Bakshish

In a Nubian village the houses have no roofs, since it almost never rains. The streets of dry sand are befouled with camel dung, donkey dung, goat droppings and chicken shit, making it just as well to arrive by camel.

‘Lawrence has returned!’ a small boy shouts up to me, holding out his hand for a bakshish.

My saddle has no front to it, and I cling unheroically to the fur on the back of my camel’s neck, as I have done all the way on the slow camel stroll here from Aswan. I have no free hand to search my pockets for coins, but enjoy the remark – probably the boy’s only words in English. Other little boys have galloped past me on the way, shouting the same thing. They did not hold on with their hands at all, waving and laughing, perched on their mounts in the lotus position, careering across the desert with their friends.

My camel lowers himself to the ground now, for me to dismount, letting forth the usual loud groans, which do not mean that the camel is displeased, I have been told, but to be amiable in intent.

My guide gets off his camel too, pays the bored camel drivers their fee and leads me into the house where he has arranged for us to take our evening meal. Inside, under the darkening sky of twinkling stars, the floor of sand spreads clean as an ocean scoured beach. We take off our shoes, feeling the warm fine grains under our bare feet. Spirit lamps illuminate the painted walls, one white, one burnt orange, one pale blue and one violet as the sky. Rugs have been laid on the gleaming sand, dark red woven with black geometric patterns. My guide indicates we should sit down on one of these.

I hear the tinkling of tiny bells as Nubian maidens arrive with bowls of water for us to wash our hands and metal trays piled high with rice and steaming curried goat – or curried donkey for all I know. I am completely charmed and eat with gusto. Teenage boys are summoned now from their twilight football out the back, play their guitars reluctantly and sing earnestly, before hurrying away. Their mother seems pleased enough with them and comes to us next to pay her respects.

‘I have one more I especially want you to meet,’ she tells me with the guide as our interpreter.

Another boy, perhaps ten-years-old, is presented to me by an older sister. He hardly dares to look at me, but hands me his school exercise books to examine. I do so obligingly, not understanding much of what I see in them, except that his work is extremely neat.

‘This one is very clever,’ his mother says, ‘but we have no money to continue his schooling. We would be grateful if you would give us money for this.’

I feel that familiar perplexity of traveling in a foreign country and not knowing whether I am receiving friendship or salesmanship, being given a genuine request or being conned.

‘The boy is not for sale, is he?’ I blurt out my worst fear to the guide.

‘My God, no,’ the guide answers, clearly horrified at the suggestion. ‘This is a good Muslim family., and I have heard of this boy who is a wonder at his school. They say he could go far.’

I wish I had someone else to advise me what to do.

‘We must pay the family for our food, of course,’ the guide continues.’ That is what I arranged. That is all you have to do.’

‘That is all I have to do,’ I say.

The mother’s eyes shine in the lamplight. The clever boy’s eyes shine too, as he glances at me quickly, then away.

And so it is that I part with a much larger sum, without regrets. I will never know if this is wise or foolish. I only know that we Westerners are very rich and some other people are very poor.