The Ninth Part in which Steve comes Very Close to a Real Camel

Scaffolding sphinx

The wonders of Giza quickly overwhelmed any lingering guilt regarding poor Mahmud. We clambered about the stones, visited Khufu’s burial chamber, marveled at the Sphinx, kicked around the royal cemetery. Camels were everywhere, and watching less savvy tourists awkwardly mount them and lumber about in train to bored-looking guides, we shared a sense of smug superiority. By 3 o’clock the crowds had fled to shadier regions. We bought two of something that may have been peaches and split a can of Coke, then headed off across the sand toward the transportation kiosk. We had plenty of time to get to the airport. My pocket held less than five Egyptian pounds, all of it change. Sweet Apricot had no money at all.

Our path took us near the low hulk of a stone wall all but buried by wind and time. A camel stood upon the ruin, its saddle and reins strung with silver and tassels. On its back sat an old man, or an old-ish one, anyway, ramrod straight and draped from head to toe in Bedouin splendor; layered robes, a jingling curtain of chains hanging down his chest, a broad, curved knife in a jewel-crusted leather sheath thrust into his thick fabric belt. His skin was the color of mahogany and deeply seamed. His salt-and-pepper beard nearly brushed the camel’s back. Thick, wild brows shaded black eyes that seemed remote and wise and filled with ancient secrets. He was a figure straight out of Lawrence of Arabia, and I was impressed. He raised an arm and beckoned us to come near.

“No baksheesh,” I said, not slowing. If I don’t talk to him, he can’t ask me for money. “No baksheesh,” he replied, evenly. He was a baritone, with a whiff of desert campfire in his voice. “Come! Come!” He sounded friendly enough, an oasis of calm self-possession. Sweet Apricot wasn’t buying it. “No baksheesh,” she said. He merely smiled a patient smile. “No baksheesh,” he repeated. “I want to show you something.”

His tone was easy, reasonable, a little bemused. “No baksheesh?” asked Sweet Apricot, still wary. She maintained a charmingly innocent surety that forcing him to re-state his position somehow locked him into it. It’s how she lived her life – as long as the deal was clear and she held up her end of it, she was “a basically good person” and could sleep the sleep of the just. It wasn’t a bad policy, simply inadequate to local conditions. “No baksheesh,” he assured her.

Reaching his right hand into the cavernous sleeve of his left, he produced two scarabs the size of jelly beans indifferently carved from some unremarkable gray stone. They were the least of souvenirs, available wherever money changes hands in Egypt for 50 piestras a pop. He leaned down from on high and held them out to us, one in each hand. “These are gifts. For you. Take!”

Our Trojan Horse

It wasn’t our first rodeo, and we both felt the lariat tightening. This was a transaction, plain and simple, and Sweet Apricot’s reaction was automatic and justified. She took two quick steps back and snapped “no baksheesh!”, then glared at him defiantly, silently daring him to admit his treachery now that his feeble charade was exposed. He merely sighed a tired sigh and shook his head. His voice grew conciliatory, indulgent.

“I am Muslim,” he said, as he might speak to a slow child. “It is Ramadan. I give you these gifts for Ramadan. That is all.”

That set us back on our heels. If it was a trick, it was a new one in our experience. It was certainly Ramadan, after all, and he looked about as Muslim as anyone we’d ever seen. We didn’t want to get soaked again, but neither did we want to insult a pious man who was simply obeying the teachings of his church. Sweet Apricot and I looked at each other for a long moment, then at the ground for a long moment, then Sweet Apricot hammered in one more nail of certitude; let there be no misunderstanding. “No baksheesh,” she repeated. It was a statement, a warning, and a guarantee. “I give these to you,” he said softly, soothingly, deliberately, “for Ramadan.”

Okay then. We accepted the worthless trinkets, looked them over with feigned admiration, and thanked him politely. Fact is, I was pleased with mine. Sure, it was a throwaway, but it had a story to go with it, and I would always associate it pleasantly with the striking Arab who gave it to me for Ramadan in the shadow of the Pharoahs’ pagan majesties. He accepted our thanks humbly, then rose up straight in his saddle, patted his camel’s neck, and looked down on us with a triumphant smile.

 “Now,” he said, “ what will you give…for Ramadan?”

We gaped at him, both of us struck dumb.

Damn.

We were caught and we knew it. He didn’t just take us, he took us with ease.

This is the part of the story where I’m supposed to say something about the fortunes of war, about contests fairly won and honor in defeat, and how I conceived a grudging admiration for the dusty camel driver who so ably outwitted us. But I didn’t conceive a grudging admiration. Just a grudge. And I didn’t feel honorable, just defeated. We weren’t the kings of Egypt, or even savvy travelers confidently navigating foreign lands armed with no more than native cleverness and raw moxie. We saw – too late! – that we were just two more feckless American tourists, fish in a barrel, long on vinegar but short on salt, easy game for an inventive Egyptian with a camel and a dagger and a lifetime’s practice coaxing a poor living from the aforementioned.

To his enduring credit, the canny Bedouin didn’t gloat, but his placid expression stung more than anything he might have said. I gave him everything in my pocket, and he silently took it. We shuffled off toward the city. I glanced back once to see him still sitting motionless upon his camel, watching us go. We boarded the plane a few hours later, a mortally humbled pair without the wherewithall between us to buy a stick of gum.

Greece was a relief. Things cost what they cost, cabbies took us where we wanted to go, public bathroom stalls were adequately supplied, and nobody ever, ever asked for baksheesh. It was orderly, predictable and, quite frankly, a bit tame. We were loaded for bear in rabbit country.

The warm feelings shared by Egypt and America seem to have turned a bit frosty of late. I’d still very much like to return to the Land of the Nile one day, but, for the foreseeable future, I’m not exactly in the way of scouting cheap airfares. And for what it’s worth, and because you’re wondering, I wouldn’t be going back to settle any old scores.

I belatedly appreciate that Egypt’s economic woes run deep and its safety nets are few. I suspect that Mahmud was simply doing his best to put food on his family’s table by the only means available to him. I’m guessing that relentless little souvenir shark at Karnak would be in school working toward a more secure future if dire financial circumstances didn’t demand otherwise.  Those young hotel herders likely had no choice but to scramble for poor scraps from second-rate hotels that weren’t doing much better. Our crafty airport greeter was probably trying to augment a pauper’s wage by grifting people who, to be perfectly honest, could afford it. I expect Mr. Maghdi had a wife and kids at home who owed their precarious existence to whatever meager kickbacks he could squeeze out of cagey perfumers. And I’m dead certain that all the old men who haunt Egypt’s ancient precincts would much rather spend their seniority in dignified retirement instead of spending the long, hot days of their decline nickel-and-diming resentful tourists. And when I think about it, and every now and then I do, I like to think that masterful swindler on the chintz-bedecked camel was Mahmud’s cousin.

Looking back, I guess I was kind of a baby about the whole thing. Should I ever again find myself in those parts, I’ll still count my change and watch the cabbies like a hawk, but I won’t get my nose out of joint if I get hustled now and then. What’s more, I’ll bring along a sizeable fund earmarked for baksheesh alone, and I’ll cheerfully dole it out whenever, wherever, for whatever and by whomever I’m asked, with or without assault rifles.

I’d like to think I grew a little bit in Egypt. If true, that would come as a surprise to anybody who knows me.