SEPTEMBER 24, 2007
Have just heard from Alexander that Relief Riders International is no longer doing rides. The future of if he will take them up again is uncertain, but for now, the 2007/2008 rides have been cancelled...so this suddenly becomes a lot of writing about history...
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Thursday, September 6, 2007
HUMANITARIAN TRAVEL
Family and Friends-
Many of you know about my trip to India (February and March 2007), some of you may not have known I went at all. I’ve had so many people ask about the journey and I’ve found it so difficult to explore in small, conversation-sized bites, I decided I would write some of my thoughts and memories about it. Don’t feel obligated to read any or all of this. This is not publishable writing, and is more stream-of-consciousness than anything else. It will be my memories, and like anything in my memory cannot be trusted to be 100% accurate—I won’t be fact checking any of this until later when I develop some radically shortened version of the story for my magazine. Also, spelling is in the eye of the beholder with translating from Hindi to English—as we share no common alphabet, all spelling is done phonetically, and even when asking two people to spell something out in English, I frequently got two different versions…so I’ll use whatever phonetically sounds closest to me for names.
The idea of this trip had been haunting me for a few years—ever since I read a short paragraph-long blurb in an Adventure Travel magazine. It was a fantasy vacation that grabbed onto my imagination like a pitbull and would not let go. For fifteen days in late February and early March, I would join a group on horseback through the Thar Desert of Rajasthan, India, riding from one tiny remote village to the next, delivering school supplies, medical supplies, livestock, and working with the Indian Red Cross providing a free catarcat eye surgery camp and free medical camp to one of the poorest regions of India. We would camp in tents in the desert at night, and ride, sometimes seven hours a day, every day. It was the most intriguing trip I had ever heard of, a life-changing opportunity to combine adventure travel and humanitarian efforts in a country I’d always wanted to see. There was no way for me to predict how truly cinematic and huge the experience would be.
The inspiration of Alexander Souri, Relief Riders International (www.reliefridersinternational.com) teams with a local horseback adventure company to reach underserved rural communities. This is Alexander’s homage to his ancestry and his Indian father, as well as a way to promote community healing on a very human level. In it’s fourth year, RRI is changing the world one child, one ailing patient, one tiny village, one volunteer vacationer, at a time.
Our group of fourteen participants ranged in age from 24-70, eleven women and three men, twelve from America, one form Ireland and one from Belgium. I admit I was taken aback by finding I genuinely liked every single person in our group. A trip like ours self-selects some pretty amazing people. In the subset of travelers that is “horsey,” you know there won’t be any divas. Horse folk get dirty and physical and know what it is like to have to work (and play) hard. Factor in the even smaller subset of people who would spend vacation time doing volunteer work in such a difficult part of the world, and it adds up to a pretty special group. We were wildly different, yet bound by so many of the same intentions and priorities.
I won’t be writing here about the five days spent in Delhi and Agra (Taj Mahal)—they are their own Odyssey I’ll tackle elsewhere. Suffice to say I found urban India incredibly challenging emotionally, with more abject poverty than I’ve ever witnessed, anywhere in the world. In the rural villages I went for the Relief Riders trip, there wasn’t any more wealth nor creature comforts, but absent also was the desperation of the city. There are amazing sights to see in New and Old Delhi, and I met some fantastic people…and it was absolutely exhausting—physically, mentally, and spiritually. I’ll start this tale when I joined up with the Relief Riders group in a luxury hotel in Delhi.
FEBRUARY 21, 2007
Imperial Hotel, Delhi
The group of fourteen participants had swapped a few emails in the days before departing to India, and we made a loose plan, since “official” activities wouldn’t begin until the next morning, to meet casually for dinner on our first night in the Imperial Hotel. Those who felt like it and weren’t wiped out with jet lag would find each other in the lobby and go off to find a place to eat.
I went downstairs to the opulent lobby and pretty quickly found Barry (A mediator/negotiator from Detroit, brilliantly irreverent and curmudgeonly and likable from the get-go. Prophetic really, since Barry became my touchstone and don’t-take-yourself-too-seriously-you-ass reminder throughout the trip, whose company I was always grateful to have. Sadly, I still tended to take myself quite seriously, at least for the first several days, and was a know-it-all, pompous ass). Barry and I did a few brief introductions as we waited and looked around for anyone else looking like they might be waiting to meet up with strangers. Barry’s wife, Susan, was upstairs trying to shake off the flight and rally her energy for dinner. (Susan is a therapist and I also adored her right off the bat. She is also pretty irreverent and down-to-earth. These two let me glom onto them pretty quickly and became like siblings to me.) Many folks just arrived in the very early morning hours of this day and others had been in town for a day. I think I had been around the longest, at another hotel and in India for five days before transferring here.
We found, sitting on the schmancy settees and sofas of a side lobby, a small group of women who could very well have been horse-folk. Barry and I knew there was only one other guy on the trip, and a total of eleven women, so our bet was pretty sure. We all stood around and chatted, finally deciding instead of venturing into the crazy and hot city, to just adjourn to one of the hotel’s bars for cocktails and then go to another for dinner. Incredible relief washed over me when I realized cocktails were in order for all. Scary that a drink can feel like such a ground leveler, but I find it is, and also just loosens folks up in awkward and foreign circumstances (and nothing is more awkward or foreign than being in hyper luxury in India)
Some folks weren’t able to join us, but we had a pretty good turnout—maybe half of the eventual group. Rebecca 24-year-old Maryland horsewoman on her “gap year” after fleeing her cushy job at Morgan Stanley. She moved from Manhattan to a horse farm and lives over the barn. She is doing our three weeks in India, then on to Thailand to tour with her boyfriend—whose tenure in her life seemed of a limited duration—then to Sri Lanka to work at an elephant orphanage, then she hits an excursion to the Advanced Base Camp of Mount Everest, then back to India to explore the south before Delhi and home to facilitate her move to Los Angeles and law school. I kind of hate her since she seems to have grabbed so much of what was supposed to be MY life of adventure, Marianne from Dublin, Ireland, who at first strikes me as just the most pleasant soul whose accent I envy, and I later discover, with delight, that she has a wicked and mischievous sense of humor and is remarkably quick to laugh. She was always good for stirring up mischief. Lisa is a stunning woman right off the cover of an equitation magazine—she is the ideal of what everyone imagines a true equestrian would be. Long blond hair, fabulous Los Angeles/Bel Air (I think) lifestyle, horses, dressage competitor, great photographer, and so easy to laugh. She is the picture of grace in a crowd and so easy to be around. Lynn is the earth mother to all of us, She has two fabulous Arabian horses of her own in Connecticut less than an hour from me. She is a singer, quick to laugh, seems like she might get scandalized easily but not a chance. She exudes such a comforting maternal vibe and just makes me feel good to be around. Candy is a hoot. I sit near her at the end of the table and am thrilled at the choice of seats the first night. She cracks me up. She is the first to have gotten in touch with us all electronically. Her humor is dry and hysterical in her proper British accent, making sarcastic asides here and there, and always game for anything. We learn that she lives only about 20 minutes from me, and I can tell you now, afterward, that that makes me a lucky man. Bob and I have hung out with her at her beautiful home on a lake, and Bob adores her almost as much as I.
Dinner is nice as we begin the long unwinding of our personal stories and begin to chip away at the first layer of politeness and courtesy that initially stand in the way of getting to know one another…all this while we are remarkably indecisive about what to order. The food is Hotel-nice…pretty tasty if overpriced and dulled down for foreign palates. I had already discovered the enormous bottles of Kingfisher beer, a locally brewed very pale beer that goes well with spicy foods. I think most of us, overall, wished that the food we ate was always more spicy than it was, but I’m sure most travelers request mildness.
The group of fourteen participants had swapped a few emails in the days before departing to India, and we made a loose plan, since “official” activities wouldn’t begin until the next morning, to meet casually for dinner on our first night in the Imperial Hotel. Those who felt like it and weren’t wiped out with jet lag would find each other in the lobby and go off to find a place to eat.
I went downstairs to the opulent lobby and pretty quickly found Barry (A mediator/negotiator from Detroit, brilliantly irreverent and curmudgeonly and likable from the get-go. Prophetic really, since Barry became my touchstone and don’t-take-yourself-too-seriously-you-ass reminder throughout the trip, whose company I was always grateful to have. Sadly, I still tended to take myself quite seriously, at least for the first several days, and was a know-it-all, pompous ass). Barry and I did a few brief introductions as we waited and looked around for anyone else looking like they might be waiting to meet up with strangers. Barry’s wife, Susan, was upstairs trying to shake off the flight and rally her energy for dinner. (Susan is a therapist and I also adored her right off the bat. She is also pretty irreverent and down-to-earth. These two let me glom onto them pretty quickly and became like siblings to me.) Many folks just arrived in the very early morning hours of this day and others had been in town for a day. I think I had been around the longest, at another hotel and in India for five days before transferring here.
We found, sitting on the schmancy settees and sofas of a side lobby, a small group of women who could very well have been horse-folk. Barry and I knew there was only one other guy on the trip, and a total of eleven women, so our bet was pretty sure. We all stood around and chatted, finally deciding instead of venturing into the crazy and hot city, to just adjourn to one of the hotel’s bars for cocktails and then go to another for dinner. Incredible relief washed over me when I realized cocktails were in order for all. Scary that a drink can feel like such a ground leveler, but I find it is, and also just loosens folks up in awkward and foreign circumstances (and nothing is more awkward or foreign than being in hyper luxury in India)
Some folks weren’t able to join us, but we had a pretty good turnout—maybe half of the eventual group. Rebecca 24-year-old Maryland horsewoman on her “gap year” after fleeing her cushy job at Morgan Stanley. She moved from Manhattan to a horse farm and lives over the barn. She is doing our three weeks in India, then on to Thailand to tour with her boyfriend—whose tenure in her life seemed of a limited duration—then to Sri Lanka to work at an elephant orphanage, then she hits an excursion to the Advanced Base Camp of Mount Everest, then back to India to explore the south before Delhi and home to facilitate her move to Los Angeles and law school. I kind of hate her since she seems to have grabbed so much of what was supposed to be MY life of adventure, Marianne from Dublin, Ireland, who at first strikes me as just the most pleasant soul whose accent I envy, and I later discover, with delight, that she has a wicked and mischievous sense of humor and is remarkably quick to laugh. She was always good for stirring up mischief. Lisa is a stunning woman right off the cover of an equitation magazine—she is the ideal of what everyone imagines a true equestrian would be. Long blond hair, fabulous Los Angeles/Bel Air (I think) lifestyle, horses, dressage competitor, great photographer, and so easy to laugh. She is the picture of grace in a crowd and so easy to be around. Lynn is the earth mother to all of us, She has two fabulous Arabian horses of her own in Connecticut less than an hour from me. She is a singer, quick to laugh, seems like she might get scandalized easily but not a chance. She exudes such a comforting maternal vibe and just makes me feel good to be around. Candy is a hoot. I sit near her at the end of the table and am thrilled at the choice of seats the first night. She cracks me up. She is the first to have gotten in touch with us all electronically. Her humor is dry and hysterical in her proper British accent, making sarcastic asides here and there, and always game for anything. We learn that she lives only about 20 minutes from me, and I can tell you now, afterward, that that makes me a lucky man. Bob and I have hung out with her at her beautiful home on a lake, and Bob adores her almost as much as I.
Dinner is nice as we begin the long unwinding of our personal stories and begin to chip away at the first layer of politeness and courtesy that initially stand in the way of getting to know one another…all this while we are remarkably indecisive about what to order. The food is Hotel-nice…pretty tasty if overpriced and dulled down for foreign palates. I had already discovered the enormous bottles of Kingfisher beer, a locally brewed very pale beer that goes well with spicy foods. I think most of us, overall, wished that the food we ate was always more spicy than it was, but I’m sure most travelers request mildness.
FEBRUARY 22, 2007
The group from last night, plus the six we hadn’t met yet: Curtis and Charlene (He is great, intellectual, occasionally it seems like he wishes people would disagree with him more than they do so he can debate a bit…but it seems like everyone is more or less on a similar page politically. Charlene is a quick-to-laugh Emergency Room doctor, and her professional expertise is called for more than once. I personally needed her drugs to help shake a terrible flu toward the end of the trip. She is funny, and exhausted, as used as you can be to working impossible hours then flying for what feels like weeks), Odile and Mary Anne, and Merilleon and Caroline (Merilleon is 70 years old and more energetic than I’ve ever been. Born and raised in South Africa and now living on Nantucket, I have such a crush on her. She is wise and helpful and irreverent and game for absolutely anything. One of my very favorite memories of the trip is sitting in a big wingback chair, feeling a bit under the weather, while Merilleon told me childhood tales of why the Elephant’s trunk is long and others. I could have listened to her recite the phone book and been in heaven—she made me feel so much better. Caroline is her daughter, from Washington DC where she is a therapist with several, evidently, important government clients. If confidentiality weren’t such a big deal and we knew how messed up politicians were, we’d fear even more for our country…Caroline is feisty, strikes me at first as the popular girl in school whose clique I will never be a part of, but I get over that. Since returning home I’ve been in more regular contact with Caroline via email than I ever would have predicted, and truly enjoy our similar smartass take on things.) all go sightseeing in New and Old Delhi for the day.
I stay back at the hotel since I have been in the city for several days with private guides and have been to all the places they are going. I go instead to the Imperial Hotel’s spa for a 2 hour Ayurvedic massage that blisses me out completely. I meet up with the group for lunch and spend the second part of the day with them, still getting to know each other.
I stay back at the hotel since I have been in the city for several days with private guides and have been to all the places they are going. I go instead to the Imperial Hotel’s spa for a 2 hour Ayurvedic massage that blisses me out completely. I meet up with the group for lunch and spend the second part of the day with them, still getting to know each other.
ALL NIGHT TRAIN TO BIKANER
OK-The freaking train...
The day before we are to leave on this all night escapade, a Delhi to Pakistan train is the target of a terrorist attack—bombs, death, injuries. It is all over CNN in the hotel, but none of us mentions it. I think it is more alarming for Bob back home than it is for us…what is it about lightning never striking the same place twice?
We drive for hours to get to the station late at night. The train, meant to leave at 11:20PM, eventually leaves an hour late. When we climb down from our bus, dozens of men of all ages who seem to live in the parking lot descend upon the bus to help unload and porter our bags to the outdoor platform. The bus driver chooses two or three of what seem to be the oldest and feeblest men to put our gigantic and ridiculously heavy bags on their turban-wrapped heads to stagger up over the elevated stairwell and back down to the center train platform. We were standing around in the gloom on the ill-lit platform with distantly spaced bare bulbs for several minutes before our eyes adjusted and somebody noticed the cow just a few yards away, apparently waiting for her own train.
