Sick, but safely back in Singapore

I am home.

At least, the closest approximation I have to a home.  Part of me still longs for a bit of stability; a house of my own, a family, a place I feel like I belong.  I'll take care of that part of myself later, though, because there's still a lot to do and see before I set my roots down somewhere.

Anyway, physically I'm feeling every so slightly better when I get off the plane.  I woke up a few minutes before we landed and felt bad when the stewardess came by to take away the entire tray of food I couldn't bring myself to touch.  I had really thought I was feeling well enough to eat it until it was in front of me and I caught the smell of the food.  I lost my hunger immediately, and I willed myself back to sleep as a defense against throwing up again.  I'm sure I seriously confused my neighbor, but I really didn't care that much as my chief concern was keeping the contents of my stomach in the right place.

Emotionally, though, I'm a mess.  Walking through the airport SUCKS.  Not because of my stomach, but rather because of the music.  Christmas carols: Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra, the Charlie Brown song, ooohhhh....all the songs that remind me the holidays back home.  Of course I start to think about my family and what they'll be doing on Christmas Eve.  The emotional rush of my trip is still with me and I just want someone here to take care of me while I'm sick and alone for the holidays.  I'm not ashamed to admit that I miss my mom and my dog and snow and wrapping up in a blanket by the Christmas tree and big family dinners...

Oh dear god.  I'm crying again.   Perfect.  It only makes it worse that I can't even call home because I've managed to lose my Singaporean sim card.  Oh screw it.  I'm too weak to fight, so I struggle under my ridiculously heavy bags and hobble down the terminal towards the train station, blubbering and snotty.  Every now and then I have to stop, though, as a wave of nausea washes from my stomach to my head and back down again.  I'm sure I must look like a 'suspicious person or article' that Singaporeans are constantly reminded to be wary of, but I don't care.  Just get me HOME!.

Ultimately, I give up on the train and decide to shell out for a taxi.  I head out into a full-on monsoon and throw my gear and myself into the first cab that I can.  It's official: this is the most comfortable cab that has ever existed.  I sink back into the seat and turn my mind off.  It helps that the driver is playing Chinese music and that the sheets of rain pouring down the window are obscuring everything outside.  It's a veil of sheer exhaustion that I'm more than happy to hide behind.

It's hard to snap out of it, though, and when my cab driver misses the normal turn to get to my condo I fumble a minute before telling him just to drop me off at the MRT station that's a short walk from my condo.  Normally, it would take me five minutes to get home; what I've failed to remember, though, is that I left my gate pass, which lets me in the gate nearest my building, in my room so I wouldn't lose it on my trip.  This means I have to walk under the train tracks an extra five minutes to get to the main gate of the compound then turn in and walk a little further along to my building.  Any other day of the year this would have been only a tiny inconvenience, even in the rain.  This is not any other day of the year.

I'm sick, my bags weigh a ton, I'm highly emotional, it's a monsoon...basically, this turns into one of the longest walks of my life.  I stop four times to rest and cry before I arrive outside my condo sweating through two layers of clothes.  I am a hot mess...but I am home.  Fortunately, though, no one else is, so I drop my pack next to the couch, fall onto--and practically through--it, and sleep for five hours. When I wake up mid-afternoon I'm still the only one here, so I just lay back down on the couch and go to sleep.

This cycle repeats (I guess my roommates are out for the holiday) a couple times throughout the day, and despite the fact that I eventually move to my room to sleep, continues basically uninterrupted for the next few days.  I would continue to feel sick for about 3-4 days and I'd guess I only ate a few hundred calories per day, which only added to the fairly significant amount of weight I lost on my holiday.  I came back quite lean and with a nice set of core muscles, at least compared to what I had when I left, but I'm sure a few weeks of ridiculously unhealthy Singaporean food will take care of that.

In any case, it's several days before I can really think about what I put myself through this past month.  I'm incredibly proud of myself for making it through alone and with all of my belongings still in my possession.  Thanks to the objectivity of time, I can tell you that I absolutely had an incredible time.  It wasn't relaxing in any possible definition of the word, but it was challenging, eye-opening, reassuring, difficult, exhausting, thrilling, colorful, dangerous, exciting, and a million other good things.  I learned a lot about what I'm comfortable with, what I'm capable of, what role I want religion to play in my life, what bad habits I have left to deal with (like judging people, pushing myself too hard and too fast, spending money to money to make myself feel better, etc.), what good traits I'm developing (self-reliance, patience, flexibility, an eye for details), how to take care of myself, how to meet new people and put myself in new situations...

