Saturday 31 March 2012
Thursday 8 March 2012
The Maharram Bey Mafia
Some nights, it's hard to sleep here. I put it down to a combination of our having adapted to the Arab lifestyle (lots of caffeine, sugar and smoke), barely any exercise and looming exams. Watching creepy stop-motion videos past eleven is probably not the best idea either.
Rewind to yesterday night, or rather, very early this morning. I and a friend give up on the idea of a good night's sleep and decide to go for a walk. What begins as a casual stroll around Wabuur al Maya, which is still alive at this hour with speeding cabs and groups of men smoking shisha in cafes, turns into a slightly surreal wander into Maharram Bey, the district behind ours on the other side of the train tracks. Maharram Bey is a much poorer area and stretches a long way but looks more or less the same throughout; narrow, dusty streets with criss-cross washing lines overhead and piles of rubbish lining the pavements, skinny cats and streaked, rusty cars with no wheels plonked by the side of the road. Unlike Wabuur al Maya, it's eerily silent here at night. The longer working hours of the average resident as well as the lower income means the night is not time for leisure, but for a well-earned rest.
After some time walking through streets in which the only sign of life has been a single hooded youth drawing something very detailed on a wall, we emerge back beside the main road that leads down to Carrefour and find a tiny ahua (coffee shop) still open. Of course, everyone glances our way - this would be normal anyway, but somehow we get the feeling they especially don't see many white faces - but there is none of the overt staring or behind-the-hand gossip we have come to expect of more upmarket places. The owner is curious, but polite. People are too busy to sit and speculate for hours on two people there for exactly the same reason as themselves.
On the walk back we notice the guy we saw before has been joined by about eight others, all in hoods. In London this would make me quicken my pace but they hardly look at us, absorbed now in spray-painting a vast and curling Egyptian flag across the wall. In Egyptian society generally we have noticed poorer people tend to be far more ddevoutly religious, and talk more fervently about love for their country; despite many being forced to work morning till night for a monthly wage of about 35 English pounds, most are so vehemently opposed to theft that whole groups of strangers will chase and beat anyone caught in the act on the street out of sheer principle. That said, we are not completely naiive and try to walk with purpose when a few heads turn.
On the way back we try climbing the stairs to the bridge, where train tracks run through long grass. There is a single immobile train on the far side of the tracks that does not appear to have moved for some time, rusty, caught in a tangle of creeping plants and eerily silent. In a moment of lunacy we consider going over to look inside. However barely two steps across the ten yards or so of vegetation, we hear a shout from behind us. A grinning middle-aged Egyptian with a cigarette beckons us back over.
Speaking in 'aamiya is always a bit of a mission. The dialect varies from region to region and older men especially (like our 70-something doormen) often speak in such a thick, slurred fashion we are forced to give up entirely, or the Egyptian becomes so exasperated they turn to other forms of communication. An example from the other day:
Me: "Shaaria Fou'ad." - a well-known main street very close to our house.
Driver: "Shaaria Fou'ad fayn?" - "Where on Shaaria Fou'ad?"
Me: "Al mathaf." - "The museum."
Driver: "Ahh. Al mathaf tfyertub5etubwertgfhsfgh wizaara (ministry) ghdfgsertsetgaesrtkaergasfgs?"
Me: "Mish fahima, asifa. Al mathaf Aleskandariia." - "Sorry, I don't understand; the Alexandrian Museum." [It's the only museum on the road and a ten-minute walk away; I'm just feeling lazy.]
Driver (changing direction and going down a very weird route that adds an extra fifteen minutes to the journey): "dfjglskjesrtglksdjfesrlkglsdnfger! kfdslseirjlakesd? gnkjnr! dglkajwlrskawlje (sings) ALCOHOLA MIYA MIYA" - "ALCOHOL ONE HUNDRED PERCENT"
Me: "Ey?"
Driver: "FAYN?"
Me: "Ala tuul!" - "Straight ahead!"
Driver (taking both hands off the wheel and singing to the tune of 'ere we go 'ere we go 'ere we go): "ALA TUUL ALA TUUL ALA TUUL, ALA TUUL ALA TUUL ALA TUUL, ALA TUUL ALA TUUL ALA TUUL." He then tries to charge me double the price for the journey. Lesson learnt.
