Friday, February 16, 2007

It Always Comes Back To Egypt.


This is the photo that Sven is trying to get onto the cover of a book on Travel Illness that his company is publishing. The camel is Anthony, a baby who lived on Crocodile Island, the Swiss-run hotel we stayed at in Luxor. You can tell by my risque, shamelessly bared shoulders that I'm on the private island where the hotel was located, and not in "public." (This is also a lesson that, in trying to dress in as shapeless and nondescript a manner as possible in order to avoid the inevitable ogling by male Egyptian staff members, you may one day find yourself on the cover of a book looking like a potato with swimming-pool hair. So, Girls, always try to look your best unless you want to one day find yourself coming off the loser when compared to a camel.)

Crocodile Island had a private zoo including donkeys (which have the most beautiful faces; I routinely visited them for a cheek-to-cheek snuggle), goats, guinea pigs, a crocodile, and monkeys, who flirted with me and jealously sprayed huge arcs of urine at Sven to keep him away.

That was funny.

Anthony and the other animals were looked after by a gentle man who, unlike the owners of working animals we'd seen, seemed to genuinely love the animals in his care, Anthony in particular. We spent a good amount of time with him (it was from him that we learned that crocodiles have no tongue). By now Anthony has long been sold through the Daraw Camel Market where camels, like most animals in Egypt, are not treated with much kindness or compassion. I hope he's OK, wherever he is.

4 comments:

SP said...

You b*****.

JC said...

Tut, tut.

(get it?)

I'd be in a snit too, if I were covered in monkey pee. Serves you right for trying to barter an hour with me for a felucca ride.

SP said...

Yeah, and did we get to have a felucca ride in the end? No! We missed out. It's because of you that we have go back.

JC said...

We never had a felucca ride, opting instead for the cheap ferry and being surrounded by toothless old men and their sheep, because a) I was sick of arguing prices, b) you were sure we'd be taken to the middle of the Nile and bribed for a return trip, which would not have bothered me since I'd have said "screw you" and jumped overboard, but that brigs us to c) you can't swim and d) the Nile is full of schistosomiasis. So decided to have that wonderful felafel sandwich instead from the one person, besides Mamoud in Aswan, who didn't try to rip us off or borrow me.

Thirty pounds for a plastic cat from China. I mean, really.