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.

Don't make me tell Lonely Planet on you...

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What a crappy, crappy start to the day. Worst morning yet. First of all, the sun doesn’t really rise here. Instead, the haze changes colors from grey to purple to pink to bluish. You don’t actually see the sun until it’s about quarter of the way through the sky already. Less than majestic. Then I woke up ten minutes late and missed the free morning boat ride that I have been wanting to go on. I would get into how badly breakfast went, but I’ll save myself the time and just post a copy of my letter to Lonely Planet later. But then again, without missing the boat and getting that crappy breakfast I wouldn’t have met Marc, this cute Australian guy who might meet up with me in Udaipur. Hmm…

I decide to take one last walk around through the alleys of Godawlia to see some of the sights I didn’t have time for yesterday. Jnana Vapi mosque appears to be closest on my map, but it’s pretty difficult to find and I learn it’s closed to non-Muslims when I finally do arrive. All right, I guess I’ll try to go to the Golden Temple next. Finding that is really easy, but there are no bags or cameras allowed inside. Next. The Kama Sutra temple that Emma and Sally said they liked is either a lot less impressive to me or I’ve gone to the wrong place. Well, I guess I can say I tried.

It’s time to go back to the hotel, anyway, because I need to print my train ticket and check out. The internet is working (a small miracle), but when I look at my ticket my stomach drops into my feet: I booked it for yesterday. What an idiot. I thought still in Rishikesh I had changed all of my tickets up until Khajuraho; clearly not. Well, I’m packed and checked out already, so I guess I’ll just go to the train station and see what can be done about it.

I hop into the first cycle rickshaw that comes along and immediately regret it. This guy is old and slow. Traffic is a mess, but he seems content to simply wait in line behind everyone else rather than weave his way in and out of the cars like other drivers I’ve had tend to do. I had hoped to try to transfer my ticket to the train leaving at the same time today, but I get to the station ten minutes after it’s left. Although, apparently I can buy a ticket to the “open seating” car (basically first come first serve) on the train leaving in half an hour. Can’t wait.

Oh my days, this is chaos. I am congratulating myself for keeping calm while surrounded by 18 men (4 of whom are sitting on the luggage rack above me) in a 5’ by 10’ space. I’m guessing they speak a couple hundred words of English and are missing about 20 teeth between them. Also, our train has just reversed directions and I’m not sure if we’re headed back where we came from or are going a new route. It’s about 85 degrees in here and smells. A man just finished playing a snake charmer’s flute and is now yelling for donations. Everyone is coughing and hacking, making it seem like we’re a train full of TB patients headed for treatment. None of my cabinmates seems to have brought anything to do on our six-hour train ride and I think they’re staring at me to pass the time.

So I congratulate myself for staying calm. I think I’d be more nervous if I weren’t meeting up with Laura. It’s nice to know I’ve got someone I can call to help me figure out how to get to Khajuraho. She got there earlier today and found a guest house run by nice people who are even willing to pick me up from the bus stand (my train doesn’t go all the way to Kho so I’m taking a 3 hour bus ride to get closer).

A couple hours later, though, I realize I’ve completely misjudged the people around me. When I ask one of them how much further to Satna, he asks me some questions of his own as best as he can with his limited English (including, of course, whether I’m traveling alone and why such a pretty lady doesn’t have a man to protect her. ‘Because this pretty lady can protect herself’, I think). The other guys must have questions, too, because periodically they say things to him in Hindi and he turns to me to ask another question. Right before I get off the train he says he is very happy because he has a new sister and that I can say I have an Indian brother. Everyone makes sure I get off at the right station, have my bag and am not jostled by the other passengers. My new ‘brothers’ were pretty good to me and I’m sorry to have been so hasty to judge them.

After being told by the tourist office at the station and a few rickshaw drivers that there are no more buses going to Khajuraho tonight so I should go to this fabulous Rs2000 hotel, I decide to go to the station anyway, just to have a little look around. Fifteen minutes later I’m bouncing down the road to Kho and trying to ignore how closely the bus driver gets to the cars coming from the opposite direction. I end up with a creepy guy who likes to lean into me for a neighbor, and when pretending to sleep doesn’t deter him a fake one-hour call to my fake boyfriend does the trick. Fortunately, Rahim from Laura’s hotel is there to pick me up as soon as I step off the bus and twenty minutes later I’m in Kho.

