In the middle of India’s desert state of Rajasthan there is a holy lake. Around the lake, temples, shrines, ghats and all manner of whitewashed buildings jostle to be nearest to its sacred waters. This is the town of Pushkar. It is a powerfully spiritual place that attracts Hindu holy men, but like so many places in India, the depth of Hinduism also attracts the shallowness of tourism. Pushkar is often overrun with tourists and occasionally overrun with camels as the host of India’s biggest annual camel fair. It was in Pushkar that these influences combined to inspire my partner, Deb and I to book our first Indian package tour and perhaps compulsory Rajasthani experience: a camel trek!
We hired some camels and guides to take us on a trek to the middle of nowhere. Our experienced guides were to lead our caravan over the desert dunes by day and entertain us with music and singing by night. We would even visit a remote desert village and meet the locals! Our every need would be provided for.
On arrival at the camel collection camp, we were disgruntled to learn that we had to share our camels with our guides. Sensing a threat to my masculinity, I reacted like any good man and complained like a child. Spending evenings with my guide would be fine, but I thought it was a bit much to have to put up with him all day just because we happened to share one fleeting hump. No one responded to my objections. We all knew that the camel trek would proceed as planned and that I, smiling or otherwise, would be on it.
I was introduced to my camel, Joe, and as I mounted up I realised that my guide was especially oblivious to my grumblings. Not only did he not speak English, but he was a mere twelve year old boy!
This kid and his fifteen year old brother were to be our leaders and protectors through the treacherous Indian desert. They showed themselves to be experienced though and knew that they could rely on the foreigners to bring a torch, a knife, matches and enough snacks and water for everyone. Including passers by. Everyone’s needs were provided for.
At each break, the twelve year old ducked off for a smoke and the fifteen year old had a snooze. Our first lunch stop entailed four hours under a tree where at any time up to a dozen locals paused for an hour or more to watch my partner and I eating, (over)resting or just staring back.
Come nightfall, our (barely) elder guide uttered some rare words to inform us that he could get us beer or ‘anything else’ we desired. The ready accessibility of beer slightly undermined the notion that we were anywhere near nowhere, let alone in the middle of it, but we opted to partake anyway. Having already given up on the music and singing, we dozed off admiring the silhouettes of our prehistoric mammals emerging from the landscape like underdeveloped Nessies.
We set off the next day eager to meet the locals at the village. These locals, as it turned out, were the boys’ family. We were spending the night in their back yard!
Our guides lit a fire. Children gathered ’round. A seven year old asked me if I had a smoke. And then the staring began. We looked to our guides to provide some relief, but they simply sat in silence and looked right back. We were soon eyeballed to exhaustion and so retired to our sleeping bags and as we closed our eyes our new friends disappeared from view.
We awoke to find our butts sore with humpache and our water stocks remarkably low, so we asked to be taken home via the quicker route. Our ever obliging ‘desert’ guides had us back in Pushkar within half an hour!
It seemed that the time to part ways came all too quickly. We shuffled our feet, made some unilateral attempts at fond farewells, kissed the camels goodbye and left. As we eased away, I glanced over my shoulder to admire one last image from our camel trek: our senior guide silently picking his nose while his junior off-sider sat blowing smoke rings from behind Joe Camel.