Hungry Like the Wolf: Travels Through the Land of Scams and Curry

The next installment of the India back-posts. Check out parts 1 & 2 for more random musings on rickshaws and whatnot.

10.8.14

Jaisalmer: Characters, Camels and Constellations

My trip to Jaisalmer marked my very first time on an Indian sleeper train. I was traveling in what is known as “sleeper class”. This does not mean that this is the only class that has beds; rather, it indicates that this is the class that has beds, no AC, and 50 million Indians. There are other, fancier classes that have beds, AC, and only 20 million Indians, but, as this was a last minute schedule change to make it to the Rajasthani International Folk Festival in Jodhpur, this was the only ticket I could get. So I prepared myself for 17 hours of train chaos.

First order of business: security. As some of you know, I’m a bit fanatical about guarding my possessions while traveling. I knew that there were metals hooks to which we could attach our suitcases under the lower berths, but I needed some kind of chain in order to do that. So I purchased a set of bike chains and locks which I then contorted into a security system so elaborate that it would take the skills of a Houdini to break it (and if someone were able to achieve this feat, he would then have to contend with the dragon that lives in my fortress-like backpack. I take no chances.)

Next step: actually finding my train. When I took the train to Agra it was a very easy process; the board clearly stated the correct track, the train arrived on time, and all was good. I spent an hour or so on an air-conditioned train eating veggie patties and drinking chai. The Delhi to Jaisalmer train was a different experience entirely.

The electronic board stated that the train would be arriving on track 9. So, like the fool I am, I went to track 9. A rookie mistake. I waited for about 20 minutes on platform 9, sweating like it was my job, and avoiding the constant stares from every single person on the platform (foreigners are really, really interesting, apparently.) The departure time for my train came and went. I started to worry. I approached the gawkers: “Excuse me, are you waiting for the Jaisalmer train? Train 14659? Jaisalmer?” And the general consensus was that no, this was not the track for the Jaisalmer train. “But, but!” I sputtered uselessly, “The board says track 9!?!?!” Nope, no dice. This was not the right track. I started to panic. Which track was the train actually arriving on? Had I missed it?! What would I do? IT’S THE ONLY FRICKIN’ TRAIN TO JAISALMER!!!!!!

And then I happened to glance over at track 10.

Where my train was just sitting there, calmly, without a care in the world.

Bastard.

And so I barreled my way across the platform, solidly hitting someone in the head with my banjolele case (what, doesn’t everyone carry a banjolele around India?), and jumped onto the train. I was a disgusting, sweaty mess. But I found my train.

I had been placed in a section with two other foreigners, a common practice on the Indian Railways. It was lovely to exchange stories about our travels thus far, although I must confess that most of my stories involved me cursing the entire city of Agra (Fuck you, Agra. Fuck you.) The staring was at a merciful minimum because, as I later found out, we were surrounded by blind school children. Yup. I’m going straight to hell.

Traveling in Sleeper Class was a unique experience. Men selling food, water, and chai wandered the aisles and cows walked the platforms, occasionally sticking a curious nose through the open window. Of course the unbelievable mass of people crowding us from all sides was a bit much to take. In the middle of the night some random un-ticketed guy set up a bed on the floor between our berths. In the morning we were awoken by a new set of teenagers who had taken up residence on the lower berths that we were, you know, sleeping on. There was seating for 6. At one point I think we had ballooned to 12. As the teenagers kept piling onto the berth across from me, the French Canadian who had actually paid for the seat finally said, “Okay guys, that’s enough. No more people.” The boys looked surprised and announced to each other, “too much crush, too much crush!” and moved away ever so slightly.

Cows - an essential element of any train station

And so I arrived, smelly and exhausted, in Jaisalmer. My hotel, Mystic Jaisalmer, provided free pick-up from the station which saved me from the never-ending rickshaw haggling process (Fuck you, rickshaw drivers. Fuck you.) One shower and a blissful nap later, and I was off to explore the city.

And what a city. Intricately carved forts, palaces, and havelis created a beautiful setting for me to get completely lost in (yes, my sense of direction is just as bad as ever.) As is my habit, I avoided most shops and stalls because I just can’t stand the hawkers: “Yes Madam! Hello! Madam! Yes! You come into my shop! Yes! Madam! Hello! Yes! Where are you from! Hello!” And on and on and on. But I made an exception for Hari Om Jewellers. It had been recommended by Lonely Planet, which is like the cross that travelers hold up against the endless money vampires. Also, I heard what sounded like a pleasant conversation coming from inside. So I went in, and met two amazing travel companions, Maryse and Vincent.

Maryse & Vincent, my Jaisalmer travel buddies

Maryse and Vincent are French Canadians (French Canadians were my fate in Rajasthan) who have been traveling around Asia for the past nine months. They are two of the warmest, most interesting people I’ve had the pleasure of meeting on the road. After finishing the conversation with the (most likely baked) owner of the shop, Maryse and Vincent invited me to hang with them for a beer, and as we watched the sun set over the golden dwellings of Jaisalmer, our friendship was cemented (this is my fancy way of saying that I thought they were really cool and had decided to stalk them, which I think they were totally okay with.)

Through them I met one of the more colorful characters of the trip, Pradeep. He and his family own a couple of hotels and a restaurant in town (an amazing restaurant, by the way.) Maryse and Vincent were staying at one of his hotels; while waiting for them that evening Pradeep proceeded to do some sort of numerology based on my name, read my palm, and “feel my aura”. Sadly, most of what he discovered was not true, unless the past two years have turned me into a conflict-averse, introverted pushover, which I don’t think has been the case. But despite the lack of physic precision, Pradeep is still a good guy, with a great restaurant and a damn fine camel safari.

