Around India in 80 Trains by Monica Rajesh

Author:Monica Rajesh
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Nicholas Brealey Publishing
Published: 2012-03-25T16:00:00+00:00

Travelling by camel was in conflict with our specified mode of transport, but avoiding Jaisalmer’s main attraction would have been churlish for the sake of petty logistics. And so, after spending a night at the Jaisalmer Fort, we found ourselves atop a jaded quartet of blinking camels, along with Steve and Ayelet, a dry-humoured Irish couple we had met at the dorm in Jodhpur. Ayelet was a sculptor with a jagged fringe, mischievous eyes and a pin-sized stud in her freckled nose that wrinkled when she laughed, which was often, and mostly at Steve. He had spread on sun cream as thick as cottage cheese and was sporting a cerise headscarf tied like Lawrence of Arabia. As the sun blazed angrily, our guide, Ali, trudged ahead and we began to bob and lurch into the heart of the Thar desert to spend the night on the dunes.

Ali was of an indefinable age. He had the build and suppleness of a teenager, performing all manner of tasks on his haunches, and attributed his more colourful English vocabulary to repeated listening of the Black Eyed Peas. But his hands were calloused and worn and he handled his camels like a veteran. His eyes flicked around as though he had been taught to be suspicious of everyone he met, but his pout frequently gave way to laughter that sounded like a combination of an asthma attack and a braying donkey.

We had stopped for lunch under a tree and were watching a herd of goats playing up a group of women running after them with sticks, when Ali looked up from where he was kneading dough.

‘You want goat?’

‘A goat?’

‘We can get goat for dinner.’

‘How will you cook it?’

‘With port.’

‘Port?’

‘Yes, port!’

‘You’ve got port to cook us goat?’

Goat in port sounded a little fancy considering our plates had just been cleaned with dirt and the tea stirred with sticks. Ali spat out the twig he was chewing and jumped up in exasperation.

‘Oh my dog!’ he shouted, stumbling across to where two other guides were brewing tea and chopping cauliflower. He picked up the steel pot from the fire and waved it over his head.

‘PORT!’

‘Oh, you mean POT!’

‘Yes, cook it in port! Tonight’s gonna be a good, good night!’ he sang, waving the pot around.

‘Oh my dog? Don’t you mean “Oh my God?”’ I asked.

‘Yes, yes, GOD!’ Ali yelled, hee-hawing with laughter.

‘I would normally say “Oh your God”.’ Passepartout chipped in.

‘It’s just a turn of phrase,’ I replied.

‘Yes, a phrase that has absolutely no relation to reality. It’s been bent into a literary device that we all use now, like “heavenly” or “paradise”.’

Ayelet flashed me a cheeky grin.

After a Rajasthani thali, a nap under the trees and another cup of sandy tea, we restacked the camels with quilts and bedding and set off across the parched expanse, passing little more than rocks, a dried cow’s skull and a scattering of depressed-looking trees. Our camels, from the outset, had adopted an air of endearing ignorance, but plodded into

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