Screw the Vespa, baby wants a HARLEY

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Today I lived a dream.  A dream of sun, wind, sand and speed.  Today I drove a motorcycle though the Thar desert.

When Marc and I pick up our bikes in the morning I’m really worried that I’m either going to knock it over (most likely while still on it) or run into something or cause an accident or something like that and that his response will promptly be, “Okay, nope.  Sorry, you’re obviously too girly to be handling this thing.  You better stay here.”  So I may have fictionalized some of the experience I have driving these things.  Actually, I may have fictionalized ALL of the experience I have on motorcycles.  But I think I can do it; hopefully that counts for something.

They aren’t particularly powerful, so they aren’t particularly loud, and somehow that’s reassuring.  Once it’s up off the kickstand it’s surprisingly light and I feel quite comfortable sitting on it and keeping it upright.  Clutching and switching between gears will be my big challenge, mainly because I have to learn on the fly.  Marc gives me a crash course and before I’m totally ready we’re rolling down the hill towards the petrol station.  It’s 8am and no one is around, which means I’m not terribly embarrassed when I stall out a couple times.  I am definitely EXTREMELY embarrassed when, after they fill up my tank, I clutch instead of brake at one point and run into an older guy on a motorcycle waiting to get his own tank filled.

Oh dear god.  Within ten minutes of leaving the bike shop I’ve hit someone.  The poor guy pitches left and hits the pavement, taking a station attendant with him.  His bike doesn’t totally fall over, but that’s only because it partially lands on the two men.  Oh my gooood.  This is NOT how I was hoping to start things.  I can hear Marc laughing over my shoulder and am really glad my helmet covers my cheeks because they’re cherry red.  Everyone is fine, but now I’m twice as nervous and half as confident about driving my motorcycle.  As I wheel my bike away from any other potential victims and towards the road, Marc says oh-so-encouragingly, “I can’t believe you hit the guy!”  He’s lucky he’s cute or he’d be in serious trouble with me.

But I get my bike started again and we get onto the large, thankfully well-paved, road that leads out of town.  I actually pick up the controls of the bike really quickly: my accelerator is extremely touchy and has a bad habit of making the tires squeal; to shift you clutch and tap your left toes down; to downshift clutch and tap your heel down; neutral tends to stick so I typically just hold the clutch in if I can; the hand break is incredibly weak, so I need to use the foot break as much as possible.  After an hour I’m basically an expert, accelerating and shifting like I want to race and downshifting to weave my way around traffic and camels. 

Whatever I said about how cool the scooter was in Udaipur, multiply it by about 50 and you’ll have an idea of how much fun this was.  Our top speed was about 80km/hr, but I just couldn’t get enough speed!  Throughout the day we passed hundreds of people and about half of them waved and laughed at us as we roared past.  The women and kids seemed especially impressed that there was a woman driving her own bike!  The desert spread out for miles all around us and for most of the day we had the road to ourselves.

Now, with that being said, up until about 10am it was also incredibly COLD.  I lost feeling in my fingers and ankles after about 5km and may or may not have been blinking back tears and snot as the freezing wind whipped at my face.  Did I mention that my helmet blew off almost immediately and spent the day tied to my backpack?  Safety first.

After only half an hour of riding, we came up to some Hindu and Muslim cenotaphs, much like the ones I saw in Udaipur.  They were separated into two groups based on religion, and Marc and I agreed we thought the Muslim ones had a bit more flare to them so that would have been our choice of where to be cremated.  Instead of white marble, though, these were made of a gorgeous honey-colored sandstone that looked red in the light of the rising sun.  One thing I love about Jaisalmer, in complete contrast to the other cities I’ve been to, is that is isn’t overly colorful.  Everything matches the hues of the desert with the exception of some decorative accents of paint or colored glass.  I hate to use such a cliché word as ‘organic’ to describe their building style, but nothing better comes to mind; it looks like they've been here as long as the desert has.

The cenotaphs were surrounded by a windfarm, and dozens of large turbines were spinning their blades silently and slowly.  Marc found them pretty distracting, but I appreciated that the people here were branching out into new industries.  The largest source of revenue here is tourism, and with the world-wide economy in recession there aren’t as many foreigners spending money on camel safaris and jeep rides as there used to be.  In fact, hotels are ruthless in finding customers for themselves: they board the train several stations ahead and walk along looking for tourists to pitch to and at the station there’s a line of nearly 30 men with signs advertising different accommodations.  It’s a free for all when they see someone walking out with light skin and a backpack.

Marc’s got the map and he leads the way another 10km or so to a small Hindu temple alongside the road.  It’s deserted, which we figure gives us tacit permission to go in and take a look about.  It’s fairly large for how few people live nearby.  White washed walls and marble floors keep the whole place very cool, despite being open to the rising sun.  The deities on the altars are wrapped in colored foils and designs are painted on the walls in bright colors.  A 6” brass gong hangs from one of the doorways and colored flags wave limply in the light breeze.  Even though we have no idea what any of these items are for or what the writing means, it’s nice to walk around on our own to just look and observe.

