Bob Marley and the Donkey Derby

Bob Marley once gave me a lift to the Valley of the Kings. You run in to him a lot in Egypt: camels, feluccas and even shisha pipes are called Bob Marley. Appropriately enough, this particular incarnation turned out to be extremely rebellious, and a little bit randy.

I’m standing with Mohammed on the West Bank of Luxor, shivering in the pre-dawn chill. “This donkey Bob Marley,” he says, as he hands me the reins.

“Well,” I think, “he’s certainly hairy enough”. He has a matted grey coat, and the doleful brown eyes of someone who has seen too much of life. One furry ear is laid flat against his bony skull; the other cocked at a jaunty angle, lazily rotating.

As he stares impassively at me, I realise our heads are almost level. He’s frickin’ huge. I wonder whether I’ve been assigned a horse by mistake. ‘Horse riding’ sounds a lot more technical than ‘donkey riding’, and there’s much further to fall.

“Good donkey?” I ask Mohammed, a slight tremor colouring the question. He grins for the first time, revealing stained teeth at odds with his otherwise youthful appearance.

“Mafeesh mushkela, no problem”. He continues, singsong, “No woman no cry, no ganja no high; no money no honey…”
“Very funny,” I mumble, puzzled but reassured. The poetic donkey guide vaults on to his noticeably smaller beast, and our group of twelve sets off.

Life is stirring with the sun’s first rays. Bright green sugarcane breathes the night’s mist into the crystal air, and the distinctive cries of the hoopoe mingle with the muted chatter of farmers heading to their fields.


We turn in to a village, a cluster of mud-brick houses perched precariously alongside a lotus-clogged canal. Fallen logs serve as bridges to the wooden front doors. Women are fetching, carrying, cleaning, sitting – the chores of morning well underway. Dusty children with shining eyes are mesmerised by our strange procession. The braver ones fire off a breathless, “Hello-welcome-in-Egypt!”, before taking giggling shelter behind their mothers.

We tear through this bucolic scene like a whirlwind: the donkeys jostling and nipping at each other; the riders reduced to hysterics by the bone-numbing trot, their delicious lack of control, and the occasional burst of propulsive donkey flatulence.

A true donkey derby, the beasts are fighting hard for position, but there is a definite pecking order to the group. As an international reggae superstar, Bob Marley is the undisputed front man of this band, and snaps savagely at anyone with the temerity to approach too close. I start to wish he’d have some grass and chill out a bit.

Suddenly, a terrifying sound splits the air, as if a giant is trying to hawk up a rusty chainsaw. By the time I realise I am riding the source of this noise, Bob Marley is hurtling towards a tiny donkey up ahead, and braying a second battle cry.

Clinging on for dear life, I’m terrified he is going to run straight through the cowering creature. It’s only when he rears up and tries to mount the poor ass that I realise his true intentions, but I am powerless to do anything. Truth is, I feel somewhat inadequate. On all sorts of levels.

Luckily, my Mohammed in shining white galabaya gallops up to save the day. With a “Click-click” in the ear and a sharp tap to the nose, Bob Marley’s excitement quickly subsides.

The rest of the group, who witnessed the whole episode, take a lot longer to calm down. It doesn’t help that Mohammed is still doubled over, pissing himself laughing.

But at least he doesn’t start singing, “Is this love – is this love – is this love – is this love that I’m feelin’?”

Note: The donkey picture is from flickr Creative Commons, taken by world_waif

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