Camel Safari

“What’s his name?” I ask the camel herder of my shaggy looking dromedary.  

“Michael Jackson.”

“What’s that guy's name?”

“Also Michael Jackson.”

“And the other one?”

“Michael Jackson as well,” he says, and breaks out into a belly laugh accompanied by his friends. “All these camels are named Michael Jackson.  Except that one over there. He is Luke Skywalker.”

The dunes stretch to the horizon, beautiful beige ribbons etching the endless hills of the Thar desert.  The herd of camels, all named Michael Jackson, and their owners, a tribe of Rajasthani Indians, with winged up mustaches and colorful turbans, dot the landscape.  

A month ago, my cousin Emily and I had seen the camel safari in a brochure with its promise of nature, adventure, and starry skies.  We naively signed up.  

The safari begins at the edge of Jaisalmer, the closest town, in the western Indian state of Rajasthan.  Its sandstone fortress imbues a dreamlike quality, both from its exquisite medieval artisanship, and the heat-induced mirages. The city was a stop on the ancient route from Egypt and Persia to India.

Now, at the edge of the desert, I look over Michael Jackson as we are about to know each other intimately over the journey across the desert.  His large eyes are ensconced in hairy eyelids and thick eyelashes. Disconcertingly, he never looks at me head on, but rather from the corner of his eye, like a wall-eyed goat. Adorned with a few braided necklaces and several Rajasthani bright colored quilts, he sucks on his lips, and hisses through his nose. He smells. After a wobbly mount, we begin to walk the timeless road of silk, merchants, bedouins, and now tourists.  MJ needs a firm hand and would rather spit and go off trail than be led by me.  We sink into a rhythm.  Sun, heat, sky, desert, camel, me.  Sun, heat, sky, desert, camel, me.  

After about an hour of this, I neatly categorized my thoughts on these even-toed ungulates into five truths:

1. Camels are too wide to sit on comfortably.  

2. Camels are not built for humans

3. Camels do not like humans 

4. Camels are stubborn

5. Camels smell

Finally, it's time to make camp. Our guide, Abhay spreads out a few blankets out and makes a fire. He cooks chapattis and makes chai. I eat part of a chapati, but feel too queasy to have more.

We settle in.

I sink into my sleeping bag and fall into a dreamless sleep.

We need to move, says Abhay.  He hears a snake. Sounds like a cobra.

What should have alarmed me was my absence of alarm.  Poisonous snake?  Too tired. Just want to sleep. 

We are moved. 

The wind blows in like waves of the ocean. 

Light of dawn. We trudge on. Sometimes walking beside the camel, sometimes astride. Sun, heat, sky, desert, camel, me.  Splendid azure lakes, whitewashed houses, green trees, a sparkling waterfall.  Gone in an instant, images overlaid with sand.

A beautiful Jain sandstone temple gains clarity in my vision.

A priest appears, wrinkled brown, wearing a once-white dhoti that hung off his skinny frame.  He takes one look at me, seizes my hand and pulls me toward the temple.  He brings me to an old well, pumps its creaky handle.  No permission, no words, no boundaries, he then takes my head in his hands and thrusts it under the cold of water.  The shock of the cool wet shakes me back into reality.  Completely soaked, I look up at this weathered old man, who cares for the temple every day, whose eyes glitter like the sand, and understand what kindness is.  Then Michael Jackson farts.