Soon, we’re on our way to another temple, this one Jain, but it turns out the road takes us through a small village.  At first, we plan to just cruise through it and keep our eyes peeled for a restaurant, but once we realize there isn’t anything here we pull over and ask someone for advice.  As Marc deals with directions, I deal with the kids.  Six little girls, ranging in age from 7 to 14 I’d say, start introducing themselves and shaking my hand.  The oldest oscillates between asking me questions and requesting things.  “What’s your good name?  You have rupees?  Which your country?  You give us school pen?  Why is your hair gone (at this point she runs her fingers through my short mop then flips a long braid over her shoulder)?  Do you have chocolate?  Is this your husband?  Photo?”  I try to answer them as best I can while swatting curious hands away from the motorcycle.  Marc must think this is a riot because when I look over he’s taking photos of it all.

Eventually, we’re waved off with big smiles as we cruise down the road.  We pass the edge of the village and leave behind the small houses made of mud, sticks, canvas, grass and baked cow shit roof tiles.  At one point we accidentally startle a camel that hobbles away in the most ridiculously pathetic manner because 3 of his legs are tied together with short ropes to prevent it from running away.  Remember the scene from the Empire Strikes back where Luke wraps a cable around the big 4-legged imperial fighter and makes it fall?  I know now where George Lucas got the idea for that from.  We pass a few other animals as we drive, but these are a little bit...juicier.  We whiz by a few carcasses, in various stages of decomp, and I immediately signal to Marc that I want to turn around and check them out.  The first has pretty much decayed to being a skeleton, but the second is still being picked at by animals and swarmed by insects.  The smell is horrendous and I can feel bile rising in my throat.  CSI, no matter how gorey they've gotten over the years, still isn't reality.  I last all of thirty seconds before I'm ready to hit the road again.

The next temple is larger and grander, so obviously we’re charged to go in it.  It probably wouldn’t have been worth it except for the fact that we arrived at about the same time as a bus full of Jain Indians traveling from temple to temple to worship.  It was fun to listen to them sing their prayers and ring a bell as they asked for a blessing.  One particularly chubby little baby had a great time ringing the two large bells a few times each and beamed a gigantic, toothless smile every time he heard one.  The adults also set out food offerings and paid the priest and priestess to approach the statue of the deity and present their requests to it.  The inside was as intricately carved and sculpted as the outside and the statues were either jet black or bright white polished stone.  They stood out strongly against the bland sandstone everything else was made of. 

By this point we’re starving and ready to go back to Jaisalmer if that’s what it’s going to take to get some food.  They’re selling cookies at the temple, though, and as we munch on our gluco-biscuits, Marc and I put with up the curious questions of the tour group.  There must have been some debate in Hindi because one woman finally turns to point to us and says to the group and then me, “She’s obviously not his sister.  Tell me, he is your husband?”  Here we go again.  After setting the record straight for them we decide to give in and start towards Jaisalmer for proper food.  There’s another large Jain temple on the way, though, so we pull over and debate whether we’ll go in.  We’re about to keep going when at the exact same time we see a sign that says “Restaurant”.  Five minutes later we’re sitting at a small card table with our new friend Govinder.

When Marc got off his bike, Govinder gave him a big bear hug and demanded a photo with his Australian brother.  I, of course, was only too happy to oblige them.  Govinder said he didn’t really have any food for sale beyond chips and cookies, but he was about to take his own breakfast and we could have some of his chipati, veg and dhal.  Considering it’s free food and going to save us almost an hour, we’re happy to overlook the somewhat questionable provenance of the food and join him in breaking bread.  As we eat, the conversation gets a little difficult at points with some awkward silences.  He starts with me:
G: “This your husband?  Boyfriend?”
Me: “No, just a friend.”
G: “Are you married?”
Me: “No.”
**Pause
G: “Do you have babies?”
Me: “No.
**Pause
G: “How old are you?”
Me: “26”
**Pause
He sits back and doesn’t talk for a while; you can tell he’s chewing this one over, trying to figure out why I’m still unmarried and unbabied at my age.  The girls in the villages around here would have a family by my age.  Thankfully, he turns on Marc next, asking if he’s married and how old he is.  I don’t think our relationship status meets his approval, but he seems willing to overlook it.  Fortunately, there’s a game set-up and when I try to distract him and ask how to play we’re quickly invited into a friendly wager for a bottle of beer.

Govinder and I make one team, Marc and Kamal make another.  The point is to flick a large, flat green disc into other small discs and knock them into one of the holes in the corner of the board.  Each person has a line they can shoot from and black earns you ten points, white twenty and red fifty.  It’s like pool for your fingers.  Marc and I are pretty terrible, but Govinder is obviously the club pro.  He leads us to an easy victory in the first game and Marc ponies up Rs100 to buy him a bottle of beer.  I politely decline one for myself, remembering my slight accident earlier this morning and thinking it’s the last thing I need right now.

The second game is when things get a little bit interesting and a little bit awkward.  Govinder starts by sinking piece after piece and Marc asks him if he knows what you get if you win all the discs when you play in Australia.  “The loser pulls his pants down and has to run around the table.”  Govinder loves it and plays with renewed fervor.  Even Kamal wants to see Marc lose and starts intentionally flubbing shots.  He seems to not understand that he would have to take the punishment, too.  When Marc’s team takes one, Govinder immediately wants to start over for another chance to “open Marc’s pants and make him run in the naked.”  Then he turns on me: “Lauren, don’t you also want to see Marc in the naked with his open pants?”  Oh dear god.  We’re invited to play one more game, but I don’t think either of us is ready to hear what’s at stake this time.

