Traffic Jamboree

    Traffic in Egypt and Malta is, to use a technical term, "nuts." I didn't get behind the wheel of a vehicle for two weeks. I'm thankful for that and, I believe, most of the motorized population of the Mediterranean should be thankful as well.

    The best way to describe street traffic in Egyptian cities is to think back to science class when you watched films of red blood cells zooming through healthy arteries and veins. Everything is bumper to bumper, but not flowing in straight lines. Rather imagine little steel blobs slipping between other steel blobs to get in front. Bulls through Pamplona.  Most urban highways in Cairo had no white dotted lines, and if they did, they were regularly ignored by every single driver. Three designated lanes on the highway could easily fit five cars side by side. Shoulders were just another lane. And why bother with turn signals if you're never really going to commit to staying in a lane for longer than it took to pass that last car?

    From the comfort of our shuttle bus, my tour mates would happily point out a stoplight like we were playing punch-buggy: "Look there's one!" we'd exclaim. I don't think stop signs existed in Egypt. Streets were often shared with scooters, bicycles, and those weird motorized tuk-tuks from "The Amazing Race." One time we all marveled at a ten-year-old boy driving a flat-bed cart pulled by a donkey down a major thoroughfare.

    Motorcycles were everywhere, typically with more than a single soul aboard. The winner was the motorcycle that held five people, the smallest guy sitting backwards in front of the driver like a baby marsupial. From that point, any time we saw just two or three on a motorcycle, we labeled them amateurs. Deliveries were often made on motorcycles, probably based on their ease to get through heavy traffic. Foam rubber, crates of fruit, rolled rugs: pile your load seven feet high and the guy behind the driver would just hold on blindly. One guy on a bicycle had a large tray of freshly baked bread loaves balanced on his head as he made his way through heavy traffic.

    Pedestrians were equally fearless. Who needs a corner at which to cross? Or stopped traffic for that matter? I regularly saw people step off the curb into traffic---beginning to cross the road---as our shuttle bus grazed by them. As my tour group of eight crossed the street, many times Hany would flank us and hold out his broad hand to stop oncoming traffic as his duckling scurried to the other side.

    The only mishap I encountered was my Friday night shuttle back to the Cairo airport. My driver was zooming along with the other twigs on the asphalt river. Constantly jockeying for a superior position. We slowed down at one point and were rear-ended by something. It wasn't terrible, just a loud clunk like we were hit with a hammer. The driver stopped immediately in, let's call it Lane 2 of the five-lane bobsled run. With a disgusted grunt, he threw his door open and walked back to investigate. In a brief moment, he hopped back in and we continued on our way, after, what I can only assume, he checked to make sure another vehicle wasn't still attached to us.

    Malta was similar but, as with everything, just way more cool about it. Every vehicle in Malta and Gozo is tiny, even delivery trucks. The roads are all very narrow and twisty, so even moderately slow traffic seems to zoom along. In the old part of Valletta, cars would zip down the narrow lanes, no wider than alleyways in the U.S. But, keep in mind, much cooler-looking alleyways. Sidewalks were often barely higher than the pavement, so they were fair game to use when navigating around a stopped vehicle. U-turns were a popular sport in the city, but imagine making a speedy U-turn in your own driveway. Don't you dare hesitate either; you better look cool doing it.

    In Gozo, Edward drove his Jeep like he was born driving those little roads and, for all I know, he might've been. His Jeep on the roads reminded me of the slot-car racing sets we had as kids. We'd race those cars as fast as possible around the sharp curves and random hills with reckless abandon. Edward regularly saw people he knew on the streets, and he would call out to them from the open top of the Jeep, either cheerfully or with a scolding tone. He seemed to know everyone.

    In Malta and Gozo, they drive on the left side of the road with the steering wheels on the right side of the car. Probably a holdover from their colonial British upbringing. As I got into the taxi after landing at the airport, I commented on this oddity. "I'm glad I'm not driving."

    My driver was Ruth, a tall, beautiful woman in black leather, part-time taxi driver, semi-retired police officer. She replied with a smile, "And we thank you for that."

    You're very welcome.