Jaisalmer, Camel Safari & Desert Antics

　
Shortly after leaving Jodhpur we were confronted with evidence that we were entering the Thar Desert region. The shapes and forms in the land around us altered and pale green, thorny tubes of cacti bushes began to line the highway. Soon the classic bottle green oval leafed cacti were also on the scene, and in the glare of the mid-morning sun made us feel like we were embarking on a trip through Mexico. The ground since the edge of the city had transformed into thick yellow sand and soft looking hills rose amidst the scattered shrubbery, low grassy bushes and trees. We looked on aghast at the ever increasing number of trees which had been subjected to the catastrophic Indian arboriculture practice in order to provide fodder for goat stock. The method of sending up a small boy yielding an axe to hack off the all green branches within reach, culmulates in a sparce covering of stubby malformed shapes depicting the painfully dismembered trees silhouetted against the skyline. Strangely, the culprits know how to hack away enough foliage at any one time to avoid rendering the tree dead. However, the wonder of nature prevails, as masses of thin, bright green shoots resprout from the knobby stumps of the amputated branches. Do you remember those paper grow your own tree kits (which came out around the same time as 'grow your own crystals'), where you just add water and watch as crinkled pieces of coloured paper blossoms unfold from the tips of the cardboard tree? Yes, just like those. If left long enough to recover decent tufts of green, the trees look like some kind of giant Bonsai. The trees spread across the battleground as far as the eye can see and never fail to stir a certain pained curiosity within your mind as your brain tries to reconcile within itself it's catalogue of 'tree' images against what your eyes are seeing.
The highway was well maintained, with slight traffic and the occasional bus which would come hurtling past as if mid-way through an episode of Wacky Races, often with the conductor hanging out the door, possibly someone vomiting from a window and potentially a handful of stow-aways clinging to the back. The trucks are also another hazard, but they generally let you know they are coming with an orchestral warning of exagerrated horn use. They pass marginally more cautiously and have a full time look-out seated next to the driver who will wave, wag and smile out of the cab window as they pass. We rode through an area which appeared to be displaying available plots of land for sale (or possibly allotments although this is not a characteristically Indian thing). Foundations, about half a metre high, had been built in a terrace formation of small rectangles (4 x 6m), and fell back to back over fields on both sides of the road. No signage, no doorways, no builders, and nobody standing around either - little interest existed it would seem, on whatever little enterprise somebody was attempting to launch. Another large industrial town approached, chimneys spewing out clouds of dark poison and a layer of pale gray dust coating everything and everyone, and just beyond that a mine-site. They may have been mining for granite, alhtough it seems that this is generally done by hand, and if the entrepreneurs are wealthy enough, there may be a small digger or bulldozer on site to speed things along. A blast went off just over a hill, less than 2km from the highway. The deep boom of the blast reached us first. We looked around but it was a few seconds before the atomic cloud of thick grey dust and fly rock swelled into the atmosphere behind us. Geez! The health and safety professionals at BHP or Rio Tinto would lose sleep for weeks over that!!!
We reached Pokaran and had a chai-break, allowing some bloodflow back into our legs and buttocks and coaxing our knees into standing straight. With only a hundred kilometres from here we kept moving. The desert area was getting more frequent between inhabitated areas, and the incessant wall building pasttime had been replaced with different styles of fencing, plain wire stretched between long slabs of red granite stone or sometimes barbed wire meshed with dry branches so that goats, and people, didn't inadvertantly get tangled up (goats have eyes in the sides of their heads I guess, and people can sometimes be complacent). Camels, in some awkward looking stances, could now be seen in their hundreds pruning the thriving species of thorn ridden trees that the arboriculturist impostors avoided for preservation of their epidermis.
We passed a military training camp, marked by a few temporary looking signs and a rudimentary administration building. Large green tents were pitched just off the highway, some flanked with camouflage netting as tanks, roof-less jeeps and other vehicles were parked up in the distance. There didn't appear to be any reinforcements or fortification around the perimeters. It brought to the foreground of our minds however that we were close to Pakistan, India's neighbour, who they do not necessarily fear, but do not trust. It will be some time before they are building a friendship bridge across the boarder. Our overprotective governments are currently advising against foreigners traveling to Pakistan, we hope though that one day political relations will be less tense, and the media hype, generating a paranoid fear amongst citizens of our nations will subside, so we will be free to visit and travel through these lands.
If Jaipur is the 'pink city', Jodhpur the 'blue city' then Jaisalmer must be the golden city. We arrived at Jaisalmer well before sundown for a change, feeling the warmth radiating from it's architecture's yellow tones. The main highway led directly through to the centre past large government buildings, military administration units and a fresh produce market area before leading up to the ancient Fort walls. The Fort is a stunning construction of sandstone, and is over 800 years old. What made this Fort different to the multitude of others we have visited, was the way in which it had been wholly integrated within the life and economy of the old city. Inside the thick high walls is a tourist town within itself. Amongst narrow, darkened cobbled lanes are hundreds of guesthouses, restaurants and handicraft shops, grocery businesses coupled with internet facilities, in a maze of the old 'haveli' style houses, highly decorative abodes with proud carved archways and screens. We found a hotel which we had been suggested to us, although from the outside it looked terrible, so we back-tracked, struggling to fit the loaded bike through the alleyways without taking out stalls or the collossal cows or scuffing our bags in the process on the stone walls. We checked into another guesthouse, after being told there was a room which would be available in 2 hours. We didn't care, we were starving and made a bee-line for the kitchen.
