Taxi from McLeod Ganj to Pathankot – 3 hours. Train from Pathankot to Jodhpur – 19 hours. Train from Jodhpur to Jaisalmer – 7 hours. Finally seeing the sand castle town of Jaisalmer – priceless. After 2 and a half months of companion traveling, I decided to fly solo for the next 5 days. While Chris and Bear continue to solidify next summer’s itinerary in MG, I will be hopping around the deserts of Rajasthan. Back to “namaste,” instead of “tashi delek.” Back to chapati, instead of Tibetan brown bread. Back to India. I put extra deodorant on yesterday morning, so that, in a toxic BO emergency, I could take refuge in my pits. My second train ride in India confirmed that seat numbers, bed numbers, and personal space, for that matter, are totally irrelevant. My top bed, home for 19 hours, was crammed with enormous bags belonging to a group of girls sitting across. When I realized any attempts to rearrange their luggage and clear my area were futile, I followed their instructions and sat with them. With Ana, Rajni, Seema, Sapna, Nisha, Namarta, and Monika. Close friends returning home after one year together at university. As soon as I sat in the available seat, a disheveled, smelly man turned the corner and grunted that it was his. I could tell he had a short fuse, but his top-heavy turban perched like a rooster upon his matted hair made the circumstance comical. I pointed to the bags occupying my space, and my new friends shooed him away in Hindi. The luggage madness, though frustrating initially, resulted in a great conversation with the 7 Indian girls. Entertaining and educational. The first 6 hours of my long ride passed quickly, as we discussed the caste system, Hindi, music, movies, food, dress, why the cow is sacred in Hinduism, why Sikhs carry swords, the difference between a bindi and a tikka (the markings on the forehead), and why their culture, Punjabi culture, is the best. Imagine the following in thick Indian accents… After I picked up a few new Hindi phrases: “Your catching power is very strong. You are like Superman.” After I passed around family photos: “Your mama is too pretty, your brother is too smart, and your bapa is too intelligent.” I then taught them to use “hot,” rather than “smart.” And say “very,” rather than “too.” Completely random: “Will you marry an American girl or an Indian girl?” After finishing my chai tea: Girls: Here, give me your cup. Your pocket is not a dustbin. (They throw it out the train window.) Me: Outside is not a dustbin either. Girls: Yes, you are right. But this is India. After talking about Hinduism: Girls: So what are you? Me: What am I? Girls: Hindu, Buddhist, Sikh…? Me: Oh, right, I’m Jewish. Girls: Jewish? What are your gods’ names? Me: There is only one God. Girls: What is the name? Me: God. Girls: The name. What is the name? You know: Hanuman, Ganesh, Shiva…? Me: God. Just God. I call my god God. Girls: Ohhhh. Yes. God. What about the others? When I occasionally peered away from the conversation, I locked eye contact with someone, often a creepy man, that had been staring at me for who knows how long. An invasive glare, with a hint of intimidation. Every time. As if they were reading my face like a book. Scanning line to line, eyes to nose to mouth. I’ve been on 3 train rides thus far, each with a consistent flow of deformed beggars that use the ankles of passengers to row along the river of dirt-covered, corrugated steel. I, like the majority of people, have learned to look away. It’s become instinct to look away. In disgust? In guilt? In denial? More in India than in any country so far, I feel vulnerable. Vulnerability leads to paranoia, and paranoia to distrust. It is impossible to distinguish between a genuinely kind gesture and a conniving plot. To judge who is a friend and who is a tout. My experience following the train is a great example: The second train from Jodhpur to Jaisalmer snaked through the desert: hot, dry, winds that brushed faces with sand. I put a bandana around my nose and mouth, feeling very “Lawrence of Arabia.” After more than 24 hours of traveling, my feet looked like those of Frodo and my hair was only a few days away from dreadlocks. Although I was skeptical of the young boy who approached me with a pamphlet, I was eager to find a decent place to stay. As he stuck out his hand and flashed a youthful smile, he said, “This is Hotel Henna, my family’s small guesthouse. You will not find it in Lonely Planet, my friend. It is very new, just opened, so we are giving good deals to nice travelers like you. Free taxi ride from train station to hotel. You come look at rooms, listen about our camel safaris, and if you don’t like, you go. No problem, my friend. The British girls right down there and Spanish guys are coming to see also.” Exiting the train was madness, as crowds of Indian men with large hotel signs shouted at the fresh bait. Four British girls, three Argentinean guys, and one American (me) ignored them all, and headed for the Hotel Henna van. A free ride – why not? When we arrived at the modest guesthouse, they brought the guys upstairs and the girls into the downstairs reception. For tea and coffee. Divide and conquer. I asked to see a room first, but an innocent beverage was insisted. I had met the Argentinean backpackers in McLeod Ganj, and began consulting with them in Spanish, for the Henna employees loitered everywhere. I could tell they weren’t picking up the same bad vibe I was, as they sipped their Masala tea and marveled at the Jaisalmer fort that seems to grow from the sand. I left them to go see a room. Enough of this shit. “We are cleaning the room, my friend. Single for you, with attached toilet and shower. One hour, you wait. You have more tea, I tell you our camel safari, then room is ready. For you, only sixty rupee. Good deal.” I demanded to see a room, and then grabbed my bags and left to compare, check out my options. They walked with me for the first few minutes down the road, but eventually realized I was a lost cause. I took a rickshaw to the fort and headed towards Ganesh Guesthouse, recommended by Lonely Planet. On my way there, however, I stopped a backpacking couple and desperately inquired, “Are you coming or going?” They said “going,” and, relieved, I drained them of all experience and advice. I was now heading for Desert Boy’s Guesthouse. I met Raj, possibly the most honest man in town, and things started looking up. I settled in a fantastic room, in a fantastic hotel, in the fort (where all of the action is). In my conversation with Raj, the pieces of this tout puzzle came together: Hotel Henna has been around for 12 years. It’s not in Lonely Planet because they refuse to write it up. The rooms are fifty, sixty rupees, but they pressure you into a 1,600 rupee camel safari with them. A ridiculous price, more than the honeymoon suite at Desert Boy’s. If you turn down the camel safari, they waste no time in kicking you out of the hotel. Raj had heard it all before. The place and their tricks are notorious. I told him I had to share my enlightenment with the others, and he offered to take me back on his motorcycle. He dropped me off around the corner and waited behind a tree. As I approached the entrance, I said, “Hello, my friends. How are you? I left something with my friends here and need to get it.” What a coincidence – they had all left just minutes before. The 3 separate parties had all gone to the market minutes after checking in. The liars wouldn’t let me in (Raj predicted such), and hovered around me as I wrote a letter for the others in my most fancy/hard-to-read handwriting. The guys showed me that the Argentineans had already signed up for the camel trek, but the Brits still had a chance to escape. Raj finally found two of them wondering around the fort. Louise and Izzy. I rushed over to them and regurgitated everything I knew in rapid fire. It was no surprise to discover that they were drinking tea on the roof when I had come to find them. We planned their get away from Hotel Hell, and, hours later, we laughed about it over dinner on the rooftop restaurant of Desert Boy’s. In the end, the touts’ strategy backfired – I got a free ride from the station, 3 cups of tea, and 2 new friends to do a camel trek with. We depart for the desert in an hour.

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