Saying goodbye at 'the teardrop on the cheek of humanity'

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I didn't sleep at all last night.  Actually, I think I might have dozed off for half an hour or so, but I just couldn't bear the idea of losing any time in the last 24 hours I would be spending in this country for who knows how long. So I watched a couple of Bollywood movies that were surprisingly interesting.  The first, 'Jab We Met', was a cute romantic comedy; I'm not sure what the title of the movie after it was, but it was one of those epic song and dance numbers that took the main characters around the world and through endless romantic turmoil and joy.  Classic.  Perfect for trying to stay awake at 4 in the morning.

Six is when I force myself to get up and get ready for my trip to the spot that I intentionally saved for last: the Taj Mahal.  Originally, this was going to be one of the first stops on my trip, but in a small stroke of genius I reversed my entire itinerary and made it my last day.  I definitely appreciate that now, and am glad to be spending my final day in India at its most beautiful landmark.  I'm out the door by 6:15, heading out into the dark and cold, along with several other yawning foreigners all intent on seeing the Taj at sunrise.  I fall into step with a pair of German girls and start up a conversation with them as we walk.  We wait in the fairly short line together and watch an increasingly humorous exchange between a man selling mini, plastic Taj Mahal keychains to a pair of women who have obviously lived in this country most of their lives:

Tout: "Here, you see?  Proper work and good quality.  I give you the best deal: 5 for 50 rupees."
Women: "No, no.  We do not wish to buy."
"Wait, no please, wait.  Six!  Six for 50 rupees.  1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6."
"No.  We do not want them."
"Please, good ladies, please see how good these are.  Now, I will do extra nice deal: seven for 50 rupees!  Seven, madams, seven!  See?  1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7."
"No.  Please go.  We do not wish to buy."
"Now, now, please.  I give you most definite best deal, nice ladies.  EIGHT!  Eight nice pieces, very like real Taj.  Eight for you, good ladies, eight!  1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8."
"No!  Go sell to another!"

It's obvious this would have gone on if it weren't for the fact that the gate is finally opening and the line pushes forward towards the metal detectors and  security checkpoint ahead.  I've heard that they're quite odd about what they allow you in with and what is enough to have you sent back to the ticket counter to check your belongings: definitely no books, including journals and notebooks, no pens, no camera tripods, and, in the case of Emma (girl I met in Varanasi), no scarf.  That's right, she couldn't wear her scarf in despite the cold weather.  Riiiiight.  Well, here goes nothing.  They look in my bag, see my souvenir tickets, spare camera lens, hand sanitizer and mouth wash, passport, money belt, and Lonely Planet guidebook, then I'm patted down and waved on.  And that's it--I'm in without any problems, scarf and all.  This is probably the only time this whole trip that I've expected something to be ten times harder than it actually turned out to be.

You walk into a large, open courtyard with the gigantic inner gate to the Taj on your left and other gates leading back into town straight ahead and on the right.  Even the inner gate is ornately decorated, with dozens of small domes, marble inlay and decorative, cursive script (Hindi?).  I purposely slow down my pace so that I can round the corner to the inner gate with the maximum amount of drama.  The actual door in the wall is quite small, so when you approach it you see only a hint of the Taj; walk through the door and it emerges slowly and majestically.  Oh, my gosh, my stomach is filled with a thousand butterflies as I get my first look!  The four minarets marking the corners of the main structure rise like enormous rooks on a chess board, strategically positioned to protect their late-queen.  I've heard they're tilted ever-so-slightly away from the hall, so that if an earthquake comes through they will fall away from the structure.  Sounds like a good idea to me.

The sun hasn't actually risen, yet, but honestly that's totally fine by me.  There's a thick layer of mist around the whole neighborhood and the soft, greyish-blue light is romantic and practically camouflages the Taj.  I'm immediately struck by the size; yes, I knew it was large, but to see it in person blows my expectations out of the water.  What doesn't surprise me is how immaculately clean the grounds are.  There isn't a single piece of trash anywhere, and not only are the fountains full of water but they're perfectly clear.  Considering how much they make off of foreign visitors (I paid Rs750 to get in, about $20, a small fortune compared to the Rs300 the next most expensive site charged me), I'm sure they can afford to hire a groundskeeper for Rs100 per hour.

