Linda: Pure Simplicity. Utter Freedom, March 29

Pure Simplicity. Utter Freedom.

An hour by jeep into a desert in one of the farthest corners of India. Meeting the tribal camel herders who would be our guide. Mounting, with delightful gyrations, these unique creatures. Trotting on a camel under a cloud streaked sky. Parts of the low lying lands are damp from a blessed rain. Six of us will be going out into the desert with our host and guides. Everyone is happy.

What amazing animals. They are like a horse in that you are free to run across the open land, feeling the warmth and movement of life under you and the sun and wind in your hair. The movement underneath is familiar and comfortable. In the wild, with this animal, I am completely and instantly at home. It is the wedding of the love of wild and open places and the horses I once rode.

Like a horse, and not. Their lumbering walk. Lying on the ground with legs folded underneath – can that be comfortable? The distinctive smile, as if all is a joke that only they understand. And the observant nature – they watch every movement of the people and are constantly smelling the wind. As I became better at observing Robert, the camel I rode, I could tell when we were coming closer to other camels minutes before they would appear over a dune. But the fundamental and overpowering difference was in the mode of communication between the rider and the animal. A horse loves to communicate with its rider. They enjoy the contact of leg on side, the fingertip pulls on the rein, the reassuring clucks of the tongue. They love the dialogue and are intensely aware of the mood and humor and experience of the person who rides. The camel, the camel seems much more independent. They prefer a loose leg and are content to go their way without reminder, plodding forth in their own rhythm, reluctantly changing that pace to the whim of the rider. This is partially, I am sure, due to the fact that these are safari camels who have trodden the same path for years. But this is only partially the reason, for I saw the same pace and manner when driven by tribesmen across the sandy vastness.

There was, however, one exception. As we sat on a dune, far, far away from the city and its sound, we heard singing! Looking over the top of a dune, I see, about one kilometer in the distance, splashes of red against the honey colored dunes. Gypsy women were returning from dancing and singing for hotel tourists. They are now on their way home to their village and their cheerful voices, raised in song against the darkening sky pierce the air with sweetness and joy. As they walk, a group of camels disengages itself from the ruby red jewels – boys on camels. These camels had also been at a hotel, offering rides to tourists, and they, too, were on their way home to another village. Women go one way and boys, hollering and shouting, go the other. They certainly had those camels moving, trotting and cantering across flat land and dunes. Shouts of encouragement and delight –a boy’s dream. Our guide had a half whistful smile. “Fun for the boys. Not so fun for the camels.” After our days on camelback, I suspect that their slow plod is one of reluctance and not an inability. Why hurry in this vast, vast world? And after two days in the desert, the world finally, finally receding to the slow pace of nature, I have to agree with the wisdom of the camel.

Imagine, walking and trotting through scrub and up windswept dunes. A few tracks of camel and goat, lizard and … dog crisscross along the sand and sometimes go up the golden dunes, but most of the dunes are barren of tracks and life. There are sculpted peaks, in front, behind, to each side. We thread our way around and over. Sometimes, Robert’s nose begins to quest in tight circles, and then, over the horizon comes other camels being led to water or a nearby village. It is all so remote, so simple, so real. On our first trip (Eleanor talked me into TWO camel safaris!), I just want to run and run and run. Fortunately, Robert is a young camel, and he is quite willing to indulge in a trot. A run is a little too energetic even for such a young camel.

On the longer trip, we sit under a tree during the hottest part of the day. The camels, hobbled with soft ropes, wander to forage in the scrub. We eat and rest. At 4:00, we continue onward and stop at some wells in the middle of the desert – a meeting place between several villages. There is not one well here, but several. They are all served by the same water, but each well is used by people of different caste. Caste and custom is maintained, everywhere. The guides tell us which are the Brahmin wells, which the tribes, which are for gypsies and untouchables. I found that rather interesting. Rajasthan is where the gypsies from all over the world originated. Everywhere, they are treated with suspicion and distrust. Everywhere, people are fascinated by their song and their independence – fascinated, but afraid, too. I always thought, however, that here it would be different – here they might have more of a place. But it is not really so. The wandering gypsies, here as elsewhere, are a world apart. Wild. Untameable. Not to be boxed in four walls. Not understood. Fascinating. Enticing. And for that reason, a little frightening. What is it that calls in the soul when these wild ones go by? Haunting invitations to a life unencumbered.

We ride for a few hours until we come to a high dune. The camels lie down and we dismount. Sunset is near and we climb the dune, to watch, to be, to think, to … run madly down the dune laughing and yelling in delight. Mr. Desert is our guide. He is THE Mr. Desert – the man from Rajasthan who was the icon of India and cigarette ads from 15 years ago. He only occasionally comes out on tours now, but a friendly challenge sends us all rolling down the dune. Spinning earth and sky and sand everywhere. I slept in sand later that night – and it was worth it.

Eleanor wanders away and ten minutes later I follow her tracks. We sit, alone amongst the dunes and watch the sun dropping, out of sight. So, so quiet. The quiet is almost complete, and yet, there is the occasional call of a bird, even in this far flung land.

We walk back to the camels and have a ten minute trot in the waning light. A campfire twinkles in the distance with pots simmering on the open flames. Home for a night. Blankets, food, water, a few essentials tucked away in a cloth purse. Comb, toothbrush, toilet paper, water … and the liberating discovery that I really only needed the comb and water. Nothing else is needed. Nothing else is wanted. We eat, a story is told, and we lie in wonder under the majesty of a star strewn sky.

We have been in India for three months. For three months, my only concern has been when to leave, where to go, and how to get there. It has all become very simple. And yet, coming into nature once again, I realized how the ambience of the city – even a small town like Jailsalmar – still leaves its mark of agitation. As the days passed, the nervous energy slowly, slowly dissipates. I want to run less, to be more. Finally, finally my body slows down to the rhythm of nature. Free.

***

During our final plod back toward Jaisalmar, I wonder how fast we can go through Rajasthan – and to the mountains. Everyone tells me how wonderful Rajasthan is – and they are right. The cities, the architecture, the textiles, the people. But the desert has gotten into my soul, nature is calling. I want to be away. A voice inside reminds me, “Be here. Be now. Slowly. Slowly.”

Tomorrow, we leave. Tonight. A procession with the maharaja to a sacred lake in the desert.