We are divided into groups of four for our sleeping cabins, with at least one man assigned to each cabin supposedly for safety, which in a group of eleven women and three guys is hard, but our handler who will get us as far as Bikaner is in one of the cabin groups. My group, consisting of Rebecca, Marianne, and myself are in a cabin together. We think the arrangement of just three of us with some extra space sounds sweet…until we learn that a stranger will be joining us for the night. Our bags are put into the cabins for us and we follow. A couple of our groups have boarded before the three of us, and sidled down the narrow passage…we can hear their laughter. Once we get to the sliding steel door of our cabin we know why. It feels like prison—our bags take up all of the floor space under and between the berths, which are plywood planks folded down from the wall with a vinyl pad over them. Two curtained windows are at the end and the space between the stacked berths left and right is about a foot. We can do nothing but laugh, and everyone starts roaming from cabin to cabin like kids who just got their camp assignments, making faces and jokes and sharing the thinly disguised horror that this is where we’ll sleep. Some disguises are thinner than others. It’s actually not that bad, but we ramp each other up feeding off the energy, and everyone bonds over it a bit. Our laughter is redoubled once the first person comes back with a report from the toilet closet at the end of the car, and we all trot down to see and gasp. It is an all steel room with a hole in the floor that opens to the track below, but has not seen the business end of a scrub brush for quite some time. Every surface inspires nightmares…and still it is funny. Some folks are settling down into the rooms as the one-hour delay ticks by, and an attendant comes and delivers small pillows, sheets, and threadbare blankets. My threesome is still waiting to see who our mystery roommate will be.
Eventually a group of five Indian men arrive, and the other four start good-naturedly ribbing the guy who drew the short straw and is stuck with us. He’s a great big bear of a man, but smiles wanly and just stacks his small bag on our huge pile, and kicks off his shoes to sit cross legged on the lower bunk across from me. Once the train starts moving, the doors are slid shut, and the big guys proceeds to pull, like a rabbit from a hat, several aluminum foil containers of food we never saw he had. His selections are quite pungent, to say the least. The three of us have made a Jonestown-like pact to swallow Ambien at the same time so we can sleep through the night, and now is the time since the guy has a several course meal ahead. He burps and champs his way through what must have been an enjoyable repast, and eventually kicks off his shoes to sleep…snoring and farting through the night. We have quieted down since his arrival, as if the teacher walked into class and all horsing around ceases immediately, but one of us barely stifles a giggle and it gets us all going.
In the morning, familiar sleepy faces pop out to the tight hallway as we see the dramatically altered landscape whizzing by. Rolling hills of khaki sand, scrubby trees, and grey-green thorn bushes with which we’ll grow all too familiar. Someone spots eagles in the trees, and an occasional peacock appears bobbing along. Villages of sandstone and mud buildings and what must certainly be cinder block and cement (though it is all sand colored) roll by and we make a few brief stops at some of them. As the sun is still on its upward way, we arrive in Bikaner and detrain.
The day before we are to leave on this all night escapade, a Delhi to Pakistan train is the target of a terrorist attack—bombs, death, injuries. It is all over CNN in the hotel, but none of us mentions it. I think it is more alarming for Bob back home than it is for us…what is it about lightning never striking the same place twice?
We drive for hours to get to the station late at night. The train, meant to leave at 11:20PM, eventually leaves an hour late. When we climb down from our bus, dozens of men of all ages who seem to live in the parking lot descend upon the bus to help unload and porter our bags to the outdoor platform. The bus driver chooses two or three of what seem to be the oldest and feeblest men to put our gigantic and ridiculously heavy bags on their turban-wrapped heads to stagger up over the elevated stairwell and back down to the center train platform. We were standing around in the gloom on the ill-lit platform with distantly spaced bare bulbs for several minutes before our eyes adjusted and somebody noticed the cow just a few yards away, apparently waiting for her own train.
We are divided into groups of four for our sleeping cabins, with at least one man assigned to each cabin supposedly for safety, which in a group of eleven women and three guys is hard, but our handler who will get us as far as Bikaner is in one of the cabin groups. My group, consisting of Rebecca, Marianne, and myself are in a cabin together. We think the arrangement of just three of us with some extra space sounds sweet…until we learn that a stranger will be joining us for the night. Our bags are put into the cabins for us and we follow. A couple of our groups have boarded before the three of us, and sidled down the narrow passage…we can hear their laughter. Once we get to the sliding steel door of our cabin we know why. It feels like prison—our bags take up all of the floor space under and between the berths, which are plywood planks folded down from the wall with a vinyl pad over them. Two curtained windows are at the end and the space between the stacked berths left and right is about a foot. We can do nothing but laugh, and everyone starts roaming from cabin to cabin like kids who just got their camp assignments, making faces and jokes and sharing the thinly disguised horror that this is where we’ll sleep. Some disguises are thinner than others. It’s actually not that bad, but we ramp each other up feeding off the energy, and everyone bonds over it a bit. Our laughter is redoubled once the first person comes back with a report from the toilet closet at the end of the car, and we all trot down to see and gasp. It is an all steel room with a hole in the floor that opens to the track below, but has not seen the business end of a scrub brush for quite some time. Every surface inspires nightmares…and still it is funny. Some folks are settling down into the rooms as the one-hour delay ticks by, and an attendant comes and delivers small pillows, sheets, and threadbare blankets. My threesome is still waiting to see who our mystery roommate will be.
Eventually a group of five Indian men arrive, and the other four start good-naturedly ribbing the guy who drew the short straw and is stuck with us. He’s a great big bear of a man, but smiles wanly and just stacks his small bag on our huge pile, and kicks off his shoes to sit cross legged on the lower bunk across from me. Once the train starts moving, the doors are slid shut, and the big guys proceeds to pull, like a rabbit from a hat, several aluminum foil containers of food we never saw he had. His selections are quite pungent, to say the least. The three of us have made a Jonestown-like pact to swallow Ambien at the same time so we can sleep through the night, and now is the time since the guy has a several course meal ahead. He burps and champs his way through what must have been an enjoyable repast, and eventually kicks off his shoes to sleep…snoring and farting through the night. We have quieted down since his arrival, as if the teacher walked into class and all horsing around ceases immediately, but one of us barely stifles a giggle and it gets us all going.
In the morning, familiar sleepy faces pop out to the tight hallway as we see the dramatically altered landscape whizzing by. Rolling hills of khaki sand, scrubby trees, and grey-green thorn bushes with which we’ll grow all too familiar. Someone spots eagles in the trees, and an occasional peacock appears bobbing along. Villages of sandstone and mud buildings and what must certainly be cinder block and cement (though it is all sand colored) roll by and we make a few brief stops at some of them. As the sun is still on its upward way, we arrive in Bikaner and detrain.
MEETING
It is easy to recognize the large, handsome man who is waiting for us since we’ve all explored the Relief Riders website ad nauseum. Alexander Souri is waiting in long linen Kurta Pajama shirt and a white shawl thrown dramatically over his shoulder. He guesses each of us correctly as we get off the train onto the cement platform. Alexander is the organizer and founder and creator of this whole adventure. 36, a resident of Massachusetts (and looking to buy property in Jaipur, India), born to a father of Indian descent and French mother (she was a race car driver, he did several things I can’t remember, but one of them was date Deborah Harry and perform in a band with her long before the Blondie days). Alexander is tall and stupidly handsome, and able to pull off some interesting wardrobe choices and make them look good (after a while I even begin to covet a swooping draped shawl to throw dramatically over my shoulders…but it would never work for me…sadly I’d look less like a young sheik and more like a community theatre version of Meryl Streep in The French Lieutenant’s Woman). Alexander is enigmatic and works pretty hard, at first, at creating and maintaining mystery. This is confronting to some, and annoying to others, but grows on us. He smiles knowingly instead of answering questions, nods to questions that can’t be answered by a nod. He doles out morsels of information, but rarely enough to satiate the thirst for “What will we be doing” so that we all, eventually, learn to let go. Before we can let go, we have to go through being frustrated, and Alexander, Buddha-like, just smiles as he sizes us up. It is Alexander's intention that each person have their own journey, and that it unfold for them in an individual and unforced way. To many of us, it feels like manipulation until we learn to surrender...surrendering is, of course, a skill I've never had. Simultaneously, he is fantastically funny and acerbic and dry—first to mock himself and anyone else within range. I, who can never usually get enough of being a smartass, am even occasionally taken aback when he whispers sarcastic jibes in my ear at ostensibly serious moments (at medical camps, gatherings of important mucky-mucks, etc) but being that kid in school, I quickly fall into a tit-for-tat volley of inappropriate murmured comments.
MEAL FIT FOR A KING
We climb into two vans and make our bumpy way to an over-the-top hotel, Lakshmi Villas, formerly a Maharaja’s Palace, for a buffet breakfast. There are huge gardens and courtyards surrounding this giant, ornately carved sandstone building. The breakfast room and hallways are festooned with colonial era memorabilia and framed historic photographs of tiger hunts and war campaigns and meals with world dignitaries. There is no shortage of stuffed animal heads on walls, and there is even a “Game Room” with dozens of “trophies” including so, so, so many tiger pelts with growling heads still attached.
Our buffet is fine—a buffet is a buffet to my mind, but we are all glad to be sitting, drinking coffee (some of the last real brewed coffee we’ll get) and really meet Alexander. Shortly we bid farewell to luxury and the turbaned, curly-toe-shoed doorman, and get in our vans for more bumpy transport. Can I just say that, if I can’t make the shawl work, I am desperate for curly-toed shoes? There is one shop I get to much later in the trip that has several pair, but none of them fit me. I think I could rock a turned up toe like nobody’s business, but sadly, the soles of my shoes remain, to this day, steadfastly on the ground.
Over three weeks in India, I can count on one hand the number of women I’ve seen driving a car or motorbike. As you move farther and farther away from large metropolitan areas, caste system and gender roles become more and more pronounced, increasingly staid and traditional. I was under the mistaken and naïve impression that the caste system was a thing of the past. I knew that the lowest caste, the untouchables, were renamed “Children of God” but that had little effect on the hierarchy. It is fascinating that nobody seems at odds with the system. It is just for this lifetime, why worry? There are so many more lifetimes to come. No struggle against oppression. To my frame of mind it astounds me to know that an untouchable is not even supposed to let their shadow touch that of a member of a higher caste. The stables where our horses are based make it a particular, and controversial policy to hire untouchables, precisely BECAUSE it is such a difficult life. We are told that many Indian nationals would refuse to ever get on a horse that was saddled by an untouchable, and it would be unthinkable to eat food prepared by them. It never becomes clear to me how you know another’s caste standing, though some have black symbols and marks between their brows that I am told are caste markings, but certainly not everyone has these. Sex roles, too are so very rigid. Rural women keep heads and frequently faces covered. Men are affectionate together, walking hand-in-hand or arm-in-arm, hugging. Westerners don’t recognize the ease of men together and overlay a sexual connotation that is not part of it. The sexes aren’t allowed to intermingle, so affection is very free and easy. As a Westerner, I have to learn NOT to extend my hand in greeting to an Indian woman or physically interact with the opposite sex.
Rajasthani men, the vast majority of boys and young men, at least, wear earrings in both pierced ears. Almost always it is the “Rajasthan Flower” which I am told is the symbol of the region. Like when we were little kids and drew flowers by scribbling concentric loops into a larger circle, many of this design have what appear to be rubies or diamonds—always red and white—I presume, perhaps erroneously, that they must be glass chips since these guys live off the land as goatherds or are unemployed, all dwelling in tiny villages. The staff working with us for the ride has them, and most of them are untouchables. Many women are also pierced in noses and ears, but on them I don’t see the flower design, just simple studs. Though to be honest, women’s ears are regularly covered by veils.
Our buffet is fine—a buffet is a buffet to my mind, but we are all glad to be sitting, drinking coffee (some of the last real brewed coffee we’ll get) and really meet Alexander. Shortly we bid farewell to luxury and the turbaned, curly-toe-shoed doorman, and get in our vans for more bumpy transport. Can I just say that, if I can’t make the shawl work, I am desperate for curly-toed shoes? There is one shop I get to much later in the trip that has several pair, but none of them fit me. I think I could rock a turned up toe like nobody’s business, but sadly, the soles of my shoes remain, to this day, steadfastly on the ground.
Over three weeks in India, I can count on one hand the number of women I’ve seen driving a car or motorbike. As you move farther and farther away from large metropolitan areas, caste system and gender roles become more and more pronounced, increasingly staid and traditional. I was under the mistaken and naïve impression that the caste system was a thing of the past. I knew that the lowest caste, the untouchables, were renamed “Children of God” but that had little effect on the hierarchy. It is fascinating that nobody seems at odds with the system. It is just for this lifetime, why worry? There are so many more lifetimes to come. No struggle against oppression. To my frame of mind it astounds me to know that an untouchable is not even supposed to let their shadow touch that of a member of a higher caste. The stables where our horses are based make it a particular, and controversial policy to hire untouchables, precisely BECAUSE it is such a difficult life. We are told that many Indian nationals would refuse to ever get on a horse that was saddled by an untouchable, and it would be unthinkable to eat food prepared by them. It never becomes clear to me how you know another’s caste standing, though some have black symbols and marks between their brows that I am told are caste markings, but certainly not everyone has these. Sex roles, too are so very rigid. Rural women keep heads and frequently faces covered. Men are affectionate together, walking hand-in-hand or arm-in-arm, hugging. Westerners don’t recognize the ease of men together and overlay a sexual connotation that is not part of it. The sexes aren’t allowed to intermingle, so affection is very free and easy. As a Westerner, I have to learn NOT to extend my hand in greeting to an Indian woman or physically interact with the opposite sex.
Rajasthani men, the vast majority of boys and young men, at least, wear earrings in both pierced ears. Almost always it is the “Rajasthan Flower” which I am told is the symbol of the region. Like when we were little kids and drew flowers by scribbling concentric loops into a larger circle, many of this design have what appear to be rubies or diamonds—always red and white—I presume, perhaps erroneously, that they must be glass chips since these guys live off the land as goatherds or are unemployed, all dwelling in tiny villages. The staff working with us for the ride has them, and most of them are untouchables. Many women are also pierced in noses and ears, but on them I don’t see the flower design, just simple studs. Though to be honest, women’s ears are regularly covered by veils.
CATARACT EYE SURGERY CAMP IN NOKHA
Doctor Gupta and his team meet us and tell us the story of this two-day affair. In a school in the town center, villagers gather to be tested and hope to qualify for free cataract surgery. The sun in the desert is harsh, and sunglasses aren’t even a concept understood, so the occurrence of cataracts is much higher than in most populations, and medical care is difficult to come by as well as prohibitively expensive (though dirt cheap by American standards…the actual cost of cataract surgery is $65 US dollars…to be able to see! Relief Riders has teamed with a non-profit organization so if you feel like giving…tax-deductible…the “Gift of Sight” you can donate easily on the RRI website. I’ll give more information about that later, but would be honored if you were inspired to do so.)
Doctor Gupta and one other surgeon do six camps per month twelve months of the year. They can screen up to hundreds and hundreds of prospective patients and those that qualify—no diabetes, uncontrolled hypertension, high blood pressure, etc—roughly 10-15 percent of those screened, are operated on. They have screened over 275 patients in intake before we arrive, and 32 will get surgical procedures performed tonight. The others are given outpatient care and consultation…eye drops, sunglasses, eye tests, etc.
