The streets of downtown were all laid in a grid, but with roundabouts and one ways, this taxi driver could be taking us anywhere. “We’re headed to Madinat Zayed, right?” I said, looking out at the mishmash of beige flats and modern steel and glass towers on the streets around. “The old market.” “Is not old, this market,” the Egyptian driver said through the rearview mirror. “Everything here - all new. Ten years maybe.” “But you’re not taking us to just another shopping mall right?” “No no no. You ask Madinat Zayed. I take Madinat Zayed.” Deacon gripped my hand tighter in the backseat. “You really don’t trust people do you?” he asked grinning. He had dressed down in dark blue jeans and a green polo that bulged under his muscle. It was the outfit of many of the countless western oil workers in the country, but he would still stand shoulders above any of them.
