The Metro: Overpopulation on the personal level.

Images of the Cairo Metro

Do not stand "in line" at the ticket window. Prospective riders converge on a window from all available directions. The person who is "next" is the one who slaps his bill down first. If you stand timidly, allowing the previous customer adequate time and space to move away comfortably after he has purchased his ticket, you will never get a chance to purchase yours. As patrons jam their ruddy bills in to the bowl-shaped recess through the little half-moon hole in the plate glass, they rapidly bark out the station to which they should be charged to travel. The windmill of bill-slaps and station-yelps comes to resemble a betting window at a horse track as the beginning of the next race approaches.

Once, while I was still developing the necessary insistence level, I had my bill poised and ready to lunge -- starting to arc downward -- when, in the whiff of space in between my bill and the aluminum bowl, a young scamp (9?) instantly thrust his hand. His syllables were compacted into on high-pitched outburst like emergency Morse code. He had to repeat it for the teller -- and me -- to understand: "WAHIDFEEMAADI!" (One to Maadi).

If the ticket window is the horse track, the platform is a Roulette wheel, with you as the ball. Take your place at the far edge of the ledge that's evenly spread with erect bodies. As the cars whir into place three inches from your nose, you silently hope that the spot that you've chosen on the concrete will line up with one of the sets of sliding double doors.

Human faces are clustered on the other side of the door. Civility requires allowing these people one second to get off before you rush forward. This is simply not feasible during normal traffic hours on the Cairo Metro. As with the ticket window, each time you give in to the impulse to politeness, you will find yourself shut out for the round as a crowd of elbows gets on in front of you and the doors slide shut. Rather, you must cram yourself into the car as soon as you see the doors part to reveal the crowd of prospective disembarkers. Do not be cowed by the look of anxiety on their faces as they see the horde blocking them from exiting; they do the same thing -- a few minutes ago, come to think of it. As they squawk their protestations when they crowds collide, remind yourself that it's not your fault. Preferably, you can get yourself pushed onto the car by standing in front of an aggressive stranger who uses you as a battering ram: That way, you are crushing the would-be disembarkers only passively, and you can feel morally clean.

If you are left on the platform when the doors close, you may catch the alarming sight of the train pulling away with people half-on, one foot on the platform, the door jammed open by their backpacks or their bodies. Other passengers will pull them on, wresting the doors open long enough to squeeze the stragglers aboard.

On the plus side, it's nice to see how unselfconscious and unterritorial Cairenes are about having a stranger way inside the imaginary bubble of their personal space. If holding onto the pole requires resting one's arm across the shoulders of someone whose face one can't even see, one will do it without compunction. I'm not being sarcastic. I think this is nice. Warm. Human.