Downstairs in the school, in a large, bare, dimly lit room, patients and family members are sitting and lying on the floor like at the snowed-in airports of New York before I left. A family member or attendant is required to accompany each patient, and they will all spend the night here in this room on thin blankets spread over a cement and linoleum floor. Each admitted patient has a quadruple-blind system of marking which eye will be operated on. There is white surgical tape on the brow over the eye, a purple permanent ink mark over that same eye since in the past some patients have misunderstood and moved the tape to their “good” eye. There is more tape on the surgery-side hand and foot to be extra clear. There is palpable fear and anxiousness in the room, and it feels a bit weird and exploitative when we start snapping photos, but most, in addition to being overwhelmed, are excited and proud of the procedure they are about to have, and they enjoy posing. There is some other press there (even though I am not here as official press but simply a participant who will write about it all later for my magazine-but unlike assignments, I am prioritizing the experience over taking notes/working) A young-ish Rajasthani editor of a local (State of Rajasthan) newspaper somehow zeroes in on me though we share not a word of common language, with charades he communicates that he is writing an article on the eye camp, and presses the latest edition of his paper into my hands.
Surgeries will start this evening, and each takes 20-30 minutes. The two surgeons have the system down to an efficient art. Standing between two gurneys, a doctor will operate on the patient on the left, and as soon as he is finished will rotate the microscope/instruments to the gurney on the right where the next patient has been prepped and is ready. While he does that procedure, the other gurney will be refreshed with the next patient. Back and forth, they will work deep into the night.
OFF TO CAMP
Another bumpy van ride and we arrive, down a long dusty turnoff from a desert two-lane road, at Kaku Fort, or as one barely legible (but in English) sun-bleached sign says, Kaku Castle. This is home for the next two nights, and where we will meet our trusty steeds, who have been trucked here the 400-plus kilometers from their home base. This is the first time the Relief Ride is going so far afield. The past rides have been in the general region around Dundlod Fort, home base for the horses who are also ridden regularly by tourists on day trips or three- and four-day desert excursions. They aren’t often used for a two-week endurance ride like ours (and much later we find out that nearly half of them have never done a long endurance trip…of course, neither have we). The main building at Kaku is a cement, two-story,
multi-roomed home of sorts, with big wooden doors to simple bedrooms with en suite basic bathrooms (toilet and sink only). Inside the walled sand courtyard, there are three thatched-roof huts, with two single beds and also with basic bathrooms attached. There is also, in the same dusty courtyard, a big, round, canvas tent. While the rest of the group gets their room assignments and keys to clunky padlocks…I am told I’ll be sleeping in the tent…and oh yeah…there is a pit toilet across the courtyard behind the huts. Okey Dokey! By the way—I’ll also get to take “bucket baths” with a large bucket of hot water and a plastic dipper, while straddling the toilet hole. Awesome!
Actually I like it—in a couple of days we’ll all be in these tents, in the style of 1800’s Raj royals, so I’m getting a head start (and diffusing the drama, which I never like to do, Alexander and the two doctors are in another tent just like mine right next to my canvas home). I also get to pretend that I’m being put out and suffering, which of course, is a well-refined skill of mine. The tent is huge, five-and-a-half-foot high patterned yellow canvas walls form a circle probably twelve feet in diameter with four flap windows and an overlapping door. A high central pole peaks the roof like a circus tent. A charpoy (bed frame strung with rope or webbing that supports a cotton batting mattress) is dressed with a light quilt and sheets, and a small, lumpy pillow. There is a tiny table in the middle with a candle and roll of toilet paper, and the ubiquitous, useless, non-foaming, waxy bar of tiny pink soap that seems to be everywhere in India. A small mirror hangs on the central pole…and these are my digs.
The desert is amazing. Desert is the one ecosystem I have spent the least time exploring. This seems like Joshua Tree or the Palm Desert of California…scrubby brush, dusty powdered sand, sparse foliage that grows gray instead of green, gnarled trees with woody trunks and branches that end in clumps instead of limbs, among gently rising, windblown dunes. The terrain is arid, sandy, and “swept” feeling. I find out later that the horse company tried to dissuade Alexander from riding in this region at this time of year because daily temperatures could easily be 115 degrees Fahrenheit. It is pretty damn hot, but not that hot while we are here.
The tiny village of Kaku has loads of waving, calling children, fascinated by us—we’ve become local celebrities within minutes of arrival and all the children of the village begin to show up around the low walls of the compound and on the hill rising just outside.
JOCKEYS TO THE STARTING GATE
After a terrific lunch (all the food is terrific on this trip-more about that later) on the covered patio of the main building, we get a briefing about the horses. As time and days go on, we learn a lot more that we wish we had learned in this briefing, but the intention is to tell us about Marwari horses. They are little guys, well mares actually, all of them. This is unusual as most trail rides like this would be on gelding males for their generally better temperaments. Boy, we don’t yet realize yet the whole temperament kettle of fish that is about to be opened…like a big ol’ can of whoop ass.
The Marwari are a breed and bloodline directly descended from Indian war horses, and they are revered and respected. In many rural villages, we learn, horses are believed to be highly spiritually evolved, and we shouldn’t be surprised at the number of people, especially mothers, who will come out to see us—it is an auspicious day when you see a horse. (I feel that way too). Some mothers who are having issues with the health of their children, feel solace and cure can come just from being in the presence of a horse. The Marwari, in addition to being lean to the point of skinny (an adaptation for the grueling desert) have unique, scimitar-shaped ears that curve toward one another, the tips even touch on some horses. They are also described to us as “spirited.” Unh hunh.
After changing into our riding togs (Ooohhh, how much do I loathe riding breeches? If I wanted to wear tights, I’d dance, damnit. Having only ever ridden Western, I have no real experience with formal riding clothes or helmets. I am the only rider with no helmet (except Alexander) and that concerns a few people. If I was honest, I would have admitted to being a little concerned myself…but I wasn’t being honest about that at the time) we go out back to meet our mounts. The horses are great, if generally unaffectionate. The late afternoon sun is still very hot in the sandy, enclosed area where the horses are pegged (tied to steel stakes in the ground). Brick walls with arches surround the uneven, impromptu paddock. They are all saddled and have red and gold fabric sashes running from their necks to their chests-this is a flashy version of an actual tool (Martingale) to keep them from head-tossing. We all disperse and pet them, not knowing yet which horse is whose. They are a bit more aloof than most horses I’ve met, not particularly interested in us at all since we’re not armed with food. Sunayna, our ride manager, calls our names and we step up on the mounting block to take the saddle in turn. Small canvas saddlebags are attached so we can carry a bottle of water and a few small items (sunscreen, lip balm, camera). Several people are up and getting the feel of the pacing horses. I know I have much less experience than most of these folks, but am excited, not afraid. Eventually my name is called and I meet Manisha.
She is the only black and white, paint-patterned horse, so unlike the majority of others who have brown horses, I can always spot her in the crowd. Manisha. I am smitten immediately. God she’s gorgeous and I rub my nose against hers briefly since others are waiting to mount. We are a team made in heaven. I am such a kid about this, dancing inside (without the tights though) because I love this horse. I get my stirrups adjusted and wiggle around a bit to get used to the high backed trekking saddle, and once we are all up we head out through the large archway, past yelling, giggling kids, and into the dusty roads of Kaku village. Wait a minute—what is up?! The horses are so riled and fidgety. Head tossing and prancing and pushing into each other. We try to spread out to go two-by-two, but none of the horses is satisfied being in the rear and they try to push ahead. We make it the short distance out past homes, and the energy really blows up. Horses are crowding each other, flaring their ears back and attempting bites, kicking one another. We try to trot and many go full on cantering after mere steps. They are so small that you can wrap your legs almost all the way around them, which I do to try and hang on as Manisha goes a little nutty trying to push to the front, running right up the ass of horses in front of her. She could care less and clearly she ignores the small red ribbons tied into the tails of the “kickers.” (There are more red-ribboned tails than not, including Manisha, and she gives as good as she gets, throwing a few kicks of her own) On this short “get acquainted” ride, she and I will be kicked, hard, three times. Once to her face/jaw, once to her chest, and at the very end of the ride, once to my foot/ankle. This will become a habit as Manisha, at the walk, trot, or canter, casually brushes the horse ahead’s tail with her nose. WOW they are unmanageable, or barely manageable. We have been matched by skill and experience to our horses, and while not everyone is having a hard time, even some of the most experienced riders are seriously challenged. While I don’t have a ton of riding experience under my belt, I’ve never had a horse even half as challenging as Manisha. The breed’s trot is so tiny and jumpy we all try various coping strategies, to sit it out or do crazy-fast posting, trying to find the rhythm. The Marwari have an extra gait, a very fast trot that actually smoothes out, that you sit out and thrust your legs forward before they will hit this stride. Manisha and I only get to this gait once, some never feel it.
These horses have not been ridden for two weeks so they will be “fresh” for our endurance ride, and they were trucked for seven hours to get to our remote starting point. In addition to being a bit too “fresh” we only learn afterward that when these horses were bought in market, most horse traders use a very cruel, harsh, spiked bit to show potential buyers how “responsive” they are—when actually they are in quite a bit of pain. Because of this they are very mouth tender, even with the gentle snaffle bits they have worn ever since, they do not respond well to rein pressure. Coincidentally, their competitive nature and “spiritedness” means they need a lot of rein. If one runs, they all bolt (or try to). The day’s ride of a few hours is invigorating and daunting—I think all of us are surprised at just how very hard we had to work. My biceps are exhausted from trying to hold her back, and my embarrassment at not doing it well makes me much more tense than either of us wants me to be. Each of us has “a lot of horse” for our experience level. I begin to think my skill level is zero. The second half of the ride is much better, but truly exhausting. There is a lot of exhilaration and nervousness in the group after we dismount. I pretty much decide that even though I’m clumsy and pathetic, that since she and I calmed a bit by the end of the ride that we are just getting to know one another and will be BFFs by tomorrow.
My very favorite among dozens of stuffed animals I had as a kid, was Roger, a black and white paint pony large enough to sit on and straddle. He had a rubber head and soulful painted eyes, with a plush body and a plastic saddle I lost early on. The saddle was replaced with black duct tape wrapping Roger’s middle like a corset. God I loved that horse. He looked an awful lot like Manisha.
We get back to the fort and gather for tea. We’ve all been bounced around a bit but are fine—a few kicks and startles—but fine. I will find that I am not as leg sore as I predicted since the stature of the Marwari is so small. We collapse into the plastic chairs and sip chai or instant coffee (I will become a chai fiend on this trip, and not the sickly sweet bastardization mauled by Starbucks). One-by-one or two-by-two we drift away to our rooms, huts, or tents to change, take a bucket bath, etc, then reconvene under the unflattering fluorescence on the patio, where the bar is open! Vodka, rum, whiskey, local beer (Kingfisher) and wine (I was afraid to try) is available, with a few mixer options. We quickly learn the unparalleled beauty of Limca, a lime soda that is more tart than flat out sweet, as a mixer for vodka or rum. Ahhhh Limca-how I miss it, and preferred it to the gaggingly-sweet cola, Thums Up.
As darkness fell, unseen villagers beyond the walls began drumming and chanting. It adds an amazing flavor to the night. MaryAnne and Odile wander into the village to join and dance with them. These two are amazing like that. Good friends and former neighbors, Odile speaks predominantly French and is from Belgium (though her English is great) and Mary Anne is salt of the earth Southern from Georgia with that easy, that lovely essence and sensibility. Odile is an expert horseperson, rides a lot, and owns horses. The two of them regularly leave the group to find unique adventures—in Delhi they wandered in to a Jain temple near closing and were invited to join the evening meal…here they wandered off to dance and sing with the village…later they would find astounding off-the-hook bargains at textile shops they rooted out…on the Holi holiday they struck out alone and were invited into a private home to dance and celebrate with a local family. I’m jealous of their experiences as they truly make this trip their own.
Sunayna proves one of the most remarkable women…during the days, her long hair is plaited into a single braid down the middle of her back, a few undisciplined hairs always blowing out wildly. It’s hard to imagine anything undisciplined around Sunayna. She runs a tight ship. She and the boys on the riding crew wear military uniforms, not because they are military, but, as she says, “Sometimes out in the field on back roads, if something goes wrong, the uniform helps get the respect of the people around and they listen to you.” Along with the efficiency she demands of the boys, and because things run so smoothly, the work is accompanied by lots of laughter and joking, much of it inspired by the joking of this Queen Bee. At night she lets down her hair and wears a pink kurta, and tells us fascinating stories about the culture with her genuinely funny sense of humor—she is our main source of history and cultural awareness as well as some strong politics. She explains some of the more foreign concepts of the caste system. Later, a conversation I only hear part of is all about the struggles across the border with Pakistan, and how frustrating Indians found the intrusion of Madeleine Albright and Colin Powell…from our perspective they helped stop a war…from India’s perspective, they got in the way. It was to be a “good” war, a tidy affair, over and done with quickly. Now, with the interference of the U.S. the situation was delayed and the lid slammed down on a kettle that is boiling even stronger as time goes by. The war that will eventually happen will be much, much worse. Fascinating. I wish I’d been there for the entire discussion.
Dinner is fantastic, and the group drifts away exhausted and excited that the voyage has genuinely begun. Some are still wrestling with jetlag, so sleep is elusive or spotty. I stay up long after most others, talking to Alexander and Doc and staring at the stars. “Doc” Vinoy Singh is an Ayurvedic healer, and laughing cherub of a man. He occasionally pulls doctor duty at camps and schools, but mostly seems to be there to play the funny man role, and keep up the spirits. In Shakespearean drama, the character of “The Fool” is often the wisest on the stage, able to impart wisdom with a spoonful of laughing sugar, which makes the medicine go down more easily. He makes me laugh a lot, and I respond warmly to his irreverence. I shuffle off to my tent and I decide not to risk sleeplessness and take Ambien and dream the heavy dreams of the exhausted…and dream of Bob and Porter and home…and dream of Manisha…
The Marwari are a breed and bloodline directly descended from Indian war horses, and they are revered and respected. In many rural villages, we learn, horses are believed to be highly spiritually evolved, and we shouldn’t be surprised at the number of people, especially mothers, who will come out to see us—it is an auspicious day when you see a horse. (I feel that way too). Some mothers who are having issues with the health of their children, feel solace and cure can come just from being in the presence of a horse. The Marwari, in addition to being lean to the point of skinny (an adaptation for the grueling desert) have unique, scimitar-shaped ears that curve toward one another, the tips even touch on some horses. They are also described to us as “spirited.” Unh hunh.
After changing into our riding togs (Ooohhh, how much do I loathe riding breeches? If I wanted to wear tights, I’d dance, damnit. Having only ever ridden Western, I have no real experience with formal riding clothes or helmets. I am the only rider with no helmet (except Alexander) and that concerns a few people. If I was honest, I would have admitted to being a little concerned myself…but I wasn’t being honest about that at the time) we go out back to meet our mounts. The horses are great, if generally unaffectionate. The late afternoon sun is still very hot in the sandy, enclosed area where the horses are pegged (tied to steel stakes in the ground). Brick walls with arches surround the uneven, impromptu paddock. They are all saddled and have red and gold fabric sashes running from their necks to their chests-this is a flashy version of an actual tool (Martingale) to keep them from head-tossing. We all disperse and pet them, not knowing yet which horse is whose. They are a bit more aloof than most horses I’ve met, not particularly interested in us at all since we’re not armed with food. Sunayna, our ride manager, calls our names and we step up on the mounting block to take the saddle in turn. Small canvas saddlebags are attached so we can carry a bottle of water and a few small items (sunscreen, lip balm, camera). Several people are up and getting the feel of the pacing horses. I know I have much less experience than most of these folks, but am excited, not afraid. Eventually my name is called and I meet Manisha.
