Sandy Supposes....

Cairo Claude, May 15th

Dress comfortably. That's all the Egyptian guide said. Not that I had packed camel-riding gear because what is that exactly? Thank goodness I have never been fond of dresses, frocks whatever anyone wishes to call them. I'd also been warned Egypt is a conservative country dress-code wise. They believe in modesty and as far as that goes I agree with them. Modesty and decorum go hand in hand while mounting and sitting astride a camel. No one would wish me to flash them unless it was a beaming smile.

         I chose to garb myself in my usual summertime attire, shorts and a t-shirt. As soon as I return home I plan to have a likeness of Claude the Camel's face plastered to a new t-shirt as a memento of this excursion. He wasn't very talkative. In fact I'd describe him as a bit standoffish. When I attempted to engage him in conversation, he'd stare at me with those large, somber eyes and bat those impossibly long, curling eyelashes. I did manage to snap a quick pick of his brief toothy grin. He dazzled me with it when I hopped off the saddle at the Pyramids of Giza site. I say he didn't speak. In reality he grunted, a great deal. it might be my overactive imagination, but I swear Claude also sighed several times. I suppose ferrying tourists around has become a bit blase. He's seen one gawker, he's seen them all.

I saddled my camel with the moniker Claude because it rhymed with plod and of course it began with the letter 'c'. That's what he did. He did not sail through the sea of endless sand as I anticipated the mighty ship of the desert would do. He seemed to have one unhurried, measured pace. Again, how many times has he witnessed the formidable scope and grandeur of the pyramids? I can understand his lack of excitement. They're not going anywhere and they've survived for centuries. They were present when he last saw them and they'd be awaiting his imminent return. No need to get his cud in a tangle. No need to break a sweat. I learned from the guide that camels rarely if ever perspired. Lucky animal. So, Claude plodded.

While Claude trudged, I swayed. Okay, that particular motion reminded me of being aboard a ship. It was constant. I rode the swell, the surge of each powerful stride. His immense feet barely disturbed the sand. Those knobby-kneed legs of his ferried us forward.

         I patted Claude's neck a few times probably to remind him that I still clung to his topside. His hair felt coarse, but I suppose anyone's mane would be rough and dry if they made a point of exposing themselves to the strong sun rays. My tresses were contained within a long, colourful scarf I purchased at a bazaar. Hats and I have never been sympatico.

I enjoyed my day tripping as a novice camel jockey. The only comparison I know is that of horseback riding. In that situation I must fling one leg up and over the equine's spine while simultaneously pulling myself up. It has never been anywhere near a graceful maneuver and it depends greatly upon the horse not deciding to sidestep my efforts. Mounting and subsequently dismounting Claude was similar to employing an assistive device, an automatic lift. He did the heavy work by first kneeling and waiting for my overtures. All the effort required from me was to hold onto the pommel. Not wishing to plummet to the sand was also a practical motivator.

Thanks Claude for acting as my unique mode of transportation.