This man, however, clearly finds us amusing but also clearly has a point he wishes to make - he speaks incredibly fast but repeats several times that if we don't understand anything, to tell him. Francis's eyes are already glazing over before he has even begun to explain that the train we see before us, below the level of the windows, is full of people sleeping rough. He also mentions it is a meeting point for a word we don't catch - noticing my quizzical expression he tries "shabaab", "youth", but then, dissatisfied, lands instead on "zay (like) al Mafia". Gangs. Apparently, since the fall of Mubarak there has been a huge increase in gang culture in this area; he tells us it's not safe, and most non-residents walk alongside the main road (even though there is no pavement there and you have to take your chances with the traffic) because they are scared to go through Muharram Bey at night. He concludes by making some kind of chopping motion towards his shoulder; we've seen this before and it's to do with armed theft. Pointing us towards the steps on the other side of the bridge, he says goodnight, still laughing at our stupidity.
It seems that even in a culture steeped in religion, there are exceptions. Particularly, as with any society in the world, among the disaffected youth. Looking back it now seems like lunacy to have gone wandering around Maharram Bey at one in the morning (especially with a phone in my pocket); though the conversation has not scared me away from the area in its entirety, it seems in Alexandria that for a half-decent, non-awkward cup of coffee, you must be prepared to risk life and limb and all personal wealth, rather like a London Starbucks actually. Bring it on I say. The quest continues.
Rewind to yesterday night, or rather, very early this morning. I and a friend give up on the idea of a good night's sleep and decide to go for a walk. What begins as a casual stroll around Wabuur al Maya, which is still alive at this hour with speeding cabs and groups of men smoking shisha in cafes, turns into a slightly surreal wander into Maharram Bey, the district behind ours on the other side of the train tracks. Maharram Bey is a much poorer area and stretches a long way but looks more or less the same throughout; narrow, dusty streets with criss-cross washing lines overhead and piles of rubbish lining the pavements, skinny cats and streaked, rusty cars with no wheels plonked by the side of the road. Unlike Wabuur al Maya, it's eerily silent here at night. The longer working hours of the average resident as well as the lower income means the night is not time for leisure, but for a well-earned rest.
After some time walking through streets in which the only sign of life has been a single hooded youth drawing something very detailed on a wall, we emerge back beside the main road that leads down to Carrefour and find a tiny ahua (coffee shop) still open. Of course, everyone glances our way - this would be normal anyway, but somehow we get the feeling they especially don't see many white faces - but there is none of the overt staring or behind-the-hand gossip we have come to expect of more upmarket places. The owner is curious, but polite. People are too busy to sit and speculate for hours on two people there for exactly the same reason as themselves.
On the walk back we notice the guy we saw before has been joined by about eight others, all in hoods. In London this would make me quicken my pace but they hardly look at us, absorbed now in spray-painting a vast and curling Egyptian flag across the wall. In Egyptian society generally we have noticed poorer people tend to be far more ddevoutly religious, and talk more fervently about love for their country; despite many being forced to work morning till night for a monthly wage of about 35 English pounds, most are so vehemently opposed to theft that whole groups of strangers will chase and beat anyone caught in the act on the street out of sheer principle. That said, we are not completely naiive and try to walk with purpose when a few heads turn.
On the way back we try climbing the stairs to the bridge, where train tracks run through long grass. There is a single immobile train on the far side of the tracks that does not appear to have moved for some time, rusty, caught in a tangle of creeping plants and eerily silent. In a moment of lunacy we consider going over to look inside. However barely two steps across the ten yards or so of vegetation, we hear a shout from behind us. A grinning middle-aged Egyptian with a cigarette beckons us back over.
Speaking in 'aamiya is always a bit of a mission. The dialect varies from region to region and older men especially (like our 70-something doormen) often speak in such a thick, slurred fashion we are forced to give up entirely, or the Egyptian becomes so exasperated they turn to other forms of communication. An example from the other day:
Me: "Shaaria Fou'ad." - a well-known main street very close to our house.
Driver: "Shaaria Fou'ad fayn?" - "Where on Shaaria Fou'ad?"
Me: "Al mathaf." - "The museum."
Driver: "Ahh. Al mathaf tfyertub5etubwertgfhsfgh wizaara (ministry) ghdfgsertsetgaesrtkaergasfgs?"
Me: "Mish fahima, asifa. Al mathaf Aleskandariia." - "Sorry, I don't understand; the Alexandrian Museum." [It's the only museum on the road and a ten-minute walk away; I'm just feeling lazy.]