She is the only black and white, paint-patterned horse, so unlike the majority of others who have brown horses, I can always spot her in the crowd. Manisha. I am smitten immediately. God she’s gorgeous and I rub my nose against hers briefly since others are waiting to mount. We are a team made in heaven. I am such a kid about this, dancing inside (without the tights though) because I love this horse. I get my stirrups adjusted and wiggle around a bit to get used to the high backed trekking saddle, and once we are all up we head out through the large archway, past yelling, giggling kids, and into the dusty roads of Kaku village. Wait a minute—what is up?! The horses are so riled and fidgety. Head tossing and prancing and pushing into each other. We try to spread out to go two-by-two, but none of the horses is satisfied being in the rear and they try to push ahead. We make it the short distance out past homes, and the energy really blows up. Horses are crowding each other, flaring their ears back and attempting bites, kicking one another. We try to trot and many go full on cantering after mere steps. They are so small that you can wrap your legs almost all the way around them, which I do to try and hang on as Manisha goes a little nutty trying to push to the front, running right up the ass of horses in front of her. She could care less and clearly she ignores the small red ribbons tied into the tails of the “kickers.” (There are more red-ribboned tails than not, including Manisha, and she gives as good as she gets, throwing a few kicks of her own) On this short “get acquainted” ride, she and I will be kicked, hard, three times. Once to her face/jaw, once to her chest, and at the very end of the ride, once to my foot/ankle. This will become a habit as Manisha, at the walk, trot, or canter, casually brushes the horse ahead’s tail with her nose. WOW they are unmanageable, or barely manageable. We have been matched by skill and experience to our horses, and while not everyone is having a hard time, even some of the most experienced riders are seriously challenged. While I don’t have a ton of riding experience under my belt, I’ve never had a horse even half as challenging as Manisha. The breed’s trot is so tiny and jumpy we all try various coping strategies, to sit it out or do crazy-fast posting, trying to find the rhythm. The Marwari have an extra gait, a very fast trot that actually smoothes out, that you sit out and thrust your legs forward before they will hit this stride. Manisha and I only get to this gait once, some never feel it.
These horses have not been ridden for two weeks so they will be “fresh” for our endurance ride, and they were trucked for seven hours to get to our remote starting point. In addition to being a bit too “fresh” we only learn afterward that when these horses were bought in market, most horse traders use a very cruel, harsh, spiked bit to show potential buyers how “responsive” they are—when actually they are in quite a bit of pain. Because of this they are very mouth tender, even with the gentle snaffle bits they have worn ever since, they do not respond well to rein pressure. Coincidentally, their competitive nature and “spiritedness” means they need a lot of rein. If one runs, they all bolt (or try to). The day’s ride of a few hours is invigorating and daunting—I think all of us are surprised at just how very hard we had to work. My biceps are exhausted from trying to hold her back, and my embarrassment at not doing it well makes me much more tense than either of us wants me to be. Each of us has “a lot of horse” for our experience level. I begin to think my skill level is zero. The second half of the ride is much better, but truly exhausting. There is a lot of exhilaration and nervousness in the group after we dismount. I pretty much decide that even though I’m clumsy and pathetic, that since she and I calmed a bit by the end of the ride that we are just getting to know one another and will be BFFs by tomorrow.
My very favorite among dozens of stuffed animals I had as a kid, was Roger, a black and white paint pony large enough to sit on and straddle. He had a rubber head and soulful painted eyes, with a plush body and a plastic saddle I lost early on. The saddle was replaced with black duct tape wrapping Roger’s middle like a corset. God I loved that horse. He looked an awful lot like Manisha.
We get back to the fort and gather for tea. We’ve all been bounced around a bit but are fine—a few kicks and startles—but fine. I will find that I am not as leg sore as I predicted since the stature of the Marwari is so small. We collapse into the plastic chairs and sip chai or instant coffee (I will become a chai fiend on this trip, and not the sickly sweet bastardization mauled by Starbucks). One-by-one or two-by-two we drift away to our rooms, huts, or tents to change, take a bucket bath, etc, then reconvene under the unflattering fluorescence on the patio, where the bar is open! Vodka, rum, whiskey, local beer (Kingfisher) and wine (I was afraid to try) is available, with a few mixer options. We quickly learn the unparalleled beauty of Limca, a lime soda that is more tart than flat out sweet, as a mixer for vodka or rum. Ahhhh Limca-how I miss it, and preferred it to the gaggingly-sweet cola, Thums Up.
As darkness fell, unseen villagers beyond the walls began drumming and chanting. It adds an amazing flavor to the night. MaryAnne and Odile wander into the village to join and dance with them. These two are amazing like that. Good friends and former neighbors, Odile speaks predominantly French and is from Belgium (though her English is great) and Mary Anne is salt of the earth Southern from Georgia with that easy, that lovely essence and sensibility. Odile is an expert horseperson, rides a lot, and owns horses. The two of them regularly leave the group to find unique adventures—in Delhi they wandered in to a Jain temple near closing and were invited to join the evening meal…here they wandered off to dance and sing with the village…later they would find astounding off-the-hook bargains at textile shops they rooted out…on the Holi holiday they struck out alone and were invited into a private home to dance and celebrate with a local family. I’m jealous of their experiences as they truly make this trip their own.
Sunayna proves one of the most remarkable women…during the days, her long hair is plaited into a single braid down the middle of her back, a few undisciplined hairs always blowing out wildly. It’s hard to imagine anything undisciplined around Sunayna. She runs a tight ship. She and the boys on the riding crew wear military uniforms, not because they are military, but, as she says, “Sometimes out in the field on back roads, if something goes wrong, the uniform helps get the respect of the people around and they listen to you.” Along with the efficiency she demands of the boys, and because things run so smoothly, the work is accompanied by lots of laughter and joking, much of it inspired by the joking of this Queen Bee. At night she lets down her hair and wears a pink kurta, and tells us fascinating stories about the culture with her genuinely funny sense of humor—she is our main source of history and cultural awareness as well as some strong politics. She explains some of the more foreign concepts of the caste system. Later, a conversation I only hear part of is all about the struggles across the border with Pakistan, and how frustrating Indians found the intrusion of Madeleine Albright and Colin Powell…from our perspective they helped stop a war…from India’s perspective, they got in the way. It was to be a “good” war, a tidy affair, over and done with quickly. Now, with the interference of the U.S. the situation was delayed and the lid slammed down on a kettle that is boiling even stronger as time goes by. The war that will eventually happen will be much, much worse. Fascinating. I wish I’d been there for the entire discussion.
Dinner is fantastic, and the group drifts away exhausted and excited that the voyage has genuinely begun. Some are still wrestling with jetlag, so sleep is elusive or spotty. I stay up long after most others, talking to Alexander and Doc and staring at the stars. “Doc” Vinoy Singh is an Ayurvedic healer, and laughing cherub of a man. He occasionally pulls doctor duty at camps and schools, but mostly seems to be there to play the funny man role, and keep up the spirits. In Shakespearean drama, the character of “The Fool” is often the wisest on the stage, able to impart wisdom with a spoonful of laughing sugar, which makes the medicine go down more easily. He makes me laugh a lot, and I respond warmly to his irreverence. I shuffle off to my tent and I decide not to risk sleeplessness and take Ambien and dream the heavy dreams of the exhausted…and dream of Bob and Porter and home…and dream of Manisha…
FEBRUARY 23, 2007
I’m up at 6:00 with the peacocks screaming. I go out in the pre-dawn before seeing any of the group (though the kitchen crew has been up and working for a while now) to scratch Manisha and give her a treat. She could care less about the treat, but it makes me feel good and ready for the day.
On camp mornings, free from the tyranny of the alarm clock and snooze button, I was usually up and out of my tent before the sun. Sunrise in the desert was neither dramatic nor as spectacular as I’d hoped it would be. The big yellow ball simply came up, instantly hot. There was no gradual warming. It was cold in the shady dawn light as we held plastic mugs of chai or instant coffee in both hands trying to steal some warmth, and mere minutes after being lit by the sun’s rays, we were peeling off layers.
At a big breakfast, all of us who had read about the digestive dangers of, and vowed to avoid, fresh fruit in India, plow into fresh fruit, local goat’s milk for cereal, and every other food rule we would have shuddered at just a day or two ago. The food we eat at camp, a minimum of four hot dishes each lunch and dinner, often more as well as rice and chappatis, rain or shine, is brilliant. 90% of the offerings are vegetarian. Occasionally, one of the stainless steel pots is said to contain “meat” occasionally called “mutton” but it is an improper translation since they don’t eat sheep in this area. There is a very high meat-to-gristle ratio in the “meat” making me opt out most often, deciding it is more trouble than it was worth when eating by firelight from my lap. The curries and stews are always a shade of yellow. “As you move west,” says Sunayna, “The food turns red and gets hotter…and the people drink more alcohol.”
We’re headed west.
Three of us walk into the village to explore and look around. We are like the Pied Piper and curious kids swarm around us, more and more as they call to neighbors and friends to come look at the funny strangers.
There are “STD” signs on several small buildings, barely-there shops. Someone suggested they may be clinics devoted to the treatment of sexually transmitted diseases. If only…they are actually signs for public telephones. You pay rupees to a guy in charge, though not necessarily found easily or even close by, and then you make your call. The language barrier is the only privacy afforded. Someone making a call is news in the village and brings in a crowd…the children’s gossip grapevine is much faster than any intercontinental telephone connection.
Indian children are breathtakingly beautiful. I am interested that some of the children have light, auburn hair. One person told us this is from malnutrition, but Dr. Arora (our Red cross representative that accompanies us…the gentlest. Most soft-spoken man in the world) says it has nothing to do with diet, but is just a natural difference. What is NOT natural is the red hennaed hair of some of the men, dramatic red streaks or Lucille Ball-colored beards paired with jet-black hair. There is more of this in larger towns, and nothing is remotely natural or casual looking about it—it is clearly to draw attention. There is a definitely men’s beauty industry and vanity trade in this country…the men are like the peacocks. Many men dye to cover gray. In one tiny village pharmacy window I see a multi-package display of “WORLDLY MAN” complexion lightening cream and several brands of hair color for men.
We return by jeep to the cataract surgery camp to see all the patients post-op. Each that we met yesterday now has a big bandage over one eye. They are spoken to (translated for us) and given directions for post-operative care and discharged with sunglasses (a true rarity here-I never saw any other sunglasses except our own) and instructions that will be difficult to follow, including “Don’t get any dust or dirt in the eye.” What? Have you seen where we are? I can’t keep the dust and dirt from MY eyes and my sunglasses never leave my nose.
Back to home base for lunch, and another evening ride, much the same as yesterday’s. The horses are still riled but we are expecting it this time, so overall it went better. One runaway with Mary Ann, but she came back around skillfully. Rebecca gives me some very helpful hints. These horses, unlike the ones I ride at home, respond extremely to lower leg pressure. As the horse bolts, the instinct is to clamp down, and since they are so tiny, you can really grab on with your calves…which in fact signals them to go faster, so I’m giving mixed messages with my legs saying “run, run” while my hands pulling back (and quivering, nervous voice) are saying “whoa, whoa.” I consciously work on going against instinct and using absolutely no lower leg cues, and it has a great effect.
The evening and huge dinner is relaxed and our laughter grows as the group bonds more and more.
An earlier bedtime for me, but fitful sleep. A wild pig gets into the bushes inside or just outside of camp near my tent, sounding like quite the monster, adding to weird dreams and the all-night serenade of barking dogs in the distance.
On camp mornings, free from the tyranny of the alarm clock and snooze button, I was usually up and out of my tent before the sun. Sunrise in the desert was neither dramatic nor as spectacular as I’d hoped it would be. The big yellow ball simply came up, instantly hot. There was no gradual warming. It was cold in the shady dawn light as we held plastic mugs of chai or instant coffee in both hands trying to steal some warmth, and mere minutes after being lit by the sun’s rays, we were peeling off layers.
At a big breakfast, all of us who had read about the digestive dangers of, and vowed to avoid, fresh fruit in India, plow into fresh fruit, local goat’s milk for cereal, and every other food rule we would have shuddered at just a day or two ago. The food we eat at camp, a minimum of four hot dishes each lunch and dinner, often more as well as rice and chappatis, rain or shine, is brilliant. 90% of the offerings are vegetarian. Occasionally, one of the stainless steel pots is said to contain “meat” occasionally called “mutton” but it is an improper translation since they don’t eat sheep in this area. There is a very high meat-to-gristle ratio in the “meat” making me opt out most often, deciding it is more trouble than it was worth when eating by firelight from my lap. The curries and stews are always a shade of yellow. “As you move west,” says Sunayna, “The food turns red and gets hotter…and the people drink more alcohol.”
We’re headed west.
Three of us walk into the village to explore and look around. We are like the Pied Piper and curious kids swarm around us, more and more as they call to neighbors and friends to come look at the funny strangers.
There are “STD” signs on several small buildings, barely-there shops. Someone suggested they may be clinics devoted to the treatment of sexually transmitted diseases. If only…they are actually signs for public telephones. You pay rupees to a guy in charge, though not necessarily found easily or even close by, and then you make your call. The language barrier is the only privacy afforded. Someone making a call is news in the village and brings in a crowd…the children’s gossip grapevine is much faster than any intercontinental telephone connection.
Indian children are breathtakingly beautiful. I am interested that some of the children have light, auburn hair. One person told us this is from malnutrition, but Dr. Arora (our Red cross representative that accompanies us…the gentlest. Most soft-spoken man in the world) says it has nothing to do with diet, but is just a natural difference. What is NOT natural is the red hennaed hair of some of the men, dramatic red streaks or Lucille Ball-colored beards paired with jet-black hair. There is more of this in larger towns, and nothing is remotely natural or casual looking about it—it is clearly to draw attention. There is a definitely men’s beauty industry and vanity trade in this country…the men are like the peacocks. Many men dye to cover gray. In one tiny village pharmacy window I see a multi-package display of “WORLDLY MAN” complexion lightening cream and several brands of hair color for men.
We return by jeep to the cataract surgery camp to see all the patients post-op. Each that we met yesterday now has a big bandage over one eye. They are spoken to (translated for us) and given directions for post-operative care and discharged with sunglasses (a true rarity here-I never saw any other sunglasses except our own) and instructions that will be difficult to follow, including “Don’t get any dust or dirt in the eye.” What? Have you seen where we are? I can’t keep the dust and dirt from MY eyes and my sunglasses never leave my nose.
Back to home base for lunch, and another evening ride, much the same as yesterday’s. The horses are still riled but we are expecting it this time, so overall it went better. One runaway with Mary Ann, but she came back around skillfully. Rebecca gives me some very helpful hints. These horses, unlike the ones I ride at home, respond extremely to lower leg pressure. As the horse bolts, the instinct is to clamp down, and since they are so tiny, you can really grab on with your calves…which in fact signals them to go faster, so I’m giving mixed messages with my legs saying “run, run” while my hands pulling back (and quivering, nervous voice) are saying “whoa, whoa.” I consciously work on going against instinct and using absolutely no lower leg cues, and it has a great effect.
The evening and huge dinner is relaxed and our laughter grows as the group bonds more and more.
