DISCLAIMER: With the exception of the second picture, which is actually of a pyramid, most of the pictures are unrelated to the text, but rather pictures I took that I wanted to put up with my story. It’s too bad that my mom’s camera has all of the “touristy” pictures actually related to what I wrote about, hopefully I’ll get them sometime soon though…

People imagine Egypt’s pyramids seated in the middle of a vast expanse of desert. Really, they’re just a half hour drive from Cairo’s bustling streets. When the weather and the pollution levels agree with each other, Cairo’s jagged skyline is visible peaking out among their tips.

The pyramids look much like they do on postcards; the surroundings transcend the borders of the cardboard the cards are printed upon.

Men wearing kafias (Arab head wraps), keep camels on leashes for tourist to have a romp atop on the sandy dunes that surround the pyramids. Hawkers sell the same exact products from booth to booth – scarves, soap stone scarabs, scale models of antiquities, floppy hats that make tourists even more identifiable, and the like. They call out to people, “Let me help you spend your money!” Young boys sell bottles of water and soft drinks, the prices fluctuating from a low in the cooler morning to a boiling high as the sun reaches its midday peak.

We rode camels, my step-dad, Roger, enthusiastically and my mother, Judy, hesitantly, me along for the ride. Roger couldn’t wait to hop on the large mammal, and even donned one of the guide’s extra kafias for the occasion. (It conveniently covered his bald spot.) Judy, despite her training as a veterinarian, feared the big-toothed animals and had to be coaxed onto the back of a camel named Michael Jackson. I had flashbacks of a camel ride in Jordan from when I was twelve and seated upon a pregnant and uncooperative camel that spat throughout the brief expedition.

After the camel ride, I was distracted, taking photos. My mother decided to bargain herself for a bottle of water. My mother’s a kind hearted lady from the States who collects tea pots shaped like English country cottages, buys art on Ebay, and has allowed one of her cats to become so fat that she must be lifted onto the bed, and of course, has no ability to bargain.

Having now lived in Kampala for some time and having therefore regularly argued with boda drivers to avoid mzungu price, all bargaining had necessarily became my responsibility in the division of labor. While I’d paid as little as 3 Egyptian Pounds (Ush 700) for a bottle, my indulgent and very thirsty mother allowed herself to be taken advantage of for 20 lbs.

I laughed, and made the man also give me a Coke for free, knowing we were still being ripped off.

I was determined we wouldn’t get ripped off when we spent an investment of time and money inside one Luxor store buying gifts for everyone necessary. Half the time was spent bargaining. The other half the time was spent choosing things while drinking the beverages they kindly offered as part of Egyptian hospitality. We knew we were supposed to take tea, but it was just too damn hot. We abandoned our previously-purchased-half-filled-now-warm bottles of water and accepted their new cold bottles.

The younger of the two people keeping the shop, about 10 or so, ran out to get the cold bottle of waters, as well as the few common tourist things we wanted they didn’t have. This specifically included about a six centimeter stuffed camel key chain intended for the grandchildren on Roger’s side of the family.

The other person in the shop was a late twenties Egyptian (I hoped the younger boy was his brother or cousin and not son) with whom I would clearly be negotiating when it came time for the final price.

I wasn’t interested in the key chains. It was the puzzle in the window that drew me in.

Back in Kampala, I had befriended a smart as a whip cute as a button four year old named Isaac and I knew I wanted the puzzle for him. I wanted the one in the window, not the one they had upstairs in storage. They had to move the sunglasses case to get it, but they did.

My mother took one look at the fifteen-piece puzzle and said, play with it, see if you can put it together. Ali, the older man, and I spent a good fifteen minutes struggling with the primary colored wood blocks, both of us stubbornly wanting to be the one who finished the puzzle. In the end it was the younger boy who solved it since neither of us twenty-somethings were up to the challenge of a kids’ toy.

“It takes a kid to do a kid’s toy,” my mom said.

Ali assured me the “factory price” of the puzzle was 25 lbs, so he absolutely had to give them to me for 30. My mom and Roger had thrown in a few other tacky items that would soon be discarded by their grandchildren and associates who already had plenty of crap.

And then the real play began. We sifted through the pile of Egyptian mementos again and again, arguing over each item’s price. One offer was rejected, as was a counter offer. The back and forth continued.

When an agreement was finally made, Ali and I shook hands. Roger took a picture of him and me together, Ali’s arm around my shoulders. He did this with every vendor we bought anything from – even a soda. Roger also took pictures of soda cans in various locations, spotlighting their Arabic text.

Ali staged a picture of him theatrically kissing my hand, which he had Roger dutifully document.

He gave me his mobile number and told me to send an SMS any time; he’d call me right back.

And as we were walking out, he couldn’t help but repeat of the oft-heard refrain, “How many camels?”

While dowry in Uganda is paid in cattle or other goods, camels are the bride price in Egypt.

We already had a camel puzzle, camel key chains, I’d procured some Camel cigarettes which are unavailable in Kampala; I’d had enough camels.

I wasn’t about to be traded for a camel. Even Michael Jackson.