Shifting sands and caravans
A
camel safari in India's Thar desert
“In the desert, it’s very important to
be friends with your camel. If your camel doesn’t like you,
he’ll make lots of problems.” Those were the first words
that Kuba, my desert guide, said as we approached four intimidating
beasts gathered in the shade of a small tree. “This is Tendulkar,
you’ll ride him,” he said, pointing to the largest camel
with his stick. The animal’s shoulder was 6 ft high; its neck
was almost as long as me. Instincts told me to run away, not climb
on its back.Sensing my doubt, Kuba reassured
me. “Don’t worry. Indian camels are the best in the world.
Now make friends!” With that, he gave Tendulkar a firm whack
on the flank with his cane, sending him into a fit of bellowing and
snorting, very nearly showering me in a torrent of foamy saliva. This
was a bad sign.
To be honest, Jaisalmer really isn’t the place for someone who
doesn’t like camels. This magnificent city, in the Thar Desert
of north-western India, grew on the backs of these beasts of burden.
In the heyday of the Indian Rajahs, between the 16th and 18th centuries,
countless caravans converged on the city carrying gold, perfumes,
spices and opium. Their customers included the Mughal Kings of Delhi
and distant merchants in Iraq and Afghanistan. The profits of this
trade built the walls of the Jaisalmer’s ‘Golden Fort’,
and the ornate temples and palaces within.
Today, Jaisalmer is very much part of the modern world. You are more
likely to encounter a motorcycle than a camel in the city’s
winding streets, but none of the magic has been lost. It remains a
living fairytale, where the romance of the Arabian Nights meets the
exoticism of the Far East.
The
descendants of the merchants and kings who ruled through the glory
days still live within its walls. The winding labyrinth of streets
is still a delightful hubbub, full of the intoxicating aroma, rich
color and ancient ritual of Indian life. Its merchants still purvey
some of the finest silks, jewelry and textiles in all of India. Every
afternoon, the yellow sandstone walls of the ‘Golden Fort’
live up to their name, glittering like a crown in the setting sun.
Some 80% of Jaisalmer district’s population lives in small villages
in the surrounding desert. Here, life continues at much the same pace
as when Bhati Jaisal laid the cornerstone of the fort some 800 years
ago. Animal husbandry and farming are the main sources of income;
people still dwell in mud and grass huts. Most importantly, the camel
is still king.
A bewildering array of tour companies organize camel treks into the
villages around Jaisalmer. Most heavily visited are the Sam Dunes
northwest of the city, where some negative impacts are beginning to
show. Fortunately, many guides are realizing this and now offer different
itineraries; the desert is certainly big enough to accommodate them
all.
I chose Adventure Travel Agency, a small tour company owned by two
brothers that goes southeast of the city. They assured me that no
other guides visited the area. They also guaranteed good food, adventure
and a real insight into desert life. My companions were a young French
couple named Chris and Emmanuelle.
The sun was just creeping over the horizon as we sped beyond the outer
walls of Jaisalmer in a jeep next morning. We drove for almost an
hour in the cool morning air until suddenly, with a big bump, our
driver turned sharply off the road onto a rough dirt track. Minutes
later, we skidded to a halt, apparently in the middle of nowhere.
Ahead of us were the vague shapes of two men curled up on the ground
beside the feint glow of a fire.
With
a blast of the horn, the sleeping figures reluctantly began to move.
A couple of scruffy Indian men squinted at us from beneath their blankets,
climbed unsteadily on their feet and slowly stumbled to the jeep.
They muttered a few gruff words of greeting, feebly shook our hands
and began to unload. It wasn’t a first impression that filled
me with confidence, but within a few minutes they had unloaded the
jeep, stoked the fire and already had a pot of eggs bubbling away
for breakfast. Clearly, they were old hands.
Our guides introduced themselves as we squatted around the fire eating
breakfast. Their names were Kuba and Shaam. They had spent most of
their twenty-something years in the desert, growing up in nearby villages,
working as herders until they could afford to buy camels of their
own. They had been guiding tourists for four years and although it
was far more lucrative than farming, it meant spending a lot of time
away from their families. Shaam, clearly the more sensitive of the
two, sadly acknowledged it had prevented him from finding a wife.
