Castles in the Sand

Sorry ya’ll, I’ve been a bad blogger.

 Two weekends ago six of us took an overnight train to Jaisalmer, 12 hours west of Jaipur. Despite the cockroaches and mice, brushing my teeth in the space between cars with the desert flashing by the wide open door is now at the top of my list of preferred ways to wake up. Jaisalmer itself is pretty impressive, if not a little overrun by tourists. Most inhabitants live inside the fort itself, which looks like a golden sandcastle that has seen one too many waves.

            What made the trip really worth it was our camel safari. Four of us drove out about an hour north of the city where we met up with our camels and guides (one of them named Mr. Camel Man). Camels (and this is coming from a girl who rides horses) are REALLY uncomfortable to ride, especially without stirrups so I was glad we were only on them for about an hour, and took less than that to get to a point where I felt utterly isolated. (Even so, we couldn't have been that isolated since Mr. Camel Man was on his cell phone at all points throughout the trip). We stopped off at Mr. Camel Man’s village, where he proudly showed us inside his hut elaborately decorated with newspaper clippings, photos, and other paraphernalia former satisfied customers had sent back from all over the world.

            We set up camp on a strip of sand dune and gathered around the fire as one of the guides cooked our dinner of pakoras, chapatti, and subji (Indian spice, please) right in front of us. The guides spoke limited English so with Shiveta’s help translating we were able to get more out of the experience than if we hadn’t had a couple weeks of Hindi class under our belts. The experience got even more surreal when night fell and the fact that we were in the middle of a desert with four strange men 40 km from the border with Pakistan really solidified in my mind. And then Mr. Camel Man started telling us about the illicit heroine-gold trade that used to go on between Pakistan and India 10 years back when the border wasn’t sealed. The heroine would come from Afghanistan and the men would transport the goods on camels, using the stars to navigate across the Thar Desert. Now, according to Mr. Camel Man, there are flood lights activated if anyone comes within 50 feet of the border, and shot if he/she touches it (but I’ve also learned to often take what an Indian says about Pakistan with a grain of salt).  

            The evening ended with rousing renditions of the guides’ village songs, Hotel California, an interesting chant version of No Woman, No Cry (something like, “no camel, no chapatti, no water, no woman, no cry”), and…Jingle Bells. We slept soundly under the brightest stars I’d seen in a while, as dung beetles crept silently around us in the sand and cranky camels cleared their throats and passed gas.