Since moving overseas and taking advantage of the different travel opportunities, I appreciate useful travel trips even more than I did before. From our friends’ experiences to little bits in newsletters, I appreciate not only the “must sees,” but also the “must avoids.”

Over the Christmas holiday, we decided to set sail on a Mediterranean cruise that included a stop in Egypt — a great place for a photo shoot. Let’s move over to the Pyramids and I’ll explain.

Two of the “must sees” in Egypt are the Pyramids and the Great Sphinx of Giza (the legendary half-human/half-lion statue). This was the focus of our excursion in Alexandria and Memphis, and worth the seven-hour roundtrip bus ride along a filthy, black, slimy, dead-animal-laden canal that came with a complimentary female passenger sitting behind us hacking up who-knows-what exactly every 15 minutes. But I digress . . .

The Pyramids are phenomenal. Larger that life, jutting majestically out of the sand, breathing mystery and romance into nothing more than dust. But like a broken piece of a film flapping against a projector, the romance came to a screeching halt as the tour bus pulled up next to the thirty other buses lined up in a row. Or perhaps it was the ambiance of the region turning sour as we stared in disbelief at a Bedouin French kissing his camel. I attempted to take a quaint, one-of-a-kind, won’t-the-folks-back-home-love-this picture of the spontaneous display of affection. But he gestured that I could only snap the photo with a cash payment. (I’m talking about the man gesturing, not the camel, of course.) I looked around to realize that while some people were averting their eyes, there were others staring incredulously. The reactions appeared to be kind of a mix between “get a room!” and “I’ve always wanted to try that . . .”

I made a show myself by shrugging my shoulders to say to him, “Ah well, one less for the folks back home.” Then, I moved my camera a bit to the side of his head and pretended to take a picture of the empty coke bottle in the sand behind him. Click. Booyah! Oh yeah, this ain’t my first rodeo!

The one aspect of this whole trip that no one warns you about is the uber aggressive nature of these “small business owners.” In our case, there were a couple of camel owners (besides the happy couple) that were actively recruiting riders. One such entrepreneur approached our 20-year-old daughter.

“No,” she politely said.

As expected, he tried again.

This time she emphasized with a firm head shake.

Ever persistent he grabbed her wrist. That made me a little nervous but she bravely pulled away. Way to go girl! That’s how I taught you!

Not to be dissuaded -- in front of a very shocked mother -- this short, leathery old Egyptian bent over and swept her off her feet . . . literally! Like a groom with his bride, the old man deftly carried a woman twice his height like a feather in his arms.

She looked back at me, eyes wide, a weak “Mommie!” whimpering on her lips. And, like a deer in headlights, I couldn’t think or move, but watched helplessly as she was hoisted onto his waiting camel.

I began pawing the air to the side of me, trying to get my husband’s attention. When I realized that my hand was not making contact with his shoulder I turned and discovered..he was not there! How rich. So I turned back and with horror saw that now BOTH of my daughters were in the saddle of this camel and the beast was staggering to his feet, two of my offspring well beyond my reach.

Before I knew it they were off, jostling back and forth as the camel followed its master up the sandy hill. I knew I should demand that he put them down immediately, that this was outrageous, that we weren’t paying a red cent for this unsolicited ride. But in my panicked state I could think of none of these but merely slid into automatic mode, doing what a mom could only do in this situation. I began snapping pictures like a crazed member of the paparazzi. We were already sunk. He was either giving them a short pleasure ride or kidnapping them to take back to his harem. Either way I wasn’t getting them back soon so I might as well capitalize on the experience.

By this time, their father had caught wind of the situation (or perhaps it was the stench of the camel), and was soon beside me as we frantically ran up the hill chasing after our daughters’ maidenhood.

Gratefully, just beyond the crest of the hill, the camel stopped. Our relief, however, was short-lived and the true sweat began.

Apparently, there are two prices associated with a camel ride: a price to go up . . . and a price to get off. Hmmmmm . . . let’s see . . . the bus was leaving any minute, we were at the top of a sand dune trying to rescue our progeny, and we were both sweating under the Egyptian sun. (Well, my husband was. Texas women don’t sweat, we glisten.)

So we made a decision. We threw some money at the camel, grabbed our daughters, and ran like bats out of hell down the hill, all the while being chased by the crazy camel guy dragging his confused beast behind him as he yelled furiously in hieroglyphics.

Moral of the story? Try Egypt. Enjoy the Pyramids, the sights and the sounds. But keep a firm grip on your children, on your sense of humor, and learn to enjoy the ride.

And always—ALWAYS—keep a camera handy.