An earlier bedtime for me, but fitful sleep. A wild pig gets into the bushes inside or just outside of camp near my tent, sounding like quite the monster, adding to weird dreams and the all-night serenade of barking dogs in the distance.
FEBRUARY 24, 2007
The Muslim call to prayer by the local muezzin echoes over the desert in the still-cool dawn.
Our huge day, one of a few, is today. We’ll ride to the next camp, getting our act together and taking it on the road… We will ride 3 ½ hours in the morning, break for lunch and naps in the rare, tiny patches of shade on the sandy ground. The horses are unsaddled and fed and watered. Then we ride 3 or more hours in the afternoon, sitting out the hottest hours of midday.
Manisha and I are getting to know one another much better, but I’m still no expert. She is only happy when pushing to the front of the pack at a swift, extended canter—almost a gallop. She is deaf to my “Whoa”s but does begin to respond to the kissing noises I hear the grooms making to calm the most riled ones. So when we ride right up a red-ribbon bedecked ass, if I pull back easily on the reins and kiss, she actually backs off for a split second or two, enough to get a sliver of air space between us and the next horse.
The characteristics of sand in these giant dunes are not discernible from those of water. Color is the only distinguishing factor. Here the grains of hot sand undulate in waves and tiny ripples moved and re-shaped by the wind.
Weeks after my return, someone forwarded to me a photo of the horses that had been digitally converted to sepia tone, like an old tintype print. It seemed somehow truer to the desert’s color than all of the colored photos I had seen or that were stored on my camera.
Occasionally we would ride past a twisted Banyan tree, with red string tied around its trunk—these were holy trees, natural shrines and worshipped. The desert days were so quiet—the huffing of the horses, the creak of saddle leather, our laughter broken by long spells of each of us in a reverie of observant awe or exhaustion, or both. This is hard. Traveling in completely foreign circumstance reminds me how very much there is to discover about myself and the world—so much unlearned—I long to be home while simultaneously wishing Bob and I had no jobs or responsibilities and could just explore. Everyone wishes the mundane episodes of life could be balanced by peak experiences, but like the poor in Delhi, I have seen enough to know exactly what I do not have (mostly that is time), so I wish for it more fervently. Had I never tasted travel, I would not be this hungry. I sometimes ache with the appetite.
It is too hot for birds, insects, anything to add a layer to the sands absorbing silence…except children. It’s a mystery how even the screeching peacocks were too oppressed by the heat of midday to scream, but little barefoot children never tired of tottering after us, well past the range of their lonely mud-walled homes, squeaking “Ta-ta, ta-ta.” At first, none of us knowing these words, we answered back cheerfully, “Ta-ta!” taking a gloved hand from reins to wave. Only later, after several days of ta-ta-ing, were we told it means “old ones.”
The second half of our day’s ride, after lunch and napping on skinny nylon camp pads in the scrub amid a wide peppering of goat droppings (and having to hike for a bit to find anywhere not in open sightlines to use as an impromptu bathroom bush) we are ascending a bit through hillier ground and a few passes where the earth cleaves. We summit what seems to be the high horizon and it opens into completely barren sand dunes. This is the Hollywood/Lawrence of Arabia version of a desert with gentle sandy rises and the only pattern is the ripples of windblown sand. We’ve left the sticker bushes and knobby thorn trees behind. This alien landscape holds us rapt, as thunder begins to rumble way off in the distance. Clouds are congealing into a gray but not threatening mass ahead over the rise. Too soon, we break around a bend and begin our descent into the valley below and back into the same flora of before. Now our vision extends far across the valley and we see the clouds have truly gathered into jumbled gray masses…and the occasional thunder rumble makes us begin to respond with an “Uh Oh” or two. We are exhausted and thinking surely the ride has to end soon for the day, it will be getting dark soon. A flame orange sun pokes out from under the bottom edge of clouds, glowing just above the horizon before us. Our horses are picking their steps carefully and are mostly mellow at the end of this long day. We shed sunglasses that now darken the area too much for comfort, working our way down the hills. The storm is gathering momentum, and now we can see an occasional lightning flash sparkle on the darkening horizon. The thunder, thankfully, doesn’t spook the horses too much, though I think we were all anticipating it might as it picks up in frequency and is clearly much closer to us.
We finally arrive at a long stone wall in the middle of seemingly nowhere on the level valley floor. The wall has a large archway in it, and a whitewashed structure or two to one side. This is Tantwas, our camp spot/first village. Waiting for us at the gateway, is the village (maybe 20 people) with large drums, finger cymbals, dancing women and chanting men, plus three men on a stone platform near the wall with antique-looking rifles, all presided over by Banver Singh, The Thakur of Tantwas. There really ought to be background music every time the Thakur of Tantwas is mentioned—he is such a character…and to say he is a character is as understated as saying our horses were “spirited.”
The drumming ramps up a bit and the twirling/dancing follows suit as we are instructed to line up our horses facing the wall. The thunder and lightning add a little something to the show, and the horses are beginning to dance a bit. Manisha is relatively calm, but some are getting skittish. Groom staff members come and hold the bridles and help us to line up. A man with a tray of small brass pots and rice comes along the line and gives each of us, and each of our horses, Puja.
Puja is a blessing of good luck, usually signified by a thumbprint of red paste on the forehead (third eye) with lucky rice grains stuck to the smear. Our horses and we are red-dotted, it is getting dark, and the Hemingway-esque Thakur Sahib with his one rheumy eye (he lost the other in the war), orange turban, and old rifle slung over his shoulder pulling the white gauzy fabric of his khurta across his considerable belly, mounts the stone platform with his gunmen. Drumming increases, competing with the thunder. We’re told to shorten our reins and hold on, as the three gunmen are about to salute us. Drums, thunder, and now guns…not a recipe for calm mellow horses. Only two guns fire, the third fizzle in sparks. Manisha is brilliant and I’ve been stroking her neck the whole time to try and instill any sense of calm amid the mounting chaos. Some horses spook. The crowd is loud and the thunder is getting huge, real explosive claps now instead of rumbling. We are told to follow the dancing girls and our host who has mounted a horse and holds his sabre aloft as he leads us single file through the archway to the open field that is our first remote camp. The tents have all been set up and a campfire can be seen in the middle. The women dance, drummers drum and promenade, and we slowly follow on our prancing, nervous mounts. We make it to the horse’s area where they will stay and have not even dismounted when the sky opens up and we are pelted with a ferocious load of hail. The horses don’t understand why they’re being hit and everyone is frantic trying to untack them and blanket them. There is a loud smack fairly often of hailstones hitting riding helmets. I don’t have a helmet so I get pinged on the head a few times, and damnit, it hurts. One of the horses breaks free and runs a bit, but not far. We all bolt once the horses are taken over by the staff, and we pile into the nearest tent. It is Alexander’s and the doctors’—the closest we could find. Someone lights the sole candle and we can only laugh, and chow down on a box of chocolate candy Alexander had stashed.
As the hail lets up to a softer rain, we find our own tents in the dark. Villagers are re-stoking the campfire and it is flaring up casting some light to make it easier. We change into dry clothes and wander to the dining/bar tent. This extra tent is our communal space with plastic chairs and a table set up. We eat most meals outside, weather permitting, but can always hang out here. We all have drinks. Barry had been thrown from his horse today (apparently just for the grievous sin of opening his water bottle—a noise that his particular horse cannot abide, and she reared HiHo Silver-style, sliding him right off the back) so he has to buy a round. There is a small dog-eared book in which each of us has a page and we write down our drinks throughout the trip and settle up later. There is, in addition to the vodka, whiskey, rum, etc a bottle of Indian moonshine—several of us give it a try. It is like grain alcohol with a bit of orange essence. One small glass is enough and I go back to vodka.
There is a ceremony of sorts beginning outside, so we head out to the now quite large fire where the chairs have been set up in a crescent around one side. On the other side of the fire are twenty or so villagers, smiling and singing and seemingly fascinated by us, as we are by them. There is a troupe of performers beginning. An old bearded man in full red regalia—long coat/skirt over pants, and turban—occasionally whirls like a dervish as drumming and singing find cohesion in the group. His skirt, as he twirls, flicks the flames.
One man, seemingly the troupe leader, squats low by a small double cauldron of glowing embers over which he chants and pours oil. Blessings? The old man now has added a long whip to his spinning dance. Younger men dance up to him, arms raised, and he whips them around their torsos to much hurrah-ing. Next he dances with a sword, swinging it overhead, dangerously close to us, as it all gets a bit sloppier with our drinking (and theirs as well, I’m quite sure). He licks the (supposedly) sharp blade edge for more cheers. We, of course, cheer and clap for every little thing as well. It is celebratory and resembles a freaky acid trip from a 1970’s movie scene with the golden flickering light, the frenzied drumming soundtrack, the real or imagined threat of drunk men showing off with weapons…and the Thakur of Tantwas peering from the shadows behind the gathered villagers.
The fire attendant/oil libations man sits closer to the fire’s edge now and fishes from the embers small, seemingly red hot coals, which he places on a small dirt mound he has built up. One of the frenzied dancers, evidently working himself into a trance of sorts, stoops down and takes the ember between his teeth and parades around the circle. This is done again and again with many coals of uniform shape fished from the fire. After many rounds of coal chewing and cheering, a smallish, dinner-fork sized trident is waved around by the old red man with much fanfare, then he proceeds to tower over the kneeling, fire eating dancer, and thrusts the sharpened handle end through the man’s tongue, piercing it. Again, the rather proud and gory sight is paraded around in front of us—his eyes rolled back into his head, tongue bleeding. All this time, and it is considerable, the same three-beat drum tune drones on and on. More dancing, rupee notes waved over our heads as a blessing (and as a cue for tips). The tip pan comes around, money goes in, and then, funnily, it is counted out in front of the crowd. More drumming and singing and we drift off, one by one, to the dining tent for a late dinner.
The rain has drizzled a bit off and on all night, but it is pleasant as overwhelmed and full-bellied riders make their way to their tents for the first camp night’s sleep. I am up around the all-but-dead fire with Alexander, Doc, and Caroline…and Alexander gets the idea he’d like to try to hold a hot coal in his teeth. We encourage him as only the foolish can, and I mound up some dirt, fish a small ember from the pit, and place it for him. With some trepidation he does it and is elated—totally high on having done something he thought he couldn’t do.
The next half hour is spent with him trying to encourage us to do it too. It is a playground game with him trying several strategies from suggesting we are cowards, to it being an honor thing, to a flat out dare (the most effective for me). Finally we go and wake up Rebecca, thinking, like the LIFE Cereal commercial, we’ll get the young one to do it…and she does, without a lot of thought or drama. Eventually we all hold hot glowing coals in our teeth, forming one of those stupid but ridiculously fun group trip alliances that happen very late at night after many drinks and exhausting days. I eventually go to bed, licking my teeth for signs of burned enamel crumbling away in the night.
I find when I hang out with Alexander, trading sarcastic murmured banter or just stories, I feel like I am back in high school or college where I tended to always be the mouthy sidekick to the laughably handsome leading man, cracking wise and basking in the deferred glow of being buddies with the Big Man on Campus. Of course, I judge myself stupid for seeking this for the first few days, and I stop trying to create ways to hang out with anyone in particular and instead look for situations to unfold unforced, finding the greatness of spending time with each person who crosses my path. I had thought Alexander might be a more streamlined channel INTO the experience…that I could glean from him some secret to make me fully part of what was going on. I wanted a shortcut to the enlightenment I had already decided was available to me on this journey, forgetting or intentionally ignoring the knowledge that we all have to get there on our own.
Our huge day, one of a few, is today. We’ll ride to the next camp, getting our act together and taking it on the road… We will ride 3 ½ hours in the morning, break for lunch and naps in the rare, tiny patches of shade on the sandy ground. The horses are unsaddled and fed and watered. Then we ride 3 or more hours in the afternoon, sitting out the hottest hours of midday.
Manisha and I are getting to know one another much better, but I’m still no expert. She is only happy when pushing to the front of the pack at a swift, extended canter—almost a gallop. She is deaf to my “Whoa”s but does begin to respond to the kissing noises I hear the grooms making to calm the most riled ones. So when we ride right up a red-ribbon bedecked ass, if I pull back easily on the reins and kiss, she actually backs off for a split second or two, enough to get a sliver of air space between us and the next horse.
The characteristics of sand in these giant dunes are not discernible from those of water. Color is the only distinguishing factor. Here the grains of hot sand undulate in waves and tiny ripples moved and re-shaped by the wind.
Weeks after my return, someone forwarded to me a photo of the horses that had been digitally converted to sepia tone, like an old tintype print. It seemed somehow truer to the desert’s color than all of the colored photos I had seen or that were stored on my camera.
Occasionally we would ride past a twisted Banyan tree, with red string tied around its trunk—these were holy trees, natural shrines and worshipped. The desert days were so quiet—the huffing of the horses, the creak of saddle leather, our laughter broken by long spells of each of us in a reverie of observant awe or exhaustion, or both. This is hard. Traveling in completely foreign circumstance reminds me how very much there is to discover about myself and the world—so much unlearned—I long to be home while simultaneously wishing Bob and I had no jobs or responsibilities and could just explore. Everyone wishes the mundane episodes of life could be balanced by peak experiences, but like the poor in Delhi, I have seen enough to know exactly what I do not have (mostly that is time), so I wish for it more fervently. Had I never tasted travel, I would not be this hungry. I sometimes ache with the appetite.
It is too hot for birds, insects, anything to add a layer to the sands absorbing silence…except children. It’s a mystery how even the screeching peacocks were too oppressed by the heat of midday to scream, but little barefoot children never tired of tottering after us, well past the range of their lonely mud-walled homes, squeaking “Ta-ta, ta-ta.” At first, none of us knowing these words, we answered back cheerfully, “Ta-ta!” taking a gloved hand from reins to wave. Only later, after several days of ta-ta-ing, were we told it means “old ones.”
The second half of our day’s ride, after lunch and napping on skinny nylon camp pads in the scrub amid a wide peppering of goat droppings (and having to hike for a bit to find anywhere not in open sightlines to use as an impromptu bathroom bush) we are ascending a bit through hillier ground and a few passes where the earth cleaves. We summit what seems to be the high horizon and it opens into completely barren sand dunes. This is the Hollywood/Lawrence of Arabia version of a desert with gentle sandy rises and the only pattern is the ripples of windblown sand. We’ve left the sticker bushes and knobby thorn trees behind. This alien landscape holds us rapt, as thunder begins to rumble way off in the distance. Clouds are congealing into a gray but not threatening mass ahead over the rise. Too soon, we break around a bend and begin our descent into the valley below and back into the same flora of before. Now our vision extends far across the valley and we see the clouds have truly gathered into jumbled gray masses…and the occasional thunder rumble makes us begin to respond with an “Uh Oh” or two. We are exhausted and thinking surely the ride has to end soon for the day, it will be getting dark soon. A flame orange sun pokes out from under the bottom edge of clouds, glowing just above the horizon before us. Our horses are picking their steps carefully and are mostly mellow at the end of this long day. We shed sunglasses that now darken the area too much for comfort, working our way down the hills. The storm is gathering momentum, and now we can see an occasional lightning flash sparkle on the darkening horizon. The thunder, thankfully, doesn’t spook the horses too much, though I think we were all anticipating it might as it picks up in frequency and is clearly much closer to us.
