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.
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