Growing up, Ramadan was THE time for gulping trans-fat goodness while I reevaluate my favorite teenage mutant ninja turtle; Michael Angelo loved to party, but his surfer dude doozy cracks were over the top. The angsty “Raphael” and the tech-wiz “Donatello” felt so been-there-done-that, so I was left with Leonardo. He was the coolest, most grounded turtle I have ever seen, and he wasn’t even trying. Not to mention his weapon of choice were two swords. I’d love to see a ninja turtle pick a cooler instrument of death. Now fast forward to the time they dubbed the Simpsons and Ramadans synonymity with good ol’fashion fun was over and done.
Nowadays you got the distasteful choice of watching horrid dramatization of social phobias on LCD, or, going to a tent where you watch them with a bigger group of people (speaking of Ramadan tents, the idea is low rent that it’s doesn’t even have to be an actual tent.)
During Ramadan one must refrain from eating, drinking, smoking, and indulging in anything that is in excess or ill-natured. Enduring the absence of these worldly pleasures can be somewhat challenging, but in practice all of them get dwarfed by Ramadan’s real test of endurance, one that even transcends religious beliefs. I am talking about—drum roll please—the traffic.
Traffic in Cairo is bad as is. Now take it, condense this run-of-the-mill 24-hour jam into a 2 hour cluster-phobic sauna session and you’ll end up with Ramadan Traffic. Remember these gigantic spaceships looming in the sky in Independence Day and how everyone made a run for it, think that, only people are less eager to get to their destination and more likely push you over the 6 of October Bridge.
I also wanna give a shout-out to the unsung hero of Ramadan Traffic. I am talking about the guy who—when you finally get off the bridge and into the streets—bolts at you and hurls you with a bag of tamr. Good for him, he found a Ramadan loophole: Help break someone fasting and you get to score a grip with god. It’s like micro banking on a spiritual level–Way to go you cheap fuck, why don’t you assault me with something I can’t buy for less that a pound, like say, a cup-o-nodels.
Alas, there aint no more weekends at the Sahel. So why don’t take off your skimpy bikinis, hop on and put your seat belt tight because you’ll be driving to speeds up to 16 KM an hour. And don’t worry about losing your cool, Yehia El-Fakharany got paid an 7 million just so he turn your frown upside down, so be sure to watch his show, otherwise he’ll be only getting paid to fulfill his life long dream of having a swimming pool filled with condoms. And remember if you’re setting beside someone who’s been still driving you to home, distract him from the pain by looking him dead in the eye and asking “are you fasting or is it like every year.”