We finally arrive at a long stone wall in the middle of seemingly nowhere on the level valley floor. The wall has a large archway in it, and a whitewashed structure or two to one side. This is Tantwas, our camp spot/first village. Waiting for us at the gateway, is the village (maybe 20 people) with large drums, finger cymbals, dancing women and chanting men, plus three men on a stone platform near the wall with antique-looking rifles, all presided over by Banver Singh, The Thakur of Tantwas. There really ought to be background music every time the Thakur of Tantwas is mentioned—he is such a character…and to say he is a character is as understated as saying our horses were “spirited.”
The drumming ramps up a bit and the twirling/dancing follows suit as we are instructed to line up our horses facing the wall. The thunder and lightning add a little something to the show, and the horses are beginning to dance a bit. Manisha is relatively calm, but some are getting skittish. Groom staff members come and hold the bridles and help us to line up. A man with a tray of small brass pots and rice comes along the line and gives each of us, and each of our horses, Puja.
Puja is a blessing of good luck, usually signified by a thumbprint of red paste on the forehead (third eye) with lucky rice grains stuck to the smear. Our horses and we are red-dotted, it is getting dark, and the Hemingway-esque Thakur Sahib with his one rheumy eye (he lost the other in the war), orange turban, and old rifle slung over his shoulder pulling the white gauzy fabric of his khurta across his considerable belly, mounts the stone platform with his gunmen. Drumming increases, competing with the thunder. We’re told to shorten our reins and hold on, as the three gunmen are about to salute us. Drums, thunder, and now guns…not a recipe for calm mellow horses. Only two guns fire, the third fizzle in sparks. Manisha is brilliant and I’ve been stroking her neck the whole time to try and instill any sense of calm amid the mounting chaos. Some horses spook. The crowd is loud and the thunder is getting huge, real explosive claps now instead of rumbling. We are told to follow the dancing girls and our host who has mounted a horse and holds his sabre aloft as he leads us single file through the archway to the open field that is our first remote camp. The tents have all been set up and a campfire can be seen in the middle. The women dance, drummers drum and promenade, and we slowly follow on our prancing, nervous mounts. We make it to the horse’s area where they will stay and have not even dismounted when the sky opens up and we are pelted with a ferocious load of hail. The horses don’t understand why they’re being hit and everyone is frantic trying to untack them and blanket them. There is a loud smack fairly often of hailstones hitting riding helmets. I don’t have a helmet so I get pinged on the head a few times, and damnit, it hurts. One of the horses breaks free and runs a bit, but not far. We all bolt once the horses are taken over by the staff, and we pile into the nearest tent. It is Alexander’s and the doctors’—the closest we could find. Someone lights the sole candle and we can only laugh, and chow down on a box of chocolate candy Alexander had stashed.As the hail lets up to a softer rain, we find our own tents in the dark. Villagers are re-stoking the campfire and it is flaring up casting some light to make it easier. We change into dry clothes and wander to the dining/bar tent. This extra tent is our communal space with plastic chairs and a table set up. We eat most meals outside, weather permitting, but can always hang out here. We all have drinks. Barry had been thrown from his horse today (apparently just for the grievous sin of opening his water bottle—a noise that his particular horse cannot abide, and she reared HiHo Silver-style, sliding him right off the back) so he has to buy a round. There is a small dog-eared book in which each of us has a page and we write down our drinks throughout the trip and settle up later. There is, in addition to the vodka, whiskey, rum, etc a bottle of Indian moonshine—several of us give it a try. It is like grain alcohol with a bit of orange essence. One small glass is enough and I go back to vodka.
There is a ceremony of sorts beginning outside, so we head out to the now quite large fire where the chairs have been set up in a crescent around one side. On the other side of the fire are twenty or so villagers, smiling and singing and seemingly fascinated by us, as we are by them. There is a troupe of performers beginning. An old bearded man in full red regalia—long coat/skirt over pants, and turban—occasionally whirls like a dervish as drumming and singing find cohesion in the group. His skirt, as he twirls, flicks the flames.
One man, seemingly the troupe leader, squats low by a small double cauldron of glowing embers over which he chants and pours oil. Blessings? The old man now has added a long whip to his spinning dance. Younger men dance up to him, arms raised, and he whips them around their torsos to much hurrah-ing. Next he dances with a sword, swinging it overhead, dangerously close to us, as it all gets a bit sloppier with our drinking (and theirs as well, I’m quite sure). He licks the (supposedly) sharp blade edge for more cheers. We, of course, cheer and clap for every little thing as well. It is celebratory and resembles a freaky acid trip from a 1970’s movie scene with the golden flickering light, the frenzied drumming soundtrack, the real or imagined threat of drunk men showing off with weapons…and the Thakur of Tantwas peering from the shadows behind the gathered villagers.
The fire attendant/oil libations man sits closer to the fire’s edge now and fishes from the embers small, seemingly red hot coals, which he places on a small dirt mound he has built up. One of the frenzied dancers, evidently working himself into a trance of sorts, stoops down and takes the ember between his teeth and parades around the circle. This is done again and again with many coals of uniform shape fished from the fire. After many rounds of coal chewing and cheering, a smallish, dinner-fork sized trident is waved around by the old red man with much fanfare, then he proceeds to tower over the kneeling, fire eating dancer, and thrusts the sharpened handle end through the man’s tongue, piercing it. Again, the rather proud and gory sight is paraded around in front of us—his eyes rolled back into his head, tongue bleeding. All this time, and it is considerable, the same three-beat drum tune drones on and on. More dancing, rupee notes waved over our heads as a blessing (and as a cue for tips). The tip pan comes around, money goes in, and then, funnily, it is counted out in front of the crowd. More drumming and singing and we drift off, one by one, to the dining tent for a late dinner.
The rain has drizzled a bit off and on all night, but it is pleasant as overwhelmed and full-bellied riders make their way to their tents for the first camp night’s sleep. I am up around the all-but-dead fire with Alexander, Doc, and Caroline…and Alexander gets the idea he’d like to try to hold a hot coal in his teeth. We encourage him as only the foolish can, and I mound up some dirt, fish a small ember from the pit, and place it for him. With some trepidation he does it and is elated—totally high on having done something he thought he couldn’t do.
The next half hour is spent with him trying to encourage us to do it too. It is a playground game with him trying several strategies from suggesting we are cowards, to it being an honor thing, to a flat out dare (the most effective for me). Finally we go and wake up Rebecca, thinking, like the LIFE Cereal commercial, we’ll get the young one to do it…and she does, without a lot of thought or drama. Eventually we all hold hot glowing coals in our teeth, forming one of those stupid but ridiculously fun group trip alliances that happen very late at night after many drinks and exhausting days. I eventually go to bed, licking my teeth for signs of burned enamel crumbling away in the night.I find when I hang out with Alexander, trading sarcastic murmured banter or just stories, I feel like I am back in high school or college where I tended to always be the mouthy sidekick to the laughably handsome leading man, cracking wise and basking in the deferred glow of being buddies with the Big Man on Campus. Of course, I judge myself stupid for seeking this for the first few days, and I stop trying to create ways to hang out with anyone in particular and instead look for situations to unfold unforced, finding the greatness of spending time with each person who crosses my path. I had thought Alexander might be a more streamlined channel INTO the experience…that I could glean from him some secret to make me fully part of what was going on. I wanted a shortcut to the enlightenment I had already decided was available to me on this journey, forgetting or intentionally ignoring the knowledge that we all have to get there on our own.
FEBRUARY 25, 2007
The day dawns bright in camp, and we have our first camp breakfast. Morning meals are at a long table surrounded by beige molded plastic chairs (one of which blows into the campfire in a windstorm resulting in a charred, barely standing version) and the table is set with a thin tablecloth, salt and pepper, and a jar or two of hot pepper chutney and pickled relish. It can never be spicy enough for some. For lunches and dinners, we balance plates on our knees, usually around the campfire, the folding tables now used as the bar. As we are finishing breakfast, some dancing women and two boy musicians arrive to play and dance for us. 
The deep colors of the women’s saris are a huge contrast to the shades of beige and tan surrounding us: crimson, bubblegum pink, spring green. Of the four dancers, maybe two seem to want to be there, the other two are obliging if not joyous, but the theme of the dancing is not necessarily celebratory. We are told that one of the dances that is very inward and introspective, danced by what seems to be the leader, is in fact, “dancing her day.” The stylized motions and graceful movements are the chores and tasks of her everyday life; cooking, gathering items from around her, carrying water, praying. It is fascinating because it seems so private, like we are voyeurs just for watching this performance. We receive Puja again to bless our endeavors and it is all a beautiful start to the day.
We jump into the jeeps, some of us jammed into back, seat-less sections so we can all go, and arrive in a small village near well housed in an ornate shrine being built/repaired, with many stone blocks surrounding the incomplete structure. The Thakur and the same dancers and musicians from camp are there. A large blanket is spread on the ground and villagers have begun to gather. Many women and children are at a distance on a raised stone level, not part of the event, but enjoying the spectacle.
The Thakur, full of pomp and circumstance (as usual) reads the names of 30 or so families—the lowest income families in the village (they have been vetted ahead of time so both local political parties are equally served, and each has a government certificate of “BPL” or Below Poverty Line). A representative member from each family, mostly men and one or two very old women, take a spot on the blanket. They wait quite patiently, staring at us, most of us clicking pictures frenziedly. They seem uncertain, but surely have been told why we are there and the purpose of this informal ceremony. We are told that in the small domed structure with the loose grid of sticks door covering, that a local goatherd has already brought 30 milking goats, some with kids, here. Each of us in turn goes to the hut as the Thakur bellows a villager’s name out. They stand, and we lead our goat, by hook or by crook (more like by ear or by horn—though I notice how the boys assisting us are doing it—grabbing by the scruff of the neck like a kitten, and find it pretty easy and inspiring less laughter than the folks being fought and dragged) in front of the crowd, and present the goat to the villager. They are extremely grateful—a goat can radically alter a family’s livelihood. One of the elder women who is evidently extremely crippled (I’m sure that’s not the correct term—one leg is noticeably shorter than the other and secured in an elaborate cage/splint/crutch contraption) falls down when she grabs her goat. She laughs at herself with a warm, beaming smile, which diffuses the tension from when she first stumbled.
After all the goats are distributed (all females for milk) dancing and frivolity ensue. An old turbaned man with a face like a roadmap starts swinging around a cutlass blade (he may have been one of last night’s performers—nobody seems quite sure) being daring as he swipes it over our heads.
The crowd steps back to give his stumbling drunkenness a bit of room. He grabs Lisa from the group to dance with him—she gamely complies as he holds her hands in his while still clutching the sword, and spins her around faster and faster—her balance is better than his and he nearly wipes out. The colorfully sari’d women dance some more. The Thakur, also with a few drinks in him (I’m told that is his standard operating procedure from waking until passing out at night) begins to throw his weight around, literally. He is rubbing his large belly and someone translates how that is how we know he is the leader—he is the fat one. I am standing next to him, so stick out my belly as far as I can (sadly not a huge challenge for me any more) and rub it with the same Snidely Whiplash evil cackle/laugh the Thakur is doing—not mocking, just comparing. He thinks it is hilarious and claps me on the shoulder, Hail Fellow Well Met-style. We could easily be in a pub in Ireland. We eventually are called back to the jeeps and drive away in the dust as kids run chasing and yelling after us.
The deep colors of the women’s saris are a huge contrast to the shades of beige and tan surrounding us: crimson, bubblegum pink, spring green. Of the four dancers, maybe two seem to want to be there, the other two are obliging if not joyous, but the theme of the dancing is not necessarily celebratory. We are told that one of the dances that is very inward and introspective, danced by what seems to be the leader, is in fact, “dancing her day.” The stylized motions and graceful movements are the chores and tasks of her everyday life; cooking, gathering items from around her, carrying water, praying. It is fascinating because it seems so private, like we are voyeurs just for watching this performance. We receive Puja again to bless our endeavors and it is all a beautiful start to the day.We jump into the jeeps, some of us jammed into back, seat-less sections so we can all go, and arrive in a small village near well housed in an ornate shrine being built/repaired, with many stone blocks surrounding the incomplete structure. The Thakur and the same dancers and musicians from camp are there. A large blanket is spread on the ground and villagers have begun to gather. Many women and children are at a distance on a raised stone level, not part of the event, but enjoying the spectacle.
The Thakur, full of pomp and circumstance (as usual) reads the names of 30 or so families—the lowest income families in the village (they have been vetted ahead of time so both local political parties are equally served, and each has a government certificate of “BPL” or Below Poverty Line). A representative member from each family, mostly men and one or two very old women, take a spot on the blanket. They wait quite patiently, staring at us, most of us clicking pictures frenziedly. They seem uncertain, but surely have been told why we are there and the purpose of this informal ceremony. We are told that in the small domed structure with the loose grid of sticks door covering, that a local goatherd has already brought 30 milking goats, some with kids, here. Each of us in turn goes to the hut as the Thakur bellows a villager’s name out. They stand, and we lead our goat, by hook or by crook (more like by ear or by horn—though I notice how the boys assisting us are doing it—grabbing by the scruff of the neck like a kitten, and find it pretty easy and inspiring less laughter than the folks being fought and dragged) in front of the crowd, and present the goat to the villager. They are extremely grateful—a goat can radically alter a family’s livelihood. One of the elder women who is evidently extremely crippled (I’m sure that’s not the correct term—one leg is noticeably shorter than the other and secured in an elaborate cage/splint/crutch contraption) falls down when she grabs her goat. She laughs at herself with a warm, beaming smile, which diffuses the tension from when she first stumbled.After all the goats are distributed (all females for milk) dancing and frivolity ensue. An old turbaned man with a face like a roadmap starts swinging around a cutlass blade (he may have been one of last night’s performers—nobody seems quite sure) being daring as he swipes it over our heads.
The crowd steps back to give his stumbling drunkenness a bit of room. He grabs Lisa from the group to dance with him—she gamely complies as he holds her hands in his while still clutching the sword, and spins her around faster and faster—her balance is better than his and he nearly wipes out. The colorfully sari’d women dance some more. The Thakur, also with a few drinks in him (I’m told that is his standard operating procedure from waking until passing out at night) begins to throw his weight around, literally. He is rubbing his large belly and someone translates how that is how we know he is the leader—he is the fat one. I am standing next to him, so stick out my belly as far as I can (sadly not a huge challenge for me any more) and rub it with the same Snidely Whiplash evil cackle/laugh the Thakur is doing—not mocking, just comparing. He thinks it is hilarious and claps me on the shoulder, Hail Fellow Well Met-style. We could easily be in a pub in Ireland. We eventually are called back to the jeeps and drive away in the dust as kids run chasing and yelling after us.
THAKUR’S MUSEUM
The Thakur’s house is the sole offering of shade in the area and is filled, both low-slung stories, with remnants and detritus of his many raids across the border to Pakistan. Each item is available, for a price, from jelly jar glasses to horse tack to tiny intricate snuff bottles to an impressive array of daggers and hand weapons and an entire cupboard of opium pipes. The Thakur is likened to Robin Hood, robbing from border towns in Pakistan and bringing the wealth back to his villages. His heyday was clearly some time ago and his one remaining, rheumy, hooch-reddened eye seems perpetually wistful for a time gone by. When he unlocks and opens the heavy, hobnailed door to the house, the coolness rushes out into the afternoon, accompanied by the smell of old books and heat-rotting leather. It is not an unpleasant aroma—the lack of moisture or humidity doesn’t allow mold or mildew—just the dust of time, blown off in puffs from items picked up and examined. He is proud and quiet, fairly beaming with his hands clasped behind his back and tarnished rifle he still wears, prodigious belly leading the way. For some unknown reason, he lasers in on me for a bit, determined to show me every piece of glass he has, spread throughout several cramped rooms.
