Travelling Light by Robyn Davidson

Author:Robyn Davidson [Davidson, Robyn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Travel, Essays & Travelogues, Biography & Autobiography, Personal Memoirs
ISBN: 9781925416817
Google: k0FvDwAAQBAJ
Publisher: ETT Imprint
Published: 2018-09-01T23:22:04.755954+00:00

From Jodhpur, the last leg of my journey was to begin—an overnight train ride through a dust storm, to the most beautiful place in the world: Jaisalmer.

‘It is said that, to travel to Jaisalmer, one needs a body of stone, clothes of iron and a heart of steel.’ My perennially smiling guide was leading me through the medieval lanes of the city, where cows and kohl-eyed children jostled for space, brightly coloured silks hung over filigree balconies, camels pulled carts over cobbles, women washed clothes over open drains. We were heading for the Jain temple, containing thousands of statues of Buddha in the lotus position and staring out through glass or enamel eyes. Below the temple, an ancient library was filled with manuscripts written on wood and palm leaves.

Until Bombay became the trade route to Delhi in the nineteenth century, Jaisalmer was the only entry from Central Asia. The whole city is constructed of carved golden sandstone. From miles out in that pale, dusty desert, you can see the walled city on its hill, and it seems impossible that such a thing could exist outside of imagination or dream.

When I first went there, years ago, there were only two places where tourists could stay. Now there are little hotels everywhere, tucked away in ancient alleys. Jaisalmer has been ‘discovered’, which, as everyone says, somewhat sadly, is a good thing. Tourists bring money and money is what India needs.

My guide continued: ‘The towns are built by man, but the villages are made by God.’ And that is what I had really come for this time—a camel ride through the villages of the Thar. To do this in mid-summer had a touch of lunacy about it. Even the train journey from Jodhpur had been gruelling. We had come through a sandstorm and by the time I arrived I was smothered in Thar desert grit, which had turned my hair as brittle as spun glass and left small sand dunes in my nose and ears.

But first, my friend Narendra had arranged for a group of folk musicians to play for me, out in the dunes twenty miles from Jaisalmer. The ancient sarengi player arrived first and showed me his press clippings—fragile yellowing bits of magazines clad in plastic. Then came the khamayacha player, the dholak player, the morchung player and, of course, the harmonium player. We piled into Jeeps and sped west.

Fat pink sun bulging into the horizon; silky dunes silvered where the wind fuzzes the edges; musicians singing shamelessly evocative songs; light fading into night, so that the singers, with their white dhotis and bright turbans, become silhouetted against a thickly studded sky; and a lot of alcohol. High romance, this.

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