As I walk up closer, the sun just starts to break over the horizon, adding a pinkish hue to the building.  It's breathtaking and beyond description; my skin is tingling and I'm silently thanking god for the gift of wisdom and creativity that led to the construction of this structure.  It's incredible.  As you walk up to the main structure, you either have to remove your shoes or cover them with little cloth booties.  I cover mine, mainly to avoid contact with the freezing cold marble, and circumambulate (pradakshina, in Sanskrit) the Taj.  I move clockwise, always keeping it on my right, just like the temples in Khajuraho.  While this isn't technically a holy site, it feels like it to me because it's the greatest representation of man's incredible imagination and mastery of nature I've ever seen.  It's inspiring to see what beauty we are capable of creating.  Oh, god, Ayn Rand would be so proud of me right now.

The Yamuna River flows behind the Taj, but you can barely see it thanks to the thick, wet layer of mist that will take hours to dissipate.  Then, as I round the final corner to return to the front, I'm nearly blinded by the sun reflecting off of the perfectly smooth white marble.  It's like watching the sun rise over a calm ocean, with the imperfections in the marble creating small, soft waves.  Finally, I'm ready to go inside.  We're ushered into the inner sanctum where Shah Jahan's beloved is laid to rest, but no photography is allowed (which turns out to be fine because there's a marble lattice barrier between you and the marker anyway).  This is when I begin to notice the intricate inlay of precious stones.  It's mainly a floral motif, with blossoms of pink, orange and yellow branching off of green stems.  It's not quite as interesting as the work at the Golden Temple in Amritsar, but it does lend a more solemn air which is probably more fitting for a tomb, anyway.

Up close I'm impressed by the sheer amount of geometry and the impressive tessellations that make up the decorations under the arches and eaves.  Part of the reason I enjoy studying history is because I have an incredible amount of respect for what civilizations were able to do/discover/create thousands of years ago with such relatively-primitive technology.  Unfortunately, I'm not going to have as long to simply sit and admire the Taj as I might like.  My train leaves at 10:30, so I have to be at the station before 10:15.  I can still see Agra Fort and make it, but I'm going to have to hurry.  It's a short cycle-rickshaw ride to get there (and mostly downhill, so the fare is cheap) and it's going to be even cheaper to get in because I've got the free ticket that one of the guys I met along the river gave me last night.

Works like a charm.  Suddenly, I'm Rs250 richer than I planned to be.  Score.  I feel even better after I've toured the fort, though, because to be honest it doesn't seem like it would be worth paying that much to get in here.  It is quite large and there are several places to explore, but it's nothing like the forts in Jodhpur and Jaisalmer.  Also, I'm sure it has a great view of the Taj Mahal only a few kilometers away, but with the morning fog and the everyday pollution, I can only barely make-out the outline of it.  But anyway.  The outside of the fort is extremely impressive, though, with the remains of what must have been an absolutely filthy moat and walls covered in carvings.  There are other marble flourishes and decorations that match those on the big Taj and baby Taj, and to be honest it's nice to see some cohesion among the sites here.  Shah Jahan must have been a busy man indeed (note: he didn't create the baby Taj).

I'm out of the fort in an hour and a half, partially because I'm pushing myself to go faster than normal, but also because it's on the small side compared to the other forts I've been to.  I'm pleasantly surprised I have time to have a rickshaw take me over to some nearby shops before I head home.  Thinking the shops and my hotel are fairly close together I strike a deal with a cycle rickshaw driver.  He does indeed get me to the shops quickly, but they're full of cheap crap geared more towards the native Agrans so I tell him to take me to the hotel.  During the ride I make my final phone calls from India to tell people I'm on my way home soon and talking to mom gets me just a little choked up.  It's true that I'm ready to go home, but there's part of me that could easily stay and travel around southern India for a month now that I feel like I understand this country a bit more.  I've always been lucky that even though I do miss home, it's not the crippling kind of homesickness that keeps me from enjoying long periods off on my own.

Soon, however, the first problem of the day crops up.  It is taking absolutely forever for this guy to get back to my hotel.  I ask him how long it will take.  His reply: 30 minutes.  It's 9:50 and I need to leave my hotel at 10 to get to the train station.  Obviously, this isn't going to work.  I go into panic mode and start leaning out the side of the rickshaw trying to flag down an auto touk touk.  The driver is obviously not happy about this and says that he can't stop in a busy road (which is currently nearly empty) to let me out blah blah blah.  Meanwhile, I've stopped a touk touk and am basically jumping from one to the other.  I give the cycle guy half his fare, but he leans into the touk touk and demands the rest of it.  I told him he didn't take me the whole way and he was slow.  He calls me something mean in Hindi (according to the driver) and I tell him what he can do to himself in a phrase that would make a sailor proud.  Hey, the asshole had it coming; I'm leaving out some details, but if you had been riding with me you'd agree.