“Why worry?” mumbled Kuba through a mouthful of bread,
“I have a wife and I’d rather be out here.”
After breakfast, it was time to meet our camels - not something I’d
been looking forward to. I’ve yet to meet a camel that didn’t
regard me with thinly veiled contempt. In the past, I’d done
my best avoid them. However, after a difficult introduction, it did
seem that my camel was at least benignly indifferent to my presence
as I climbed timidly onto his back.
Once I was up, it soon dawned on me that this was by far the best
place to be. Away from the hazy heat of the ground and in the path
of many a refreshing breeze, it was noticeably cooler. The view was
also much better than anything a puny human gets. Even the mechanics
of riding were quite comfortable, varying between a regular swaying
while walking to a rhythmic bouncing while at a trot. Could it be
that I was becoming a camel enthusiast?
We
set out into a flat, featureless landscape. Brown earth stretched
out to infinity, disappearing into a shimmering haze that masked any
clear demarcation between earth and sky. Low thorny bushes and clumps
of tinder-dry grass grew here and there.
Signs of human habitation were minimal. We passed
the occasional mud hut sitting beside a parched field or dark well,
but away from the villages, it was rare to see anybody. At times,
the silence and desolation were almost too much to bear, I was glad
to have my smelly camel for company.
At noon, we stopped for lunch near a small tree. Within seconds of
lying out in the shade, I was fast asleep. A rich aroma of spices
gently coaxed me awake. It felt like only minutes had passed, but
already Kuba was scooping generous portions of steaming vegetable
curry onto tin plates, while Shaam roasted chapattis over the fire.
It looked so good, for a minute I was convinced that there must have
been a takeaway hidden behind the nearest bush.
In the desert, lazy afternoons are mandatory. Even camels know better
than to go out in the sun. All was silent and still. We all lay on
our blankets as the stifling heat of the afternoon rose and fell,
only moving to follow the shade as it slowly pirouetted around our
tree.
As the air began to cool, it was time to move again. It was little
over an hour to our camp for the night – a long ridge of dunes
overlooking a small village. We arrived just in time to watch the
sunset. As our guides unloaded the camels, I climbed off into the
dunes to find a suitable vantage point. I scaled the side of the tallest
dune, sinking up to my knees in the soft sand, trying not to tumble
head over heels back down the steep slope. As the last rays of sun
traced over the landscape, each of the billions of grains of sand
radiated a shifting spectrum of yellow, orange and red.
I
sat atop the dune and listened to the sounds of the desert that drifted
on the wind. A distant shepherd let out a mournful cry, followed by
the tinkling of bells and the feint bleating of goats. The strains
of a children’s song drifted from a nearby village; a storm
on the horizon growled deep and low. But they were all small voices
lost in the great silence of the desert; a silence that seemed all
the more absolute as night swallowed up the world. I returned to camp
in darkness to find that dinner was ready. We gorged ourselves on
dhal and chapattis, passed around a bottle of rum and curled up in
our blankets for the night.
Just before lunch the next day, we arrived at a small village named
Moda. It was a pretty little place. Every house was made of baked
mud and grass; walls were smooth and rounded, with the pleasing irregularity
of something made by hand. Every color came from an earthy palette
of burnt orange, ochre and brown.
Amid these muted tones, the Rajasthani women stood like desert blooms.
Long voluminous skirts and veils – colored crimson, orange,
yellow and blue - fluttered about them. Lines of red vermillion and
tiny jeweled bindis adorned their foreheads. Each dark, slender arm
jangled with dozens of glass bangles. As they walked, tiny silver
bells tinkled on their ankles and the mesh of metallic threads woven
through their garments glittered in the sun.
By way of contrast, the men’s dress seemed designed to make
them disappear into the background. Plain cotton pants covered their
legs; blankets of brown and grey draped about their shoulders. The
only nod in the direction of flamboyance were the colored turbans
that balanced neatly on their heads.
