Holding On

December 30, 2015

The overnight camel safari is over.

It was the adventure I was most looking forward to in the first part of my nearly six-month trip to India. This morning, as I lurched back and forth on top of the camel on the return to the jeep pickup location, I couldn’t help but feel an almost desperate desire to freeze frame this experience: The lower pelvic bones I had never before known existed, the intense sun and heat, the deep silence as we walked along except for the quiet chatter of our camel boys leading us forward, the alien scrub brush and yellow dunes stretching out before me with only a few dusty lone inhabitants in the distance. Could this really be happening? I wanted to hold on to this moment forever.

Endings are hard for me. I have never been very good at moving forward from experiences, good or bad. I grieve deeply for the happy endings, and even more deeply for the sad ones. Births, deaths, marriage, divorce, the changing of the seasons, the end of vacations, children growing up: All opportunities to grieve the passing of time. The ending of the overnight camel safari seemed especially poignant—when would I ever have this experience again?

We departed by jeep yesterday afternoon, bumping through the streets of Jaisalmer, dodging motorcycles, trucks, cows, pedestrians, dogs, and tuk tuks. In about an hour, we arrived at the site where the camels awaited us. Now was the moment I dreaded. The camel boy grabbed my daypack and wrapped the strap around the pommel and somehow I heaved myself up onto its back. And then…the camel stood up in its crazy ungainly way, first the back end, then the front. I held on to the pommel as tightly as I could and leaned back. My baggy polyester pants were slippery, and I slid a little to the left. Where was my riding helmet when I needed it? And then…I was riding a camel! But I couldn’t get a good grip on the pommel because the daypack strap took up so much space. I needed to hold on to that pommel for dear life, because the ride was uneven and bouncing and rocking. However was I going to manage this for two hours?

Riding a camel takes a certain technique. You have to relax your lower back while gripping with your knees so your body jostles with the rolling motion. It’s something between riding a real horse and riding one of those bucking bronco rides in a Meijer store.

If you don’t relax, you are in for some serious back injury. I’m rocking and rolling along, readjusting my sitting position because of my slippery pants, holding on to that pommel and wondering just how far six kilometers is. By some coincidence, my camel is being led by the head camel boy. I look back at a turn, and our group of twelve looks magnificent. We could be the real deal. Even though it is late in the afternoon, the sun is blazing. The scrub landscape changes to sand dunes and the camels seem happier, their flat padded feet striking softly against the shifting ground.

Too soon we reach our campsite and the new challenge is dismounting the camel. It went down front legs first, then back. Again, I’m leaning back and holding on for dear life as it settled into the sand. I can’t swing my leg over, so the camel boy just tips the camel a little to the side and voila! Problem solved.

We walked a few steps to our campsite where 13 charpoys were arranged in an L-shape configuration. The changing hut, built of dry wood, would block any wind from our campsite. The “toilet bush” mocked us from about 50 yards away.

I climb up a dune and survey the brilliant landscape of yellow and blue.

Soon, the sun would set, but for now, I sit down on the sand and sip the chai which was unexpectedly delivered to me by one of the camp boys. The scene all around me is exotic, luxurious, yet rustic. Behind me, the camp cooks begin to busily prepare our dinner, the camels resting on their haunches on the sand.

The men begin to make our beds: a mattress, sheet, two two-inch thick quilted blankets, and a pillow. The camel boys and cooks are dressed in rags and dusty shoes, their deference bought by the mighty dollar. Yet, I’m up on a sand dune, in the great Thar Desert of India. And I’m sipping chai. And waiting for the sunset.

The sun blazes magnificently across the sand, its rays seeming to melt the sky. The swirled clouds take on a magical golden glow. I turn and call to the others: The sunset is imminent. And yet, it is perhaps another 20 minutes before it has completely set. And then, there is the cloud show for another 45 minutes: The pink, purple, orange and golden hues are staggeringly beautiful. Now, sitting here typing this blogpost, I wonder why I do not plan to watch the sunset every evening. Something so mundane and yet so beautiful and often breathtaking.

 

We have been warned the air will be quite chilly overnight, so I go into the hut to change into my long johns and modest polar fleece pajamas. Then, as we sit on our charpoys, my tour companions bring out their special beverages. The campfire is lit and four performers dressed in traditional clothing join us. The two men begin to play, one on a hand drum and the other on a musical pipe that can sound two notes at the same time. The flames flicker over their faces, their songs alien and haunting. The two women stand up and dance, with sensual hips and hands and take us by the hands and invite us to join them. We can’t really follow their steps but we try and we dance joyfully and freely in the desert with our tour group strangers who by now have become friends, laughing as we struggle to move around the campfire on the heavy sand.

The musicians try to get us to sing some traditional Western campfire songs (Frẻre Jacques—there’s a new experience: hearing a French song sung by a traditional Rajasthani performer whose first language may not even be Hindi but a dialect). We fail because we are of two or three different generations and cultures (Australian and American) and don’t have campfire songs in common. One of the musicians plays a solo on an instrument something like a Jew’s harp and I wonder how this can be.

Then, the performance is over. I take our thank-you offering to them and show gratitude on behalf of the group. Soon, our dinner is served in the dark: Dal, rice, hot pickle, chapatti, and vegetables and chicken in sauce; and it is delicious, as delicious as any campfire food I’ve ever tasted. We eat by firelight and marvel how the cooks can prepare enough food onsite for so many people. And the men go around again, offering more.

After dinner, we talk quietly. A few of us go a little way away from the group and have their own party, wine bringing on giggling and rolling in the sand and laughing. The stars appear, and we identify brilliant Orion and the Milky Way. One by one the campers climb under the blankets on their charpoys, and, except for the little party off to the side, we quiet down. Then, we can see and hear off in the distance, a desert party, with a light show and loud raucous music. It is only 9:30 in the evening, and I want to be there, to see and experience the party. But I am around the campfire with my quiet tour group and must be content. I sit at the end of my charpoy, trying to get up the courage to walk over to the toilet bush alone and in the dark.

Then, I crawl under my blankets. At about ten o’clock, the music stops, and the little party over to the side ends, and they go to bed. Our camp sleeps around the dying embers of the fire, under the enormous sky pierced by intense stars. All is quiet except for rhythmic snoring and a few dogs barking in the distance.

I wake up with a start at about 1:30 AM. The moon has risen and casts a dazzling beacon light into our camp. I once again must answer nature’s call, yet I am not afraid, for the moonlight protects me. I return to my charpoy and toss and turn; I’ve got aches and pains from the camel ride, and I’m too warm. Since I can’t sleep, I reverse my bedding so that my head is now where my feet were so I can stare at the moon as it makes its way across the night sky.

When I wake up in the early light of morning, there is a chill in the air. I’m groggy as I get up and accept the breakfast offered: chai, bananas, biscuits, and crisps. We talk quietly about our differing sleep experiences. In a few minutes, the men have packed up our charpoys and bedding, and it is time to mount the camels for our ride back. I manage to put my leg over but can’t pull myself up astride the animal, so the camel boy offers me his arm, a slight expression of disgust on his face, and I’m up and once again rocking on the back of the beast. Once again, I’m holding onto that pommel for dear life. The sun is not quite as hot as last afternoon, but I’ve got my pink scarf completely wrapped around my head and face except for around my eyes.

 

 

 

I don’t want it to end. But the camel keeps walking, and the sun keeps rising over the dunes. And within a few minutes, I let go of the pommel. I’m taking pictures, trying to capture it all.