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.
