Backstory: The camel tout is as eternal as the pyramids

"It's a difficult job," he admits, scanning the crowded area for business. "The guys outside work on 50 percent commission from the stables, so they're competitive and pushy, which makes people hate us, too. The police are harder than they used to be, especially when important people visit. But, God gives you luck!"

Conversely, rivalry among the individual camel touts, he says, is almost nonexistent: all know each other, most are related, and the group quickly ousts "bad men."

Having attended school only for a few early years before accompanying his father on the job, Kerim learned English, in which he's proficient, solely from his contact with tourists. "Et je parle Français," he adds, "Español, Italiano."

Work is not always steady, he says. From June to October, at Christmas and at Easter, the tourist trade is burgeoning, but the rest of the year is slow. Also, he says, terrorism both in Egypt and abroad can cause tourism to dwindle for several months following an attack. But, he says, the tourists always make their way back again.

In many ways, however, life is not as easy as it once was. "My father," recalls Kerim, "had four camels. But now you can only buy one for the same price. Stabling, food, and vet bills are all expensive." (Moses chomps his way through large quantities of hay, beans, and alfalfa daily.)

On a good day, Kerim might manage to procure five rides from tourists, but he allows that there are days when there are none at all.

He uses the soft-sell approach: "I ask 'where do you come from? How many days you stay here?' I never try to force someone." Though he seems immune to people brushing him off rudely, Kerim admits that it's hard to keep up a smile all day long. On average, he makes 30 or 40 Egyptian pounds ($5 to $7) per ride, and on this income he, his mother, his camel, his horse (everyday transport here) and her new foal survive. "Some people pay much more," he says. "But you never know who it'll be. The smart man with the expensive camera might pay badly, but the one in the old jeans and scruffy T-shirt will surprise you. But money or no money, we always find a way to eat. Inshallah."

At day's end, when the heat dies to a mild sizzle, and tourists begin to thin out, Moses, Kerim, and his camel-driver friend Heisin Muhamedand his steed, Charlie Brown, head for home. The two camels know their way through the maze of backstreets and plod faithfully ahead. Mr. Muhamed it seems, has had a windfall: A Korean tourist popped for a generous sum. Kerim hasn't had a bad day, either: "One German, one Dutch, one English tourist. All very friendly, pay OK."

After dropping the camels at a flyblown stable, from which a young boy rushes out to tether, feed, and groom them, they head back to Kerim's tiny apartment. There's a family gathering going on. Two of his sisters and seemingly dozens of small children are squeezed into one of three minuscule rooms, eating a meal cross-legged on the floor. One disappears as Kerim enters and returns with a tray of fragrant mint tea. Despite the old furniture, neon-tube lighting, and bare walls, the house rings with laughter, which mingles with the tinny strains of an old TV.

Only once in his life did Kerim leave Giza, he recalls, to work as a camel driver for a stable on the Red Sea, near Hurghada. "I was there for seven months and the pay was good. But I missed everything about home. My family, my friends. I was working for someone else, making money for someone else. That kind of life is not for me."

And as Wallid el-Kerim looks up at a framed photo of his father on the wall, he seems to be reminded: "I feel lucky to have work. This profession [is] my destiny. I've met friends from all over the world. And if I get money or not, at least, like my father, I do it all by myself."

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