So now my nice fast touk touk gets me back to the hotel right at ten.  I ask him to wait and to take me to the train station after I get my pack and check-out and, good man that he is, he weaves and drifts and ignores basic laws of the road so that we get to the station right on time.  I go to check on my train and find....it's delayed.  By an hour and a half.  But hey, no big deal, that still gives me a few hours in Delhi to go to Jama Masjid and maybe stop at a store nearby to buy a few last souvenirs.  It's 10:20 now.  If we leave at 11:50 it'll be fine.  I probably won't have time for lunch with Marc (disappointing), but I'll still see what I want to see.  I'm approached by a few Germans also going to Delhi to ask whether I'm on their train.  They've bought the open tickets that I'm traveling with again, so I explain to them how they work and we all agree to just try to find an empty cabin in 2nd class the four of us can take over and pay the difference.  One of them, Simon, is leaving from the airport this afternoon as well, and was only here in Agra on a day trip, so we decide to share a touk touk to the train station.  Nice!  Now we just have to wait.

11:50--No train.  Okay, I can work with this, I'll just have to pay extra for touk touks instead of walking in Delhi.  No sweat.

12:30--No train.  Well, this isn't ideal.  I'm going to have to cut out the shopping for souvenirs, but I can still see Jama Masjid, the one thing I most wanted to see in Delhi.  It's fine.

1--TRAIN!!  Oops, just kidding.  No train.  Someone else on the platform says that this train is going to Delhi, but that it's slower because it's not an express.  This one will take six hours, compared to the one we're booked on, which takes 3-4.  The train we want will be coming right after this one.  I'm officially nervous. 

1:30--TRAIN!!  I have no idea if this actually the right one, but who the hell cares.  Worst case scenario we'll be arriving at exactly the time I need to be clear across town to check-in at the airport.  Oh dear god.  We all rush on and urge the train onwards with our desperation.  We do manage to find a cabin, though, and all collapse onto a seat letting our adrenaline levels drop back down to normal.

A little while into the trip one of the girl shares some oranges she's bought at the market in Agra.  Remembering how good my last one was, I say thanks and enjoy a little treat on the train.  I'm clamping down the disappointment I feel at not being able to see some of the incredible sites I read about months ago while planning this trip.  Half an hour later, though, I start to feel a little weird.  I think it's just motion sickness, but it's getting a bit stronger, so I apologize and tell the others I'm going to try to take a nap to fight it.  I wake up a few times, feeling pretty normal for about five minutes each time before getting that sick feeling again, but I just go back to sleep with my head on my pack because it seems to help.  Until the end of the train ride, that is.  As soon as I'm awake for good I'm ready to lose my lunch.  I can't open my mouth for fear that it will jump-start my upchuck reflex.  I am sick.  I am definitely not okay.  Oh god, please not now.  Noooooo!!!

I tell the others that I'm not well (which they have obviously picked up from the look on my face), but there's not a lot of time for sympathy, it's 5 and I'm supposed to be at the airport right now, checking in for my 6:45 flight.  Simon and I grab the first touk touk we can and ask them to take us just a little ways away into Paharganj to pick up Simon's bags.  It's a freaking traffic nightmare.  Of course.  We end up jumping out of the touk touk and throwing bills at the driver so we can walk to his hotel.  He carries my bag, like a gentleman, but also so we can move faster (I can barely support the weight because I feel so sick).  A few minutes later he comes out and we try to find another touk touk to take us to the airport.  Success!  We find one (it's 5:15) and he comes and picks us up.  We make it extremely clear to him that we are in a gigantic hurry.  If I'm not there in an hour they won't let me board.  'How long will it take to get to Indira Gandhi domestic terminal?' 'One hour.' Oh. Dear. God.  'GO!!!'

