Jaiselmer, Part 1:Camel Safari

I admire the clever soul who conjured up the idea to tame camels and
ride them—the fact that they are built with a huge hump in the middle
of their backs was no obstacle. I'd saddle up a water buffalo before
I'd think to reign in a camel. But, some turbaned mustachioed man,
tired of traipsing through the desert on foot, invented the camel
saddle, and so, a couple of days ago, I found myself riding into
rippled sand dunes on Pappu, my trusty camel steed, listening to Jerry
Jeff Walker as an invisible chariot pulled the sun across the sky.

I was truly craving Sangria wine by the time we arrived at our
campsite—simply a slight depression in the sand to protect us from the
night winds that gust across the dunes. I doubt I've ever been as
cold, sleeping under a half moon and the Milky Way on a firm bed of
sand. Although I was well equipped with three heavy wool blankets,
they didn't do much to shield the body from the invasive chill of the
desert night. The beer probably helped more than the blanket.

Bear in mind, this was no luxury camel safari, so the thought of
drinking a cool beer had not entered my mind. Some might call it
"roughing it," although it felt a bit like summer camp. We were a rag
tag bunch, six young foreigners paired with two camel guides, and when
we reached our camping spot, instead of relaxing, we were ordered to
go gather wood. Hmm. You get what you pay for, I thought. The sun
nestled itself on the horizon, rays fanning out across the sand, while
the we foraged for wood for the cooking fire and the camp fire.

After night had taken us captive, and before the moon had appeared on
her grand stage, I heard the jingling of a camel bell coming towards
us. I tapped Ellen, a French girl and told her that I thought there
might be something out there. We became still for a moment, and
squinted into the darkness. Out of the black hills of sand rode a
white clad, orange-turbaned man on a palomino camel. Perhaps I've
seen one too many desert/warrior/attack movies, but I immediately
pictured us surrounded by crazy Indian nomads on all sides.
Thankfully, this guy was alone, and miraculously, he bore gifts of
beer, crème biscuits, and chewing gum. This must be the modern mythic
lone ranger—the desert camel-man who arrives unannounced bearing beer
and a bright tangerine turban.

A bottle of beer cost as much as one night's stay in my hotel; but, at
$2, I guess one can't really complain. It was a nice treat, and may
have staved off my demise during the chilly desert night. The next
morning, we were treated to a breakfast of wheat porridge, laden with
crunchy sugar crystals, hard-boiled eggs, toast with jam, and chai,
sweet and milky. Not bad for a cheap camel safari. By nine we were
seated back upon our camels and went trotting across the dunes to our
next destination.