Up early with the alarm, + carried our bags over to the Rama Lodge, the place where we had booked our trek, + from where it started. Breakfast was included as part of the service, so we had that, + waited for our fellow-trekkers to appear. They were late, which annoyed us a little, since we had managed to be on time despite having arrived from a different hotel. And I at least wasn’t impressed by my first sight of them. They were Alison, an Australian girl, + David, one of the legions of Kiwis-cum- Aussies. By contrast, the camels + their drivers were great. We found all 4 waiting patiently out in the lane, + as we emerged from the hotel, each of us was nabbed, so there was no active choice on our part. Val was claimed by a young Muslim chap called Akbar, the camel was Lala; my man was older, sported a luxurious moustache + a brilliant orange turban, + was called Man Singh, tho’ it took me the whole 3 days to fix that name in my head. For most of the time I called him Camel-driver, + if that sounds patronising, I should add that he called me Tourist throughout. He seemed much vaguer about his camel’s name, but then, if the truth were told, I would suspect that the whole idea of naming the camels at all is alien to their temperament, + is merely gone along with, while foreigners are about, to satisfy foreign susceptibilities.
We 4 tourists mounted our beasts – no difficult matter, as they are made to kneel down – + then we were led thro’ town. Once outside the city walls, our drivers climbed aboard, each one taking the pillion seat behind his tourist, + we set off into the desert. I should describe the way the camels kneel down, as it is one of the most extraordinary things about this most extraordinary of beasts. It is a 3-part manoeuvre. First, + this is the trickiest part, which nearly always requires some coaxing, the camel drops onto its front knees. It’s no wonder it sometimes takes a minute or 2 to persuade the animal to do it, for it must be exceedingly painful, especially on hard ground, + with a weight on top. There is no gradual lowering at all, but a lurching fall. In stage 2, it tucks its back legs underneath itself in what appears to be a fearful contortion, + then for Stage 3 completes the rocking motion by doing the same for the front. To regain its feet again, it goes thro’ the sequence in reverse, but in either direction, up or down, the rider has to hold on tight, for one is thrown first one direction, then the other. My beast in particular would spring to its feet again as soon as Mon Singh would climb up behind me. It was great fun, rather like those playground implements made to imitate a bucking bronco. In movement, the camel provokes a strange riding motion, rocking one forward in the saddle, not painful in itself, especially since the saddle was well-padded with several quilts, but ultimately producing strained muscles in me, in my inner thigh, + in my knees, which are dodgy in any case.
It was exotic driving out of the town, past the radio receiving dish with the tallow sandstone temples framed against the skyline in the surrounding hillsides. Our drivers were singing too, which only enhanced the atmosphere, a high keening song from the throat, like a sort of yodel. I was to grow mightily tired of this song by the end of the trip, but at the time, nothing could have been better.
We stopped for half an hour at one of the ruined temple complexes, just to have a look around, then pushed on again to our lunch rest. This too was at a temple, but none of us had the energy to explore. The blankets were laid out in the shade, we lay down, + our camel drivers got busy making a fire, fetching water, unloading + hobbling the camels. Lunch- curried vegetables + chapattis – came after about an hour, + we eventually moved on again about 2 hours after that. If this were to be the pattern, we quite clearly would not be over-exerting ourselves.
There was another stop in the afternoon, at another temple, where there was, of all things, a cold drink stand. Not set up solely for the benefit of camel treks, for there was a road which led there too. It was almost distressing to see the truckload of pilgrims roaring in, blowing their horn + frightening the camels, seeing as we had spent all day plodding across the desert to reach the same spot. I didn’t indulge in a bottle of fizz – I didn’t need it, + had the uncomfortable feeling of being manoeuvred. I couldn’t say for certain that our camel drivers were receiving some baksheesh for taking us there, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised.
The last session of the day was the longest in the saddle, + just about killed me, the wonderful orange sunset into which we rode providing only partial compensation. My knees were paining me terribly, so I took Val’s advice, + eased my feet out of the stirrups. It did help my knees, but made the pain in my inner thighs that much worse. But of course there was nothing I could do – beyond praying for the torture to end. It did eventually, of course, + I eased myself as gradually as I could out of the saddle, off the camel, + onto the waiting blanket spread miraculously + just in time on the sand.
It was a good evening. We talked, ate dinner, sang some songs (at least I sang some songs, which were gratifyingly well-received) watched the moon come up + the stars come out, + eventually were tucked into our blankets by our ever-attentive camel drivers.
As tourist activities go, this did seem to be one of the best, despite the physical discomfort. A chance to see the desert, to be looked after… all good.
