ABSTRACT
There is almost nothing to see in Ismalia except the donkeys and the donkey boys. The latter are ubiquitous and most persistent. They meet you at the landing; they thrust their donkey in your face and eyes as soon as you step ashore. They plant him before you, broadside on, to bar your further progress, unless you mount and ride. They sound his praises in every note of the gamut. After all other recommendations fail, they plead with you to take him because of his “lovely black eyes.” One boy even recommended his donkey to us as a “riglar masher.” If they suspect you of being an American, they will cry out, “Take my donkey, Master,” “My donkey is Yankee Doodle,” “My donkey’s name is Washington,” while one boy gravely assured us, thinking that he surely would secure our patronage thereby, that his animal rejoiced in the name of “Washy-Washington.”
