in the thar desert

I am beginning to feel conflicted. Beginning is maybe not the right word, I have always felt conflicted with tourism. In being a tourist, in adding to tourism, in backpacking through cities, villages, towns; and just floating through. How can we become conscious travelers if we are leaving footprints everywhere we go? This is something that keeps entering my mind, and I am just not sure how to deal with it. I have experienced both sides of traveling, the touristy on the go backpacker world, and really trying to get a grasp of solidarity, by living abroad. Learning a new place, a new neighborhood, and familiarizing yourself with faces and people. Trying to learn absolutely as much as you can from different people and cultures than yourself. I prefer the living in solidarity, by far. Sometimes it is more difficult to discover where, and how to do that. Being a white female, I can't always do that. That's another reality I am discovering.

I wish I could just get lost in a place, and truly trust everyone I meet. That is not the case though, I don't always feel safe. I don't trust everyone anymore. I am losing my trust, by the day, in the men that sit on stoops, in train stops, in restaurants, on sidewalks; they just stare. They stare, sometimes out of the same curiosity that I have, but most of the time it does not feel like that.

I guess I am just not sure how to be a "traveler," without being a tourist. I will always be one, that's the truth. If I want to travel and live abroad, I am always going to be a gringa, a gori, and foreigner. There has to be a better way of doing this though. I don't want to float through India, talk to the white foreigners I meet, follow the guide book, and never feel connected to the community. So I guess this is the new mission of this journey, burning the guidebook and just going.

On another note, I finally met up with Chiara, my long lost bezzie from San Francisco. We reunited in Delhi and hopped on an overnight train to Jaisalmer, Rajasthan in the Thar desert of India. My watch was set on Nepali time, which is a mere 15 minutes different than India (because Nepal wants nothing to do with anything India haha) so the journey started out well, obviously. We nearly missed our train, and were running to jump on a moving train, somewhat reminiscent of the Darjeeling Limited. Trying to find our seats, we could not even make it through to our cabin, because the door was blocked by about 100 Indian men, standing and sitting eight to a berth.

We stayed up half the night sharing a bunkbed, and sitting next to thirty Indian men, and thirty pairs of eyes on us. Disguising ourselves in shawls and scarves, we braved the 17 hour ride by telling stories, and huddling next to the breezy window. Jaisalmer is really cold!

We just got back from a camel trek in the desert. Our two American selves, a Venezualan boy, and a Swede, riding camels through the cloudy desert of India. Quite a sight. Being prepared for a sweltering hot desert ride, we were a bit shocked to find ourselves in the middle of the first rain in three months. Camped out in the middle of the desert in a hut, drinking rum, and making up songs, I think we managed to make the most of it.

We were fortunate enough to ride through a tiny little village on the border of Pakistan, where we shared Chai, conversation, and photos with a family. These beautiful dark skinned children running around, were fascinated with our cameras and became the photographers for a day. There were five women, covered in brilliant green, blue, and red shawls. Bangles sliding on their arms, golden plated jewels in their noses. They are princesses of the desert, the most stunning faces I have ever seen. Covering there mouths with their brightly colored armor, all we could do was sit and try not to stare. They don't want any pictures taken because it is disrespectful to the men in the village, and their religion. In many places, only a woman's husband can see her face.

It's hard to imagine this is the same world. These people are living in the same world as New York City. The same world as the snow covered streets of Seattle, and the same world where we can ride in on camel back and then leave for our warm hotel rooms and clean sheets. I don''t know why I was born into my circumstances, but I feel very very fortunate.

Chiara and I heard a woman being beaten last night. We lay awake in the dark listening to screams, and what sounded like slapping. Thinking we should do something, anything, we tried telling the hotel manager what was going on, and he simply replied "she has psychological problems." I do not believe that, but I don't know if we could have done anything. I don't speak Hindi, and I don't understand the deeply ingrained religious and cultural roots that can permit such things to happen. If we had tried to intervene by walking in or calling the police, would it have made it worse? Would this stop for the night, and then continue on a whole new scale the next day? What can we do? It makes me sick.

Is it even acceptable for us to fly around the world with our malaria pills, bottles of hand sanitizer, pockets full of coins, and then leave as if nothing were different. We go back to our lives, our friends, our comfortable homes and cars, and the schedule of a paycheck to pay for all the things we "need." I really am not this cynical, I am just feeling torn between a lot of things lately.

Thinking of you all at home, and wishing I could frolick in the snow falling on my favorite city, drink hot chocolate, and sit around a fire singing Christmas Carols.

this is india.

i stare out the window for hours and hours.
rolling fields of yellow mustard whizz by, water buffalo grazing, goats scurrying, rice picking.
spicy samosa fill my belly, Hindi ballads dance overhead.
a cacophony of honking horns; blaring with ever curve and swerve.
i arrive sweaty, tired, beat, defeated.
i drag myself to the closest hotel.
ten hours on a bus. no bathroom. no lunch. no peace.
a box

hidden beneath a layer of dirt
windows hang on hinges and the sheets are painted with stains and cigarette burns
we chat about the faraway land called America. people. presidents. terrorists. beautiful Bombay.
crawling into the comfort of a mummy sack. my face is stung by mozzies, swarming.
i lay awake, exposed nose, breathing in their bites.
hazy sunlight slowly turns the room into day.
shadows stream through the cracked window panes.
a shadow crawls across the top.
a tail drawn out behind.
pitter pattering feet arouse me from my dreams.
im out in a split second. throwing clothes in my bag, untangle curls turning to dreads.
this new day is going to be good.
i make it all the way to the airport. it says air force.
"there must be a mistake, i need to go to the air Port."
uhh. this is it.
i sit for five hours at the air force base, enclosed in grass, military uniforms, smoking a rollie.
they say the flight is cancelled.
we rush to the station, hop a sleeper train.

still no sleep.
i cannot sleep.
there is an old man in a sweater vest laying across the compartment. staring. his light is on. his eyes are open, and fixed on me. his arms are folded neatly across his protruding belly.
seriously uncomfortable.
i roll to the side hiding under a blanket; my armor.

my death stare is perfected. hours spent cursing the eyes that stick like glue to my face, my body, my skin. i don't want to hate you, but sometimes you give me no choice.

it's becoming harder to discover the genuine, honest, trustworthy, helpful...men. one in a million. no, that's one in a billion. 1.027 billion.

now im here.
and this is India.