Patrick here. We're lying in our beds on a warm desert afternoon, comfortably recovered from being stranded in the Thar desert Wednesday unexpectedly, and then being stranded in the Thar desert last night on purpose.
First, let's talk about how to drive in Rajasthan. Driving etiquette differs from place to place, and I'm not one to get hung up on tiny differences. In South Florida, where I'm from, it's considered a mark of dishonour to use a turn signal - you drive by intuiting the whims and needs of other drivers before they know themselves, like a Jedi or psychic. In London, where I cycle, it is de riguer to grumble mentally while not quite running cyclists off the road. In Rajasthan, you accelerate in an inappropriately high gear into oncoming traffic while passing slow-moving lorries before weaving back into your lane with no more than one foot to spare again and again and again. For four hours. In the dark. And there are cows on the road.
So, you know, Vive la Différence!
We got in that night to what must be the swankiest hotel I have ever stayed in. The building is gorgeous, there is a lovely pool the temperature of ice, and an exceptionally wonderful shower. The next morning, we had a lovely breakfast before hitting town. And here we see our first regional difference in India. In Rajasthan, when you are walking down the street and a Tuk-Tuk driver asks whether you want a ride and you say no, he drives on. In New Delhi, Tuk-Tuk drivers are made of sterner stuff, and will follow you for at least another three blocks.
Jaisalmer is more laid back, and dominated (economically as well as physically) by its massive fort: part ruin, part living city neighborhood. Inside lies a warren of alleys, shops, restaurants and hotels geared towards the tourist trade. The view from the top is fantastic, and best taken chai in hand, as we did. We had wandered up to The Surya's rooftop serving area, not realising it was private, and were told that chai was R40 a piece. We had only R20, but were told to hang on - the waiter returned with two lovely cups, which we drank in the sun and breeze. We went back the next day to pay the difference and have lunch, but that's a Friday story.
At three, we all met in the lobby for our camel trek into the desert. Emma, who had been jonesing for a camel ride since Morocco, where her indisposition thanks to a dodgy salad had kept her from fulfilling her destiny, was understandably psyched. The jeep ride out went through a wind farm, and the juxtaposition was incredible - tourists passing through a symbol of the new India in order arrive at a symbol of the old. We also passed another symbol, equally telling: gigantic, luxurious hotels in the desert in the form of fake forts, complete with crenelated walls, cannons and guards. In addition to characterising the tourists inside as an occupying force, these mega-hotels are responsible for causing damage to the actual fort in Agra, thanks to their rapacious demand for water. It doesn't exactly speak well of capitalism as a rational system of development that investors would pay masses of money to slowly destroy the source of their own profits. Maybe that's a problem for future people, and screw those assholes, obviously.
As an aside, 2015 was hotter than any other year by a wide margin. Just saying.
Camels are big - much bigger than you'd think. Getting on board is easy, staying on board while the great beasts lumber off their knees takes a bit of skill. We were led by slightly bored 12 year old guides through scrubland towards proper sand dunes, where we got off to set up camp. The sand was cool, despite the bright sun, and we watched the sun set as far as we could before it disappeared into the haze a few inches above the horizon. Around us, at a distance, jeeps took customers over dunes, one white dude was being galloped on his camel across the sand by his driver sitting behind him, and a group of musicians was setting up back at our campfire.
After dinner, cooked by our drivers, they began to play and dance. The drumming was cool, and the pipe must have been designed similarly to a bagpipe - there was no way the player was using a single breath to play for 5 minutes at a stretch, so there had to have been a reservoir somewhere. The dancer was more interesting in scoring some of our rum, which she helped herself to liberally when given the opportunity, than in dancing, but since we were more interested in dancing drunkenly than in soberly appreciating art, I figure we're square.
The rest of the night was spent drinking communally, talking smack, and watching the constantly replenished fire burn. It was, in other words, ideal.
