Aux Chameaux

Earlier this week, I broke a promise that I'd made to myself long ago.

Actually, I did much worse than that. I also broke a vow I'd made to just about every known deity in the Heavens, including God, Jesus, Allah, Vishnu, Buddha, Confucius and L. Ron Hubbard.

It all dates back to the summer of 2002, when I was traveling by camel across the remote nether-regions of Southern Morocco, in search of fine-woven tapestries, crystalline geodes of amethyst, and of course frankincense. The trip took two days, and not long into the journey I decided that riding a camel was one of the most painful forms of transportation imaginable. By sunset on the second day, the pain in my inner thighs was so intense that I could barely walk, my once-manly strut having been reduced to the awkward stumble of a drunken sailor, or the pathetic stagger of a newborn fawn struggling to retain its balance during life's first steps. Not long after my final dismount, I swore to all the celestial bodies that I would never, not ever, climb atop one of those animals again.

6 years on.
Well, it seems that I'm no wiser for my added years, because when I arrived in Jaisalmer (a town once famous for the silk trade and now a tourist hotspot blah blah blah), I decided that it would be a good idea to make a second attempt. This time? A 3-day, 2-night camel safari in the Great Thar Desert, near India's Western border with Pakistan. It would be my chance to prove myself that back in Morocco, I was just being a wuss.

But let's not go insulting camels. There is nothing inherently wrong with them at all. No. In fact, they are the ideal beasts of burden, built perfectly for the harsh conditions of the desert. Able to travel for several days with no food or water, they will quite happily transport a large amount of cargo, human or otherwise, through hot, barren landscapes, all the while maintaining that goofy grin on their camel-y faces.
Moreover, they are also very docile, and will tolerate being decorated in the traditional manner, whereby colourful bits and bobs are placed all over their noses, necks and bodies. Pimp my camel. Those rice-rocket owners back in Canada would approve.

My camel, Charlie, was a fine specimen indeed. Of the nine on our trip, he was the most handsome by a longshot, much like his (extremely modest) rider. Young and stealthy, he exhibited a respectable top speed and good acceleration, though his stamina was certainly in need of improvement.
The race began on the morning of the first day. We set out from a Hindu temple just North of Jaisalmer, heading due West on a loop that would take us over many kilometres of sandy dunes and rocky salt flats. A Lithuanian rider, his camel race-seasoned and strong, immediately took the lead, leaving us all in his wake. Charlie didn't seem too phased by this early display of ambition, but as time passed by, it was clear that the lead camel would be tough to catch.
The race progressed, but Charlie seemed reluctant to make for the pole, preferring instead to lead the camel peloton. I tried my very best to motivate him, coaxing him with sweet nothings and giving him gentle lashes with a stick, but after two days we were still placed in the middle of the group.
Then, on the afternoon of the last day, while the sun shone hot from its pedestal in the sky, Charlie suddenly found his wind, and together we made a push for the finish. There was a lot of ground to be made up, and as we approached the finish line (a bit of sand near the side of the road where a jeep was waiting to pick us up), Charlie exploded with a kick and finished a respectable 2nd. All Ethiopean marathon runners would be proud. I know I was.

Okay, okay. I know it wasn't a race. Really, I'm not crazy, but when you do nothing but sit on a camel and stare at 360 degrees of yellow sand for three consecutive days, you need something to keep you occupied. Call it my competitive nature.

I'm sad to announce, however, that the whole experience was, in general, still very painful. To ride a camel pain-free, you need the flexibility of the average pre-pubescent female Romanian gymnast, and since I'm none of those things, I suffered. Still, you have to hand it to our safari guides. Each one of them was an unschooled local, yet they all spoke respectable English and tended to our every demand. The food they prepared was excellent (if you like spicy potato and cauliflower for 9 meals in a row), their care for the camels was attentive, and the beds they prepared for us were comfortable. There was even a guy who would walk 6km each night from his village to bring us cold beer.

As Charlie and I pushed for the finish line, I had one of those surreal moments that I only seem to get when traveling in strange places. One of the guides, striding along beside me, erupted into a traditional Rajasthani folk tune, his scratchy voice resonating through the hot air, bouncing off the horizon and reflecting off the sky, such that the whole world seemed filled with the piercing, tranquil notes. I didn't understand a single syllable of what he was saying, but the pain in his voice seemed to indicate a lost love, or perhaps a thousand lost loves, remorseful moments of a life spent in a remorseful place.

