First Taste of the Thar

All of a sudden the buggy went off road. I trusted Panaramji with my life at this point, so I quickly rolled down the window and took it in. The barren, mesmerizing desert, flat beyond eyesight dotted with Khejri trees was in many ways a dream come true. To go from verdant, cool, wet Massachusetts to the stark landscape of the Thar was an affirmation of my curiosities with the perceived dualities we witness everyday. Basically, I was in a good mood.


(Dhani, Thar Desert near Baap, 8:00AM )

We tumbled through dunes and hard soil and through bushes. The further we went from the road the less I could imagine the presence of human life. Despite this, and the Thar being characterized by sparse and highly variable rainfall, extreme variation in diurnal and annual temperatures and high evaporation, it is the most populated desert on Earth.

Soon, we came to a Dhani (a small group of houses sharing a common caste) and were greeted by the residents. Unfortunately, they speak a heavily accented Marwari so Panaramji was the only one who understood, giving us feedback so we could write it down as we fielded questions. But what struck me about the visit (in a good way) was that it was in many ways lacking the cliche I expected. The ideas of foreigness, extreme graciousness, or misunderstanding were nonexistent. Rather, they knew exactly who we were, were pleased and greeted us with a smile, but without protocol or hesitation dove directly into what we could help with. They explained that certain projects were working (specifically water management, they're just waiting for the monsoon rains) and others not-so-much (handicrafts were nice, but they needed more para-vet training so they could take better care of their animals). They asked politely if we could help with these things. We inspected the Taankas (underground water storage tanks for collected rain) they'd built (with help from GRAVIS) to make sure they were operational and if they needed anything else. We recorded, suggested, even debated a bit, came to a consensus and headed off, deeper into the desert to find someone else.


(The Naadi diggers, Where's waldo?)

At one point, I dug alongside the workers to make a Naadi (seasonal man-made pond for rainwater collection) and they enjoyed seeing the 'white' Indian sweat alongside them while they explained that 100 rupees a day was worth it, and that enough of this work and my fat arms would be as skinny and strong as theirs. In Shekhsar at around 5:30PM out of nowhere about 10 peacocks emerged from the wilderness--plumage and all. As we drove through the terrain they began to become a sortof nuisance. I counted about 50 that day. And it further highlighted the sortof optimistic paradoxical nature of the place. Barren and lifeless, yet almost insanely exotic at times. The women working at these sites wore the brightest most vividly colorful saris I'd seen.


(Shekhsar Krishna temple, 6:00PM)

These encounters continued for the better portion of the day, through heat, through more dunes and villages and sleepy homesteads. Bishnoi, Muslim, Hindu, no caste. I recorded and recommended treatment for some older gentlemen with BPH and another with goiter. I inspected their medicines to make sure they were on track. When we returned to the field center the new projects were immediately put into place (call to the vet: hey can you come in two weeks for a training, yes, ok see you then). and boom. a days work done.


(Paratha and Dahi, Baap center, 11AM)

We ate in a roadhouse stall, the speciality of the area (a favorite for truck, rickshaw, and taxi drivers) of Paratha (spiced fried flat bread) and Dahi (yogurt) with namak (the desert harvested local smoky salt). It was quite possibly one of the best things I've eaten in my entire life.


(Where the Paratha was made)

At the field center we all hung out for a while, listening to music or talking (while the electricity went in and out), all sat together in the Mess and had a simple dinner (prepared really well by the young cook who makes food for 27 hungry dudes everyday). Then about 20 of us grabbed mats, some light blankets and pillows, and slept on the terrace under the stars while the bats flew by in hoards protecting us from insects.

I fell asleep thinking about the resiliency, humbleness, and attitude of those villagers. They just wanted to maintain their lifestyle, while making enough money to pay the government taxes. When I asked if they wanted to leave the hardship, they'd say: we can walk out of here if we want to, the road's not far-- but this is our home, we like it here. we choose to stay.