Thoughts While Riding a Camel Around The Pyramids of Giza

Camels are the fucking worst—and I’m sorry.

Ever wonder what it’s like to ride a camel in Egypt? No—probably not. Because you’re probably a smart and/or kind person. I didn’t really think about it until it was happening—then it was too late. Oh well. Here is what it’s like…

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So you threw your back out on the plane into Cairo, no big deal, take it easy for a day or so or—Oh, we’re going to ride camels? Now?

Yes, now. Up you get.

On the mean one. With the teeth. Look, I don’t know if it’s supposed to scream like that, stop asking questions and just pray you don’t have to take a shit for the next ninety minutes.

Holy hell, camels are tall.

Off you go. A boy of fifteen drags your line of camels by a rope through the streets. Your friend on the camel in front. Your girlfriend in the middle. You in the back. What did that boy running alongside just say to you?

Where are you from?

No.

What is your name?

No.

No, he said, duck. Because that’s a balcony. Duck! Oof, that was close. Yeah, this camel wants you dead. But you’re out of the alley—open streets, whew.

You remember that article about how poorly these camels are treated. They’re beaten and forced to cart hundreds of piece of shit tourists around the pyramids every year. So, off you go.

You piece of shit.

Look at you, up there on that poor beast. No, it’s not going to bite your girlfriend. Pay attention to your guilt. See those whip marks, that’s fucked up. Okay, granted, it’s getting real close to your girlfriend’s leg. Maybe you should say something? Oh wait, she’s out of reach now, good. But no, too far—you’ve stopped, the loop connecting your camel to hers got unhooked.

Now look at you. In the middle of the road on a camel. How stupid must you look?

Real stupid.

Can you get down?

Hah! Stupid.

Oh good, the boy noticed. Oh, he’s mad. No, please don’t yell at the camel! It didn’t mean it! It’s okay, you’ll make a donation to PETA when you get home. Is $100 enough? He smack’s the camel on the neck. $200, then.

Into the desert you go. Yes, those are the pyramids. Damn they’re big. No, your back doesn’t hurt. Hush-hush. Yes, the only way to ride a camel is to move your hips like you’re humping it. Humping the humps. Hah! Good one. Ow, shit.

Woah, there is a lot of trash out here in the desert. Aw, look, a dog. And it’s shitting, great.

Oh, we’re taking pictures? Are you fucking serious? Have you been on the internet in the past decade? Yeah, okay buddy. Post a camel picture. See how people react. People are always reasonable on the internet. Oh, sure—tell them how the camel was an asshole, that’ll help.

Smile! Now, arms up! Both arms. No, really, it’ll be fine, just let go. And now you’re dead.

Kidding.

But that was close. It hits you that if you were to fall right now, snap your neck on the sand, your last moments would be listening to your friends shout negotiations at the tour guide for how much it would cost to get you to the hospital as you look up from your bed of trash and dog shit—as your dickhead camel screams with victory.

At least you can’t feel your back anymore—and maybe, just maybe—if reaching up to pull your bag out of the overhead compartment of a plane threw your back out, you weren’t meant to last much longer anyway.

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