Rob, Hannah and I took turns posing in front of the “Welcome to Egypt” sign as we crossed the border. We were on break for Sukkot and thought the best way to celebrate the exodus from Egypt was to visit Egypt.
At the last of four checkpoints, the three of us conferred and decided not to speak a word of Hebrew. Under no circumstances whatsoever were we going to let on that we were Jewish. God only knows what they would do to us in a Muslim country if they found out.
The second we set foot in Egypt, we were inundated with taxi drivers vying to take us and they didn’t even know where we were going. Cairo, we shouted, and a driver ushered us to his ten person taxi. His asking price was much higher than we wanted to pay. You are from Israel, yes? a second man asked. Cairo is a six hour drive from the border, the second man explained. The bus takes nine hours and won’t leave for another three. This price is fair.
In Egypt, you can’t accept anyone’s first offer, but he was the only driver going to Cairo. We reluctantly agreed and waited on furry pink seat covers in his taxi while he looked for passengers to fill his empty seats. A group of Arab-Israelis approached him and tried to haggle, but even their Arabic did not spur negotiations. They grew angry with our driver and voices rose. Twice the Arab-Israelis stormed away only to return for one last angry word. We could not understand them, but the word Israeli was mentioned more than once.
A half-hour later, a second group of Arab-Israelis approached our driver and the same argument erupted. Why won’t you ride in our taxi? we asked them. How much is he charging you? What made you so angry? But all they said was that we should not ride with that man, and they left for the bus station. We decided there was something to these warning signs and we followed them out.
As we waited for the next bus we saw the same taxi driver tying luggage to his roof and six people packed themselves into his van. His friend, the one who spoke English, made one last offer that was nearly half of what we had agreed to pay an hour earlier.  We accepted and were finally on our way to Cairo.
We were off and flying. The driver blasted his music at full volume. He swerved around slower traffic. He sent us airborne as we drove over uneven pavement. The dance-remix of the song “Allah Allah Hezbollah” blared over the speakers as we bared down on oncoming traffic. At the last second he swerved in front of a truck on our side of the highway. I clung tight to my pink fur cover seat praying to make it out of this alive. Our driver stopped three times for coffee and shisha, and once he pulled on to the shoulder to dump cold water over his head to wake himself up.
Thanks to Hashem alone, we made it to Cairo alive. It was late and dark and we had no idea where we were. One of our fellow passengers in the taxi spoke English and helped us find our way to the metro. Toda raba, we said without thinking. We swore it would be our last mistake. The man saw our reaction and reassured us that no one cares.
We got off in downtown Cairo and stared at a metro map trying orient ourselves. A short Egyptian with hair as black and as unkempt as his T-shirt offered to escort us to our hostel. Along the way he invited us to his café and mentioned that he is married to an American woman in Kansas. He asked us where we were from. The states, we responded. What are you doing here?  We’re on holiday from school, I said. Oh, he laughed, you mean Sukkot. The man saw the three of us shaking our heads and told us not to worry, no one really cares. At the corner of our street, he pointed to the right and instructed us to walk straight. If you hit the synagogue, you’ve gone too far, he said. We thanked the man and agreed to visit him in his café.
.
The clerk at the hostel had to photocopy our passports for us to check in. Of course, he noticed our Israeli student visas and made the comment, Oh, you’re Jewish. Don’t worry, no one cares. Some hostels refuse to take in Israelis, the man explained, only because they have to fill out extra paper work and it’s more of a hassle, but no one really cares.
Mario Enrique Uriarte is a Masa participant studying at Ben-Gurion University in the Overseas Student Program, one of Masa Israel‘s 160 programs.