Unfortunately, a stray dog saw us eating earlier and has slouched over towards the table looking for scraps.  He’s still a few feet away, just sitting there, but something about it must be upsetting Govinder because the next thing I know he’s beating and kicking and cursing the dog and the poor thing starts to whine and squeal in pain.  I don’t know exactly what’s happening to him, though, because I can’t bring myself to look.  I’ve got my eyes shut tight and I can’t help but flinch every time I hear dog yelp.  This kind of treatment is completely normal in India; stray dogs are everywhere, including inside the grounds of monuments and tourist attractions, and the usual tactics for discouraging them from coming up to people are quite violent.  I could never do it, though, and I’ve found myself scratching and petting dozens of them, admittedly while cringing because I’m sure they’re covered in pests and diseases.

This is definitely the point where I need to leave.  I’m extremely uncomfortable and just want to keep riding.  Finally, we’re ready to make the long trip to Sam village and the famous sand dunes there.  We’ve got about 40km to go, so we can really open it up and build up some speed.  At one point, though, Marc points to a sign as he goes past it: “If you are married then divorce speed.”  I guess that means we’re free to rev it up.  About 5km from Sam, the dunes just come out of nowhere: large, golden rolling hills of sand, piles of which have been blown onto the road and cover half the pavement.  Now this is how I pictured the desert when I thought about coming out here. 

The camel-wallahs have set up shop alongside the dunes and their sales pitch is, well, unique.  When they see us coming they run out into the middle of the road, blocking our lane, and start waving their hands at us to stop.  Unfortunately, Marc and I aren’t expecting this and when we have to brake so suddenly my bike loses traction and my back tire spins out to the right side.  Okay, my heart is now beating a thousand times a minute and I am just waiting for the crash.  I’m sliding nearly sideways, but by no small miracle I get my left foot on the ground and somehow straighten the bike out again without hitting Marc or the asshole camel drivers that caused the scene in the first place.  It takes everything I’ve got to not punch one of these guys out as they start on their shpeal and pester us time and time again to ride their camels.  We shoot them down.  “Maybe later, then, my friends.”  You better hope not, because the next time I see you on the road I’m running your ass over.

Several other camel drivers and vendors try a similar tactic as we continue down the road and even some kids get in on the action.  However, now when we see them we just start honking our horns and trying to wave them off the road before we ride between or around them.  There’s no way we’re stopping for anything anymore.  It’s understandable that if they didn’t trick people into stopping like this they wouldn’t have any business because people would just keep passing through.  It’s still dangerous, though, and makes me glad we didn’t have any business to give them.

Ten minutes later, the rolling hills have morphed into flat scrubland.  Even though we’ve just arrived in Sam, the dunes seem to have disappeared as quickly as they arose.  Just a few kilometers from where they began, the land is flat again.  We pull a u-turn in the village and head back to the dunes, parking our bikes at one of the large resorts lining the road across the street.  These are large collections of tents and bungalows that are designed to give guests a taste of life in a spice route caravan hundreds of years ago.  Marc and I poke our heads into one of the bungalows and find just another place to come for a romantic Indian getaway should we ever return with a partner.  And for Rs2300 a night, I would need another person to come with just to be able to afford the ridiculous bill!  Apparently, I would also need another person to give me medical care, because at one point I brush my leg up against the exhaust pipe of my bike and immediately feel the skin on my shin scorch.  THIS HURTS.  I pour some bottled water on it, but in a few seconds it's already turning bright red in a 1" by 2" rectangle.  Ow ow ow ow.  There's nothing to do about it now, though; I'll just have to man up and see what it does tomorrow.

But our focus is across the street, the Sam dunes.  Much to the shock of the locals, Marc changes into shorts right then and there beside both me and the bikes.  It’s kind of funny how they keep looking at me like they’re waiting for me to start blushing or chastise him or something.  It’s okay, boys, it’s just not that big of a deal where we’re from.  The sand is really warm and soft under our feet and I keep sinking in past my ankles.  It just feels AWESOME, although I keep expecting to see the ocean or something over the next dune.  Marc’s a beach person, too, and he’s looking forward to surfing when he heads south.  It’s pretty stereotypical but nonetheless cool to see camels walking along the tops of the dunes in the distance and pretend that they stretch on forever.

When we’re back on the road, Marc and I take turns playing photographer with my camera as the other person rides by.  It’s a little embarrassing to admit, but come on, you know we’ve got to get some good action shots of us on the motorcycles and really the only way to do it is to be totally cheesy and just pose for them.  They turn out pretty well, though, and soon enough we’re back on the road to return to Jaisalmer.  I don’t think riding around on a motorcycle would ever get old and there’s not a doubt in my mind that I’m going to get one of my own at some point.  I have never been so jealous of Uncle Rich and Uncle Pat in my life.  Marc’s got grand plans of riding through the Middle East on one, and I won’t deny that he’s got my own brain coming up with similar plans for my own future vacations.

Oh, crap, now we’re coming into town.  Okay, I’m going to have to keep up with Marc, navigate Indian traffic through narrow, twisting roads and keep from stalling out my bike all at the same time.  I’m just a little nervous.  The roads don’t seem terribly busy, though, and somehow I’m able to keep the clutch and brake straight so I’m always in the right gear.  There are big gutters that cut through the roads with thin blocks over them that make little bridges for motorcycles, and through incredible effort I manage to hit them all and stay out of the ditches.  When we stop for lunch, every one of my muscles unclenches and my entire body relaxes.  After eating, though, there’s a new reason making me tense: I still need to print my train ticket, get my stuff and rush to the station.  I’ve got 45 minutes; make that 30 minutes after I go to the internet café and wait for a painfully slow internet connection to announce that I ended up first on the waitlist.  I have no ticket.  Oh dear god.

