Baubles in Bikaner

                I admit, there has been radio silence on the blog time – sorry about that, life has got a little bit, well... normal over the last month or so. But pressure is being applied in certain quarters to come up with the goods, so I’m going to break my rule about only posting about what I think rather than what I do and tell you a little bit about somewhat unconventional Christmas.

                As you were all gobbling down your advent choccies and getting flustered over fairy lights, life over here in Udaipur was continuing as usual. The supermarket started selling Father Christmas pencils, but other than that, very little changed. Not surprising, really, as Christians are a pretty small minority. You see, it turns out that Christmas actually is, as they say, all about family. If, like me, you’re not in the slightest bit religious, then what Christmas really is is an amalgamation of bizarre rituals and age-old arguments that nobody outside your own family circle understands. (By the way, I hope the leaves didn’t see the light of day, Christoph.) When you’re away from home, nothing can replace that.

                So, Team and I decided that instead of moping around bemoaning the lack of mulled wine and mince pies, we would go and do something utterly unconventional and spend Christmas in the desert. (Though thinking about the history of Christmas, I guess that’s not altogether unconventional...)

                Our journey to the fort city of Bikaner involved my first overnight bus journey. Now, trains I can get behind. I like trains; you can actually get a decent night’s sleep on a sleeper train. They’re one of the few things that our former colony can perhaps thank us for. The bus, on the other hand, is not my friend. Imagine, if you will, being imprisoned by the Mafia and being put in a still functioning chest freezer, then being driven off to an unknown destination that probably isn’t going to end in tea and cakes. That’s what a single sleeper compartment on an AC bus feels like. Add in to that the fact that we’re driving through the desert, the air so thick with dust and sand that the edge of the road is ‘more like guidelines than actual rules’. And did I mention the horn? Buses have a novelty horn that they’re clearly very proud of and like to make the most of. It’s not exactly conducive to a good night’s rest.

                Bikaner has three main offerings to the curious traveller: a fort, camel safaris and a rat temple. I don’t know about you, but to us, the first port of call was pretty obvious. We stocked up on peanuts, hopped on to a bus and scuttled off to meet some holy rodents. I can’t quite remember their full story, but legend has it that a very important family narked the goddess Durga (not recommended, in case you were considering it), so she made the family switch places with the rats in their palace. So, to this day, they have been provided with food, music and whatever else it is that rats need to make them happy. I had envisaged an Indiana Jones-esque building writhing with furry little bodies, but it actually wasn’t too bad. Definitely an opportunity for a Chicken Run/ Ratatouille combo sequel, though. A handy hint: take a spare pair of socks with you. Like any other temple, you have to take your shoes off. And those ain’t Coco Pops crunching underfoot.

                For Christmas Day, we booked a camel safari out into the wilderness. I’ve never seen a John Wayne film, but I think after three hours astride a camel I was doing a pretty good impression. We had a fab Christmas dinner of vegetable stew, lentils, rice and chapattis all cooked over an open fire by the camel guys while we played about in the sand. It’s amazing the ability sand has to make even fully grown adults regress to toddlerhood, but it’s really nothing compared to the fun you can have with the bleached skeleton of an ex-cow. Beats Lego hands down, any day.

                After a few more hours back in the saddle, we turned up at our camp. Huddling round the fire, watching for shooting stars and having massages (I let the sneaky bum grope go, the camel guy can consider that his tip) is a pretty good way to spend Christmas Eve. I didn’t fancy risking pneumonia/ the wild dogs so I slept in a tent (or at least, under a canvas draped over two poles), but Team decided to brave the great outdoors. I didn’t envy them the ice on their blankets in the morning.

                In the afternoon, we headed up to the fort. It has an impressive display in tribute to the glory of the Maharajas, but no mention of anybody else at all. You’d think a woman or a non-royal would have to set foot in the fort at least once in five hundred years, but apparently not. UNTIL ME, that is. In general, I haven’t been harassed by local people. But when I go to touristy places, that all changes and I seem to become a walking exhibit. It’s infuriating. I sent the fourth guy who asked to take my photo running for the hills; he came up to me with the usual ‘One photo?’ and by that point I was so fed up, I just barked ‘WHY?!?!?!?!?!’ and he turned on his heels and fled, squealing ‘Aaaaah... macho girl!’ Maybe I should get a t-shirt printed, complete with six-pack and biceps.