We slept that night beneath more stars than I've seen, enough that I could make out what must be the entirety of Orion, the only constellation I can recognize consistently. One night like that makes up for many months of stress, and the trip is already worth it all.
First, let's talk about how to drive in Rajasthan. Driving etiquette differs from place to place, and I'm not one to get hung up on tiny differences. In South Florida, where I'm from, it's considered a mark of dishonour to use a turn signal - you drive by intuiting the whims and needs of other drivers before they know themselves, like a Jedi or psychic. In London, where I cycle, it is de riguer to grumble mentally while not quite running cyclists off the road. In Rajasthan, you accelerate in an inappropriately high gear into oncoming traffic while passing slow-moving lorries before weaving back into your lane with no more than one foot to spare again and again and again. For four hours. In the dark. And there are cows on the road.
So, you know, Vive la Différence!
We got in that night to what must be the swankiest hotel I have ever stayed in. The building is gorgeous, there is a lovely pool the temperature of ice, and an exceptionally wonderful shower. The next morning, we had a lovely breakfast before hitting town. And here we see our first regional difference in India. In Rajasthan, when you are walking down the street and a Tuk-Tuk driver asks whether you want a ride and you say no, he drives on. In New Delhi, Tuk-Tuk drivers are made of sterner stuff, and will follow you for at least another three blocks.
Jaisalmer is more laid back, and dominated (economically as well as physically) by its massive fort: part ruin, part living city neighborhood. Inside lies a warren of alleys, shops, restaurants and hotels geared towards the tourist trade. The view from the top is fantastic, and best taken chai in hand, as we did. We had wandered up to The Surya's rooftop serving area, not realising it was private, and were told that chai was R40 a piece. We had only R20, but were told to hang on - the waiter returned with two lovely cups, which we drank in the sun and breeze. We went back the next day to pay the difference and have lunch, but that's a Friday story.
At three, we all met in the lobby for our camel trek into the desert. Emma, who had been jonesing for a camel ride since Morocco, where her indisposition thanks to a dodgy salad had kept her from fulfilling her destiny, was understandably psyched. The jeep ride out went through a wind farm, and the juxtaposition was incredible - tourists passing through a symbol of the new India in order arrive at a symbol of the old. We also passed another symbol, equally telling: gigantic, luxurious hotels in the desert in the form of fake forts, complete with crenelated walls, cannons and guards. In addition to characterising the tourists inside as an occupying force, these mega-hotels are responsible for causing damage to the actual fort in Agra, thanks to their rapacious demand for water. It doesn't exactly speak well of capitalism as a rational system of development that investors would pay masses of money to slowly destroy the source of their own profits. Maybe that's a problem for future people, and screw those assholes, obviously.
As an aside, 2015 was hotter than any other year by a wide margin. Just saying.
Camels are big - much bigger than you'd think. Getting on board is easy, staying on board while the great beasts lumber off their knees takes a bit of skill. We were led by slightly bored 12 year old guides through scrubland towards proper sand dunes, where we got off to set up camp. The sand was cool, despite the bright sun, and we watched the sun set as far as we could before it disappeared into the haze a few inches above the horizon. Around us, at a distance, jeeps took customers over dunes, one white dude was being galloped on his camel across the sand by his driver sitting behind him, and a group of musicians was setting up back at our campfire.
After dinner, cooked by our drivers, they began to play and dance. The drumming was cool, and the pipe must have been designed similarly to a bagpipe - there was no way the player was using a single breath to play for 5 minutes at a stretch, so there had to have been a reservoir somewhere. The dancer was more interesting in scoring some of our rum, which she helped herself to liberally when given the opportunity, than in dancing, but since we were more interested in dancing drunkenly than in soberly appreciating art, I figure we're square.
The rest of the night was spent drinking communally, talking smack, and watching the constantly replenished fire burn. It was, in other words, ideal.
We slept that night beneath more stars than I've seen, enough that I could make out what must be the entirety of Orion, the only constellation I can recognize consistently. One night like that makes up for many months of stress, and the trip is already worth it all.
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