I lost my watch in the desert. Fitting. Out there, time is meaningless anyway.

Dear Vishnu: I promise I won't ride a camel for another 6 years. But if I do, I want it to be Charlie.

2 Purs & A Gadh

I've recently visited three Indian towns that are of interest. I doubt any of you really care what I did in any of them, so I'll just provide you with a selection of anecdotes about each.

JUNAGADH
What was meant to be only an overnight stop between bus trips managed to attract my attention for a couple of days. The town itself is very unassuming, but it lies in the shadow of a large mountain that is peppered with temples right up to the peak. Many of said temples are Hindu, but the real attraction is the Jain temple that sits perched at the very apex of the slope. To get there, you climb a set of stairs - 5000 of them - that switch back up the rocky cliffs of the mountain face.
This was no picnic. I made it to the top after climbing stairs for two hours, and as I sat staring at the holy ashram though the misty shroud in front of me, all I could think about is that 5000 steps is a shitload.
Fortunately, the path is littered with things to keep you entertained for the duration of your vertical slog. Monkeys inhabit the lower slopes, affording children the opportunity to throw rocks at them. At various intervals, there are Hindu and Jain pilgrims resting, adorned in their traditional costumes for a day of peaceful prayer. I even found a cow sitting on the 4000th step.
Getting down is much more forgiving than the ascent, but by the end I was parched and in need of a beer. Then, as I approached the exit gate I saw a man in clothing so tattered that it failed to even remotely cloak his meat-and-two-veg, and I decided that he needed a beer as well, and I needed about 8.
My plans, however, were vanquished by the local government. Junagadh is in the province of Gujarat - a dry province, meaning no beer. No beer, no 1983 Chablis, and certainly no 25-year-old Macallan Cask Strength.
Thirst-perpetuating brutes! Who ever decided that this would be a good idea? Prohibition is worse than purgatory!
Someone call in the US Army. This country needs new leaders.

UDAIPUR
Perhaps one of the most beautiful places I've seen in months, Udaipur is a town positioned around a large lake, set in the arid hills of the province of Rajasthan. Its principal attraction is the Lake Palace, a majestic, whitewashed, princely estate built by the local Maharaja in 1764. Each night, as the sun sets over the hills, the palace lights up and the city basks in its tranquil splendour. Then, all the useless hippies staying at your hostel start playing their guitars and singing Phish tracks, and your Kodak moment gets ruined.
Happily, there is something fun to do in Udaipur after sunset: Octopussy. Don't get too excited guys, because all I am referring to is the James Bond film starring Roger Moore, which was shot here in the 1970s. Udaipurians evidently relish this fact, because every (and I mean EVERY) bar and restaurant in the city feels obliged to show the film on their television sets each night.
If you're like me, then this is a blessing. I love Bond flicks. However, if you'd prefer instead to make your own visual entertainment, then I suggest you try sipping a bhang lassi and waiting, oh, say 45 minutes.
Feel free to look that one up. I admit nothing.

JODHPUR
Yet another town in Rajasthan, yet another awe-inspiring palace. Jodhpur is a big town, but the entire thing is dwarfed by a ridiculously over-the-top fortress that never once was successfully invaded in its history. I especially liked the front gate of the place, which was bejeweled with iron spikes to prevent rival armies attacking with elephants. I miss the good old days when people didn't have tanks. Back in the 1700s, wars were way more fun.
Jodhpur is known as the Blue City, and for good reason. Practically every second house is painted in aquamarine, and as you peer down at the town from high up on the castle ramparts, it's almost as if you are seeing a crystal clear oasis in the middle of a sandy desert. Mirages! Great fun!
The castle has a tour that comes complete with cheesy audio guides. For the most part, what you're seeing is a bit soporific, but I did like the explanation given for a beautiful carved wood and ivory jewelery box, in the style typically used by Indian maidens 300 years ago. The guide explained how the women prepared themselves for a "night out". I paraphrase:
"To begin, intricate floral patterns are painted on her hands and feet with henna. Kohl is used to accentuate her eyes, beeswax softens her pouty lips, and a tikka is drawn on her forehead with the traditional drop of vermilion. Precious jewels are placed about her body, and soon she glistens in tones of silver, gold, ruby, sapphire and emerald. Her hair is combed with saffron oil, and her wrists and ankles are adorned with sparkling bands that clang like tiny cymbals, such that when she walks, a soft music follows her every step. She is draped in intricately-woven fabrics, a vibrant display of bright colours to accentuate her mocha skin. Her breath is freshed with the exotic fragrance of cloves. Then, she is ready for love..."