A young attendant, maybe his son, accompanies us and translates—barely—with an occasional single word but mostly a pretty passable skill with Charades. A thumb up to his mouth and tipped back to show me that yes, indeed, that whiskey bottle is a whiskey bottle. Mimed uncorking and deep inhalation for a perfume bottle. The pantomime of pouring in case I couldn’t work out the purpose of a cut crystal cordial glass. I appreciate the help but have zero interest in the glass items. I am intrigued for a bit by tiny snuff dispensers like pepper shakers for a minuscule monkey made of bone and metalwork, crystals studding one or two of them. Caroline finds an elephant bone opium pipe she goes back for the next day. Everyone but Charlene and I has left, and the two of us stay much longer, examining each faded item. The son calls me into a back bedroom where he reaches under the bed to pull out a hinged black leather box the size of a saxophone case that he opens reverently to show off clearly valuable jewelry. Large matching bracelets and anklets, jeweled earrings and nose rings, nothing he can sell me, but I love feeling like I’m in the inner sanctum. It seems like days before Charlene and I go out into the blinding day and walk back to the flat, treeless camp area, followed by a pack of playful children, who were waiting for us.
A young attendant, maybe his son, accompanies us and translates—barely—with an occasional single word but mostly a pretty passable skill with Charades. A thumb up to his mouth and tipped back to show me that yes, indeed, that whiskey bottle is a whiskey bottle. Mimed uncorking and deep inhalation for a perfume bottle. The pantomime of pouring in case I couldn’t work out the purpose of a cut crystal cordial glass. I appreciate the help but have zero interest in the glass items. I am intrigued for a bit by tiny snuff dispensers like pepper shakers for a minuscule monkey made of bone and metalwork, crystals studding one or two of them. Caroline finds an elephant bone opium pipe she goes back for the next day. Everyone but Charlene and I has left, and the two of us stay much longer, examining each faded item. The son calls me into a back bedroom where he reaches under the bed to pull out a hinged black leather box the size of a saxophone case that he opens reverently to show off clearly valuable jewelry. Large matching bracelets and anklets, jeweled earrings and nose rings, nothing he can sell me, but I love feeling like I’m in the inner sanctum. It seems like days before Charlene and I go out into the blinding day and walk back to the flat, treeless camp area, followed by a pack of playful children, who were waiting for us.
SHE RAN CALLING WILDFIRE
Since it is Sunday, we can’t do a school visit as would happen on most Relief Ride itineraries after the goats, so we have a mellow afternoon at camp. Barry teaches some kids to juggle plastic bags filled with fists full of sand, Odile and Mary Anne play and sing with kids, Lisa is taking photos. Several people nap or read in or just outside their tents, grabbing shade wherever it can be found. In the late afternoon, we’ll go for a 3-hour fun ride.
Life has decided to teach me the lesson: BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR (grammatically incorrect though it is). Barry and I had been grumbling to each other that we wanted to go at a faster pace. We had been divided into two groups, an advanced rider group, and the rest of us. For a while we were called the fast group and the slow group, but those of us in the slow group preferred the impatient ones, and the Zen group. Well, I was feeling like Zen was getting a little dull, but I knew I didn’t have the riding chops to be with the fast group. I asked Alexander and Prakash (the riding leader/guide of our slower group) if there was any possible way we could create a small third group to fit somewhere in the middle. Alexander said we couldn’t—there weren’t enough walkie talkies, or even guides to split into three groups, but he would encourage quickening the pace for the Zen gang.
Well, this was my big day for drama. Manisha, who always wants to find the hole and get out in front of the group to run, cantered up extremely fast on Curtis’ ass (an ass that resulted in a severe kick just a couple of days ago) so I pulled her to the outside. We were spread out wider than we should have been, instead of in some semblance of a line, and all order disintegrates at a run. As soon as Manisha saw open space in front of her, she took off like a shot and ran away with me. I had to grab saddle and just hold on, terrified, but the fear occurred in the moment as anger—anger at myself for not being a better horseman. Like when time slows down during a car accident, I had what seemed like many moments to have several very clear thoughts in what was in actuality a short burst of time.
I’m told we were quite a sight—me screaming “MANIIIIIIISSSSSSHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAA” as we went up a small hillock, then disappeared into a ravine. Everyone was sure I had fallen off and they were getting ready to come after me when we popped up on the far side of the ravine, with me bouncing around on top like Yosemite Sam in a cartoon. They got a bit of a chuckle as I grew smaller on the horizon, Manisha still tearing out hell for leather. We dropped out of sight again into another, further ravine, then popped up again a bit further. At the lip of the third gully, there was a smallish rock between the two bushes we were heading toward, so she took a jump over it and down the side. At the bottom of this dry riverbed, we surprised two camels that took off lumbering away and Manisha decided to give chase. They split up and she pursued one, then switched direction and went after the other. Now I’m off of her, I figured, as she shifted direction so quickly, but somehow, through no skill of mine, my ass stayed glued to the saddle. She gave up on the camels and we bounded up the far side of the gully. We continued on a bit before the terrain opened up enough for me to turn her in a wide, wide circle and get her heading back to the group. She never slowed. We went back in the direction of the group that I couldn’t really see clearly, down and up and down and up and down and up again, we were off course but turned to the gang, and she charged even faster at the other horses, then just pulled up and danced a bit, amped and over-excited. Prakash grabbed her reigns, and up ran another couple of staff members—by then the jeep had caught up to the group.
In hindsight, it was amazing. The sound of hoofbeats loud in my ears, or maybe that was my heart racing. I physically could not unclench my hands afterward. I was so tense and full of adrenaline I was shaken and shaking and trying to keep my cool, but decided I needed to get off and ride in the jeep.
This killed me. Dr. Arora, Sunayna, and a couple of grooms in the jeep were all very kind and the other riders were very supportive, making me a hero instead of a fool, but I still only felt the fool. As one of the staff rode Manisha back to camp with the group (we had maybe an hour’s ride left) and we followed in the jeep, tears were always at the brim, ready to spill over, my throat sore in that little-boy-stifling-the-crying way. Had we crossed paths with the group in our jeep as the mellow end of the ride wound up, I think I would have gotten back on once I caught my breath, but the opportunity didn’t present itself. We drove back to camp and I waited in the tie up area for Manisha to return so I could brush her out and somehow apologize to her/myself for not handling it well. As the group rode in, dusk had set in, but I kept my sunglasses on and walked away so everyone wouldn’t feel the need to talk about it. I had to wait forever for her to dry before I could brush her, growing ever more emotional, beating myself up. I was petting her and kissing her and just wanting to bond, though she was ambivalent. I didn’t want to see a soul.
Eventually, while I was still waiting for her to dry and petting, talking, snuggling her, Barry made the long trek out from the tent area to see me. I truly didn’t want anyone there, but it was actually perfect. He and Susan are both great, and just a few days in I already cared very much for them. He just came out to tell me a funny story and a dumb joke and spend a little time being quiet. Then he left me alone with my horse. It shifted everything.
Later I skulked back to camp and into my tent to change, off to the latrines to splash water on my face, then joined the group at the campfire. I was applauded. Drinks were bought for me. My drama was only dramatic to me—nobody else particularly cared, as long as I was all right…and nor should they have.
Life has decided to teach me the lesson: BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR (grammatically incorrect though it is). Barry and I had been grumbling to each other that we wanted to go at a faster pace. We had been divided into two groups, an advanced rider group, and the rest of us. For a while we were called the fast group and the slow group, but those of us in the slow group preferred the impatient ones, and the Zen group. Well, I was feeling like Zen was getting a little dull, but I knew I didn’t have the riding chops to be with the fast group. I asked Alexander and Prakash (the riding leader/guide of our slower group) if there was any possible way we could create a small third group to fit somewhere in the middle. Alexander said we couldn’t—there weren’t enough walkie talkies, or even guides to split into three groups, but he would encourage quickening the pace for the Zen gang.
Well, this was my big day for drama. Manisha, who always wants to find the hole and get out in front of the group to run, cantered up extremely fast on Curtis’ ass (an ass that resulted in a severe kick just a couple of days ago) so I pulled her to the outside. We were spread out wider than we should have been, instead of in some semblance of a line, and all order disintegrates at a run. As soon as Manisha saw open space in front of her, she took off like a shot and ran away with me. I had to grab saddle and just hold on, terrified, but the fear occurred in the moment as anger—anger at myself for not being a better horseman. Like when time slows down during a car accident, I had what seemed like many moments to have several very clear thoughts in what was in actuality a short burst of time.
I’m told we were quite a sight—me screaming “MANIIIIIIISSSSSSHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAA” as we went up a small hillock, then disappeared into a ravine. Everyone was sure I had fallen off and they were getting ready to come after me when we popped up on the far side of the ravine, with me bouncing around on top like Yosemite Sam in a cartoon. They got a bit of a chuckle as I grew smaller on the horizon, Manisha still tearing out hell for leather. We dropped out of sight again into another, further ravine, then popped up again a bit further. At the lip of the third gully, there was a smallish rock between the two bushes we were heading toward, so she took a jump over it and down the side. At the bottom of this dry riverbed, we surprised two camels that took off lumbering away and Manisha decided to give chase. They split up and she pursued one, then switched direction and went after the other. Now I’m off of her, I figured, as she shifted direction so quickly, but somehow, through no skill of mine, my ass stayed glued to the saddle. She gave up on the camels and we bounded up the far side of the gully. We continued on a bit before the terrain opened up enough for me to turn her in a wide, wide circle and get her heading back to the group. She never slowed. We went back in the direction of the group that I couldn’t really see clearly, down and up and down and up and down and up again, we were off course but turned to the gang, and she charged even faster at the other horses, then just pulled up and danced a bit, amped and over-excited. Prakash grabbed her reigns, and up ran another couple of staff members—by then the jeep had caught up to the group.
In hindsight, it was amazing. The sound of hoofbeats loud in my ears, or maybe that was my heart racing. I physically could not unclench my hands afterward. I was so tense and full of adrenaline I was shaken and shaking and trying to keep my cool, but decided I needed to get off and ride in the jeep.
This killed me. Dr. Arora, Sunayna, and a couple of grooms in the jeep were all very kind and the other riders were very supportive, making me a hero instead of a fool, but I still only felt the fool. As one of the staff rode Manisha back to camp with the group (we had maybe an hour’s ride left) and we followed in the jeep, tears were always at the brim, ready to spill over, my throat sore in that little-boy-stifling-the-crying way. Had we crossed paths with the group in our jeep as the mellow end of the ride wound up, I think I would have gotten back on once I caught my breath, but the opportunity didn’t present itself. We drove back to camp and I waited in the tie up area for Manisha to return so I could brush her out and somehow apologize to her/myself for not handling it well. As the group rode in, dusk had set in, but I kept my sunglasses on and walked away so everyone wouldn’t feel the need to talk about it. I had to wait forever for her to dry before I could brush her, growing ever more emotional, beating myself up. I was petting her and kissing her and just wanting to bond, though she was ambivalent. I didn’t want to see a soul.
Eventually, while I was still waiting for her to dry and petting, talking, snuggling her, Barry made the long trek out from the tent area to see me. I truly didn’t want anyone there, but it was actually perfect. He and Susan are both great, and just a few days in I already cared very much for them. He just came out to tell me a funny story and a dumb joke and spend a little time being quiet. Then he left me alone with my horse. It shifted everything.
Later I skulked back to camp and into my tent to change, off to the latrines to splash water on my face, then joined the group at the campfire. I was applauded. Drinks were bought for me. My drama was only dramatic to me—nobody else particularly cared, as long as I was all right…and nor should they have.
SCHOOL DAZE
FEBRUARY 26, 2007
Finally, we get to our first school, where we will provide de-worming medication to every student, and supply each student with pencil, eraser, ruler, pencil box, coloring crayons and coloring book, and a writing pad/memo book. The school principals are also presented with globes, wall maps, plastic playground toys (soccer balls and baseball balls and bats), a game table, and a large woven blanket for kids to sit on instead of the dirt. Each school we visit is different, but several have no desks, electricity, or much of anything. The cinderblock rooms appear not to be classrooms, but storage. Lessons, outside in the shadeless, hot, dirt lot, are mostly oral since pencils and paper are scarce, if existent at all.
We arrive by jeep at this first school (we become old pros by the end of the trip, but at this first school, we have to pretty much invent the wheel).
Maybe 250 kids ranging from 4-15 years old, are patiently waiting for us, assembled and sitting on the ground in rows on large kilim rugs. Our large, damp, bursting-at-the-seams cardboard boxes are unloaded, and part of our group begins setting up supply stations so the kids will run a gauntlet, down the line and stopping at each person to get a pencil box here, a coloring book there, etc. The pencil boxes each need to be filled with smaller items, books stacked up, etc. 
The other members of our group set up a small table that will serve as a double-sided drug dispensary. Before the kids get the supplies, they pass on one side or the other of this table to get a de-worming medication dose: liquid for the tiny kids, a pill for the older ones. The table is set with water jugs and pitchers and boxes and boxes of single-dose pharmaceuticals.
Once we are finally ready, we sit in folding chairs in a row before the children. Alexander introduces each of us in turn, and we each say a little something, from “Stay in school” to “It is a great honor to be here and meet you” to “It is hot here and snowing where I live.” It feels like it goes on for hours, and if I’m this bored, the kids must be comatose. Each time we speak, Sunayna has to translate.
Finally the students are sent through our system, one row at a time. They don’t know what they are swallowing, but most do so without protest. I am handing out pencil boxes, and kneel down on the ground to look each one in the eyes. It is profound. They are confused and grateful, a bit scared and fascinated and excited. Honestly…so are we. It is a tremendously gratifying exchange, and the children are the most beautiful beings I’ve ever seen.
After the long process, they sing for us, and a few shy girls get up to do a dance. We belch out a sad, lurching version of “You Are My Sunshine” to try and give back something (Lynn has a beautiful voice, but the rest of us…uhhh…not so much). Once all is done, it takes a long time for us to leave—none of us wants to get back in the jeeps, and every child wants to wave, shake hands, and pose for pictures—especially once we start showing them their images in the LED screens of our digital cameras. I truly love this element of the trip and we will visit many schools, eventually treating 1,150 children.
Finally, we get to our first school, where we will provide de-worming medication to every student, and supply each student with pencil, eraser, ruler, pencil box, coloring crayons and coloring book, and a writing pad/memo book. The school principals are also presented with globes, wall maps, plastic playground toys (soccer balls and baseball balls and bats), a game table, and a large woven blanket for kids to sit on instead of the dirt. Each school we visit is different, but several have no desks, electricity, or much of anything. The cinderblock rooms appear not to be classrooms, but storage. Lessons, outside in the shadeless, hot, dirt lot, are mostly oral since pencils and paper are scarce, if existent at all.
