Mr Bilal grinned at us as we sat in chairs with lion paw armrests, sipping chai in the hotel foyer. The marble was cool compared to the desert heat. We paged through his camel safari photo album and recommendation book. We were exhausted and hungry after a very eventful train trip from Jodhpur. We had been fore warned about camel safari tourist traps and so cautiously suggested that we were interested in his offer, but needed to think about it and have a look around first. It was the mention of special permits that worried us.
We left the lobby in good spirits and only a shot of apprehension. The German bakery was our first stop, and as touristy as that may sound, western pasteries are sometimes a welcome treat after spice round every other corner.
A man on his Bullet Enfield offered to show me his ‘Palace ‘hotel in the Jaisalmer fort. Just to look at. So off we went with a “bang!” The fort is fascinating but tourists are encouraged to seek accommodation outside the fort, to avoid wear and tear on the Fort.
When I returned I found my mom talking to Mr Dependre. Together we went down to Dependre’s factory. This man had eyes that we could trust. He told us stories of ancient garments in remote desert villages, sewn together into quilts by villagers. He opened each quilt dramatically, drawing oohs and ahhs from us. The little man at the back of the factory, sewing together pieces of cloth, made us wonder if Dependre’s stories were infact fabrications. We left feeling a bit disappointed. Our charming waiter at Natraj restaurant picked up our mood soon enough.
We woke up the next day to the smell of raw sewage and no hot water. We needed to make our decision. Could we trust Mr. Bilal. Going over the details we discovered that we had thought the price quoted the day before was for both of us. Further discussion revealed that most of the trip would be a jeep ride into the desert, after which we would hop onto a camel and then camp under the stars.We just didn’t trust him and he was becoming more and more forceful. We wanted to back out quickly and find a different hotel while we were about it.
We escaped the pressure cooker by taking another amble through the markets. Our day was filled with more offers of camel safaris and eager shop assistants. We discovered a delightful guesthouse called Shahi Palace. It was a dream. The people are friendly and organised, the rooms are tastefully decorated and they have a rooftop restaurant.
We went back to Hotel Payal, packed our bags and went to tell Mr. Bilal that we wouldn’t be doing his camel safari. He didn’t react well. We sneaked into the baggage storage and were collected by one of the staff from Shahi Palace on a back road hidden from Hotel Payal. We felt like escaped convicts.
That late afternoon we sat on the rooftop terrace soaking in our view of the Fort, which had a pinky-orange glow to it. Our evenings at Shahi Palace entailed sitting around a fire, some of us sipping local rum while others sipped bottled water, the fort lit up behind us. The Atmosphere was jovial, matching the colourful scattering of cushions on lazy benches.
The next day we booked a camel tour with Shahi Palace. We drove to a village and met the Rajashani camel man who would be taking us on our ride. We were introduced to his family and were shown into his home where we were made to feel very welcome. As we set off on our camel ride, we enjoyed our moment of being swept off into the desert. Camels exude such confidence despite their alarmingly grotesque facial expressions. The two camel herders who led us through the dunes might have had a good chance to compete in ‘the longest moustache’ competition, which takes place at the annual Rajasthan camel festival, in November, at the time of the full moon. Being one of India’s most popular travel experiences, the festival draws up to 300 000 people each year.
On our last day in Jaisalmer, having had enough of bargaining, we ended up buying our material at Ashoks factory shop at a set price. We had one Kurta made. The promise 1hour=1 Kurta ,2 hours=20 Kurtas. We did wonder if there was a catch somewhere. Unfortunately there were a few adjustments necessary with a screeching 30 minutes left before our train departed. We could definitely put this one down to shocking time management. Our tailor assured us that adjustments would only take 15 minutes, ‘Tikke, Tikke!’Everything is always ‘okay, okay!’, in India.
We ended up meeting the tailor at the train station, the Kurta wrapped up and ready to go. The hotel owner was with us for moral support. We checked the names on the side of the train and were puzzled as to why we were sitting so far apart from each other if we booked our tickets together. Some kind gentleman explains that we are looking at the female/age column.
“Get on the train.” The hotel manager says. “Where’s your ticket?” My mom passes the buck, “Kate, where’s the ticket?” I think to myself. “You have got to be kidding!”
