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:

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.