We arrive by jeep at this first school (we become old pros by the end of the trip, but at this first school, we have to pretty much invent the wheel).
Maybe 250 kids ranging from 4-15 years old, are patiently waiting for us, assembled and sitting on the ground in rows on large kilim rugs. Our large, damp, bursting-at-the-seams cardboard boxes are unloaded, and part of our group begins setting up supply stations so the kids will run a gauntlet, down the line and stopping at each person to get a pencil box here, a coloring book there, etc. The pencil boxes each need to be filled with smaller items, books stacked up, etc. 
The other members of our group set up a small table that will serve as a double-sided drug dispensary. Before the kids get the supplies, they pass on one side or the other of this table to get a de-worming medication dose: liquid for the tiny kids, a pill for the older ones. The table is set with water jugs and pitchers and boxes and boxes of single-dose pharmaceuticals.Once we are finally ready, we sit in folding chairs in a row before the children. Alexander introduces each of us in turn, and we each say a little something, from “Stay in school” to “It is a great honor to be here and meet you” to “It is hot here and snowing where I live.” It feels like it goes on for hours, and if I’m this bored, the kids must be comatose. Each time we speak, Sunayna has to translate.
Finally the students are sent through our system, one row at a time. They don’t know what they are swallowing, but most do so without protest. I am handing out pencil boxes, and kneel down on the ground to look each one in the eyes. It is profound. They are confused and grateful, a bit scared and fascinated and excited. Honestly…so are we. It is a tremendously gratifying exchange, and the children are the most beautiful beings I’ve ever seen.
After the long process, they sing for us, and a few shy girls get up to do a dance. We belch out a sad, lurching version of “You Are My Sunshine” to try and give back something (Lynn has a beautiful voice, but the rest of us…uhhh…not so much). Once all is done, it takes a long time for us to leave—none of us wants to get back in the jeeps, and every child wants to wave, shake hands, and pose for pictures—especially once we start showing them their images in the LED screens of our digital cameras. I truly love this element of the trip and we will visit many schools, eventually treating 1,150 children.
DOWN FOR THE COUNT
Barry grumbled a bit last night about maybe coming down with something, but didn’t make a big deal of it. We joked that he just needed a stiff drink or three. This morning, he woke up feeling very ill, but since this was our first school, he really wanted to go, even if he couldn’t fully participate. He looked like hell, but trudged along. He stayed in the jeep and tried to sleep a bit (in full, beating sun). We found out this next bit later.
At some point while we were doing our thing with the kids, he needed to get up, feeling nauseous, so he hobbled around behind the school building to pee…and only remembers waking up on the ground in a small pool of his own blood. He grappled his
way back around to the front of the building, and, luckily, was first spotted by Charlene (the ER doctor in our group) who takes him into a dark classroom where several people attend to him. Most of us had no idea, including Susan, his wife. It is a while, too long, before she is told what has happened. Barry develops, over the next few days, two black eyes and a very cut up, probably broken, nose. Evidently he fainted and fell face first. His flu and massive dehydration pass by the next day, but he spends the next many hours back at camp with Susan in the calm shade alongside of the Thakur’s house. Charlene goes over to check on him several times, and a doctor is summoned from another village, who wants very much to give him an injection that Susan doesn’t allow (which is best, since Charlene discovers it was a diuretic—exactly the opposite of what a dehydrated man needs).
Later that day, we will relocate to a new camp, and Manisha runs away with me again—not far this time, but I’ve definitely lost my mojo—not enough confidence to hold her and correct her. I’m not having fun. When our Zen group catches up to the others, I’m planning to hop off and go in the jeep, but it becomes a big deal. Everybody in the group has a suggestion or solution. I’ll trade with you. You ride my horse. You can ride my horse, and on and on. It is sort of how it felt like I had 14 riding lessons from 14 experts after the first break. I feel guilty, but finally Alexander and I trade and I ride Sonia, his beautiful white horse. She is magnificent, and smooth as can be. She, like every horse, wants to be out front, but she is so responsive to the reins, it may well be another species of creature entirely. When we canter, it is lovely and like riding a cloud. OK, that’s right—riding is awesome!
Since things haven’t been dramatic enough—our group comes over a hillock to find the fast group gathered in a bit of a state. A dog had charged one of the guides, Dilip. His horse reared and threw him, coming down and landing on his leg. It seemed likely the leg was fractured, and eventually he was trucked to a doctor then sent home to Dundlod. It turned out not to be fractured, but when we saw him many days later, he still had a pronounced limp. While both groups were gathered, waiting for some word, or plan to form, darkness came. When Dilip was put in the jeep and driven away, we finally were allowed to continue on to camp, by moonlight. It was amazing and ethereal as the moon was so bright we could see our shadows. It seemed, in spite of the enormous drama factor, all was right. Several more dogs charged the group, barking and yipping in the darkness, but none of our horses had as extreme a reaction. We finally saw the campfires in the distance, and had an exhausted but inspired night.
We have several nights of rapidly waxing moon, fast approaching full and shaming the stars. What we give up in the myriad of stars, we gain in that gorgeous, so-bright-it-creates-shadows, blue light. Lighting designers for movies and the stage always over-blue it, trying to achieve this exact effect, this perfect, pristine light. Flashlights become redundant. The horses, especially white Sonia, glow behind the tents. While the desert days made me feel tiny, dwarfed by the sheer magnitude of open space (especially after claustrophobic Delhi), the night sky was not overwhelming. As the moon’s light brightened, the dark in the rest of the sky took on an opaque, almost textured look, more like black velvet than inky and infinite, a blanket more than a void, comforting and close enough to touch.
The nighttime sounds of camp are an odd lullaby. The munching and snorting exhalations of the horses tied to their iron stakes, an occasional hoof pawing at the ground and the billowing blow of air through nostrils while a head tosses side to side. Laughter from another tent…the distant metal clangs from the kitchen tent. Crackle of the dying campfire. As the trip goes on, the sound of coughing in various timbres and tones—all of us fighting some ailment or another if not just the dust in our noses, throats, lungs. Always laughter, though…and distant dogs barking, fighting…laughing themselves.
I had a lot of internal wrestling matches with myself at night. I’d go to bed in my tent frustrated and disappointed with myself, gritting my teeth, clenching my jaw at what an ass I was being and I seemed unable to stop. I had this know-it-all attitude, familiar, no doubt, to those who know me, and it drove me crazy with shame in immediate hindsight. Seconds after letting some idiotic, worldly, professiorial crap escape my lips, my brain would erupt with a silent groan. I seemed unable to control this selfish desire to teach, to correct people about facts I thought I knew or learned about culture, or whatever inane insight they NEVER asked for. After a campfire night of chatting, I’d rinse the toothpaste from my mouth by moonlight, spit into the desert sand behind my tent, then go to bed, read for a few minutes, blow out the candle, and stare into the darkness cursing my arrogance. Why can’t I just shut up? Be the guy who maybe knows stuff when asked, but stop lecturing. Keep my freaking pearls of wisdom to myself—nobody cares.
At some point that is not well-defined in my memory—probably half way through the trip—much of this fell away. I think as I penetrated the skin of this huge experience, and more importantly, as this huge experience penetrated the skin of me, it became enough. Just doing and being was enough. Enough without saying. Discussing. Analyzing. Interpreting. It was enough. Occasionally, it was too much. My mind finally calmed a bit. I became more hungry for the experiences than I was for figuring out the experiences. I was ravenous for it, actually. It was a huge lesson I wish I could say I took home into my world, but at least I touched it. I had it for a while so I can reference that feeling. It is enough to do it, to be it, and NOT have to tell it…(he says, writing it all down for others to read…) I am hopeless, and simultaneously hopeful that the other riders figured out a way to forgive my bloviation.
...and with the sun, the scream of the peacocks, more effective than any rooster.
FEBRUARY 27, 2007
SANDSTORM
We have to cancel this day’s ride due to a sandstorm. We had a school in the morning, and in the afternoon, it all turned beige. Cinematic and sprawling, painful in the eyes, it makes the horses and us edgy. There is no way to keep the dust away. We all retreat to our tents, but it blows almost as much inside as outside—in every crevice, every bend, every wrinkle of us and our things. Visibility is nill. Two of my tent’s bamboo perimeter poles snap. A journey to the buffeted and rocking latrine carts is a wild and unpleasant adventure. After a long early afternoon, the wind dies down, but the insane Zephyrs are replaced by fat droplets of rain that soon saturate and overrun the ground, making lakes. Jagged zippers of lightning open the sky. Thunder and lighting fill the atmosphere in every direction as it seems the storm slowly drifts over us then comes back for more. The dust that was on everything is transformed to silty mud…also on everything. Many of us had chosen this clear morning to do laundry and now all our clothes are mud-colored military fatigues.
The canvas tents, made to withstand sun more than anything else, drip and leak. All of our luggage and bedding is wet—soaked through. The smell of wet canvas is everywhere from the tents and saddlebags. Nothing is mildewy, but soaked enough to revive the lost smells of the past. It is a long, hard day and night and the rain ebbs and flows from steady to torrential, but never really stops.
A somewhat large, green-brown puddle has formed directly in front of my tent. The sound of the rain battering the drenched canvas has momentarily slowed so I go out to sit and stare. I sit under the too-narrow overlay that forms a sort of entrance way to the tent—about six feet of canvas pulled out to cover the approach, sadly it’s only two feet wide but is enough to keep the giant lingering drops from making a direct hit. I right the molded plastic chair that has blown over with no thought to the fact that it is soaked and crusted with muddy sand…so am I, so I sit. You can only get so wet and so sand-crusted and I am pretty much saturated with both. I try to see where the oversized, industrious ants I had watched before have gone, their lair was directly in the path to my front door, but the puddle has obliterated any sign of them. My mind wanders to home and the breeze rippling the surface of the Mianus River as my commuter train crosses over every day. That olive-colored water is the same shade as my puddle here—it is my moat now. I worry for the ants—isn’t that funny? I tend to love all animals, but draw the line at ants and mosquitoes…at least at home. I’ll drop everything to usher a spider outside…but now I’m worried about the ants. Did they escape the deluge and move to higher ground or were they trapped beneath the surface in a watery grave? Their lifespan is short, surely they’d never expected flooding water from the sky. The villagers who have spent their entire, considerably longer, lives here never expected it. There has been a drought in this area for five years–no rain—until now. Even when there was rain, years ago, it was never in late February. Do they blame us? Thank us? We begin to wonder whether the locals think these strangers on horseback whose arrival coincided with the drought-busting precipitation have brought them auspicious good luck, or a curse. We are told that this is actually worse than monsoon season, because the monsoon dumps for an hour or two then moves on.
I’m surprised the desert isn’t more absorbent. The puddles stand—I would have thought they’d be soaked up right away. At some point someone told me the water table is 600 feet deep, so it is no wonder the rare well is revered like a temple, especially when you realize you never see any equipment like trucks or bulldozers or drills—nothing more techno than a camel pulling a water tank cart. Our crew had to pick up the entire tents of Curtis & Charlene as well as the kitchen—both had been staked in low territory and flooded several inches of water. It was like watching carneys hoist a circus tent with much “Hup-Ho”ing as each man grabbed and lifted a tie line and the group shuffled, en masse, to a somewhat higher hump in the ground. Those two tents are now prime real estate, all of 6-10 inches higher than the rest of us that begin to wonder if flood waters will come for us as well. It will be days before we catch a break.
The lightning is like glowing, lit nerves in some vast network, or bright, jagged scars where it seems the sun tears through the darkness only briefly before the black heals itself again, making itself whole. I love sleeping to the sound of a storm.
We have to cancel this day’s ride due to a sandstorm. We had a school in the morning, and in the afternoon, it all turned beige. Cinematic and sprawling, painful in the eyes, it makes the horses and us edgy. There is no way to keep the dust away. We all retreat to our tents, but it blows almost as much inside as outside—in every crevice, every bend, every wrinkle of us and our things. Visibility is nill. Two of my tent’s bamboo perimeter poles snap. A journey to the buffeted and rocking latrine carts is a wild and unpleasant adventure. After a long early afternoon, the wind dies down, but the insane Zephyrs are replaced by fat droplets of rain that soon saturate and overrun the ground, making lakes. Jagged zippers of lightning open the sky. Thunder and lighting fill the atmosphere in every direction as it seems the storm slowly drifts over us then comes back for more. The dust that was on everything is transformed to silty mud…also on everything. Many of us had chosen this clear morning to do laundry and now all our clothes are mud-colored military fatigues.
The canvas tents, made to withstand sun more than anything else, drip and leak. All of our luggage and bedding is wet—soaked through. The smell of wet canvas is everywhere from the tents and saddlebags. Nothing is mildewy, but soaked enough to revive the lost smells of the past. It is a long, hard day and night and the rain ebbs and flows from steady to torrential, but never really stops.
A somewhat large, green-brown puddle has formed directly in front of my tent. The sound of the rain battering the drenched canvas has momentarily slowed so I go out to sit and stare. I sit under the too-narrow overlay that forms a sort of entrance way to the tent—about six feet of canvas pulled out to cover the approach, sadly it’s only two feet wide but is enough to keep the giant lingering drops from making a direct hit. I right the molded plastic chair that has blown over with no thought to the fact that it is soaked and crusted with muddy sand…so am I, so I sit. You can only get so wet and so sand-crusted and I am pretty much saturated with both. I try to see where the oversized, industrious ants I had watched before have gone, their lair was directly in the path to my front door, but the puddle has obliterated any sign of them. My mind wanders to home and the breeze rippling the surface of the Mianus River as my commuter train crosses over every day. That olive-colored water is the same shade as my puddle here—it is my moat now. I worry for the ants—isn’t that funny? I tend to love all animals, but draw the line at ants and mosquitoes…at least at home. I’ll drop everything to usher a spider outside…but now I’m worried about the ants. Did they escape the deluge and move to higher ground or were they trapped beneath the surface in a watery grave? Their lifespan is short, surely they’d never expected flooding water from the sky. The villagers who have spent their entire, considerably longer, lives here never expected it. There has been a drought in this area for five years–no rain—until now. Even when there was rain, years ago, it was never in late February. Do they blame us? Thank us? We begin to wonder whether the locals think these strangers on horseback whose arrival coincided with the drought-busting precipitation have brought them auspicious good luck, or a curse. We are told that this is actually worse than monsoon season, because the monsoon dumps for an hour or two then moves on.
I’m surprised the desert isn’t more absorbent. The puddles stand—I would have thought they’d be soaked up right away. At some point someone told me the water table is 600 feet deep, so it is no wonder the rare well is revered like a temple, especially when you realize you never see any equipment like trucks or bulldozers or drills—nothing more techno than a camel pulling a water tank cart. Our crew had to pick up the entire tents of Curtis & Charlene as well as the kitchen—both had been staked in low territory and flooded several inches of water. It was like watching carneys hoist a circus tent with much “Hup-Ho”ing as each man grabbed and lifted a tie line and the group shuffled, en masse, to a somewhat higher hump in the ground. Those two tents are now prime real estate, all of 6-10 inches higher than the rest of us that begin to wonder if flood waters will come for us as well. It will be days before we catch a break.
The lightning is like glowing, lit nerves in some vast network, or bright, jagged scars where it seems the sun tears through the darkness only briefly before the black heals itself again, making itself whole. I love sleeping to the sound of a storm.
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