It takes a while for the feelings of animosity towards Delhi to fade from memory and Rajasthan is the perfect antidote to cure one of the notion that aggression and duplicity are a defining trait of India's national character. After the picturesque cities of Jaipur and Jodhpur, our next stop is Jaisalmer, a fortified city deep within Rajasthan's Thar Desert. It is a place far away from Delhi, both in location and character. Where Dehli is dense, crowded, smoggy and dirty; Rajasthan is spacious, open, unpolluted and... less dirty. Used to tourists, the people are as pleasant and welcoming as the weather; and the balmy nights, with their gentle breeze and open sky, are not unlike Durban's but with the allure of Persian mystery.
Put off by the early start required by rail travel, we opt for a Volvo coach which the esteemed Amit arranges for us in Jodhpur. When we arrive in Jaisalmer, the touts, no less irritating despite being a now-familiar feature of tourism in this country, come for us with unprecedented persistence. It is not until we are saved by a kind-hearted local who lets us use his mobile to call our hotel that they relent.
As we are driven to our hotel, the Rajwada fort comes into view; but after seeing Mehrangarh, this fort is but a sand castle, small in scale and purely functional in its design lacking the daring spires and grand façades of its Rajasthani counterparts. The difference however, is that our hotel is situated within the fort itself, and I later learn from the owner that the rooms were once the residence of Jalsaimer's Royal Poet, giving the place literary cachet.
The owner of guesthouse, Padam, is worthy of mention in that he seems to have perfected the art of selling to Westerners. Whereas "selling" in this country has been limited to the kind of browbeating hard-sell of Avon product infamy, Padam's approach is one of subtlety and genuineness that is lacking entirely in the (barely) concealed rapaciousness of the more conniving sellers in Delhi and elsewhere.
His eye is firmly fixed on the long-term knowing that good reviews from happy customers is what builds the kind of reputation on which a successful and thriving guesthouse prospers. So when he doesn't oversell his camel tour (which we take anyway not only because we like him but because it also offers good value and seems like the genuine article), gives us a personal tour of the old city highlighting his favorite spots, and doesn't bring us to "his uncle's" or "friend's" for an easy commission, we are grateful and only further inclined to do business with him.
Padam runs the Surya Paying Guest House
We spend three nights here, but I could have stayed much longer, lounging in the cushioned common room staring out through sandstone portals overlooking the city and imagining an inspired poet composing by the light of an oil lamp.
One night we meet a Catalonian couple five months into their India trip, their plan being to travel until savings dry up and then ???? In the polite exchange that takes place between foreigners abroad we inquire whether they're enjoying their trip and are met with thoughtful silence before hearing "We don't know. Sometimes yes, sometimes no, but more no." But they had just arrived in Rajasthan and I suspect Jalsaimer just may change their minds.
Know for its antiques and silver, mom makes a point to browse Jalsaimer's retail offering. Padam, ever helpful, guides us away from the hub-bub of the main shopping district to the Soni residence, a multi-generational silversmithing family, one of several hundred here in Jaisalmer.
Upon arriving however, we find the way blocked by a great white bull which Padam attempts to disperse with a rolled newspaper. This holy animal, perhaps incensed at being disrupted from its divine duties of waste rummaging and cow patty laying, makes a run at the first person it sees (mom) administering the kind of taurine headbutt that would make Zidane proud, setting her squarely on her bottom next to a canal of fetid water. And in that special bond that exists only between husband and wife, my dad's first reaction is to burst out laughing, which makes me laugh, before we both sheepishly make belated efforts to see if she's OK. Worst family ever.
The Soni basement-cum-silver-gallery is a veritable Alibaba's cave of sparkling treasures: necklaces, bracelets and anklets adorn the walls set against red velvet, statues of Hindu gods and goddesses in various poses sit atop marble pillars and gleaming swords and shields, carefully arrayed, command attention.
Open Sesame!
It's all run by Yogesh Soni, third son and silversmith in training. He lays out his wares -beautiful and intricate pieces- on a thin white mattress and, appropriately silver-tongued, speaks of the craftsmanship of their design. In an uncharacteristic display self-control (where jewelry is concerned anyhow), Mom doesn't purchase anything although I make a small gift of one of the simpler bracelets.