Jeez Louise. And you thought YOUR girlfriend took a long time to get ready!

...

FYI: Until further notice I will be traveling alongside Dominic, a French-Canadian guy who is simply hilarious. Example? He wanted to visit a town in the Punjab that, according to the Lonely Planet, is famous for its resident Asiatic wild asses. I felt awful having to inform him that, in fact, this meant nothing more than donkeys who don't live in the confines of an enclosure.

In the next post: CAMELS!

Curry Got Me Worried

Now I may be just your average Canadian WASP, but I still consider myself an authority when it comes to Indian food. That's why I've elected to make it the topic of today's discussion, despite the fact that I've spent less than two weeks in this country to date.

I'll begin by saying that I love Indian food. I always have. It is the epitome of grassroots cooking, wherein a few simple, subtle ingredients are combined to form an extravagant marriage of flavours. No complicated culinary techniques or pricey condiments are required; all you need to get started is a handful of fragrant spices and some hot oil. The focus is on taking a normally bland ingredient and bringing it to the forefront with the calculated addition of something vibrant. That's why plain-Jane vegetables such as potato and cauliflower often play a starring role on the Indian palette.

Indian food (like the Indian immigrant) has become commonplace in most parts of the world. Many cities in the West now have at least one Indian eatery, and we've all been there to try such popular items as lamb rogan josh, butter chicken, aloo gobi and of course naan bread and cucumber raita. I'd even hazard to say that most of us have tried cooking an Indian dish once or twice, although if you're like me then you've probably been left wondering why the egg biryani you produced wasn't half as rich or savoury as the one being served at the curry house down the street. Yeah I know... it ain't easy being White.

So do you crave cardamon and popadoms as much as I do? Then I invite you to make a pilgrimage to India, my friend. When you get here, you'll be able to sample an infinite number of local specialties, from the familiar dhal soup to the more exotic prawn vindaloo. Here are a few that I recommend:

-Masala Dhosa: a thin, crispy pancake filled with fried potatoes and cumin, typically served in the morning with a steaming cup of chai.
-Paneer Palak: perfect for the closet vegetarian, this curry combines spinach and the spongy, meaty Indian paneer cheese. Cool electric green colour to boot.
-Mutton Afghan: goat meat braised in a sweet tomato sauce with pineapple and grapes.
-Capsicum Jalfrezi: a spicy dry curry of peppers, onion and green chili.

Okay. By now I've made it clear that Indian cuisine is excellent and that the best of it is served right here in India. Yeah? Good. But we're only half-done. So now, I'd like you all to begin clenching your sphincters and holding your breath, because for the remainder of this dissertation I will be talking about diarrhea.

Q: What do you get when you take someone who is used to a benign Western diet of Corn Flakes, tuna sandwiches and spaghetti bolognese, and let them loose in a country where even the breakfasts are spicy?
A: The dreaded 'Delhi Belly'. Or, as they say in the medical field, 'Ass Volcano'.

I managed to last a week. A week of eating fire three times a day before my stomach finally gave up and raised the alarm. From there on in, your life begins to revolve around the toilet, which in India is simply a rather odiferous hole in the floor. This experience often lasts 2-3 days. For me, one of those days was my birthday.

The incessant use of chili isn't the only catalyst though- there are myriad other factors that contribute to your intestinal volatility just as much. Take the tap water for instance. It is so full of harmful parameciums that you shouldn't even use it to rinse your toothbrush - and yet all Indian restaurants cook with it. Strike one. Strike two? People wipe their behinds with their left hand here, meaning that the guy who's rolling the dough for your chapati bread probably isn't as Zestfully clean as you'd like him to be. Finally, the food itself is suspect - especially the meat. Sure, that goat curry might taste like a dream, but when you consider that most goats roam freely and eat garbage on the roadsides here, that dream quickly becomes a nightmare. Strike three. You're out. Prepare your left hand.

They say that what doesn't kill you can only make you stronger. I'll be in India 6 more weeks. If by then I'm not dead due to stomach ulcers, then I'll celebrate with a tuna sandwich. If the curry does finish me off, however, then I'd like my epitaph to read:

Here Lies Mike Hudson
Decent Enough Guy
I Regret Nothing
Go Oilers

And please don't bury me on the Indian roadside. I don't want the goats to eat the flowers.