In the touk touk I am crying and sending up aimless prayers that I make it to my flight.  I CANNOT STAY ANOTHER DAY IN THIS COUNTRY.  GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE.  All the thoughts about how I could totally stay for another month have vanished, leaving me weak and emotional and desperate.  I just want to get home so I can be sick in my own bed.  Just get me home.  Please.  Please.  Just get me home.  Just let me catch my flight.  Please.  I can't talk, I can't even look up, or I will throw up out the side of the car.  Simon says things and asks me questions but all I can do is just nod or shake my head.  He's completely out of money from paying the bill at his hotel, so this ride's on me, plus I'm going to have to give him some for the remainder of the ride to his own part of the airport (he's flying international, I'm flying domestic to Mumbai so I'm getting off earlier).  I've got to give him a lot of thanks, though, because he did indeed get me from the train station to the airport, carrying my bag half the way and basically yelling at people to 'hurry the hell up we've got planes to catch!'  Imagine meeting someone 6 hours earlier, watching them get sicker and sicker, wondering if they're going to throw up on you, then having to make sure they get to the airport on time while you're desperately trying to get to your own flight.  Thank you, Simon, wherever you are!

I rush into the airport, barely able to stand under my pack and fighting nausea.  Check-in is easy, though, and I move as quickly as I can down to security where I'm quickly passed through.  Oh, thank you thank you thank you thank you!  I'm going to make this flight!!  I am going home!!  I reach the terminal, give them my ticket, take the short bus ride out to the middle of the tarmac where the plane is, and find my seat.  But I don't sit down; I drop my bag (in the freaking middle seat, of course) and head to the bathroom in the tail of the plane.  Sixty seconds later I'm heaving and regurgitating a thick orange liquid.  It was the god damn orange.  I don't get it!  It looked fine and I peeled it myself.  Was there something on my hands that mixed with the juice?  Screw it, who cares at this point.  Wow, do I feel massively better after throwing up a couple times.  I stumble back to my seat and fall asleep before the safety video is over.  I wake up at the announcement for touch-down and realize I'm not going to make it to the airport.  I head back to the same bathroom and clear the last of the noxious orange from my system until I'm just doing dry heaves.  WOW it really helps to just give in and throw up.

I've got enough energy left in me to get off the plane and get into the terminal.  Of course I have to take a shuttle to the international part of the airport then go through customs then go through security again then take a second small shuttle to the plane on the tarmac...good lord just get me to my seat so I can go back to sleep!  Eventually, though, after several breaks to rest while walking down the hallway of the airport, I do get on the plane and in my seat.  It's on the aisle, thank goodness, but as it turns out I don't need it anymore.  I still feel a little bit nauseous, but it's obvious that if I just go to sleep I'll be fine.  And go to sleep I do.  I miss the skymap and dinner, my two favorite things about the flight out here, but don't even realize it as I lose consciousness in a deep, dreamless sleep.

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.

I'm on new ground here: I'm not following THE PLAN

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Marco’s alarm goes off at about 4:45 and I want to say goodbye to him one last time so I’m up, too.  As we’re talking, I say how much I’ve enjoyed spending time with them and wish out loud that he and Marc were going with me to Jaipur.  Marco counters by asking why I don’t just join them in Jaisalmer.  I take a second to come up with a good response, but instead I find myself wondering, ‘Why not?’  Would it be so horrible to miss Jaipur and instead see a city that so many people have said they really enjoyed?  It could be pretty fun to ride camels, bake bread in the sand and see the honey-colored fort and city, and let’s not forget that I’d be doing it all with two attractive men.  It takes me about five minutes to decide: screw Jaipur, I’m going to the desert. 

I start frantically throwing things into my pack and we’re checked out and out the door in twenty minutes.  Our hotel is right next to the train station, fortunately, and ten minutes later I have a ticket and we’re sitting on the train waiting for it to pull out.  I’m not sure why, but Marco suddenly gets a weird feeling that we’re on the wrong train.  He goes to double check the marquee and I talk to a few men on the train.  Even though he comes back convinced again we’re in the right spot, the locals say this train is headed the opposite way and I’m inclined to believe the experts.  In a flash, we throw our packs back on and track down the conductor.  We are definitely in the wrong place.  Running as quickly as I can with more than a third of my weight hanging off my shoulders, we scramble to the right platform, nearly running Marc over in our rush (who apparently had an interesting night…something about drinking a bit, getting followed by stray dogs and sleeping on the street after being locked out of his hotel).  Well, I guess he’s a pretty good sign that we’re finally where we’re supposed to be.

