"She wants to invite you for chai," Prim, our camel driver, told us.
"Jip jip jip," we said, signalling to the camels that they should sit down so we could dismount. We've been invited into people's homes for chai all over India. Our record number of cups in a day so far is seven, consumed in five different places. The refrain-- "You must come to my home for tea!"-- is a testament to a tradition of hospitality that seems to transcend the class, caste, and religious boundaries which can prove so formidable in other contexts.
But this invitation was different. Prim's grandmother (actually his great aunt, but it's not a distinction they make here) had gestured us into her hut, grass-roofed and constructed from a mixture of sand, rock and cow dung. She gathered wood, started a fire, milked a sheep (!) and cooked up an incredibly tasty cup. We lingered for the rest of the afternoon as people came and went. A woman from a nearby village came by with her young son seeking a glass of water. She took one look at Prim making chapatis and told him to scram, taking full charge of the process. Prim's grandfather wandered in from tending the flocks, ate, and went out again into the fierce mid-afternoon sun. Two gypsy kids came by to gawk at the foreigners. We ate lunch in waves -- foreigners first, then men, then women. And we suddenly understood why we'd been sent into the desert with enormous quantities of vegetables, fruit and flour: every meal fed not only us, but whoever else happened to be near by.
It's a hard life, living in the desert. We were amazed by the creativity and resourcefulness we witnessed; that people with such limited resources transformed the harsh environment into a livable, even beautiful, place. There were farms everywhere -- talk about making the desert bloom. Himat, the driver who took us back and forth from Jaisalmer, offered the most eloquent testimony to his love of his home. Though he has all the advantages of city life and income now, he comes out to the desert whenever he can to enjoy the open air, the shade of a tree, the desert quiet.
We hope the portraits below honor the people we met, their spirit and resilience.
And for your continued viewing pleasure, here's the full set of photos from the desert. Thanks for all the great comments and feedback so far!
"Jip jip jip," we said, signalling to the camels that they should sit down so we could dismount. We've been invited into people's homes for chai all over India. Our record number of cups in a day so far is seven, consumed in five different places. The refrain-- "You must come to my home for tea!"-- is a testament to a tradition of hospitality that seems to transcend the class, caste, and religious boundaries which can prove so formidable in other contexts.
But this invitation was different. Prim's grandmother (actually his great aunt, but it's not a distinction they make here) had gestured us into her hut, grass-roofed and constructed from a mixture of sand, rock and cow dung. She gathered wood, started a fire, milked a sheep (!) and cooked up an incredibly tasty cup. We lingered for the rest of the afternoon as people came and went. A woman from a nearby village came by with her young son seeking a glass of water. She took one look at Prim making chapatis and told him to scram, taking full charge of the process. Prim's grandfather wandered in from tending the flocks, ate, and went out again into the fierce mid-afternoon sun. Two gypsy kids came by to gawk at the foreigners. We ate lunch in waves -- foreigners first, then men, then women. And we suddenly understood why we'd been sent into the desert with enormous quantities of vegetables, fruit and flour: every meal fed not only us, but whoever else happened to be near by.
It's a hard life, living in the desert. We were amazed by the creativity and resourcefulness we witnessed; that people with such limited resources transformed the harsh environment into a livable, even beautiful, place. There were farms everywhere -- talk about making the desert bloom. Himat, the driver who took us back and forth from Jaisalmer, offered the most eloquent testimony to his love of his home. Though he has all the advantages of city life and income now, he comes out to the desert whenever he can to enjoy the open air, the shade of a tree, the desert quiet.
We hope the portraits below honor the people we met, their spirit and resilience.
And for your continued viewing pleasure, here's the full set of photos from the desert. Thanks for all the great comments and feedback so far!
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