Rajastan 1

Nov. 6
Boarding the 3-tier sleeper train to Jodhpur feels like my first step into foreign surroundings but manage to sleep until we arrive in the morning. Jodhpur is an introduction to tourism in Rajastan: we visit the fort, palace and marketplace. All are grand because the Marharaja is one of few who has retained his wealth. He has an unmarried polo-star son who, after seeing his picture, we put near the top of Tulsi’s list of potential husbands. We follow the advice of a local contact of Tulsi’s cousin who runs a handicraft export business. He and his family are an excellent example of the hospitality for which Rajputs are famous, having us over for dinner, conversation and delicious food.

Welcome to the Jodhpur-Jaisalmer bus. Although you may have paid full price for your seat, others have not so they will be squeezed five to a sleeper compartment above and anywhere else they can find space. Please note that the windows are your emergency exits so feel free to spit, throw trash, buy water bottles or fried snacks through them. In the aisle, veiled aunties lead to uncles in loose cotton robes, these lead to more uncles in tight bellbottoms and heavy mustaches. We will be stopping at every small town along the way and announce ourselves with a honk that sounds like royal entrance horns each time we pass in the opposite lane. Also, please be prepared for further delay, as we will inevitably experience a flat tire about 15 km from our destination.

At the hotel in Jaisalmer , we meet a Bengali couple as we plan our trip to the sand dunes. We join them to tour the fort and make friends at a local café before heading into the desert. We ride camels to the dunes where we can see the sunset. We grill Salim, our camel’s owner, about himself and his village and find out that although he looks almost 30 years old he is only 18. We continue to make friends, first with some teenagers selling cold drinks to the tourists, then with the hotel’s driver and his cousin who owns a small shop nearby. There is a cultural program with music and folk dance, then dinner, then a stroll on the dunes under a full moon. In the morning we take the hotel’s open top bus to the nearby village where our friends live, visiting the tank where women in bright saris and children are drawing water in metal jars to carry home on their heads. On the way back to Jaisalmer in the taxi we have shared with the Bengali couple, we catch up with the safari bus and switch over for the rest of the ride waving royally to kids along the highway.

We end up with tickets for the general compartment on the train to Bikaner but there are few riders so it is not the dangerous, stifling, packed-full affair this compartment usually entails. But, as we chug through the desert everything is covered in sand even with the windows closed. Pulling out my Hindi book starts a conversation with the family across from us who are traveling to visit a sister married into a small town on the way. They think it will be funny to feed me the spicy vegetable they have prepared for the trip so they stack pudis onto newspaper for Tulsi and me. We are hungry and the vegetable is not spicy for me at all, but it doesn’t seem to ruin their fun. We say a warm goodbye before the train begins gathering dust again.

In Bikaner we stay at a hotel owned by a retired army man who is extremely enthusiastic about the history and sites of the town. We visit the palace but skip the recommended restaurant there for a local all-you-can-eat place our rickshaw driver suggests. The next day we wake early to visit the famous rat temple and the fort, since we are cutting it close to return to Jodhpur and catch our train. At the temple I am prepared for the floor to be covered in rats (and you have to take your shoes off, of course, before entering). Apparently, many of the rats have been dying so they were numerous but one could walk easily without touching them. Tulsi was excited to go initially but after seeing the first rat I practically carried her through our quick visit.

Our bus to Jodhpur is the picture of haste speeding through the desert. Honking shrilly, we overtake a camel cart and swerve back in time to miss a cargo truck going the other direction. I can just catch a glimpse of a small concrete house, mud huts, scattered goats, a figure in a bright pink sari with a silver water pot on her head and children on each side.

Here is our route, well, more or less:

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