I rush to check my bike back in at the rental shop then say farewell to Marc.  I’m sorry to have to say such a quick goodbye; we’ve been traveling together about a week total and he’s been an awesome travel companion.  There’s a chance we might meet up in Delhi, but who knows, maybe I’ll make my way to Australia sometime.  A quick kiss on the cheek and I’m running down the hill to grab my bag and a ride with Marco to the station.  My only disappointment in Jaisalmer is that I didn’t have time to stop back at the haveli and buy the lotus-shaped incense holder I saw.  But if that’s my biggest complaint, that ain’t bad.

I try asking about my ticket, but after being told to talk to 3 different people, the station manager just says to get on the train.  Saying goodbye to Marco is rushed now, too, unfortunately, but the train won’t wait for me to say a proper farewell.  I really hope that someday I get to see him in London and use him as a tour guide or something like that.  Or maybe just use him for his Italian villa; I’m fine either way. :)

On the train I end up just grabbing a seat where I can find one in the 3 tier sleeper carriage and happen to join a large family that has several berths reserved.  When the conductor comes by about an hour later, I try to explain to him what the ticket taker and station manager told me, but he won’t let me finish and there’s obviously a problem.  He says he’ll return and we’ll talk about what to do because I’m not supposed to be here.  Oh man, I don’t want to get kicked off the train in the middle of nowhere.  I could make it to my flight on time, but I need to stay on this train to see the Taj!

As I wait for him to return I try to explain to the family I’m sitting with what happened and they immediately want to help me sort everything out.  One of them, Rashan, takes out his laptop and wireless card and calls up my ticket information.  He says the wait list isn’t a problem, I just need to give the conductor the PNR number and since I’m waitlist one he’s confident I’ll be given a berth.  In fact, he’s willing to give me one of theirs, since they have a couple of children that can sleep together.  And when the conductor returns I don’t have to say a word because all six of them start talking to him in Hindi and explaining to him what happened.  The next thing I know the conductor just nods at me and walks away.  I can stay!

Of all the wonderful Indian people I have met, and there have been many wonderful people, the best of them all have been on the trains.  They really do want to help foreigners, dare I say even take care of them, and I have been saved countless times by the generosity of complete strangers.  I don’t even know how to thank this family or what I can say to express my regret at having dragged them into this mess.  The best I can do is say thank you over and over again and try to take up as little space as possible.  That shouldn’t be a problem, though, because I’m exhausted and can barely keep my eyes open.  It takes all of five minutes to fall fast asleep on my last overnight train in India.

Camel Safari Day 2

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Remember all the complaining I've done about other nights?  How uncomfortable, cold and loud it was in the various hotels?  Disregard all of that.  LAST NIGHT WAS MISERABLE. 

First: I haven't been that cold ever.  Two blankets, extra socks, a sweater, scarf, and Marco's body heat just weren't enough.  Second: Something stung me or poked me in the finger and left a little dot of blood liked I'd been jabbed by a needle.  It woke me up with a start and of course I immediately thought 'Scorpion' or something scary like that.  I still have no idea what it was, though, because Marco and I couldn't find anything under the blanket.  Third: I haven't been that uncomfortable ever.  I rolled over every 30 minutes because that's how long it took for whatever body part my weight was resting on to feel bruised.  Sitting up to adjust the blanket I almost cried out because every muscle in my back felt cramped up.  Fourth: I had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, which required traipsing around a dune through the freezing night and awkwardly positioning myself in the pitch black, no doubt making enough to be heard by anyone I awoke when I got up.  Fifth: I had to move the dog that found us yesterday at dinner because at some point he had laid down on the blanket and usurped all the space for my feet.

So I wake up shivering, sore and sleep-deprived (every time I had to roll over I would wake up), and for about 15 minutes I just can't be bothered to leave what little extra warmth the blankets are providing.  Who would have thought I'd need my winter coat in the desert in India?  However, when we're finally able to drag ourselves shivering out of bed, we're rewarded with quite a large, interesting breakfast.  Toast, hard-boiled eggs, jam, tomatoes, chai, and fruit.  We sit and chat for a while, enjoying a small morning fire and giving the dog small scraps of food (although it seems that he's still pissed at me for moving him last night because he literally turns up his nose at the piece of egg and toast that I hold out for him).  Babu and the boys soon have our camp packed up, though, and before we're fully warmed up it's time to mount back up.

Yesterday, when we got back on our camels after the water-break, I noticed that my saddle was tilted a bit to the left.  It made riding pretty awkward, because without a stirrup it felt like I was going to fall off the side of the camel.  So I tried to shift my weight more to the right and lean over a little as well, which I'm sure you can imagine was a treat for my hips and back.  I didn't enjoy the afternoon as much because of this, and now that we're seated and setting out, I have a feeling this will be a problem again today.  But at least I've managed to shake my crabby, pre-dawn mood and I have to say that THERE IS NOWHERE ON EARTH I WOULD RATHER BE RIGHT NOW.  Seriously.  I feel amazing.  I've got this ridiculous grin on my face and I keep looking over at Marc, smiling like a crazy person, silently communicating either 'This is great!!' or 'I'm totally high, man!!' 