Later, sipping tea and conversing, I learn that this young man (about my age) learned French for two years at Gujurat's Alliance Française. Continuing in French I learn about his upcoming marriage (arranged), how he loves Jaisalmer more than any other place in India, and that he will one day visit his best friend who has moved to NYC to become an investment banker ("big money!"). We swap emails before parting as I find him friendly and animated with the kind of humor that causes him to laugh at his own jokes.
Tomorrow I go for a camel trek before spending the night in Rajasthan's Thar Desert.
The slow, shambling gait of a camel has a jangling, almost hypnotic rhythm to it, and taken together with the arid and featureless scrubland of the Thar, I find my thoughts drifting like dunes of sand, sometimes to what my future holds when this is all over, other times to thoughts of my parents and friends. I try to stay present to fully enjoy the experience but it's a struggle against this gentle rocking and warm breeze.
Lala guides Mumal and I
Sitting atop Mumal, I am guided by Lala, who cuts a figure with his flowing white robes, wizened features and scarlet turban. The parents are ahead, atop camels of their own, and pops is sporting his 9m long turban that he bought for R200 although he's gotten far more enjoyment than that, posing for pictures and making silly faces. The worst of the sun's heat is obscured by thick cloud cover making the ride pleasant rather than scorching.
Oh les yeux mesquins
We've paid for a camel trek which takes us to secluded dunes where we make camp and watch the sun set while sipping beers. Three desert Rajasthanis look after our comfort and well-being: preparing meals, singing songs of desert welcome on improvised instruments, and preparing our bedding. Only "Johnny" speaks English with any fluency, and we learn about his way of life and his love of the desert.
But the real treat comes after the fire has died down and only glowing embers remain. Plied with food and drink, we are satisfied and warm under thick blankets, and above us is a canopy of twinkling stars and wide open sky. We are sleeping on three cots surrounded by nothing but sand and stars and the desert is noiseless except for the odd camel call. The stars fill our entire field of vision and, with no ambient light, shine brightly in the night sky.
It's an amazing and humbling sight to behold, and to witness it produces both a feeling of awe and smallness. I had camped out in Jordan's Wadi Rum desert but had spent the night in a tent. This, by far, was the way to go.
Out next destination is Udaipur, the last of our stops in Rajasthan. It's a lake town popular with couples for its supposedly romantic setting. It's hard to see how it will top Jaisalmer but I'm hopeful. Early morning taxi ride tomorrow. Challo.
Vignette
I am not a gearhead. While most guys can wax on about pounds of torque, V6 engines and er... snow tires(?), my eyes glaze over in such conversations and I find myself wishing for a quick death. So it comes as a surprise that I am lusting after the Royal Enfield Bullet, a 350cc (?) motorcycle that is often seen on the roads of India putting the Honda Heroes and Yamaha YBRs to shame. Introduced during World War II, the bike has an understatedness that is quintessentially British and I'm told that its design has deviated little from its introduction, a sign of good engineering and a respect for tradition.
While in Jodhpur I met a German couple who were riding through Rajasthan on two Bullets. The man, a proud Bulleteer, told me that the bikes are built very simply for ease of repair which makes sense given its wartime origins. Oddly enough, a Bullet with tens of thousands of kilometers is often more expensive than one just off the lot since new ones often have kinks in need of ironing out while the older ones run very smoothly. A big believer in the pleasures of delayed gratification, this prospect of "breaking in" a bike appeals to me.
Facebook needs to update their relationship status options
Bringing it back to India, the Bullet has actually established itself as a minor deity in the pantheon of Hindu gods. The story goes like this: a man riding his Bullet crashed into a tree and was killed. The police impounded the bike but would wake up the next day to find the bike missing, only for it to be located again underneath the tree where its owner was killed. These repeated escapes coupled with spontaneous engine starts led people to believe that the Bullet was imbued with a soul. "Bullet-Baba" now sits under that very same tree, festooned with garlands of merigold laid by locals who have come to pay respects. Now there are some serious gearheads.
Leather goods for sale. Camel skin only!
A group of women rallying for Congress
In front of Jalsaimer's most famout Haveli
Simple desert meal
Lala enjoying a well-deserved cigarette
Fireside songs on water jug drums
The eyes have it
Stuff. Lots of stuff
Experiencing the world and loving every second of it.