For as quickly as it went by, I think I'll look back on this trip as one of the defining moments of my life.  It won't be the last trip I take like this (I intend to take longer ones to several countries), but it was the first and the lessons I learned about myself are invaluable.  When it comes down to it, yes, I would have preferred to have traveled with someone.  But on the other hand, when it comes down to it, yes, I can take care of myself and find enjoyment while traveling alone.  I'll probably be solo next time, too, but it doesn't bother me anymore.  I'm ready for the next trip, the next challenge, the next country, the next chapter.

I'm ready for whatever's going to come next.

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

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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...

All I want for Christmas is a Vespa

Photo Album: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=172121&id=770825648&l=7178fd1185

It’s really nice to be able to say that I had a great night’s sleep last night: my bed was comfortable, the room had heat, the only noise came from my iTunes and there were glow-in-the-dark plastic stars and moons on my ceiling to take me back 20 years.  I’ve also been practicing a technique that I learned in my yoga class in Rishikesh: you start by relaxing your toes then your calves then your thighs, etc and as you go you say, “I relax my toes.  My toes are completely relaxed.”  There’s one line that I always save for last because it encapsulates exactly what I’ve been trying to learn to do here in India: “I relax my heart.  My heart is completely relaxed.”  Here’s hoping that my mind can convince my body.

And then, wonder of wonders, a piping hot shower!  And it lasts as long as I want it to.  There may be something to this idea of paying more than Rs150 a night; by upping my budget from $3.50 to $7 per night I’ve gotten some pretty fine perks.  As if things weren’t good enough, there’s a knock on my door and the manager drops off my laundry, neatly pressed and smelling like flowers.  It’s probably the nicest treatment those tattered old jeans have ever received.  Into my pack they go, with all of my other stuff; I’m loading up to check-out since I have a late train tonight.

On the rooftop café for one last meal, I plan the route I’m going to take on my scooty today.  I’m going to ride a fairly large circle around town and see some of the sights on the outskirts of town and up in the hills.  The store that rents the bikes and scooters is right next to my own hotel, so five minutes after I pay for my chai and toast I’m picking out a 70cc TVS Scooty.  Not the most horsepower in the world, but a. I’m a beginner and b. I’m stingy with my rupiya.

I start to get nervous just sitting in the back alley testing the accelerator and kick-start and all of that.  I start to wonder…If I fall over here will they give me my money back and say I can’t rent it?  Indian traffic is the definition of ordered chaos; what if I get in an accident?  Should I ask about that or will it just make me seem like a bad driver or make them nervous?  My biggest fear is that something on the scooty is going to break.  I can handle running out of gas and walking for petrol, but I don’t have the mechanical knowledge or funds to take care of any major repairs.

But the time for deliberation is over.  They take my passport, wish me a happy journey, and point me towards an alley that slopes fairly sharply downhill and will dump me straight into cross traffic.  Oh dear god.  Well, nothing like a little trial by fire.  Here we go.  With my eyes only half-shut I ride the brake, drag my feet for added stability, send up a quick prayer to whoever is in charge up there and blare my tinny little horn as I make a sharp left onto the street. 

Success!  I am now a part of the problem, not the solution, when it comes to Indian traffic.  The street I pulled onto is extremely quiet at the moment, but as soon as I turn left onto the main road, I'm one of hundreds of people, animals, car, cycles, touk touks, cows and bikes navigating narrow roads without traffic lights or crosswalks.  I picture the road map to the royal cenotaphs in my head and start driving from landmark to landmark: the clocktower; Delhi Gate; bridge over the river; the second roundabout with the statue of Chetak.  I do lose my way a few times, but after stopping a couple times to ask for directions I get there twenty minutes ahead of schedule.

Just to sidetrack a bit, I have a method of finding someone who speaks English that doesn’t require me to eavesdrop.  My tactic is to look at someone’s shoes and glasses; if they’re nicer/clean/stylish, then I assume that that person is probably a bit more educated and maybe even a bit more wealthy than some of the other people around me.  Classist and occasionally wrong as it may be, 9 times out of 10 it helps me find someone I can easily communicate with and get help from.

Back to the cenotaphs.  These are white marble pavilions built in the 13th century that were used to burn the corpses of nobility and royalty (in separate areas, of course) before their ashes were taken to Varanasi to be dumped in the Ganges.  None of them were (supposed to be) used twice, which means that after a couple hundred years you start to run out of space.  These beautiful domed platforms were crammed in wherever they would fit, which means that in a few acres there are 369 cenotaphs to look at!  You could almost walk from platform to platform on the nobles’ side.  On the royal side, though, there are only a few, much larger memorials to the king, queen, princes and princesses.  They’re ornately carved and the sheer number is stunning.

