It’s a scary place and it’s just behind this photograph; that of a bashed-up Police wagon. Around it is the Tahrir Square peace camp, with memories to martyrs and a lot of beggars that have moved from under the flyovers.
There are flags everywhere, including, incongruously those of Chelsea FC and Bayern Munich FC. Hawkers are selling *those* Guy Fawkes masks from that movie that I can’t remember the name of.
Opposite, Egyptian Banksy emulators have tagged McDonald and Kentucky Fried Chicken. There is something in the air, something that is sleeping, something that may be ignited by the slightest movement from either of the two sides that are silently fronting each other.
Closer to this writer, I am appalled that I have lost my Yellow Fever certificate and I may have trouble entering Kenya on Wednesday. For now, I’m happy with the roaming and wandering around an existing revolution.
It’s like Prague in 1989, but without a seemingly happy denouement. Up the street in Talaat Dharb, there is strawberry/orange/banana juice concoctions and a lot of shoe shops for Egyptian women.
More pertinently there are no queues outside the Egyptian Museum, there are no tourists. It is an uneasy, non-Western calm, but, boy, it is interesting and the forthcoming 48 hours will bring more interest and more stories.