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Fairest of the Fair, They Are
I do my best here, whenever I can, to present different points of view. And to promote cross-cultural sharing and improve international understanding wherever possible. It’s what I do. After all, I’m a foreigner myself. It’s in my own best interests to do so.
So, this morning, when I ran across a headline blaring out the fact that twelve contestants in a Saudi Arabian beauty contest had been disqualified because their lips, jaws and necks had been injected with Botox, I thought I’d won the lottery.
I mean, really. How much more Westernized and licentious can the Saudis get? First, they open up a few movie theaters and allow their citizens to see some of the latest flicks (the ones that get past the Saudi League of Decency, of course). Then, they announce that women will be permitted to drive. (I daresay a few of them will get in the car and drive themselves to the soccer matches they’re now allowed to attend. Wheeeee!)
Finally, this morning, I read about this beauty pageant. No burkas. No clothes at all, that I can see, actually. Male and female participants, vying for the titles of Mr. and Ms. Most Beautiful Saudi Arabia 2018. And so intent on winning that many of them have gone under the knife to improve their chances.
I have to say, the look does nothing for me, although I suppose it’s a huge turn-on for the Saudi guys (I bet they are guys) doing the judging. They probably spot the old come hither in the contestants’ hopeful eyes right away.
Speaking for myself, though, perhaps I’m just too decrepit to care. I’m all about priorities at this point in my life, and sometimes it’s almost more than I can manage to stay on top of the nasty hairs that sprout insistently and randomly from my elderly chin. I just don’t have time to fuss about whether or not my pout (or anything else) is symmetrically perfect or perky, and I don’t much notice such things on others any more, either.
So, in the face of my own disinterest and incompetence on this particular question, I’m turning it over to the experts.
Alpha Males of Ricochet (you know who you are), what do you think? Sexy, or not? Ladies, please weigh in also. There’s no oppressive patriarchy here.
From The Guardian:
Twelve Camels Disqualified from Saudi Beauty Contest in “Botox” Row
Published in Humor
Oh, this is wonderful fun. I didn’t see the punchline coming at all.
Thank you!
And yes, men are odd – we are sometimes attracted to exotic, and sometimes repelled by it. I think Saudi women are slightly more attractive than are their camels. But only by a chin-whisker.
Is that one hump or two?
“No burkas. No clothes at all, that I can see, actually.” I was perplexed by that comment, but not enough to have the veil raised from my eyes. You got me. Hilarious.
I was suspicious but still not quite getting it.
I had a good laugh … but to be fair, I suppose from a certain point of view it’s no weirder than the Westminster Dog Show. If PEDs haven’t already made it to the Dog Show, it’s only a matter of time.
HaHaHa! Wonderful comment. Thanks.
Good point. However, I’ve been spat at by one of our camels, but I’ve never been spat at by one of our dogs, so I suppose I’m inclined more fondly to one species than the other.
Racist!
Apparently the Emoji movie is a big hit over there.
Cultural suicide…
Scenes from my youth. Camels on the way to, and at, Kano Market (with a couple of donkeys). Going out on a limb here and speculating that none of the beasts, nor their drivers, have ever heard of Botox . . . .
Thanks, She. Funny set up about beauty pageant.
Horses were common in the north of Cameroun, but I never did see a camel.
Were the horses owned by Fulani? That’s the people that I’m most familiar with in the guise of itinerant horsemen in that part of the world, although I wouldn’t be surprised if they are less nomadic now than they were back in the day. Peerless equestrians, and some of the most fine-boned and classically beautiful women I’ve ever seen.
Thank you. It’s helpful, in posts of this sort, that I am so rarely accused of coming straight to the point . . . .
Speciest?
Raciest?
Locally, they were called Fulbe. But looking up on Wiki, I see they are one and the same – Fulbe and Falani. And if you ever went to one of their fantasias, it was something to behold. The way they would decorate their horses was amazing. And the fantasia itself would increase your heart rate as though you had run five miles.
They were semi-nomadic within a clearly delineated area in the country.
I remember more silver on the horses and it would sparkle in the sun.
Lovely photos. Yes, I have old 8mm cine film (which we had digitized and put on DVDs a few years ago) of a couple of Durbars in Northern Nigeria. The quality is poor, but it does have that the “I was there” factor going for it. Those photos are very representative. The horsemens’ “charge” was incredible. Earth-shaking from the hooves, and spine-chilling hollering.
Dad spent quite a bit of time, during his first years in Nigeria, as the Assistant District Officer whose duty was to collect the “jangali,” or cattle tax, from the cattle-herding Fulani of the North. He eschewed, as virtually useless, the traditional method of rounding up the cattle for the annual count, which, with the typical British sense of fair play, was normally done by a colonial officer on horseback. The Fulani played a complex shell game with their cattle, shunting them back and forth across the borders of Nigeria, and splitting them up into smaller groups and moving them around, and the poor man working for the Crown was at a considerable disadvantage as he raced around trying to track them all down.
Not Dad. First thing he did?
Got a Land Rover.
The Fulani viewed his methods as most unfair.
Would they have cattle drives down to the south? They would arrive in Douala from the north in November to late January every year. The rainy season would end in mid- to late September and that is when they would begin moving south. And they needed to be there before mid-February because March and April were extremely dry. That was the Harmattan would start. I hated that time and would try to find a reason to leave. Dust rising off the Sahara and blowing south. Not sand storms. Just breathing sand.
I’m not sure how far South they went. We were almost exclusively in the North, and any visits South were usually short and in the interests of getting from Point A to Point B. Lord, the Harmattan. Yes, just awful. And everything coated in sand and dust. Quite often, the small single engine planes that did the milk runs between one town and another would get disoriented and lost because they just couldn’t see anything. Often they would descend, probably dangerously low, till they could just see the roads, and navigate that way.
Your comment reminded me of this book, a compilation of letters between her parents (who were good friends of my own Mum and Dad during their mutual time in Nigeria).
This is wonderful! Thanks.
I find camels interesting and lovely in their own way, but they’re rude, they spit, they drool what I think must be stickier stuff than glue, they’re perpetually grumpy, and I don’t think I could find one beautiful.
Perhaps you just haven’t met the right one.
Hope springs eternal, but camel springs make for a bouncy ride.
I’m sure there is that special camel out there for everyone. Or maybe not.
I think this one has rather a fetching face. The guy on her back, well, too charming for words. Israel, near the Dead Sea. I don’t thing their camels are permitted to compete in Saudi beauty contests.
Wow! Who is that handsome devil? …..I meant the camel, of course.
Haha, very good. Besides all the beastiality jokes of Muslim men I’ve heard over the years, the other thing that comes to mind is what objectification!
Certainly not three. That would be indecent.