I start talking to the caretaker, the source of the information above; he’s a jovial man with a big smile.  He asks the usual round of questions about me as I get my scooter started again, including my personal non-favorite, “Oh, you are a teacher?  Really, you’re not a model?”  Why?  Why does it always go here?  Even nice conversations with nice guys ends up including something about my looks.  There is no way they’d say these things to an Indian woman and they know full well I’m not model material, so why does it go here?  Why?

Back on my scooter I feel very un-Indian.  You think a white woman walking alone gets stared at?  Try one on a scooter.  Some people don’t know what to make of me; a couple guys almost crash their motorcycles by looking back at this crazy foreign lady putting around like she owns the city and looking a little scandalous.  I’m wearing a tank top that shows my tattoo, my pants are rolled up to the knee showing my other tattoo, my short hair doesn’t flap around in the wind much and there’s no man for me to sit behind.  In other words, I am a liberated woman and proud of it.  Grr!  I’m a strong, independent female who can handle herself in India.  I kick touts’ asses and take cute boys’ names and emails as I rev all 70CCs of my engine up to 35km/hr.  My next thought only knocks my mood down a few pegs as I quickly banish it from mind: Is that why I’m single?  Ugh.

But no time for glum thoughts, this is just plain old FUN.  Definitely one of the 3 coolest things I’ve done in this country.  So the roads are a little crazy—cars passing into oncoming traffic; cows, horses, goats and dogs running or sitting in the streets; no blinkers or traffic lights; everyone honking their horn so everyone else knows they’re there, but Mondays are actually quieter so it’s a good day to be driving.  Sometimes when I get a little flummoxed I instinctively try to drive on the right, which doesn’t help the situation.

After getting money from the ATM, a man guides me to Saheliyon gardens, made to entertain the 48 maidens that came with the dowry of a Moghul princess.  My new friend leads me there on his own scooter then gives me his card (he’s a building materials distributor for construction sites and so basically a god in this country) and says to call him later.  He’d like to have me over to dinner with his family this evening.  I tell him I honored and grateful, but even though I can’t make any promises that might be pretty cool and I will definitely consider it.

The garden is small, but I take my time to sit in the sun, accidentally overhearing the story of a woman who almost drowned in one of the fountains (apparently the main fountain is ten feet deep and the plants that grow in the water make it difficult to surface if you go under).  It’s fun to imagine dozens of women in the finest, brightly-colored silk saris with bangles on their limbs walking from fountain to fountain while peacocks scatter at their feet.

There are two lakes in Udaipur and going back into town I get to drive the coastal road along the more northern of the two, lake Pichola.  The sun and wind on my skin feel incredible (the grit and dust maybe not so much), despite the knowledge that I’m just making my terrible dry skin even worse.  This road will take me to one of the key locations from the movie Octopussy, the Monsoon Palace.  It’s on top of a mountain in a nature preserve just outside of town, and while a few doubts about my scooter’s engine power pop into my head on the way up—then about its braking capabilities on the way down—it’s a marvelously peaceful and scenic trip.  The palace itself is shabby and basically falling down, but the views over the hills, lakes and city are second to none.  Without the smog, it would be perfection.

To return to town, I have to ride in through the old city gates and then along the walls of the original fort.  Suddenly, instead of paying close attention to the road I’m back to imagining what it must have been like to live here when it was first constructed.  I doubt the roads have changed much, either in their condition or general layout, but I’m sure the mess of cars and the electrical wiring creating a dangerous lattice above my head are new.

Before I head south past my hotel I have just enough time for pit stop back at Café Namaste where they have more warm date and walnut pie.  Friggin’ delicious, I’m telling you.  I also have a rose lassi that unfortunately I can’t taste because of my cold.  But I can tell you it was a lovely light shade of pink.  Moving south I stop to buy a ticket for a sunset boat ride later today then go to the haveli (insulated home) heritage museum, one of the most pleasant surprises I’ve had in India.

