks and armoured personnel carriers. Several men gather around the car and my driver, bless him, laughs and jokes with them. My passport is once more spirited away through the window More conferring and then a guy in plain clothes leans in through the window. “Why do you want to come to Egypt now?” he asks.

It is a question I had been thinking about. I initially thought I would say I was a nurse, or medic, but decided to play the foolish tourist. He looks sceptical, “But things are very bad here,” he tells me. I tell him I think it's important to be here, not to shy away and to support Egyptians. He nods, and apologises, saying he will have to check “everything”.

I climb out of the car, and the guy introduces himself as Capt Wahid, head of the military intelligence, and soon we are on first name basis. As he hands me back my bag, he says: “Welcome to Cairo, Cassie.”

The next checkpoint, a big, burly camouflaged soldier is called over to look at our car. I wave and salaam, adjust my headscarf, which I decided might actually help in this case, and he doesn't smile. He again, rifles through my bag, pulling out my laptop, a pile of clothes which he dumps on my lap and I am thankful I did not buy that new camera I had hoped to. He leaves me with a pile of clothes on my lap and climbs into the front seat, waving us through another two more checkpoints, before he climbs out, also welcomes me to Cairo, and lifts up our windscreen wiper to signify we are “ok”.

As we pass the Egyptian museum, at the heart of where the protests are taking place, and cross the bridge into the leafy green residential island of Zalmanek, we are stopped another two times, this time by young kids, manning ad hoc roadblocks. They carry baseball bats, and this is possibly one of the most worrying as they are unpredictable, local vigilantes. But they all smile when they see me, and like all boys, giggle when I wave and smile back.

It is hard to see much of Cairo in the dark, and with my focus just on getting through the checkpoints, I don't know whether I love it or not. I can't tell whether the rubble that litters the streets is remnants from the stone-throwing battles between pro and anti-government activists, or this is what Cairo is like. Bands of dogs roam the streets. The Nile seems quiet. Stores are shut. Megahed tells me this is a good time to visit the pyramids.

After two hours, all I want to do is get to the hotel. I am worried my luck will soon run out.

As we draw up to the Novotel, where I have a booking, it is ominously quiet. Not a light in any room or a person outside. Granted it is now 5:30am, but it looks shut, so we move on to the Marriott where I know another friend is staying. They almost fall over themselves to welcome me. The bellhop tells me they have over 1,000 rooms, but occupancy is just 18 percent. I'm not sure how they can justify $250/night, but for the moment, the journey is over.