Rakshana guesthouse is pretty homely, but my room is big and I have my own bathroom (which I never end up using because it kind of scares me). Right before I go to bed I find out this is where the owner typically sleeps and that he’s giving it to me because the other rooms are taken. At midnight, beggars can’t be choosers, so I kill about a dozen mosquitoes, slather on bug spray, cover up any free skin I can find and pass out. My last thought: at least I made it here; that’s all that matters.

Dear Lonely Planet,

I want to share my recent experience at Shanti Guest House in Varanasi, India, which I stayed at based on your recommendation. I walked in and asked for a single room for two nights and paid Rs200 up front. The man at the reception desk couldn’t be less enthused by my arrival and they seemed to tolerate my business at best. I didn’t hear a single ‘welcome’ or ‘thank you’ during my entire 3 day stay. The room was fine, but without sheets or a blanket. Also, this was the noisiest place I’ve stayed in all of India; my very first night I couldn’t fall asleep until 1 because of people talking, doors slamming and music playing.

All of that is bearable, though; my biggest problems are with the rooftop restaurant. Oh, where to begin. The extremely mediocre food? Lack of cleanliness? Utterly horrible service? Let’s start with the fact that it’s not actually open ’24 hours’, like it claims. I went up for breakfast at 6:15 one day. A man was watching TV, but when he saw me, apparently his first customer of the day, he switched it off, walked towards me, ignored my hello, flipped a light switch and went into the kitchen. Thirty minutes later two other hapless customers wandered in and the three of us proceeded to knock on the kitchen door. The man I saw said the restaurant would be open in five minutes. Ten minutes later he came and took the other customers’ orders. Ten minutes after that I walked up and asked to order food; he gave me a pad of paper and told me to write it down myself (which I had to do twice after apparently writing in the wrong, but identical, box).

My two friends had joined me by this point and we all ordered toast, theirs with fried eggs, and chai. Fifteen minutes later, our chai arrived (by this point the other customers had their food already). Another ten minutes later, one friend got her toast and eggs. I got my plain toast five minutes after that and a whopping thirty minutes after ordering (and 2 inquisitive trips to the kitchen) my other friend got her food. The eggs were so undercooked she couldn’t bear to eat them so she went without breakfast. Ninety minutes after arriving, I finished my meal and left.

This scenario was pretty typical, unfortunately, and through my personal experience and overhearing other customers I can tell you they didn’t even bring out 7 orders in just the 3 meals I ate there. The customers either left or ordered again, only to wait another thirty minutes to get their food. The workers’ only responses were rolled eyes, sighs and nasty comments; one even snatched my friend’s utensils out of her hand because she “took the wrong one” from the tray she’d been forced to fetch them from herself.

On to cleanliness. As we ate the breakfast described above, they moved us to another table so they could finally clean up the mess from the night before. A man hosed down the floors, pushing water and garbage around with a whisk broom, then did the same to the tables. To our horror, though, he didn’t use a different broom to clean the tables, just the same one he’d been cleaning the sticky, disgusting floors with. He then proceeded to chuck the garbage over the edge of the building (although, this is probably a normal practice).

Overall, the people at Shanti really couldn’t have cared less if we were there, let alone happy. Recommend the accommodations if you must, but I hope you’ll stop featuring their restaurant. I haven’t been this disappointed in anything in your book as with their café and I hope you’ll be able to note this in the future.

Sincerely,

Lauren Montgomery

NOT MY BEST DAY IN INDIA. Wishing my plane ticket were transferable...

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Let me be clear: today pretty well sucked, but looking back I’m not even totally sure why.  The tentative conclusion I’ve come to is basically that the quality of my days depends on whether I’ve met another foreigner; even if we just have a short conversation it makes a big difference. 

