Setting Picks | a lesson in offensive (walking)

Intersections are interesting here, to say the least. When approaching one, even with the aid of a perfectly functional light system, one must do so with caution. Everyone assumes the right away, and everyone assumes that everyone else assumes the right away as well. The standard crossing looks something like this: everyone speeds along the road and slams on their brakes a few meters into the intersection. Those on the inner-two lanes (from all four directions) usually want to turn left, while the other lanes want to continue straight (with the occasional outside-lane cars attempting a left turn as well). The cars on the innermost lanes are responsible for protecting the others wishing to turn, thus they set picks. The rest do a little roll and successfully make it through the intersection unharmed, and the inner cars cause a traffic jam. The result of this is cause for a jump-ball, usually settled after minutes of everyone getting out of their cars and yelling at each other. The cars in the outer lanes (presumably going straight) stop and go their way through, then accelerate as fast as they can until reaching the next intersection. Easy enough.

This basic pick-and-roll scheme is also the preferred mode of pedestrian travel. Everyone, cars, buses, motorcycles, donkey carts, and people assume they have the right away and at the same time assume the others are also assuming themselves to have the right away. Sometimes vehicles set picks for people, and sometimes people set picks for other people. It's a sacrifice either way. Just three days ago I successfully set a pick on a bus for four older men to cross the street. Thankfully, I usually just walk away with a bruised shoulder or elbow. I had worse in high school basketball.

Coach did always sarcastically call me quick feet in high school, and he would've been proud of me the other day. Jason and I were in a hurry to get our newly obtained stay permits (al-hamdulellah) and walking safely along a sidewalk beside the wall of a corner building. At the corner of the intersection, which we needed to cross, though out of sight due to the wall, came a speeding motorcycle (of course, driving down the sidewalk and not the road). I quickly held out my hand like a protective mother over Jason's chest and quickly stopped our forward progress, ready to take a charge from the guy driving (the lane). That's right, I had quick feet that day. Take that coach. Unfortunately, I was attempting this quickness in (of course) a pile of sand and instead of stopping for a legal charge I was sliding ever closer to the motorcycle. He swerved, like all good ball-handlers do, to avoid contact, probably said a few choice words about the ignorant khuaja stepping out in front of him, lived, and weaved through the upcoming traffic, taking advantage of other people's picks so he could get to work fashionably late.

Jason laughed at me and never thanked me for saving his life, but we both safely (al-hamdulellah) arrived to receive pretty little blue picture books with fancy new stamps allowing us to stay a lot longer in this place.

There is a fountain...