The three of us grab berths next to each other in the sleeper carriage and the boys pass out almost immediately.  Marc finished reading the book he’d been telling me about, Shantaram, and passes it on to me.  It’s the story of an Australian man who breaks out of prison and moves to the slums of Mumbai where he becomes the doctor for the thousands of residents, gets involved in the Bombay mafia and is finally recaptured and sent to Australia to serve the remainder of his sentence.  Marc thought it was excellent and he’s the fifth or sixth foreigner I’ve met who’s reading it as they travel India, so I’m pretty excited to start it myself.

A couple hours outside of Jaisalmer I start coughing like crazy, out of the blue.  This feels different from the last few days, though, and I can’t figure out what’s going on until the coughing gets so bad that I stand up to get some Kleenex out of my bag.  That’s when I notice that the air in the train has gotten very hazy and realize that the air is saturated with swirling clouds of dust.  Well, duh, Lauren, you are traveling through the desert so there’s a good chance that sand is going to start blowing in through the windows.  Soon I’m nearly choking as Marco and I struggle to lower the shutters and lock the windows closed.  They keep popping open, though, and each time they do the strong wind blows new clouds of sand into the compartment, coating every flat surface and my airway with a fine layer of silt.  It’s starting to get desperate when another passenger, coughing loudly as well, comes over and finishes the job for us.  Marc somehow sleeps through all of this.

Shortly after we regain control of our cabin, a foreign woman asks to sit on an empty berth and starts up a conversation with us.  She’s Norwegian and has just moved to Jaisalmer to be with her new husband.  Together they own a hotel called Anand Villas and she’s stopping by to tell us about it and invite us to stay there.  It seems like a good deal and she seems nice enough and to be honest it’s just nice to have a plan established, so we tell her we’ll see her at the station for a ride to her hotel.  When we arrive, though, it’s pretty clear we have lots of options of where to stay.  We walk past a long line of about 25 men, shouting and waving signs in English and Hindi advertising different hotels.  I’m really glad we don’t have to deal with these guys, though, and can go straight to Annette’s place.

At first they offer us a room with three beds, which gets a bit of a laugh from us.  It’s not exactly the arrangement we were thinking of.  Eventually, though, we work it out: Marc and I are staying in neighboring rooms on the upper floor and Marco will be downstairs. It’s about 1 when we arrive, but all we can think of is getting a hot shower and settling in; the sights will have to wait until after lunch.  But it turns out the hot shower will have to wait for another day because the heater isn’t working.  Just one more thing to look forward to in Singapore, I guess.

After lunch Marc has some errands to run so Marco and I visit the large Salim Sing-ki-haveli that turns out to be really interesting for such a small building.  A guide takes us from room to room pointing out some unexpected features: safes built into the walls that used scorpion-shaped locks; bricks interlocking like Legos; sandstone flowers and decorations that could be screwed in and out to customize the look of the haveli; trinkets like incense holders that spin open and convert to candle holders (note to self: buy one of these tomorrow!); and the mirrored dancing hall where the prime minister would sit for a night’s entertainment.  It’s no fort or palace, but it’s still going to stay with me as an example of the beauty of simplicity.

Afterwards, Marco and I take a nice walk around our neighborhood.  The architecture and design are just as enjoyable as they have been in other cities, but it’s definitely a different style from other parts of Rajasthan.  The buildings are the natural color of the desert, with geometric decorations mainly painted in white.  The children, of course, come running when they see us and a particularly pushy group of girls demands lots of photos.  They don’t seem to want any money, though, so I’m happy to oblige until they start making fun of me!  “No, Hindi?  That’s no good!  Madam needs Hindi in India!  And your eyes!  So small!  Where is your hair?  Nice ladies need nice long hair to get nice husbands.”  How the heck do they know this much English to begin with?  And why do they have to say these things in front of a guy?!  I’m dying here, but Marco is laughing and obviously enjoying my discomfort (which helps soooo much).

After I get over the blows to my ego and finally manage to shake my critics, we stumble upon a scene that’s uncomfortable for another reason.  A group of about fifteen women are sitting on blankets in the middle of an empty street rocking slightly and wailing and moaning while five men sit off to the side watching.  It would seem that someone passed away, but we’re not sure what’s really going on because after a few minutes the women stop and simply sit in silence.  They’re dressed in their usual colorful saris, too, so maybe it’s something else?  Fear of disrespecting their customs outweighs our curiosity, though, so after I take a few pictures of nearby buildings (all right, I admit, I also shot a quick, surreptitious video to capture that heart-breaking sound) we turn around and walk towards Kenchan Shree ice cream shop to meet Marc.

