returned.
9
JAISALMER
February
In the late afternoon of the next day, I wobbled into Jaisalmer a shaking, sweaty mess and half delirious. I’d spent the night in the desert burning up in my tiny one-man tent and right now all I wanted was a bed with clean sheets. All I wanted was to be cool. All I wanted was a bit of peace and quiet, to be left alone. All I wanted was to just cry ! That’s all!
But, oh no.
First, I had to get past a large American tourist in a loud Hawaiian shirt (let’s not live the stereotype shall we) in the foyer of our hotel, standing there like some kind of Lara Croft Tomb Raider goon. As I wheeled my bike in he belted me about the head with questions.
‘OH, MY GOD! ARE YOU LIKE, CYCLING INDIA!?’
I blinked. ‘No.’
‘NO? OH, HAHA! I SO WANNA DO THAT! WHAT KINDA BIKE YA GOT?’
‘Can we do this later?
‘SO IS IT SAFE? HOW MANY KILOMETRES CAN YOU DO A DAY? HAVE YOU LIKE, BEEN ROBBED OR ANYTHING?’
‘No, look – I’m not feeling well. I’ve got malaria.’
‘MALARIA? I HEAR THAT’S PRETTY BAD. I DIDN’T GET IT WHEN I WAS IN KOREA. YOU BEEN TO KOREA?’
I went upstairs, his questions biting at my heels, the last of which was ‘HEY, SINCE YOU’RE NOT USING YOUR BIKE, COULD I HAVE A RIDE?’
I snapped around.
‘ WOULD … YOU … FUUUUUUCK … OFFFFFF !’
He stood there, his face like a big child. ‘No need to be rude, buddy. I was just askin’.’
But things got even worse. As I lay there burning up in my penthouse (okay, it was a bungalow on the roof of the hotel), an Australian woman, sitting near my window, barked racist views about aboriginal entitlement to other travellers for what seemed hours. In the morning, she dropped down at my table like a dirty bomb.
‘I hear you’re from Australia.’
I looked around and saw the American fumbling through his Lonely Planet. I felt betrayed. In a low voice I said ‘ Who told you ?’
‘Ya don’t sound Australian. Ya must be from the toff end of town.’ And then, for some reason, went on in great detail about her constipation. Which was ironic because just listening to her gave me the screaming shits!
It was only after feigning death that I managed to be free of her, and escaped to get another blood test. It came back negative, the doctors at a loss to explain my strange fevers.
When I felt well enough, I explored Jaisalmer. I weaved in and out of its narrow streets and ornate havelis , dodging cows slouched at street corners like bored teenagers on holiday, strolling through market stalls dripping with silver trinkets, leather bags before finding myself surrounded by a sea of embroidered wall hangings lapping at my feet.
I was in a textile shop and the owner, Madan, sported hair cropped short while a long plait hung down from the top of his skull. It was the Brahmin custom when a father died.
For some reason we got talking about the 1998 underground nuclear tests, detonated 200 metres underground and 100 kilometres from here in the Thar Desert.
‘They used onions,’ said Madan, making a patting action with his hand, ‘to control the … how do you say? The boom? Metric tonnes from all over India. Normally onions are six rupees a kilo, then the price go up,’ he whisked his hand up like a salute, ‘to sixty rupees per kilo! Very bad. The poor use the onion to take the heat out during the summer, but they cannot get.’
Onions . It was the strangest thing I had ever heard. I imagined hapless farmers being buried alive by piles of burnt onion rings falling from the sky.
I decided on two blood-red-and-ochre embroidered hangings that, according to Madan, were made up of pieces from the traditional wedding dresses of Rajasthani tribal women. Some designs were garish – mirror beads and elaborate stitching – while others showed images of elephants, peacocks and flowers.
We began a battle of wills, wits and wallets as we bartered the price, passing the calculator back and forth, tapping out figures.
When
9
JAISALMER
February
In the late afternoon of the next day, I wobbled into Jaisalmer a shaking, sweaty mess and half delirious. I’d spent the night in the desert burning up in my tiny one-man tent and right now all I wanted was a bed with clean sheets. All I wanted was to be cool. All I wanted was a bit of peace and quiet, to be left alone. All I wanted was to just cry ! That’s all!
But, oh no.
First, I had to get past a large American tourist in a loud Hawaiian shirt (let’s not live the stereotype shall we) in the foyer of our hotel, standing there like some kind of Lara Croft Tomb Raider goon. As I wheeled my bike in he belted me about the head with questions.
‘OH, MY GOD! ARE YOU LIKE, CYCLING INDIA!?’
I blinked. ‘No.’
‘NO? OH, HAHA! I SO WANNA DO THAT! WHAT KINDA BIKE YA GOT?’
‘Can we do this later?
‘SO IS IT SAFE? HOW MANY KILOMETRES CAN YOU DO A DAY? HAVE YOU LIKE, BEEN ROBBED OR ANYTHING?’
‘No, look – I’m not feeling well. I’ve got malaria.’
‘MALARIA? I HEAR THAT’S PRETTY BAD. I DIDN’T GET IT WHEN I WAS IN KOREA. YOU BEEN TO KOREA?’
I went upstairs, his questions biting at my heels, the last of which was ‘HEY, SINCE YOU’RE NOT USING YOUR BIKE, COULD I HAVE A RIDE?’
I snapped around.
‘ WOULD … YOU … FUUUUUUCK … OFFFFFF !’
He stood there, his face like a big child. ‘No need to be rude, buddy. I was just askin’.’
But things got even worse. As I lay there burning up in my penthouse (okay, it was a bungalow on the roof of the hotel), an Australian woman, sitting near my window, barked racist views about aboriginal entitlement to other travellers for what seemed hours. In the morning, she dropped down at my table like a dirty bomb.
‘I hear you’re from Australia.’
I looked around and saw the American fumbling through his Lonely Planet. I felt betrayed. In a low voice I said ‘ Who told you ?’
‘Ya don’t sound Australian. Ya must be from the toff end of town.’ And then, for some reason, went on in great detail about her constipation. Which was ironic because just listening to her gave me the screaming shits!
It was only after feigning death that I managed to be free of her, and escaped to get another blood test. It came back negative, the doctors at a loss to explain my strange fevers.
When I felt well enough, I explored Jaisalmer. I weaved in and out of its narrow streets and ornate havelis , dodging cows slouched at street corners like bored teenagers on holiday, strolling through market stalls dripping with silver trinkets, leather bags before finding myself surrounded by a sea of embroidered wall hangings lapping at my feet.
I was in a textile shop and the owner, Madan, sported hair cropped short while a long plait hung down from the top of his skull. It was the Brahmin custom when a father died.
For some reason we got talking about the 1998 underground nuclear tests, detonated 200 metres underground and 100 kilometres from here in the Thar Desert.
‘They used onions,’ said Madan, making a patting action with his hand, ‘to control the … how do you say? The boom? Metric tonnes from all over India. Normally onions are six rupees a kilo, then the price go up,’ he whisked his hand up like a salute, ‘to sixty rupees per kilo! Very bad. The poor use the onion to take the heat out during the summer, but they cannot get.’
Onions . It was the strangest thing I had ever heard. I imagined hapless farmers being buried alive by piles of burnt onion rings falling from the sky.
I decided on two blood-red-and-ochre embroidered hangings that, according to Madan, were made up of pieces from the traditional wedding dresses of Rajasthani tribal women. Some designs were garish – mirror beads and elaborate stitching – while others showed images of elephants, peacocks and flowers.
We began a battle of wills, wits and wallets as we bartered the price, passing the calculator back and forth, tapping out figures.
When
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