(Sand) Castles in the air

I am drinking far too much tea and I fear I am becoming a chai snob. The train chai is terrible, but the wallahs look at me with great offense when i tell them it is too full of sugar, it is much better in town here, however i am a little lacking in distraction here, small tourist town syndrome...3 more days then i am on the move again.

What day is it again? - holiday mode successfully achieved.





Nevertheless it is a stunning journey from Jodhpur to Jaisalmer through western Rajasthan countryside, the occasional greenery of irrigated agriculture, but mostly desert - populated with small villages of round huts, in every village small boys playing backyard (desert) cricket, women in the fields or around the ovens making chappati over cow dung fires.












The air is cleaner here, i dont wake with the sore throat and foul smog streaked phlegm that Delhi induced and Jodhpur maintained. A soft cool wind from the lonely reaches of the desert blows across this 'sandcastle in the air', the Jaisalmer fort hangs in the afternoon desert mirage. In comparison to Jodhpur it is a toy fort, although in parts its walls are over 50 meters high, but i like to sit on the ramparts and imagine the camel trains and traders, the invasions
and the rebellions that have passed through here over the centuries.








Could they ever have imagined it would today be a living parody - a never-ending succession of tourists for the kashmiri boys to ask "hello, internet, cigarette, burn cd, phonecall, u look in my shop". Yet it is also a comparatively quiet place here, and has plenty of nice things to do as one on holiday, like bosenberry lassi, topping even the saffron lassi from Jodhpur, and it gives me time to think and become inspired with the books i am reading.






Mark Tully has one of the best descriptions of travel in India i have read: From the story 'The return of the artist':
"drivers of scooter-riskshaws, whose two-stroke engines emit particularly noxious fumes, battle both with their less fortunate rivals pedalling cycle-rickshaws and with pedestrians driven off the pavements by the stalls which have commandeered them. The streets are lined by small shops, tea stalls, puveyors of various sorts of cuisine, sweet makers boiling great pans of milk on gas rings- every sort of fire and health hazard. Nobody knows how many of its citizens live in one-roomed shacks whose roofs are held down by bricks, old cycle frames, pieces of wood or any other junk the owner can find".

Back live : At night the hindi jangle from the rickshaw stereos fades in and out of the night air, huge - possibly illegal and certainly dangerous explosions from wedding fireworks penetrate the night air, the cows are settled in the streets for the night, quietly chewing their cud of cardboard boxes and plastic wrappings, and it is time to admire the stars one more time before sleep.

In the market during morning chai at the germn bakery i watch numerous 8 year old boys trying to convince tourists of their need for a shoe shine, few female children are seen, perhaps these boys are unwitting victims of the illegal female gender identification and ensuing abortion that is prevalent across the
country. At sunset on the ramparts the same story, an illiterate women with three illiterate sons.

Cows and dogs lounge in various states of slumber in the streets, occasionally rousing to squabble over scraps of chaff or a plastic bag that might contain a few morsels. They somehow must get enough nourishment, for the amount of cow pat in the streets is phenomenal for the lack of any grazing fodder. At 10 am the tourist buses arrive, the euro's walk up the road to the fort entrance and the strange street theatre begins, the local string players and shennai's (oboe like )start up, the gaudy ex-village women with arms extended holding shiny silver ankle bracelets, the tourists pass and the circus lulls until the next bus load. The children of these people are ragged and filthy, hair covered in thick dust, they mimic the adults playing the string instruments, some perform cheap acrobatic tricks.

An older string instrument player comes and talks to me, showing me his instrument made form hollowed bamboo stick with a coconut bowl covered with animal hide at the base, metal piano wire stretches the length of the

stick providing tonal tension to the bowl, it is played with a bow and by altering pressure on the strings. He is a toothless man wearing a red turban, with clear eyes and an incredible grubby white suit jacket over his dhoti. I am skeptical about the whole thing until he starts playing and i am transfixed by the beautiful middle eastern notation, his dreamy playing like the wind whispering

mysterious tales of the desert, the lonely nights under an immense star filled void of the Thar landscape and the irrevocable sadness of his life.

His eyes remind me of the camel driver i talked with yesterday. Ramdan was of course selling his camel safaris, but the intensity of his piercing eyes and such pure features struck me. He is not from the city but from the far desert and looks every inch the descendant of a proud and strong tribe. If my bum wasnt so skinny i might try a camel ride but i fear the pain might be too much, remembering the initiation that T.H. Lawrence described upon his first attempts at camel riding in 'The seven pillars of wisdom'.

From the market I head off and walk several kilometers out to the luxury hotel area west of the city, it is a pleasant temperature to walk, little traffic, I pass sandy desert and and an army base, where not much seems to be happening, although 2 very large F1-11 fighter jets pass over at great speed, legacy of the adjacent Pakistan border. The hotels have small turrets and high walls, an appealing look for the impression of opulence it seems. I am in search of blue

swimming water, and I am successful. Do you have a pool? - yes the largest in Jaisalmer is the reply, ok lets go......

I am taken to the pool area by a Nepalese bellhop, it is a romanesque scene- archways of sandstone surround a beautiful 12 meters squared of undisturbed cool blue water and accompanying deck chairs. Finally some exercise, it is cool but not cold, silky smooth swimming conditions. I manage an hour to myself before the resident euro tourists arrive, a group of ageing French it seems,

all complaining about the coolness of the water, having appearances of having returned from their assigned day trip, safari suits for the men, the women more informal, some with poor body condition, much arthritis, several with sternal scars marking heart surgery, somewhat content with a lap or two of doggy paddle, ahh the joys of the upper-middle classes. They are paying at least 3000 rupees a night at least, me 300 and i get to stay inside the fort walls...i

wander off back down the desert road feeling content and energised.

My current book that I found in the local bookshop for a mere 200rp is a collection of novellas by one of Indias most celebrated writers AMIT CHAUDHURI- winner of stacks of awards and vast praise for his beautiful imagery. The book is called Freedom song. I read a book every 2 days on holiday normally, so its great that there are always great book shops in india. In Delhi I found several desirable medical and herbal texts for less than 1/2 Au price. Some end of trip shopping could be on the cards.

I watched a new movie on my laptop last night, "the science of sleep"- beautiful and funny- go see it! I think it has the guy from 'the motorcycle diaries ' in it.

On the ramparts today a friend I met asked me what my objectives were for this trip...a clear and quiet head and heart i think will suffice... and with that as little attachment as possible, it pays to not expect anything from this country, except surprises of course!