Driver (changing direction and going down a very weird route that adds an extra fifteen minutes to the journey): "dfjglskjesrtglksdjfesrlkglsdnfger! kfdslseirjlakesd? gnkjnr! dglkajwlrskawlje (sings) ALCOHOLA MIYA MIYA" - "ALCOHOL ONE HUNDRED PERCENT"
Me: "Ey?"
Driver: "FAYN?"
Me: "Ala tuul!" - "Straight ahead!"
Driver (taking both hands off the wheel and singing to the tune of 'ere we go 'ere we go 'ere we go): "ALA TUUL ALA TUUL ALA TUUL, ALA TUUL ALA TUUL ALA TUUL, ALA TUUL ALA TUUL ALA TUUL." He then tries to charge me double the price for the journey. Lesson learnt.
This man, however, clearly finds us amusing but also clearly has a point he wishes to make - he speaks incredibly fast but repeats several times that if we don't understand anything, to tell him. Francis's eyes are already glazing over before he has even begun to explain that the train we see before us, below the level of the windows, is full of people sleeping rough. He also mentions it is a meeting point for a word we don't catch - noticing my quizzical expression he tries "shabaab", "youth", but then, dissatisfied, lands instead on "zay (like) al Mafia". Gangs. Apparently, since the fall of Mubarak there has been a huge increase in gang culture in this area; he tells us it's not safe, and most non-residents walk alongside the main road (even though there is no pavement there and you have to take your chances with the traffic) because they are scared to go through Muharram Bey at night. He concludes by making some kind of chopping motion towards his shoulder; we've seen this before and it's to do with armed theft. Pointing us towards the steps on the other side of the bridge, he says goodnight, still laughing at our stupidity.
It seems that even in a culture steeped in religion, there are exceptions. Particularly, as with any society in the world, among the disaffected youth. Looking back it now seems like lunacy to have gone wandering around Maharram Bey at one in the morning (especially with a phone in my pocket); though the conversation has not scared me away from the area in its entirety, it seems in Alexandria that for a half-decent, non-awkward cup of coffee, you must be prepared to risk life and limb and all personal wealth, rather like a London Starbucks actually. Bring it on I say. The quest continues.
Saturday 3 March 2012
25/01/11: Bridge, Tahrir Square and aftermath
After a long time staring at the never-ending march, we climb down and allow ourselves to be swept along towards Qasr al-Nil bridge. The bridge connects Gezira Island and Zamalek to Downtown Cairo and is distinctive for the vast lion statues at either end, where today flag-wielding citizens have climbed onto the lions' heads and urge on the hundreds of thousands attempting to cross. Choking on the smoke from sweet potato carts and hanging grimly onto one another's elbows (our group now includes Mostafa, his brother and several friends) we make it a short way across the bridge before coming to a halt, hemmed in on all sides by an almost stationary crowd. This is to be our post for the next hour, in full sun. My ailing camera battery now gives up, but through bitter experience I know a little more life can be squeezed out through that arcane method of Turning It On And Off Again:
Cheap flags and facepaint are abundant on the bridge; somehow sellers are the only people capable of worming their way through the mass of bodies. We inch our way forward, yelling back the chants that echo from the closest megaphones: the favourite seems to be "Yasqut yasqut hakm al askar', which means something like 'Down, down with the military regime'. As the towering hotels on the opposite bank of the Nile swim into view, voices only grow louder, the atmosphere more suffocating. Next to us, a man who seems barely past his teenage years strokes the shoulder of his young wife in niqab, a rather sweet display of affection in an atmosphere that seems half carnival, half barely-contained rage.
Eventually, we make it across, forced to creep along the edges of the crowd to get further in. Channels of people leaving the square cut through the masses trying to enter, and many people have elected to remain standing here or at the sides, content to watch the drama unfolding from this comparatively spacious area. A new chant - "Di thawra, mish hafla" or "This is a revolution, not a party" - rises up, prompted by the two men shown above and echoed across the square. This is mostly aimed at the festivities organised by SCAF to commemorate the last 'victory' of last January and, in many people's view, to cover up the fact that on a fundamental level little has changed. It also serves as a reminder to those who seem in a more celebratory mood that there is still work to be done. News websites in days to come will express this concern and question whether a high enough proportion of the Egyptian public remain engaged and wish for further reform: but as one lady told the BBC, the fact was that three times as many people came out to demonstrate this year, and if there were differences of opinion in the square, this is democracy, and they must get used to it.