Kuba’s family lived in Moda, and they were all waiting to invite
us into their home. We squatted in the cool interior of the house
as Kuba’s sister served us sweet milky tea, or chai as it was
locally known. It was a humble place. There was no furniture, except
for the pile of rickety wooden beds against the wall and a gaudily
painted shrine in the corner.
The men did all the talking. Although the lady of the house was constantly
moving around us, she neither made eye contact or muttered a single
word. Her veil always covered her face. This was not rudeness on her
part; Rajasthani women rarely interact with men outside their family.
It is also uncommon for village women to speak English.
As
word of our presence spread around the village, a group of curious
folk began to gather outside. Dark little faces with sparkling eyes
appeared at the edge of the doorway. A stream of men wandered in and
out, saying little, but apparently enjoying the novelty of our presence.
Even the usually aloof women came along for a look, although rarely
did one of them come closer than the far side of the courtyard.
When Kuba announced it was time to move on, we thanked our host, pressed
our palms together in farewell and emerged blinking into the dazzling
sunlight. Our appearance caused quite a reaction. Little children
scurried away giggling to the safety of their mothers skirts. The
women immediately pulled down their veils and feigned disinterest.
But the villagers soon overcame their shyness. Within minutes, a sea
of smiling faces and grasping hands surrounded us. Children clung
to our legs, gawped into our camera lenses and puzzled over the English
writing on our t-shirts. The eldest boy came forward, stiffly holding
out his hand for the unfamiliar gesture of the western handshake.
“Hello. How are you?” he asked with great deliberation.
My simple reply of, “I’m fine. How are you?” sent
him dancing off in excitement, bursting with pride to have successfully
negotiated the perils of a formal English greeting.
We spent another night in the dunes, drinking rum and looking at the
stars as Kuba and Shaam prepared another delicious meal. Suddenly,
I became aware of something touching my foot. I looked down, saw a
large black beetle nibbling on my big toe. I flicked it away in disgust,
but looking around in the dim light of the fire, I realized that there
were beetles everywhere; and they all appeared to be crawling towards
me. Squirming around on the sand, I flicked away wave after wave of
bugs. No sooner had I seen off one attack, another platoon would crawl
up the back of my.
Kuba found it all very amusing. “They’re gunyas,”
he said with a smile on his face. “They live under the sand;
at night they come out to eat. Blow on them and they think it’s
a snake and go away.” It sounded like a rather unlikely solution,
but it was surprisingly effective. With one puff, I sent each little
critter scurrying for the hills. I was virtually hyperventilating
when it was time for bed, but at least I had deterred enough of them
to be able to sleep easy.
The
next day took us to the village of Koda, where we stopped to rest
and water the camels. The thirsty beasts guzzled gallons of water
from the well as a colorful parade of village women passed by, filling
silver pots that they balanced on their heads with enviable poise.
Once they had all come and gone, I took the opportunity to strip down
to my underwear and wash away some of the dust and grime that had
penetrated even the tiniest of crevices during my two dusty days on
the back of a camel. It’s something I had always taken for granted,
but in the desert, water truly is a revelation. Every drop seemed
to sparkle with life and energy, as if tiny sunbeams were trapped
inside.
A small gang of children followed us from the village to our final
camp that evening. One of them, a teenaged boy named Mullah Ram, carried
a small reed flute. After a little coaxing, he started to play some
of the local folk tunes. Kuba sang along to the haunting melodies,
songs of heroic struggles, mythical battles and tragic love affairs
that have been the cornerstone of Rajasthani culture for centuries.
I sat atop a high dune, listening to the final serenade of the desert
as it drifted between the dunes, mingling with the glittering clouds
of sand as they blew off into the heavens.
The
children appeared again next morning, curiously observing us as we
loaded our camels for the last time. They followed behind us as we
plodded down the dunes toward the road, waving and shouting excitedly
until they were just specks on the horizon.
A few miles on, we found our jeep waiting. With a heavy heart, I said
farewell to Kuba and Shaam and climbed aboard. Within minutes, we
were speeding down the road back to Jaisalmer, our adventure behind
us. I already missed my camel.
