MY CAMEL & HIS SADDLE

MY CAMEL & HIS SADDLE

After two-day flights from Egypt, to Frankfurt, to Austin, I slumped over the handle of my luggage cart and let it drag me to the customs inspection room. Two inspectors were busy with a room full of travelers coming from Egypt. As soon as I found a space on one of the benches, I dropped in it and listened to the “interrogations”.

The inspectors were searching for smuggled gold, currency, drugs, meat, fruit, seeds, and pita bread. The strategy was to ask the travelers if they carried any of the items, then searched their suitcases to verify. None was proved guilty.

Finally, my name was called. I felt my heart race! I dragged my cart and my wobbly limbs toward the inspector. He asked me to lay my luggage on the counter between us and to open the suitcases. I declared less than the ten thousand dollars allowed by law, and souvenirs for my children and grandchildren.  So he started the verification. He took my hung clothes out of a suitcase, dug his hands in its pockets, and pulled out their contents. Then he emptied a clear plastic bag over the counter, exposing my dirty underwear.

My blood boiled.

A second suitcase had in its middle something big with hard edges, wrapped in layers of paper and plastic.

“What is this?” the inspector asked.

“A camel saddle,” I said.

“What? A camel saddle you say?”

“Yes of course. I need it for my camel. I am an Arab. Can’t live without my camel.”

The inspector was baffled. That brought a triumphant smile to my face.

“Just kidding,” I said like a wicked child. “It is a folding wooden stool similar to what is used when riding a camel.”

He did not touch it! He returned my belongings to their hangers, pockets, and bags; closed my luggage; and placed it on the cart.

“Where is the exit,” I asked calmly.

“There, Ma’am” he pointed to the exit, a shy smile on his face.