Getting across Tahrir does feel a little like trying to navigate a festival field; tents have been pitched where activists and families alike have been camping all night, the ground is a cludder of mud and debris ("USE THE WATER!" exclaims Mostafa, and we fearlessly stomp through the puddles where no one else is standing) and voices blast from speakers overhead. But unlike a festival, the sense of unity and cohesion here is undeniable; those that are not yelling and fist-pumping are smiling from ear to ear. Men huddle against cardboard barriers, reading the papers or passed out in the afternoon sun; we spot an old woman and her daughter being helped over the railings by a group of at least ten strangers. I have never been in a crowd so vast. And despite having been through Tahrir several times before, I have absolutely no clue where we are.
We emerge on the other side of the square, not far from the museum, shocked by the sudden space and air. There are a number of smaller gatherings here, and people resting, albeit in trees or on blockades:
Above: Mustafa's brother standing on the rail like a maniac to photograph the crowds. I was not tempted to join him.
Cheap flags and facepaint are abundant on the bridge; somehow sellers are the only people capable of worming their way through the mass of bodies. We inch our way forward, yelling back the chants that echo from the closest megaphones: the favourite seems to be "Yasqut yasqut hakm al askar', which means something like 'Down, down with the military regime'. As the towering hotels on the opposite bank of the Nile swim into view, voices only grow louder, the atmosphere more suffocating. Next to us, a man who seems barely past his teenage years strokes the shoulder of his young wife in niqab, a rather sweet display of affection in an atmosphere that seems half carnival, half barely-contained rage.
Eventually, we make it across, forced to creep along the edges of the crowd to get further in. Channels of people leaving the square cut through the masses trying to enter, and many people have elected to remain standing here or at the sides, content to watch the drama unfolding from this comparatively spacious area. A new chant - "Di thawra, mish hafla" or "This is a revolution, not a party" - rises up, prompted by the two men shown above and echoed across the square. This is mostly aimed at the festivities organised by SCAF to commemorate the last 'victory' of last January and, in many people's view, to cover up the fact that on a fundamental level little has changed. It also serves as a reminder to those who seem in a more celebratory mood that there is still work to be done. News websites in days to come will express this concern and question whether a high enough proportion of the Egyptian public remain engaged and wish for further reform: but as one lady told the BBC, the fact was that three times as many people came out to demonstrate this year, and if there were differences of opinion in the square, this is democracy, and they must get used to it.
Getting across Tahrir does feel a little like trying to navigate a festival field; tents have been pitched where activists and families alike have been camping all night, the ground is a cludder of mud and debris ("USE THE WATER!" exclaims Mostafa, and we fearlessly stomp through the puddles where no one else is standing) and voices blast from speakers overhead. But unlike a festival, the sense of unity and cohesion here is undeniable; those that are not yelling and fist-pumping are smiling from ear to ear. Men huddle against cardboard barriers, reading the papers or passed out in the afternoon sun; we spot an old woman and her daughter being helped over the railings by a group of at least ten strangers. I have never been in a crowd so vast. And despite having been through Tahrir several times before, I have absolutely no clue where we are.
We emerge on the other side of the square, not far from the museum, shocked by the sudden space and air. There are a number of smaller gatherings here, and people resting, albeit in trees or on blockades:
We round the corner and find a local cafe (I later found out this was Shaari'a Sabri Abou Alam, where we'd actually stayed in a hostel before) - all coloured plastic seats and battered shisha pipes, and full to bursting today with exhausted Tahrir protestors. Finding somewhere to sit takes a moment but once we've installed ourselves by the back wall, it becomes apparent that most people here are friends of the brothers anyway, including a sculptor they refer to as "Samurai" for his long hair, and a capueira instructor named "Tiger" (real name, surprise surprise, Mohamed). Sipping from a tiny glass of milky tea I realise all I have consumed today is Sprite and Marlboros - apparently the norm for a would-be photographer on the go. I also realise I have a banging headache and feel like I am about to die.
The sensation persists for the next fourty minutes in which we pile into a car with some friends and drive back to Zamalek. After paying a brief visit to Mostafa's rooftop residence and getting to know the bathroom in particular, we go to an old brasserie-style pizza restaurant called Maison Thomas, and after a while the world begins to de-blur. I am in very good company and the conversation moves freely between 'Aamiya and English; these are the first people I've yet encountered who properly understand the concept of "atheist" and do not seem completely appalled. It's a great end to a fantastic day, and I return to our friend's home (doubtless like much of the Cairene population) frazzled and triumphant - and hugely grateful.