Other contributing factors: leaving Amritsar; having been away from friends and family for the longest stretch of time ever; knowing I’m kind of stuck here; getting assaulted today; being tired of dealing with beggars/children/stares/vendors; not being able to trust anyone

All right, let’s start from the beginning.  I had a pretty nice night on the train, actually, and I slept through most of it snuggled in my blanket.  When I finally got up about 9 hours later, it was green outside my window instead of brown!  There were forests and even fields of bright green crops that were taller than me.  The girl sharing my cabin was really nice and answered some of my questions about the area, but trouble began as soon as we hit the station. 

Have I mentioned that they don’t tell you when you’re at the station you want?  Well, I missed mine by about 3 or 4 stops.  The trick is to know about what time you’re due to arrive at your station and start looking out the window for station names a half or so before that.  Well, that didn’t work for me; I was told to get off because it was the last station, but when I tried to leave the station the Chief Ticket Inspector said my stop was about 40km back and won’t you please step into my office, madam?  Oh dear god.

I try to explain that I had no idea I had missed it and that I had asked the conductor to tell me when we were in Raiwala (I’m now in Dehra Dun) and that he said the other person in my cabin was getting off in the same station yada yada.  He says that it will be Rs500 for him to let me go and now I’m struggling so hard to keep from crying that I can’t even say anything, just nod or shake my head and open my wallet.  Let me be clear: I’m not trying to pull the girly maneuver of crying my way out of a situation, I’m genuinely worked up here.  Just because he happens to be a nice guy and agree to reduce the fee to Rs200 is his decision, I’m just grateful for it.  So crisis averted, but not the best start to the day.

The good news is that Dehra Dun is well connected to neighboring cities via bus, so I’m able to get a ride to Rishikesh for Rs30.  We bump our way through the countryside and I try to keep the ever-present clouds of dust off of my granola bar and peanut butter (one of my very few sources of protein on this trip).  My auto-rickshaw drops me near the ferry that will take me across the river to the ashram I’m staying in and I get my first view of the Ganges.

IT IS BEAUTIFUL.  BREATH-TAKING.  INVITING.  CALMING.  A slightly milky sapphire color, it moves surprisingly quickly around and over the black boulders that poke their way out of the silky-smooth grey sand.  Buildings and temples rise up dramatically along the banks as the mountains rise up sharply from the banks.  No rolling hills in this valley, the river is bang-up-close to the mountains.  I have been looking forward to coming to Rishikesh for the quiet and relaxation and chance to see the Himalayas all week, and now I’m here!  Hallelujah!

I walk along the riverside path to Parmarth Niketan ashram, where I’ll be staying for a couple of nights.  Unfortunately, no photography allowed or I would happily snap dozens of photos of the colorful, landscaped courtyards and gardens (**ha! I snuck a few!  Coming soon!).  Statues of deities are sprinkled around the compound and dozens of people of all ethnicities walk around wearing shawls and prayer beads, carrying a yoga mat tucked under one arm.  As I’m ushered to my room I notice a library and realize I’ve made a very good choice of where to stay.

With plenty of time left in the day I decide to take a quick walk around Rishikesh.  I cross the pedestrian bridge nearest PN, Ram Jhula.  It’s a gorgeous suspension bridge that looks brand new and gives incredible views of the Ganges and town.  On the other side are lots of the same types of shops: clothes, music, jewelry, German bakeries (which I can’t totally figure out, but they’re there nonetheless) and adventure companies.  In honor of Fred Liimatta I make my first impulse purchase: a sugar donut that doesn’t even remotely compare to Dawn Donut’s goodies but is comfort food, in any case.

So far it sounds like Rishikesh is pretty good, right?  Maybe what I’ve needed after Delhi and a good follow-up to Amritsar?  I’d say after the donut is when it went downhill.  There are many more beggars here than any other place I’ve been, and, incidentally, a lot more cows, which makes it harder to dodge the two S’s on the sidewalks: spit and shit.  Additionally, I’ve been traveling alone for a long enough period of time to really start missing having someone around to chat with and appreciate the sights with.  I’d welcome a friendly face, even if just for a day. 

