I’d ridden a camel once before, in Jerusalem, when I was a kid. As I dismounted, the camel began to pee with such vigor that the piss ricocheted off the earth and all over my jeans. I wasn’t too enthused about climbing onto one again. But if this was going to be an “authentic” tourist experience, then surely I had to take the customary camel ride. “Okay, yeah,” I said, attempting to sound spirited. “Why not.”

The old man smiled, revealing several missing teeth. He nodded at the boy, who then tapped the camel’s knuckled knee and pulled on the rein, bringing the camel toward the ground. Witnessing the process was like watching a marble zigzag through a maze. First the camel sloped backward, then forward, then backward again, until its legs were folded neatly beneath it. I grabbed the pommel and swung my right leg over the hump, placing my feet into the stirrups. I was afraid I might tumble forward as the camel began to stand up, jerking me back and forth until it was entirely upright.

At ten feet off the ground the air seemed cleaner, free from the smog enveloping Cairo. I straightened my back and indulged in a feeling of grandeur. The boy led the camel along and the three of us hobbled forward, a slow, steady dance, my hips rotating each time we took a step.

Four minutes later we were back at the point where we started. Farah and the old man were still standing there, both smoking. Once again the boy tugged the camel’s rein and it began to descend. And again I felt myself falling forward, then backward, then forward again, until the camel was kneeling. I slid off and stood up, brushing pieces of carpet off my pants. I then turned to the old man and asked, “How much?”

He dropped his cigarette into the sand and buried it with his bare toe. “Normally the price is one hundred dollars. But for you”—he exhaled, and smoke he’d been holding in his throat came forth—“because you’re special, it’s fifty.”

I stared at him for a few seconds, certain I’d misunderstood. “Fifty U.S. dollars?”

“Yes. Down from one hundred.”

I looked at Farah, who simply shrugged. True, there was no price sheet to consult, but it seemed impossible that a hundred-foot walk—camel or no camel—could cost that much. Then again, Farah was Egyptian, so wouldn’t she know if this guy was swindling us? And if fifty dollars was the going rate, then I didn’t want to seem cheap by haggling over it. I pushed past my doubt and pulled out my wallet, depositing a ten and two twenties into the old man’s hand. He made a fist around the bills and smiled. “Salaam alaikum.” Peace be with you.