I couldn't care less about what message he picks up, though, because I'm in my own world here.  I've got my iPod on and am listening to my 'Take Me to India' playlist.  So far I've had Air, Andrew Bird, Badly Drawn Boy, Beck, the Beatles and as the uber-relaxing soundtrack to my ride. The sun is slowly warming me, there's a gentle breeze coming from the west, the desert is an infinite but inviting wasteland in every direction, and I'm riding a friggin' camel.  In India.  In December.  With two totally hot guys.  TOO FUCKING COOL.  There is no way I will ever find myself in this scenario again, so needless to say I am lapping it up like the cat who found the cream.  The only thing that is keeping me from being totally content is the saddle; it's tilted again and I'm starting to get a twinge in my left hip from shifting my weight.  And it's not going away.  In fact, it seems like it might be getting worse.  Oh, no...

While the first hour to hour-and-a-half of our ride this morning was one of the most peaceful and enchanting things I’ve done in India, the final two hours couldn’t have been more tortuous. I’m in serious pain here, wondering whether I’m doing serious damage to my left hip, fighting tears and taking little sharp gasps every now and then as needles shoot through my pelvis. At some point several months ago I developed a very slight ache in my left hip that would only show up during my long races. I’m fairly certain it’s due to the fact that I hate to stretch and typically go out running pretty cold. But whatever it’s from, today it is really flaring up. I’m trying really hard to ignore it, but the minutes are dragging on like hours and I finally tell Marc that I can only ride for 30 more minutes before I'm going to have to get off.  I force myself to hold back the tears and try to shift my weight to a more comfortable arrangement, but I can't find anything to do to make it feel better.

Twenty minutes later, it occurs to me that we ate lunch around this time yesterday and that there’s a line of trees creating a pleasant patch of shade a kilometer or so ahead. Aladdin says we’re stopping for lunch there, and I don’t think I would have been more excited if he’d told me I won the lottery. As my camel goes through the 3-point descent that I’ve finally figured out, I endure a last few spasms of pain. Getting off lights a fire in my hip and walking around with a straight face is barely possible. Have I pulled something? Knocked my hip out of its socket? Should I do some yoga when we stop? Maybe seeing a doctor is a better step.  Apparently the boys have acclimated to their camels because they say they're feeling fine.  Guess this is what I get for teasing them yesterday.  My poor camel flat-out collapses once I get off and I completely understand how he feels.  Here are the 'before' and 'after' pictures:

Babu lays out some blankets and says this is where we will be picked up by the Jeep again in a few hours.  He starts to make lunch and the three of us practically throw ourselves on the blanket for a rest.  Aladdin brings over some freshly cut papaya and I just tear into it.  The dark orangish/pink fruit is delicious and I have to stop myself from eating the rind as well.  Piece after piece after piece, oh man, it's the tropical taste of the beach I never went to this vacation.  After slice number 8, I decide to stretch my hip and go for a walk.  Hobbling away with my camera, I stop to take a picture of our camels vainly searching for grass in front of a distant hill.  There is another one of the stone markers that I saw yesterday, and for a brief moment I can hear the 'Indiana Jones' theme song as I fantasize that I'm the first person to discover it.  In my trusty Michigan hat, I think 'No doubt this is the key to finding the Shroud of Turin...but how am I going to keep it away from the Nazis?!'  Dun dun dun dun...dun dun dun...  I look around for Sean Connery, but my imagination isn't that good.

When I find my way back to reality and the camp site, lunch is ready and I sit down to enjoy the last batch of Babu's delicious chipati.  I must have eaten about five pieces before I'm full and the guys eat even more than I do.  Since we've still got a couple hours to kill, we all sprawl out on the blanket and open our books.  I'm loving the book Marc gave me, Shantaram; Marc's reading a John Grisham novel and Marco is reading a history book.  It's totally quiet and totally relaxing, except for one thing: the sun is getting higher and higher and hotter and hotter.  Slowly, piece by piece, we're starting to get rid of our warm sleeping clothes.  A sweater here, shoes there; eventually Marco's shirtless, I've changed into shorts and a tank top and Marc's in a wife-beater.  Eventually, Marco can't seem to take it anymore and goes for a walk.  Marc and I keep trying to slide the blanket into the shade, but it's futile; we're back to fighting sunburns (him) and sweat (me).

When Marco comes back from his walk, he mentions that there were some peacocks a little ways away and that I can probably find them if I walk along the treeline.  That's all I need to hear, so I grab my camera and head that way.  Soon enough I do see them, although they're incredibly skittish.  A male and two females are strutting around, but as soon as I move in closer than thirty feet they run around a bush and further into the woods.  At first I try to follow them, since I haven't been able to take a decent picture yet, but when I give up and turn around to go back I notice a small monument with a sidewalk running alongside it.  It seems like a tomb; there is fabric covering it, though, fluttering gently in the wind and giving me small glimpses of the marble structure underneath.  I'm arguing with myself about whether it's okay to take the fabric off for a photo when I hear shouting drifting down in the wind; I'm going to guess that the Jeep is here.  Well, I guess that settles that.  By the time I get back to our picnic site the car is loaded, so I hop in and we roar off to the hotel.