One thing Rishikesh does have going for it is that it has the largest concentration of foreigners I’ve seen in India.  This is very much hippy heaven and I feel super-comfy walking around in capri running pants, a blousy tank top and pashmina shawl.  I also broke out my sandals for the first time this trip (mom: they’re my Nike sandals from our hiking trip in 1996.  Still got ‘em!), so at least I’m physically, if not mentally, comfortable. 

Things REALLY get bad, though, when I round a corner and see a small Hindu temple open to the sidewalk.  The priest sees me looking in from the road and gestures for me to come inside.  He guides me from altar to altar, telling me the names of the deities, then asks me to sit down for a minute so he can bless me (yes, I’m already expecting to give a small donation).  He puts a small orange dot on my forehead and neck then takes a long baton made of feathers, taps it on a statue then my head five times each.  He asks for a donation and I give him Rs20, which he doesn’t seem to think is enough (500?!  Yeah, right), but he really gets upset when I stand to leave.  He begs me to wait one more minute and take a picture.  I snap a couple then show them to him and he gets a bit, well, excited.  He shakes my hand then gives me a big hug and then kisses me on the cheek. 

Yes, I am starting to feel uncomfortable.  I say thank you and that I must return to my hotel.  Okay, now he’s getting desperate.  He says, “No, no, please see altars” and grabs my wrist.  I’m saying no no no, he says stay stay stay and then grabs me in a bear hug and starts trying to kiss my face.  His breath smells like chewing tobacco and his scraggly beard scraping my face is making me cringe.  Yes, I am mentally shitting a brick at this point.  He’s a thin guy, but he’s got that wiry musculature that surprises you and I start yelling and pushing him away as hard as I can.  As soon I see an opening I run out the door, grab my shoes, run up the road and burst into tears. 

THIS IS NOT WHY I CAME TO INDIA.  I was expecting it to be difficult, but not a flat-out in-your-face challenge to my view of humans as inherently good.  I also mildly expected the desire to turn to a higher power for support and guidance, but so far I’ve felt about as spiritual here as an atheist at an evolution conference.  Even surrounded by all of this religious iconography and teaching, I don’t feel an urge to pray or meditate.  I can’t block out all of the disturbing images I’ve seen since my arrival and the commoditization of spirituality churns my stomach.  I’m sleeping 9-10 hours a night, but I’m still so tired and overwhelmed. In the end, it’s not god I want to hear from, but my friends and family.

As I cross over the second pedestrian bridge, Lakshman Jhula, and take the beachside path back to the ashram, I’m amazed that so much beauty can co-exist with so much ugliness.  The river and the sun setting over it are truly beautiful and the path is welcoming and quiet.  I sit on a boulder and put my feet in the cold water and just sit for a while.  I let myself have a good cry for the scare I had, for the dirty children living on the sidewalk, for the waste marring the beautiful landscape, for my loneliness…then drag myself back to the ashram. 

I make a couple of embarrassingly emotional phone calls to the US (man, I can already hear the “I told you so’s”) and go to dinner.  This is when I meet Holly, whose conversation and encouragement put a patch on the flat tire that is my morale.  She’s an American working for the ambassador in Bangkok and who came to Rishikesh to study yoga for a few weeks.  She and I will be leaving Asia around the same time next year and both dream of living in London after that.  She’s traveled India alone several times and thinks that I need to stick to my original itinerary and that I’ll be glad in the long run that I did.  “You’ll hate Varanasi, but when you get home you’ll be so glad that you went.”  As we chat about work, India and relationships over glasses of hot ginger lemon honey drinks, it feels like I’ve traveled 2000 miles to a café in the US.  It’s a very welcome feeling, and the conversation warms my soul as much as the drink warms my hands. 

A third of me wants to continue on my itinerary just to be able to say that I did it and so that I can really learn about resiliency, self-dependence, and, for lack of a better word, hutzpah.  Another third of me knows that I have my bathing suit and could easily spend a week in a hut on a Goan beach and still pick up the last part of my itinerary.  The final third thinks maybe I could get something good out of attending the beginner’s yoga course that starts here on Monday and runs for ten days.  I’m going to have to give this some serious thought because I just don’t know what I want anymore, other than to go home, but I don’t even know if that means Singapore or the US at this point.  I’ll figure it out tomorrow; now I’m going to bed.