Thursday 1 March 2012
25/01/12 part two: Tahrir Street
Realising how impossible it will be to move for a while if we remain part of the assembled crowd, we take a shortcut through the near-deserted sidestreets, finally emerging only to discover we have joined an earlier march that still wends its way towards Tahrir Street. Below is my favourite image from the whole day, some demonstrators crossing under a bridge.
A few stragglers observe and offer encouragement to the march from the other side of the road.
Finally, we make it onto Tahrir Street itself, which continues all the way down to Tahrir Square. Here we meet Mostafa's elder brother Ahmed, who has been standing on a tiny concrete island in the middle of the street, watching and photographing the constant sea of bodies and banners as they thunder past for well over an hour now. We stand, transfixed, for a while: I keep expecting the march to end, but it just doesn't. The longest gap between one group and the next is a few feet, with chants and drum beats tangling in the air, flags and signs jostling for room, fingers pointing, fists pumping, a perpetual swirl of black hair, coloured headscarfs and ripples of red, white and black. Later a friend asks how things are going: I can only respond, and only half-joking, "I had no idea there were this many Egyptians."
At one point the SCAF marionette bobs past again, carried along now by the crowd. Some groups have dispensed with proper slogans altogether and instead yell "Inzil! Inzil!", "Get down!" at those who remain watching from their balconies. Cheers erupt when, occasionally, someone does.
I was pleased to see a lot of families participating in the demonstrations, and realised for the first time then that the government had kept its word: there were indeed no police officers in sight throughout the 25th of January. It was just as well: there was no need. The biggest scuffle we saw all day was over someone spilling face paint. I also noticed plenty of women leading the chants.
Below: the rest of the photos from Tahrir Street, over the course of about an hour.
Still to come: Qasr al-Nil bridge, and Tahrir Square..
Backtracking to the 25th
A lot can happen in a month. Whitney Houston dies, the first edition of the Sun on Sunday is about as fun and fearless as Eeyore reading Good Housekeeping in an existential wormhole, and a nationwide practical joke takes place in Yemen. The UN continues to disgrace itself over Syria. Here, we survive the gaudy horrors of an Alexandrian Valentine's Day, come to terms with the reality of the next few months' budget (basically, there isn't one) and go through varying degrees of anguish, denial and tooth-gnashing Nigel Thornberry hysteria as work is bumped up to four times what it was before and we finally embark on Al Kitaab 2 - from which Maha has disappointingly done a bunk. Our vocabulary has now expanded to include both 'balagha' and 'ghalaba' - what Gad describes as the 'kiss of knowledge' has left us all dizzy and drenched in phlegm, perhaps exactly as it should be. But some sun would really, really be nice now.
It's a slightly different story in Cairo, where a whole thirty-six days ago, I stood on Qasr al-Nil bridge and realised to my dismay I was suffering from heat stroke. Now is not the time for elaborate weather metaphors (God knows there have been enough) but I did wonder, on the day and in those that followed, if the gatherings on the anniversary of the 25th of January would have gone half as well if there hadn't been glorious sunshine from start to finish. This is not to belittle the Egyptian people or their convictions in any way - indeed, the demonstrations may have benefitted from a bit of rain, as a large number of those in attendance expressed concerns that there was far too much of a party atmosphere and the event's true purpose had been lost. Having spent a day among the crowds I couldn't quite agree, but understand where they came from. Then again, nobody wants a soggy banner.
I meet up with our friend from Aswan, Mostafa, at about midday. Mostafa is a media co-ordinator and lives in Zamalek, a relatively well-to-do neighbourhood in Cairo popular with expats, but staunchly maintains he is 'not a normal Zamalek resident' and that he lives on the converted rooftop of one of the district's fancier apartment blocks - much later, tripping over a cat in the process, I am able to confirm this. Mostafa is currently working on an all-Egyptian film festival that will be taking him to Port Said in the coming weeks. He is in his element today, stressing the importance of film and photography to the revolution - anywhere else in the world merely standing around snapping demonstrators might smack of detachment, insincerity and even pure self-interest, but here, the wealth of online documentation is seen as a crucial weapon against a restrictive regime. Between near-constant cigarettes and over a banana milkshake, he critically observes my battered four-year-old Canon and pronounces it severely in need of a clean.
Outside the packed and trendy Cilantro cafe, the square begins to fill at around half past one. Marches from each district of town, mainly organised over social media such as Twitter and Facbook, have been gathering since earlier this morning. Stepping outside into glaring sunshine, I am shocked by the numbers that have so rapidly converged on the square, easily more than I've ever seen at an Alexandrian protest - and this is just a fraction of the total number of people out today.
