Notes of Travel, Pt. IV

I am alone. I haven’t seen a single soul for three whole days.

The desert is vast. I’m not sure where I am. Iraaq? Perhaps Kurdistan. There are mountains to my right - which I is believe is East. I’m not sure.

My journey for Mr. Ham’s Wet-Cured Ham has not gone according to plan. A sensible nomadic people would realize that Mr. Ham’s Wet-Cured Ham is the perfect quick ‘n easy solution for on-the-go meals for a people who are always on-the-go. These are not a sensible people.

A few days ago I arrived with my Araby-men at an encampment. I was received in the chieftain’s tent where we had quite a spirited conversation – although I understood not a word he said – and he invited me to dine.


The meal was meager – water, dates, camel’s milk, some sort of legumes – and the moment felt opportune to break out a tin of Mr. Ham’s Wet-Cured Ham. The chieftain sampled it curiously and passed it around the tent.

All went well until one of his Mohammedan priests found a ham tin I had buried in the sand. When he saw the image of lovable, porcine Mr. Ham he immediately started screaming bloody murder. Instantly two men where upon me, their scabbards at my neck.

My Araby-men, of course, did nothing to protect me - in fact, they tied me to my camel and set me off to the desert to die.

Also, they have stolen my handsomely-tailored Palm Beach suit and left me with nothing but a pauperous piece of sackcloth to gird my loins.