It's only after we're on the road that I realize I royally screwed up: I never took a picture of myself on or with my camel!!  What the heck was I thinking?  In fact, I barely have any photos of myself the entire time, despite having taken a dozen of the guys.  I'm sure at some point in my life I'll have another chance to ride a camel (this wasn't my first experience, anyway), but it would have been nice to show people (i.e. mom).  As soon as we arrive back at the hotel, we say goodbye to each other and go to our rooms for showers and a nap.  We're all utterly exhausted and agree to meet up later to get food.  Unfortunately, the hot water isn't working any better than it was before, so I keep it as short as possible--fighting flashbacks to the horrors of last night--and read a while.  You couldn't pay us to leave the hotel tonight, so we meet at the rooftop cafe to eat and watch a so-bad-it's-good movie with Meg Ryan and Antonio Banderas. In short, it's a really chill evening spent in the company of good friends while enjoying good food.  It's the perfect way to end an exciting but exhausting few days, and if there was any doubt left about whether I should have come to Jaisalmer or not it's definitely gone now.

Camel Safari Day 1

Photo Album: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=172328&id=770825648&l=7761bc2ff5

My day starts around 8am, when I force myself out of a rather comfortable bed so I can pack up my stuff. Marc, Marco and I are going to check-out of our rooms and store our packs in the office so that we don’t have to pay for a night that we aren’t actually sleeping here (although, we’re only paying Rs100 per night, which isn’t exactly a ton to begin with). Half an hour later, Marc and I have just received our breakfasts: cheese and tomato omelets with hashbrowns and lassis. It smells incredible and I can’t wait to dig in, but Marc is a little less excited than I am. In fact, he’s been chugging water for the last ten minutes and saying he doesn’t feel well. He takes about two bites and excuses himself from the table. Not a great sign and part of me is worried he’s not going to make it on the trip.

Marco appears while Marc is in his room and orders his own food. By the time it arrives, Marc is back upstairs feeling much better after throwing up about 3 times. Turns out he hasn’t been taking his anti-malaria pills the last couple of days and when he finally took one this morning on an empty stomach it freaked out his system. When he doesn’t touch his food I ask if he still wants it—because if he doesn’t I am all over it, that omelet was delicious—and he says not after having watched it come back up. Sweet! I grab the omelet and Marco takes the hashbrowns. Score.

Around 9:30 a silver jeep pulls up to the hotel and the three of us get in with a German girl who has been staying at the hostel. She’s definitely one of the stereotypical ‘white bums’ I’ve come across. Basically, she dresses in the crazy 60s clothing and harem pants that she thinks will impress the Indian people with her ‘authenticity’ and attempts to ‘accept their culture’ as her own; this basically means she likes baggy tie-dyed clothes and going days without showers or shaving. These people typically find a cheap hostel, make friends with the people working there, smoke pot, eat only in the hostel’s cafe, and put down roots for four or more days without wandering more than a mile away. These are the not-so-elusive white bums, whose goal to stay away from home for as long as possible rather than actually see the city they’re in. Obviously, the three of us think this chick is weird.

But on we go, with our hotel manager at the wheel driving insanely quickly and taking up both lanes half the time. We pass small villages where the brown buildings have white geometric designs painted on them; it seems like the designers are trying to make sure they didn’t blend in so well with the desert that you don’t see them. The women are definitely hard at work: carrying baskets and metal canisters of water on their heads; hanging laundry; cooking over an open fire; sweeping trash from their homes underneath the bushes outside. But from what I can tell the men are still squatting over their breakfasts and tea, eyeing the women and apparently working up the energy to stand.

After about an hour of driving, we stop alongside the road. Our camel driver is waiting with 4 camels lying down, saddles and supplies already attached to their backs. This is when we meet Babu and his ten year-old son, Aladdin (pronounced ala-deen), two cool guys who are always asking us if we want more food. Babu probably isn’t actually as old as he looks, but he’s got a haggard, wrinkly face from spending most of his life leading pasty, stingy tourists through an environment humans aren’t adapted to live in for very long, let alone try to prosper in. Our camels have one large hump on their backs and are loaded with what must be a hundred pounds of supplies each (once we add our own bags). The thin rope they’re led by is connected to a spiked bar through their nostrils, and in order to be able to look at mine I have to tell myself that I stopped feeling my own nose ring after a few weeks so I’m sure the camels are fine, too. I hope.

Marco mans up and is the first to attempt getting on a camel. On his first try he doesn’t quite lift his leg high enough to clear the saddle, but the second time he takes a step back and performs an awkward, pseudo-roundhouse kick and gets the job done. The camel’s back reaches to about my belly button, about the boys’ hips, so we’re all practically pulling our groin muscles as we fling our legs, in a very literal sense, over the back of our assigned ruminid. Our camels mock us again when they get on their feet: first the back legs straighten part of the way, pitching you forward to about a 45 degree angle, then the front legs fully extend so now you’re leaning back about 25 degrees, and finally the back legs are totally straight and you’re sitting level, looking ahead. The only two ways we have of keeping ourselves in the saddle are our thighs and hands; the former are squeezing the camel’s back until we get cramps and the latter are stacked on top of each other trying to hold on to the bridle. No stirrups, no reins, no straps, no nothing. Giddy up.

Apparently, Marco was given the lead camel because Babu just smacks his rump (the animal’s, not Marco’s), clicks his mouth a few times like you would with a horse and lets him start walking away. Marc’s dark brown camel falls into line next, but he’s being led by a shy friend of Aladdin’s. My camel takes up the rear and is led by Babu. After ten minutes I turn around, though, and realize I’m wrong; Aladdin’s camel is most definitely taking the rear—my camel’s rear, in fact. Aladdin’s animal is tied to my camel’s saddle so that they’re only a foot apart. How humiliating for the last camel. He must be the rookie.