Well, this ought to be an interesting experiment.  Milkshakes in the past have been inconsistent, at best, so let’s see what the highly-lauded Kenchan Shree can produce.  Between the two us, Marco and I order the specialty, a makhania lassi with ice cream, a cheeku lassi, kulfi and a special kulfi.  Marc sticks to his personal favorite, a chocolate milkshake.  I’m not sure how to describe the flavor of the lassis, unfortunately; I lack familiarity with the spices they used and all I can tell you is that they were delicious!  The makhania was thick, more like real yogurt, and it came in a shallow bowl topped with two squares of ice cream that had obviously been carved off of a homemade block.  Kulfi and special kulfi are made of sugar, milk, pistachios, butter, cinnamon and other spices (the latter also has coconut and a few other extra ingredients), the mix of which is frozen into a popsicle.  If you ever get the chance, do yourself a favor and get any or all of these dishes.

And now the time has come to make a new plan.  We’re headed back to our hotel to talk about taking a camel safari for the next couple of days and find out information about when the trains and buses leave each day.  Marc and I both need to get to Delhi in a couple of days and are trying to fit in a 2-day camel trek as well as some time driving motorcycles.  I think I’ll be able to do it all: camel riding tomorrow and the next day then head out on the motorcycle early on the third day and return just in time to catch the train.  Wow, that’s a good-looking plan. 

With that settled, I manage to convince Marco to go with me to check-out the fort.  It’s close to sunset, so I doubt we’ll get into the small museum and temples there, but the cool thing about Jaisalmer fort is that it’s actually a lively neighborhood, with narrow, twisting streets packed with shops, homes and small temples.  Going along we turn left and right whenever we feel like it and just walk towards whatever looks the most interesting.  We pass a group of boys wrestling and karate fighting, as all 8 year-olds like to do, then find our way to the wall where we’re just in time to see the daylight die as a red smudge along the horizon.  Even though it’s dark the fort is very lively and shopkeepers still try to lure us in to buy shawls, journals or other trinkets.  The sales pitch continues as we walk down from the fort and into a bazaar before returning to the hotel to pick Marc up for dinner.

“America happy?  England happy?  Australia happy?  You pay me, I very happy!”  How many times did we hear this at dinner?  How was I supposed to know that smiling at the musical entertainment would bring us so much personalized attention throughout the evening?  All I did was bob my head a little and smile at the kids playing castanets and singing while their father played the harmonium.  And it was not my choice, I might add, to sit at the table right next to them (at least, I don’t think).  AND we’re eating at Saffron, which is quite an elegant restaurant; why would management allow the musicians to bother the customers, anyway?  Marc, nice guy that he is, gave them a small fortune of slightly-ripped bills in an attempt to shut the guy up and pass on some notes he probably couldn’t spend in a store.  Oh, but the food…the food….

Starters: bruschetta for Marco’s Italian heritage (wow, lot of galic), lemon and cardamom soup
Main course: mutton briyani for Marco, chicken mughlai for me, and butter chicken for Marc
Dessert: butterscotch and chocolate ice cream (pretty crappy, though, after this afternoon)
Drinks: Kingfisher beer (courtesy of Marc; will probably only taste good if I drink just this for a year)

Yes, now America, England and Australia are very, very happy.  Back at the hotel we sit with a  group of hotel staff and visitors to watch some a movie and have a late-night snack.  My pot of chai and apple crepe most definitely hit the spot and the low-budget comedy we’re watching is funny enough to be entertaining.  And, to top it off, I have a puppy to play with!  This adorable little guy lives at the hotel and will melt your heart…at least until he nips you and pees on your rug, both of which I got to enjoy earlier today.  After playing in Marc's room for about fifteen minutes, he sent the little guy next door to my room to see me for some lovin'.  The dog walks right past me to my bathroom rug, urinates, then walks back over and starts licking my leg.  What?!  Why'd you do that?  You can't just expect me...to forgive...you...  Oh, it's okay, you're the cutest puppy in the whole world!  Yes you are!  Who's a cute puppy?  You're a cute puppy!!  Like you would have done anything differently.

After I toss the pee rug outside my room for the hotel staff to take care of, I crawl into bed and try to read more of Shantaram so I can talk to Marc about it tomorrow.  This isn't going well, though; early morning, long train ride, full belly, getting up early to ride camels...