Most people who come to Jaisalmer spend at least one night riding camels and camping in the desert, and we were no exception. That night, over a delicious dinner of Rajasthani specialties (all vegetarian, and all so good. Anthony Bourdain was right: eating vegetarian in India is just as satisfying as eating meat) we watched traditional musicians and dancers and discussed the Camel Safari. The plan was a 6am departure, a jeep ride to the desert, village visits, and finally, Camel-palooza. After camel-trekking to a relatively deserted dune we would camp for the night. Day 2 would feature more trekking, and then a triumphant return to Jaisalmer around 6pm. 36 hours of Camel Safari fun. The day time portion would just be me, Maryse, and Vincent; we would then join up with another group at the campsite.

All went according to plan. And yet, because this is India, everything was still chaotic, strange and intense. First of all, the village visits. Most guidebooks and travel websites rave about these visits, and it was definitely an experience – an experience in which you watch children living in abject poverty and hate yourself when you refuse their requests for pens, schoolbags, hairclips, water, and of course, rupees. These kids do not give up. I had a bunch of clips holding up my short-ish hair, and usually when kids asked for one of the clips they would just reach right up to take it, regardless of my response. (A note about the requests for pens and schoolbags: I later found out that while Indian law mandates that all children attend school, in reality kids from rural areas just don’t have access. Sometimes the facilities are wrecked; sometimes the teachers only show up once a month to collect paychecks. Whatever the reason, the Indian government rarely investigates.) In retrospect, I was naïve idiot. I had experienced a milder version of this in Cambodia. I should have come prepared with some gifts to give these children during our exploitative photo ops. Overall, I’m torn by these kinds of tours. I truly do want to meet these people and find out about their experiences, but the people living in these villages are treated like curiosities by tourists like myself. And it’s impossible to really understand anything about a village during a 20 minute visit.

The boys all wanted to have their pictured taken;
the girls were much more shy

And so, filled with conflicting emotions, we mounted our camels. Camels are strange creatures. They’re lumpy, scraggly, and bouncy, and they always seem to have insouciant smirks on their faces. Our camels had names like “Mr. India” and “Michel Jackson”, and they made angry Chewbacca noises whenever ordered to stand up. Some people will tell you that camel riding is painful, and these people are absolutely correct. Actually, the first day is totally fine, but the second day freezes your muscles into a Munch-like explosion of pain and leaves you with camel sores that last for days. This might be why most people opt for shorter camel safaris.

Look at me! I'm on a camel!
You can tell by my smiling face that this was before the camel sores set in.

The beauty of the Thar Desert was worth all of the sweat, pain, and dehydration. Much of it is a vast expanse of scrub, dotted with the occasional cow. There are dunes as well, comprised of sand that feels like an ever-shifting velvet pillow, and that’s where we camped. That night the moon was just shy of full, and in the clear air it shone torch-like, almost too brilliant to look at. We didn’t experience true darkness until the moon set, and then the sky was thick with stars. The guides cooked us a dinner of vegetable curry, dal, and chapati with spicy pickle. After dinner we all sang, and by that I mean the guides sang virile Rajasthani folk music, using kitchen utensils as improvised drums, and the rest of us sang some random Western music that really had no place in the surroundings. (You’ll all be happy to know that the Thar Desert has now been exposed to the music of Kurt Weill. And “I’m a little teapot”.)

The Thar Desert: ridiculously beautiful, brutally hot

After that the guides set up our beds on low platforms, and a strange night of half-sleep began. It was almost too atmospheric: such a place could only truly exist in another time or on another planet, and it seemed a shame to spend any of that rare visit in unconsciousness. I spent much of the night alternating between wonderment that I had a chance to experience such a place, and guilty confusion over the random luck that allowed me to visit briefly and then waltz (okay, stagger) back to my comfortable life. I awoke fully to a pale sky over buttery dunes. I snaked my feet through the cool sand as the sun made its way up, turning the sky a blend of pink, yellow, and blue. After a breakfast of fruit, bread, and honey, we said goodbye to our overnight companions and faced our painful camel fate. Many sweaty hours later we arrived back in Jaisalmer, retreated to our respective showers, and prepared for the six hour train ride to Jodhpur.

Our sunset dune

Preparing for the morning departure

I had a lot of time to kill before the train, and I spent it on the roof of the hotel talking with Ashraf, the owner of Mystic Jaisalmer. Our conversation gave me a chance to reflect on the strong current of spirituality that seemed to run through the city. Maybe it’s all that bang lassi (aka, marijuana milk shake), but people in Jaisalmer spend a lot of time talking about energy and fate. Normally I don’t go in for much of that stuff, but if there’s any place that can make me question my cynicism it’s Jaisalmer. There’s something about that desert moon that made me want to cancel my ticket and take up meditation. But the Jodhpur RIFF was waiting, and I’ve always been shit at meditation anyway, so I got on that midnight train. (Actually, the train was over an hour late, arrived on the wrong track, and the people who had squatted in our berths had dumped copious amounts of trash on the floor, but let’s stick with the romantic image of me gracefully stepping into the car with a last, wistful look at the golden city. Yeah, let’s definitely go with that.)

In Jaisalmer I saw the first glimmer of a return trip to India. My time in Jodhpur would confirm it.