This arrangement becomes a problem about half an hour into the trip, though. One moment I’m looking at the scrub bushes and colored rocks around me and the next minute my camel is being pulled sideways by the animal behind him struggling against the rope connecting them. Aladdin tries to control it, but his ride is extremely unhappy. I hear this bizarre noise, like barking and mooing mixed together, and realize it’s coming from Aladdin’s camel! Eventually, Babu comes over and unties him so my camel can run along and make up the small distance to the boys. And so for about 30 seconds I completely forget about everything else around me and I bounce and bump and slam down on the saddle as my lanky ride picks up to a run. When I turn around, though, it’s a bizarre sight as Aladdin’s camel goes into full-on freak out: barking/mooing, pulling backwards again Babu and dragging him a few steps off the track, swinging its head wildly in giant circles, baring its teeth, and practically kneeling on the ground to dig its feet in and fight.

There is no doubt in my mind Babu will be able to get it under control, but I admit I do get worried when he hooks the crazy camel back up to mine (I’m beginning to think mine is the lazy member of the family—he’s clucked at every few minutes to remind him to go faster). I distract myself by looking around, but the scenery isn’t quite what I had expected. I’d pictured large sand dunes, large stray cacti, and maybe some of those little guys in glittery robes from Spaceballs (“Dink dink! Dink-dink-dink dink dink dink!”). Instead, it’s practically flat, there are lots of scrub bushes scattered every 50 feet or so, and rocks of various colors—purple, pink, beige, khaki, orange—falling all over each other. You do come to large, barren areas where it’s sandy, though, and at those points the juxtaposition of an azure sky layered on the cappuccino-colored ground is quite pleasing. It’s pretty in its own way, but certainly not grand.

What is absolutely wonderful, though, is the time to just sit quietly and reflect. In Singapore there isn’t a ton of noise, but there is absolutely no silence. There is always some white noise in the background, be it a train passing, cars honking, the elevator dinging, someone’s radio/TV, a sudden rain storm, or other people talking. India is the same, times ten. Being in the desert, with no one in our group really saying anything because we’re riding single-file, I feel…calm. Relaxed. Tranquil, even. I listen to the wind, to my heart beat, to the camel breathing, and to the rhythmic plodding of feet. And all I do is look around, sweeping a 180 degree arc, occasionally noticing 3’ tall, intricately carved sandstone markers with filigrees and human figures on them. They turn my imagination on and I start fantasizing about caravans along the Spice Route: hundreds of camels loaded with gold, jewels, spices and fabric; large silk tents standing on the dunes and glowing in the moonlight; men with giant beards and curving swords. Oh the things these markers have seen!! I can’t believe I’m jealous of an inanimate object.

I’m happy to report that it’s not as hot as I was expecting. I wear jeans and a sweater until about 11, at which point I’m starting to ‘glow’; not sweat, cause I’m a girl, just glow. The jeans are especially heat-absorbing, but thankfully just a few minutes later Babu says we’re stopping to water the camels in a small village just ahead. He clucks and our camels do the reverse of the 3-point stand they made earlier. Somehow, it’s actually more difficult this time, and we’re holding on for life and pride as they drop. Watching the boys get off their camels is hilarious! Let’s just say it involves a bit of squatting and stretching as they try to ‘loosen their hips’. I’m feeling absolutely fine, but the boys take advantage of this, too, by making ridiculous accusations about my being ‘experienced with this sort of thing’. Hey, at least I’m not the one doing a static squat right now.

In the village, no one really tries to sell us anything; there’s the usual crowd of kids who come running up to ask us questions and one man simply asks if we’re hungry or thirsty. When we ask to see what he’s got, he unlocks a small shed (for lack of a better word) and pulls out a rather large bag of individually wrapped mints (I think) from an antique glass deli case. I predict the manufacturing date to be around 2002 and decide to pass. Aladdin’s friend must think that I just didn’t want the whole bag, because he oh-so-thoughtfully buys me a single sweet. It’s all I can do to wait until he turns his back so I can spit it out—think minty, rancid butter if you want to imagine the flavor—and cover it with sand. As we start to leave just a few minutes later, I take advantage of a low wall to change into my shorts. Thankfully, I thought to put Marco on guard patrol, because somehow a group of kids picks up on the fact that a white lady is taking her clothes off in an empty courtyard. Yeah, that’s exactly what I need to top off this vacation: a crowd of curious kids staring at my undies.  Unfortunately, this leaves Marc to his own devices; the next time we see him he's got a few 12 year-old girls trailing him and asking him questions.  I don't know how it happened, exactly, but when I turn around again the girls are literally hanging off of him.  I guess they didn't like the answers he was giving them.  Needless to say, Marco and I are lauhing our asses off.

Moving on, it’s a lot more of the same: bushes, rocks, Aladdin’s camel freaking out (but now Babu leaves him untied and leads him personally), and small hills that are actually more properly called mounds. Eventually, though, about an hour before we break for the day, we start to see trees frequently and the landscape becomes an equal mix of brown and green. It’s what I think the African savanna would look like during the dry season. Our destination, the dunes, lies just beyond this section of the desert, and there’s no doubt about when you’ve crossed from one to the other. There’s an invisible line of demarcation created by the edge of the thin forest, like a botanical 8 Mile Road dividing the desert.

