The death of a camel

El-gazzar was a common surname in Egypt, like Butcher is back home. There was no signage to tell us this was a butcher's shop, other than the skinned eyeless sheep’s head on the table out front. Two enormous knives lay next to it. They were crossed at the handles like a battlefield symbol on an OS map. Underneath, a bucket of five hundred chicken feet pointed at us.

‘They’re usually reserved for pets. Increasingly people are turning to them as a cheap way of ensuring a protein-rich diet though,’ said Katie.

Chirps came from a cardboard box of green and yellow chicks. Next to them was a walled plastic tray which shuffled a few centimetres. Rabbits. Swinging gently high up from butcher’s hooks like a macabre Newton’s Cradle desk toy were the skinned carcasses of three camels.

‘It’s easy keeping small animals for fresh meat … but you can’t have camels walking around the place, I guess,’ said Katie.

The smiling el-gazzar with his giant forearms walked stiffly towards the door and tried to entice us in. Correctly assuming my linguistic shortcomings, he picked up one of the enormous knives and pointed to sections he’d already cut off and then to one of the hanging camels. He gestured to his own neck and breast. Then the carcass. Then to his own thigh and another hunk. One of the camels was covered in a yellowing fabric stained at its base by dripping blood. The other two were left fully exposed to the sand and heat.

‘I suppose the giant blades allow for long, smooth slices. You need big knives if you’re cutting up camels. They’re brought to the camel market in Birqash from Sudan and Ethiopia. Camel is the cheapest red meat, eaten by the poor. The rich eat beef. Butchers don’t sell both for fear of being accused of switching the two. Some richer types moved over to it during the foot and mouth scare though.’

As we walked away, we heard a grunt from a side alley. Katie tried to pull me back. Five men made a pentagon. Her plate-sized feet splashed in a five-foot-wide pool of blood. The deepest of these were Crayola-red. The shallower pools had a duller tone. Her front legs were tied together. So too were her hind ones. Two men apiece held the ropes. She bellowed. They acted as a team and yanked her to the floor. She fell like a stone and let out a quiet whine. The hands-free fifth assassin slit the bottom of her throat with his rusty pocket knife. Silence. Her long, long neck a screen of crimson. She lay on the floor and convulsed. The entire act took seconds. Her breathing ceased. Her body still. Lifeless.

‘Probably too old for the tourist trade,’ said Katie.

Two of the young men grabbed the ropes and dragged her by the legs to the butcher’s block. One of them went round the front to pick up the large knives and another a green garden hose that could’ve come from Notcutts. I shuddered involuntarily as they sharpened against each other. The youngest of the men laughed as he placed a thumb over the hose before turning it on his colleagues, like an F1 driver spraying champagne over his rivals. As they took cover he returned to his job and washed the act away.