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..
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