The museum is in a haveli that has been meticulously reconstructed and furnished with authentic artifacts from the 1400s and 1500s.  There are quarters for the men, women, in-laws, children and servants, and each room was reconstructed to give an accurate picture of daily life in Udaipur five hundred years ago.  Colored glass, toys, kitchenware, clothes, paintings on the walls, games, bathroom and toilet accoutrements…it’s all there for you to put yourself back in the time of maharajas and courtesans.  Possibly the best part of the museum, however, is only about ten years old.  They’ve turned the basement into a surprisingly large and well-stocked modern art gallery.  The paintings and sculptures are from Udaipur’s young and upcoming talents, and I would have paid even more just to see the ten rooms given lowest billing.  If I didn’t have a boat to catch, I would stay for hours.

“Lauren!”  I come to a screeching stop--no small feat in a narrow, crowded alley with foot-deep open gutters on both sides--and look over to see a scruffy-looking foreigner in jeans and a t-shirt.  “Marc!  Oh, my god, you made it!  Want to go on a boat ride?”  I’m still thanking the gods for their generous nature as Marc, the cute Australian guy I met in Varanasi, hops onto the back of my scooter (built for one, incidentally).  I have a lot to apologize for as I drive: not emailing like I said I would; looking and probably smelling like a hot mess; being in a hurry to make the boat ride.

I also need to apologize for my driving.  Oh, my god sometimes I’m such a girl.  As soon as I’m around a cute boy I apparently lose all hand-eye coordination and only help support the stereotype about female drivers.  Okay, that’s not true; it’s actually due to the fact that he weighs way more than I do and this scooter is only built for one.  I wobble and worry my way down to the boat dock, though, and later in the day Marc admits to being impressed that not only did I manage his weight well and keep us upright, but that I was willing to drive in this country at all.  Yeah, my ego definitely gets a boost when he says he doesn’t know many girls brave enough to do that.

As we go for our sunset boat ride, there’s no doubt that Udaipur is the place to go in India if you’re in love.  Marc is the first to broach the subject of romance and talk about how it would be a great place to go with a girlfriend.  I can only sigh and agree and dream…  All right, anyway, we ride along the City Palace then turn around and head back towards the two islands in the lake.  The first is covered by the Lake Palace Hotel, also prominently featured in Octopussy, which requires either a hotel or restaurant reservation to get to.   The second, Jagmandir, has a palace that has been turned into a hotel, but this one is open to visitors from the boat tour.  It has marble elephants to greet you as you step off the boat and the inner courtyards have gardens and a café.  You can rent little bungalows here that look out over a bubbling fountain decorated with large red, orange and pink flowers for a few thousand rupees a night.  The romantic mood kicks into high gear when the sun finally sets and they turn on colored lights all over the hotel.  There’s also a man using small wood sticks to tap out a beautiful tune on bowls of water filled to various depths.  THIS IS PARADISE.  All too soon the spell is broken, though, and it’s time to return to the dock.

After our ride, Marc and I scoot over the bridge to get twilight pictures of the sights we just saw from the boat.  He’s pretty jealous of my camera, and I admit I like to show if off, so I take a few more shots than I had intended.  He suggests dinner at a restaurant just nearby, Ambrai, which turns out to be totally expensive and hopelessly romantic, with candle-lit tables looking out over lake, palaces, etc.  I get my first cocktail in India, a gin and tonic.  Yum.  A man after my own heart, Marc’s a devoted carnivore; unfortunately, though, he’s one of those freaks of nature who can eat 6,000 calories a day and not gain any weight.  I order govind gatta, chickpea flour dumplings in gravy, but I’m not sure if I can’t taste it because it’s so horribly spicy or because of my cold.

Marc’s really easy to talk to, thanks to our similar personalities and interests, and he’s got a great sense of humor.  I enjoyed dinner immensely, but I’m embarrassed that I couldn’t stop coughing and I’m sure I looked pretty ragged.  But I managed to learn a bit about him: his job is cleaning large events and festivals around the world; he travels as much as he can and he’s been around the planet, both alone and with friends; he’s never had a beard like the one he’s got now; he likes triathlons; he’s thinking about getting into education; he picked up a cough while trekking in Nepal; he’s a definite morning person and can’t stay up past 10 without a good excuse.  But then lets slip two little words that tell me a fact that I was hoping I wouldn’t learn: “My girlfriend…”  He tries to cover and start over, but too late, they’re out there.  C’est la vie.

In any case, I had a great time and we’re going to meet up again in Jodhpur.  It’ll be fun to see the same person for more than a day or two, and something tells me he’s really easy to travel with.  He doesn’t talk your ear off, but you know he’s willing to chat if you want to.  It’s hard to get on the train, though, because Udaipur is difficult to say goodbye to.  Someday, though, I’ll be back and hopefully not alone.