And now, an hour later, we are in a wasteland so empty, it makes the post-apocalyptic world of Mad Max look lush.  When our camels climb the first dune, I anticipate seeing Lake Michigan on the other side and Marc half-expects to see the ocean, but all we see is sand and more sand. We’re both people that are drawn to the water and love the calming vista of topaz and emerald waves ebbing and flowing over an empty beach. In other words, we should have gone to Goa. Everything creates long shadows, as the sun is about to set so there are going to be some incredible photo opps.  Textures, people and details are definitely my preferred subjects when I'm taking pictures, although I love taking pictures of anything in nature so I would be happy to wander around taking photos all evening.  Wider view photos actually wouldn't be that impressive, anyway, because the dunes don't seem to stretch very far.  It's kind of disappointing: on the distant horizon in every direction you can see the scrubland and trees take back over and the land get flat again.  The three of us were honestly expecting it to be more...expansive, I guess.

Babu is going to start making dinner soon, but while he's unloading the camels and starting a fire to make the chipati and dahl, the boys and I are going for a walk.  The first thing I do is take my shoes off and let my feet sink into the warm, silky sand.  Oh dear god.  This feels incredible; I don't want to move.  I practically force Marc and Marco to take their shoes off because I want them to feel as good as I do right now.  And for a few seconds the three of us just stand there, looking like we have no feet, appreciating being barefoot almost as much as the feel of the sand.  Finally, we start walking, after being reassured by Babu that there's nothing lurking in the sand we should worry about being stung/bitten by. 

Ah, there again is the stereotypical view of the desert we paid Rs1400 for.  Rolling dunes--admittedly not very large, but still curvaceous--still resemble what they were hundreds of thousands of years ago: the bottom of a prehistoric ocean.  The small stripes made by waves of wind immediately remind me of Higgins Lake, and thus family, and thus home, and finally the approaching holiday.  And the sunset doesn't help: smoldering pink, purple and orange, the sun sinks behind the hills, taking away the only source of warmth.  Tonight is going to be COLD.  But right now I'm busy thinking about the people I love that are thousands of miles away, worried about me and possibly still confused about why I wanted to make this trip (especially alone) in the first place.  I wish I had an answer for them, but even I think my interest in India and desire to travel here came from left field either at the beginning of this year or the end of last year.

A girl can only sit and feel a bit sad for so long, though, before she needs to eat, so I ask the guys if we can turn around and go back for dinner.  We've actually walked quite a ways, having climbed about six dunes, and by the time we run down the last one--sinking into that luxurrrious sand up to our knees--Babu basically has it ready.  He's a very obliging cook, making more food than we need and keeping the spiciness low for Marc and I while cranking it up for Marco.  Each meal comes with some kind of potato/vegetable mix in a light sauce or dahl, served with as many pieces of chipati as we could possibly want.  Props to Babu: this is some of the best food I've had my entire time here in India!  He makes the chipati in a dish shaped like a wok and pressing the dough into the bottom.  It comes out thick, doughy, pleasantly chewy, and great for picking/mopping up what it's served with.  He makes us delicious fresh chai and gives us a large bottle of water so we're always hydrated.  And he asks us about five times at each meal if we want more, a great example of Indian generosity when it comes to food.  Another interesting note about dinner: a stray dog has found our little camp is hanging around about ten feet away, making it very clear that he would appreciate a little dinner himself.  Babu says we should ignore it, but being three dog people we cave and give it a few small hunks of chipati and veggie.

The sun has gone down while we're eating and the last of the light is draining from the sky.  As it starts to get dark, Aladdin and his friend go out and gather a large stack of sticks for a second fire.  They break apart whatever dead bushes they can find in the woodsy area a little ways away and create a large stack of branches next to the pit they've dug in the sand.  The dry wood burns extremely quickly, and every few minutes someone has to feed the fire another half-dozen sticks, but it creates a large flame and puts out a surprisingly large amount of heat.  Marc breaks out a bottle of rum we asked our hotel manager to get for us, and I pull out my knife to cut off the bottoms of our water bottles so we have makeshift tumblers.  We're not looking to get tipsy, we just wanted a nice drink to relax with and maybe warm our insides a bit.  As soon as we get a whif of the ridiculously cheap alcohol, though, we all know that we're going to go home with a pretty full bottle.  We offer some to Babu in an attempt to get rid of it, but he says as a Muslim he can't take any.  I think he's slightly uncomfortable with us drinking, but he doesn't complain and just says that it's not good for any person to become so intoxicated that they lose control.  Not exactly a subtle hint to not overdo it, but after experiencing the terrible burning taste of the rum we can safely promise him that we'll be fine. 

Marc starts to fall asleep soon, anyway, and the rest of us quickly tire of trying to keep the fire alive.  We wake him up and start gathering all of our things so we can move a few feet away to where Babu has laid out our mattresses.  Marc moves fastest and so is able to claim the one-person sleeping spot on the other side of a bush from where the larger, two-person "bed" that Marco and I will be using is.  I clean up as much as I can, using the flashlight on my cell phone to see what I'm doing since the fire has totally died out.  Marc and Marco have noticed all the stars that have come out and are raving about them, but to be honest it's still a paltry amount compared to what you can see at Higgins Lake, so I'm not as impressed as they are (or maybe I'm just more tired).  When I join Marco on our "mattress", actually two thin blankets laid out on the sand, I try to read for a little while, but I jolt awake about ten minutes later realizing my flashlight's still on and I have no idea what happened in the short section I just read.  This obviously isn't going to work and it's starting to get really cold, anyway, so I roll a bit closer to Marco and stupidly tell myself "Oh, this won't be so bad.  What an adventure!"  What an idiot...