Masha, my friend and erstwhile Moscow classmate, and myself embarked on our camel safari one late February morning. The thing to do in the fabled city of Jaisalmer which lies in the middle of the Thar desert, the safari (or rather, a calm walk with a guide) is a transcendent experience that forms a contrast with the typical urban and harried Rajasthan visit.
It is not a desert in the common understanding of the word, more like a steppe with shrubbery, such as blooming cacti, euphorbia and acacia, the favored food of camels. The exception was a small patch of sand dune where we stationed our camels for the night and camped under the stars, sleeping right on the sand, after a dinner of "mixed-veg" curry and chapattis cooked right over the fire.
The camels turned out to be a mixed bag indeed. Mine, Jokhar, was a sturdy, solid mature male who responded to being mounted and led with resigned obedience (though little joy--camels in general are not the friendliest bunch). However, Masha's camel, Dabu, was an unruly, sulky and, as we later found out, undertrained teenage girl who roared in such a vulgar voice at any attempt to approach her that she had to be muzzled with a rag. Jokhar had issues of his own: January and February are the mating season for camels and he was raring to go at any opportunity. While walking or resting, Jokhar's eyes would constantly mist over and he would wistfully scan the horizon. Periodically, a large purple bubble would emerge from his mouth and make a loud gargling sound, his mating call. Only the spores in his nostrils restrained him from charging at the ethereal, lovely female camel we saw peacefully standing next to her two day-old baby.
The camels turned out to be a mixed bag indeed. Mine, Jokhar, was a sturdy, solid mature male who responded to being mounted and led with resigned obedience (though little joy--camels in general are not the friendliest bunch). However, Masha's camel, Dabu, was an unruly, sulky and, as we later found out, undertrained teenage girl who roared in such a vulgar voice at any attempt to approach her that she had to be muzzled with a rag. Jokhar had issues of his own: January and February are the mating season for camels and he was raring to go at any opportunity. While walking or resting, Jokhar's eyes would constantly mist over and he would wistfully scan the horizon. Periodically, a large purple bubble would emerge from his mouth and make a loud gargling sound, his mating call. Only the spores in his nostrils restrained him from charging at the ethereal, lovely female camel we saw peacefully standing next to her two day-old baby.
The villages we passed through on our camel trip were some of the most godforsaken and destitute I had ever seen in India. A typical settlement is a dusty street and a few low mud-and-dung constructions around which women in purdah scrub dishes with sand and dirty-faced little kids run around, hopefully eyeing the tourists. A water well stands covered and a shack conserves oats for the camels grazing nearby. Opium is a favored substance here, touted as a stimulant and a social lubricant. In the presence of drugs and in the absence of television, (which has made inroads in most other parts of India by now), the men, silent, bearded, and absent-looking, sit around in circles, as if they have been planted there for centuries. The camels trot by, listless and majestic. All is silent again.
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