100 Miles From Pakistan

Today we leave for Jaisalmer in the Thar desert. Our drive today is also long, but much more interesting than yesterday’s.

The area we’re driving through looks less like the India we’ve seen so far and more like… pictures of Afghanistan that I’ve seen on CNN. Most men wear turbans, because of the wind and sand and the trees continue to give way to bushes, which give way to more empty stretches of sand. There are no towns although we occasionally pass rest stops, most of which we would never consider stopping at. Still, we pass people walking on the road, coming from somewhere and going another place. There are small groups of people squatting on the side of the road; C.P. says they are waiting for the bus and by this I’m sure he means the large trucks that we see piled with dozens of people. Giant trucks bulging with grain and hay and other goods roar past us, their good luck charms of one lime and seven chilies wrapped in black muslin swinging widely from their rear view mirrors.

About 3 hours in, C.P. asks if we want to take a 1 miles trip off the main road to see an area where hundreds of birds migrate from Siberia and the Himalayas. We’ve been with him enough days that we trust him not to sell us to gypsies, so we agree. As we head down the road we pass through a handful of dirt clay buildings, more cows, dogs, women with children on their hips, their small heads covered with the end of their bright saris to protect against the wind. We’re starting to wonder if we misjudged C.P. when he pulls up to a small lake where hundreds of large crane-like birds are squawking.

But it’s the small children that really catch our attention. There’s a school across the street where kids are sitting cross-legged outside on a porch. A couple of dirty girls follow us up the hill towards the lake asking for chocolate, then money, then pens. One barefoot girl asks for the bobby pin in my hair and I give it to her. For a while, they mill around hoping for more stuff from us. C.P. says something to them sharply in Hindi, but I tell him it’s ok. I think he doesn’t want them to bother us and imagine it must be hard for him to have what is certainly a respectable job for him and then have people in his country begging from his clients. As we get back to the car I ask him if it’s ok to give them some gum, that I have a lot of packs and enough for all the kids here. He looks a bit uncomfortable but says it’s ok. I should have trusted the look on his face more than the words that came out of his mouth… because when I took the gum out, the dozen kids turned into 30 immediately.

Now, I’ve had kids surround me in Asia and that push for more and more. But these kids were aggressive in a way I’ve never seen. They were pushing at me and trying to grab the gum out of my hand. Melissa just gave hers away and got in the car after a 10 years old girl ripped the pack from her hand. When one pushed at me too hard I had no choice but to push two small little kids back from me. I have to say I was never scared by them, or even uncomfortable. But it certainly wasn’t pleasant. C.P. was yelling the whole time at them to calm down and that there was enough for them all and to step back, but they wouldn’t listen. And even though I had enough for them all, I just gave up and gave them the whole packs, ignoring even the one little boy that started crying, and I just got in the car. The worst part about it is that I didn’t even feel that bad for them. I mean, I feel bad that they are poor and have been taught to be that aggressive to get whatever they can because they have so little. But I realize now why everyone says not to give treats to the beggars in India; that you should give another way like to a school. It’s one of the few countries where they tell you not to give to beggars. If I had never been to a third world country where little kids with such sweet faces cry and beg I would have been really troubled by this. But I was in part prepared for it I guess. Melissa and I used half a bottle of Purel after that incident.

Back on the road, we were only driving for 15 minutes before we hit a train crossing. Everyone was out of their car so I got out also. This definitely garnered a lot of attention as it was all men outside. And the men in India stare. A lot. But I just ignored them. Honestly, it didn’t really make me feel uncomfortable because they weren’t staring in a lewd way. They were just starting because we were different. Suddenly there was a whistle in the distance and everyone’s head craned to the right to watch the train approach. First came a cargo train, about 9 cars loaded high with coal. Then 10 minutes later a dusty blue passenger train with wrinkled faces peering out of windows with no glass. If was amazing to see and impossible to capture with a camera.

Forty minutes later, we were stopped by an accident. Two trucks seemed to have collided, with one turned horizontally across the road and the other tilted off the side, all of it’s lumber and bricks scattered along the dirt. A bus pulled to a stop besides us and the door popped open as all the male passengers hopped off. They joined the other men and our driver walking towards the wreck. A few minutes later the men are pushing this gigantic 18-wheeler truck off the road so that traffic can start moving again. C.P. soon comes trotting back to the car and soon we’re off again.

We arrive in Jaisalmer in the late afternoon. It’s unlike any city I’ve ever been in. It’s feels cramped and like a place where outlaws pass time. People are selling all kinds of things in the street as cows plod slowly around the people and wares and cars. Our hotel is again in a Haveli, a former palace, although far less grand than the ones we’ve stayed in so far. The guy manning the desk makes us write our name, address and passport information in an oversized ledger that looks about 200 years old. The bed is like a rock. Literally. Solid. No give at all. I am certain that I will wake up stiff and unhappy. (Although strangely I do not. Apparently, a rock hard bed and perfect pillow = a great night sleept) There is also no electricity. We’re told it will be back on in an hour and are not surprised because we had heard there are power shortages throughout India all the time. Our room is … interesting. It looks like the inside of a castle, or maybe the wine cellar of a castle, with original stone walls and ancient paintings on the wall. We can also hear everything.

We’re back in the car 30 minutes later and C.P. takes us to the centatophs; tombs containing the ashes of Maharajas. It’s a jumble of sandstone towers and quite awesome. It reminds me a bit of Angkor Wat in Cambodia and has an Indiana Jones feel to it. Afterwards we go to watch the sun set against the massive fort that sits on top of a cliff. We exchange India stories with a Canadian couple and walk back with them to meet our respective drivers in the fading light.

We decide to have dinner in our hotel’s rooftop restaurant. It’s set up under an orange tent and there are a group of kids and one old man wearing a turban playing music. They are really good, especially the young boy who is singing, and I find myself tapping my foot to the beat. One of the smaller boys gets up to dance and invites Melissa to dance with him. It’s hysterical and I have it all on video. As we’re finishing our dinner a group of men come in and sit at the table next to us. They have a mafia-like air about them, and while we’re sure our imaginations are running amok, we also decide it’s time to go. They are about 12 of them, and start drinking whiskey, and they are the most well-dressed Indians we’ve seen since landing in this country… so it makes you wonder where they make that money from in this shitty town, especially living so close to Pakistan.