Below: the rally in Mostafa Mahmoud Square, including van blasting out slogans (one rider was sporting a V for Vendetta mask, which tickled me, though my attempt at an explanation was mostly lost on Mustafa), paper masks showing the faces of last year's martyrs, and a huge SCAF officer marionette that we spotted several times over the day.
Below: Nada, also from Aswan, and Maryam, a friend of Mostafa's - and her brilliant hat. Every few paces, we run into someone he knows (and some he merely knows of: below below below, celebrated poet Haitham Dabbour, and I didn't manage to get a picture but we also spotted Wael Ghonim, creator of the now-famous Facebook page We are all Khaled Said).
After a long period in the square, people begin to move. I've realised already there is no point trying to depict the true scale of the protests so concentrate, with a few exceptions, on running after individuals. That is as much as one can concentrate in a crowd this size on anything other than not getting lost.
A few minutes down the road, our demonstration runs into a group of equal size coming from the other direction. The noise is deafening. It's at this point Mostafa points out a pavement to the right where, this time last year, he was chased up a tree after taking photos during a pro-Mubarak rally. We also see three of the girls who volunteered at the Characters of Egypt festival last year. Of all the people to run into, I'm still not quite sure how that happened.
Moving on to a second post...
It's a slightly different story in Cairo, where a whole thirty-six days ago, I stood on Qasr al-Nil bridge and realised to my dismay I was suffering from heat stroke. Now is not the time for elaborate weather metaphors (God knows there have been enough) but I did wonder, on the day and in those that followed, if the gatherings on the anniversary of the 25th of January would have gone half as well if there hadn't been glorious sunshine from start to finish. This is not to belittle the Egyptian people or their convictions in any way - indeed, the demonstrations may have benefitted from a bit of rain, as a large number of those in attendance expressed concerns that there was far too much of a party atmosphere and the event's true purpose had been lost. Having spent a day among the crowds I couldn't quite agree, but understand where they came from. Then again, nobody wants a soggy banner.
I meet up with our friend from Aswan, Mostafa, at about midday. Mostafa is a media co-ordinator and lives in Zamalek, a relatively well-to-do neighbourhood in Cairo popular with expats, but staunchly maintains he is 'not a normal Zamalek resident' and that he lives on the converted rooftop of one of the district's fancier apartment blocks - much later, tripping over a cat in the process, I am able to confirm this. Mostafa is currently working on an all-Egyptian film festival that will be taking him to Port Said in the coming weeks. He is in his element today, stressing the importance of film and photography to the revolution - anywhere else in the world merely standing around snapping demonstrators might smack of detachment, insincerity and even pure self-interest, but here, the wealth of online documentation is seen as a crucial weapon against a restrictive regime. Between near-constant cigarettes and over a banana milkshake, he critically observes my battered four-year-old Canon and pronounces it severely in need of a clean.
Outside the packed and trendy Cilantro cafe, the square begins to fill at around half past one. Marches from each district of town, mainly organised over social media such as Twitter and Facbook, have been gathering since earlier this morning. Stepping outside into glaring sunshine, I am shocked by the numbers that have so rapidly converged on the square, easily more than I've ever seen at an Alexandrian protest - and this is just a fraction of the total number of people out today.
Below: the rally in Mostafa Mahmoud Square, including van blasting out slogans (one rider was sporting a V for Vendetta mask, which tickled me, though my attempt at an explanation was mostly lost on Mustafa), paper masks showing the faces of last year's martyrs, and a huge SCAF officer marionette that we spotted several times over the day.
Below: Nada, also from Aswan, and Maryam, a friend of Mostafa's - and her brilliant hat. Every few paces, we run into someone he knows (and some he merely knows of: below below below, celebrated poet Haitham Dabbour, and I didn't manage to get a picture but we also spotted Wael Ghonim, creator of the now-famous Facebook page We are all Khaled Said).
After a long period in the square, people begin to move. I've realised already there is no point trying to depict the true scale of the protests so concentrate, with a few exceptions, on running after individuals. That is as much as one can concentrate in a crowd this size on anything other than not getting lost.
A few minutes down the road, our demonstration runs into a group of equal size coming from the other direction. The noise is deafening. It's at this point Mostafa points out a pavement to the right where, this time last year, he was chased up a tree after taking photos during a pro-Mubarak rally. We also see three of the girls who volunteered at the Characters of Egypt festival last year. Of all the people to run into, I'm still not quite sure how that happened.
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