jenny b

Kheta works the main square outside the fort entrance across from the German Bakery. He oozes authenticity. Loose fitting white cotton garments, handsome purple turban.

He is an independent.  He doesn’t even have a set crew.  Not that that matters.  He has a lot of talent to draw from. There are those 26 grand children.  Kheta is a patriarch. Tradesman and earner. His people live in desert villages 30 to 60 kms outside of Jaisalmer.  And many haven’t been farther than Jaisalmer in their entire lives.

Most everyone else in the camel tourism business works for somebody. And that somebody usually colludes with a hotel. Tourists always sleep somewhere. And tourists sleeping somewhere in Jaisalmer are keen to fork over some cash for a desert safari. The desert has a magnetic draw here. Sleeping on the soft sand under four blankets and endless sky is worth the price of the plane ticket.

This past generation of camel men have seen their livelihoods transition from nomadic trade to adventure tourism.  The competition is high. There are only four months of tourists in the brightest of scenarios. You have your work cut out for you as an indepent.

Kheta generates his own leads approaching window shoppers and sightseers. His english is moderate to good. The first thing you notice is his seriousness. This is a thoughtful, pensive man.  His life is often hard. But when he does smile you can tell that there are people that really love him. He is a grandpa.

Once Kheta has managed to connect with someone and book a tour he will go about gathering a crew, camels, supplies and transportation. All this is made tremendously difficult by the fact that Kheta can read neither english nor hindi.

He is going to get a phone but the prospect is daunting. Meanwhile, he will go to a guy down the alley in an unlit office stall. A bookish guy with a rotary phone.  The whole scene lingers from a bygone era. Kheta hands him a list of numbers with names scrawled in Hindi and Merwadi. This will take a while.

We had tea with Kheta. It was oddly unfortunate because though Brian had shared many a chai tea thus far in India, this was the first time it was he who had offered, invited, ordered and hosted. What came was not the per usual shot glass of sugar with a splash each of cardamom, tea and milk, but rather a full mug of tea – no sugar. Under any other circumstance this would have been perfect. Kheta was gracious but this was, obviously, not his cup of tea. Ba-da-dum. ((wince))

Regretfully, we had already made arrangements to travel back to Udaipur. A sleeper compartment in a bus bound to depart in just a few hours was reserved in our names. There was work and obligations back in Udaipur. The trip itself is fourteen hours. We said our goodbyes to Kheta and eagerly promised to recommend him to any of our friends that were traveling to Jaisalmer.

We would not be making that bus. A seed had been planted. An honest human connection had been made. We would be spending the night in the desert. Of course this turned the rest of the day into a bit of a scramble. The bus tickets would have to be postponed until tomorrow, bags would have to be stored and most importantly we would have to locate Kheta again. His business card only gave a vague direction to the areas of town that he most often frequented.

It was around four pm that Brian found Kheta just as Kheta found Brian. He was happy about our decision and immediately set to worrying over the logistics. There was a lot of work to be done to get us out into the desert before sundown. Now, Jenny and Brian had made it a point to walk the streets less trodden over the past few days but the high-paced maze of alleyways in Kheta’s wake was wholly new and invigorating. We hustled to keep up, waving to our old shopkeeper friend across the square. There was a grateful and comforting solace in the reassuring look he gave us. We had made the right decision.

In a slum outside the city where some of Kheta’s family lived, we waited patiently for details to be arranged. Things took a turn. That strong strong special lhassi imbibed hours earlier was rearing its head. The countless grandchildren bedraggled and attention starved became one monstrous organism pulsing and sprouting toothy little mouths and grabby fingers. Keep it together.  And more importantly, keep those little multiplying devils at bay. The arrival of a rickshaw to the rescue was a welcome sight. Pile in quick, gun it.

40 km, three abreast in a rickshaw. ugggh. The odds of survival were better against the man-eating slum kids. Spewing fumes, this has got to be the least environmentally friendly thing we could have done. Jenny seems happy. Head hanging out like a dog to the oncoming wind, overly content to snap blurry picture after blurry picture. Better keep that environmentally friendly business to myself. Kheta looks weird. He is worried that Brian is unhappy. Brian is worried that Kheta’s face is twitching and maybe shape shifting. A perverted version of the days chain of events rapidly unfold across Brian’s addled brain.  What have they done? Jesus, was that old shopkeeper from town in on it? Motoring off to the desert with only sand and Pakistan in front of them, Brian is momentarily terrified that he has made a horrible, horrible decision.

We reached the outpost village at twilight. It seems that due to the last minute preparation, Kheta was only able to acquire the surliest of camels. Jenny bailed on one. It was a pro move. The beast had marched a 180, feinted like he was putting his front legs down and then swooped his neck up, pissed off and roaring. An angry Downward Dog into Cobra Pose. Jenny hanging every limb outstretched grasping the saddle, eyed Brian. He was cheering. And full of beta. Hold, hold, hold… Okay. Exit strategy confirmed: a brisk twenty inch drop onto sand, only slight danger of being consequently crushed by the jynormous animal.

Despite this incident, we both had a great a time on the camels. They move rhythmically, a surprisingly comfortable ride. Moreso than, say… a bike. And apart from that first camel that Jenny was on they all seemed to be powerful and agreeable creatures. I imagined the lineage of the camel families going back with the lineages of these camel men. Young Kamal was the guide responsible for the care and maintenance of the camels. He is twelve years old and immensely talented.

In addition to Kamal, there was Harlal. Harlal is twenty years old, quick witted and living it up. He is a country boy doing what he loves and tourist season is good for a guy who loves hiking and camping in the desert. People like Harlal. He is married, recently newlywed to an absolutely beautiful woman. He seems like a young man with it all together. Jenny can’t believe that he was ever one of those kids running reckless in the towns. He says he was the worst. One rupee One rupee Pen Pen One rupee. Everyone laughs.

We sit around the campfire. The composition of the crew is excellent. Three generations of camel men who love where they came from and what they do. They take turns singing. Kheta drumming on a bucket, composed and traditional. He takes a lengthy solo. Harlal kids him and Kamal joins in. They talk about those old days when Kheta would drink beer with his European customers and the serious man would never stop talking. The customers, they say, would be brushing their teeth and then in bed and then in bed with the covers pulled over their heads. Kheta doesn’t respond to the chiding. He gives the two their space but absolutely no acknowledgement. This is a story they tell to customers. People love it. Completely unprompted Kamal and Harlal break into country roads take me home wesssvirginia. Wesssvirginia is a magical place to many a camel man adventure tour guide. Two goat herders, friends of Harlal sleeping with their flock beyond the next hill approach and join the group. They agree to bring goat milk for the morning chai.

Kheta has at least two brothers that he is very close to. Kamal is the youngest son of one of those brothers. He respects Kheta immensely and Kheta adores him in return, although in a very serious manner. He is a proud uncle. I imagine Kamal is likely the best in the family at getting Kheta to smile. It is Kamal who leads my camel when we are out the next morning. He wants to give me a good ride and soon takes him off leash. The camel knows what he wants and he takes direction well. We ride out through the scrub to miles of pristinely barren sand dunes and disembark for hours of leaping, tumbling and rolling. It turns out 12 year old boys are great company for such an activity.

I remember passing that first plastic water bottle, barely fighting off the impulse to shout down for Kamal to pick it up…wait… yup there it is and there’s another one and there is a hundred more. We pass an old camp littered. Kheta looks sympathetically to Jenny. Bad camel men.

With his usual seriousness Kheta announces that we are late for the bus and that we should get the camels running. We weren’t close to late but you can’t leave the Great Thar Desert without letting the camels out a bit.