The food was really impressive and made up for the 4 hour wait before we could access our room. A little after 10pm we checked in, exhausted, but even this could not quell the amazement on our faces as we observed the interior display in our new humble dwelling. The room was first class and cheap as chips. It was also made of sandstone and had hand carved Jain temple features protruding along one wall creating a 3 dimensional effect that made us believe the wall of the temple next door was inside our bedroom.
We woke up late, but ready to explore the city of the desert and investigate options for a camel safari. We retraced our route from the previous night through the Fort, and down the steep cobbled ramp-ways out to the main gate, dodging the speeding autorikshaws on the sharp right hand bends and narrow gateways, into the bustle of the lively street market scene at the base. Amongst the usual abundance of 'handicraft' shops (the charm of which had worn off many weeks ago) we noticed a substantially larger array of leather shops, selling bags, belts, shoes and bound notebooks; profiting on the abundance of feral camels in this territory. Adam negotiated a good deal with a shop owner on a nice leather satchel - perfect for our notebook laptop, camera and accessories, hence replacing the $2 wine cooler bag :)
Outside an Indian sweets shop we bumped into a man in a striking, purple patterned turban and began talking. It turned out that this was Kheta, The Camel Man; something of a celebrity to some, however a figure of annoyance for the hotels trying to sell camel safari tours at their criminally over-inflated commission rates. He conned us into reading his book to him, where other customers had written nice things about their experiences on safari. We said we were interested, but we had friends at the guesthouse who we would like to go with and would check with them what their plans were. We coincidently enough bumped into Anna, who is travelling India with her bright and confident 4 year old daughter Luka, and good friend Mark. She is originally from New Zealand and Mark lives in Sydney. We went back to Camel Man's office inside a shabby unofficial chai-come-electrical appliance shop down a drab side street. We sat and drank chai, and were briefed of what was on offer for one and two-night safaris. Kheta had a group of four people leaving the following morning and was keen to get us on board also. It worked better for us as we wanted to be back in time to fully emerge ourselves in all of the 2010 Desert Festival action. Humming with indecision, followed by a bizarre meeting in an unfinished hotel room with an alternative Camel Safari source, quickly found us back at Kheta's place to confirm our trip, paying our deposit and purchasing decorative lengths of material from markets close by for turbans to look the part!
Back at the hotel, the over-friendly youthful manager - 'Little Johnny', clad in a red and purple blanket and a phoney smile - became hostile on the discovery we had booked onto a tour with someone other than them. Although nobody at the hotel had officially tried to sell any safari tour to us, they had discussed their particular's to Mark and Anna. Comparatively, Kheta charged 400 INR/$10 AUS per day inclusive of food, water, camel, cultural music by the fire, guides, staff and camping equipment. The hotel provided roughly the same but at 3000 INR/$75 AUS per day. Playing dumb to the hostility, and concerned that there would be limited accommodation available over the festival we tried to make a deal to keep our room and pay whatever the going rate was on our return. This proved too difficult apparently so the following morning we checked our unnecessary luggage into the hotel opposite and set off with minimal gear for our safari adventure. Comically, another couple, Drouyn and Irati who were booked onto the same safari tour as us left their luggage at the first hotel and were promised by Johnny that a room would be available on their return...we all headed off partly together to meet The Man in the Purple Turban.
Once loaded into a jeep stacked with food and bottles of water for our trip, we picked up an Austrian couple and were on our way. Heading out on a narrow tarmac road towards the Pakistan boarder south west of the city, we stopped a few kilometres short of the Camel Man's home village, Barna, where a congregation of camels awaited us. It took a little bit of co-ordination to load up all our bags, saddles and us onto the camels. It would appear that on standing a camel automatically spreads its rear legs and urinates. Adam had a strong (in strength and scent) blonde camel with long legs, Lana however had a small, snarling, dark curly-furred one with a devil's fork branding on it's hide, who she promptly named Satan. We were led for around an hour and a half by the small team of boys who were the camel handlers - also from Kheta's village and the neighbouring one Taita. Adam, having never ridden a horse let alone a camel took a dive, but skillfully dismounted, landing perfectly on his feet to our applause when the camel leaned for no real apparent reason. He claimed that he felt that 'the bloody thing was going to keel over'...as camels do of course?
The guys set up to make us lunch on the edge of a small sand dune where we found a small patch of shade under a large but thin spiked bush. The camels were left to their own devices, but not before having their front legs tied together. We laughed as we watched them scuttle away, in an unnatural pigeon-step style, camp camel walk. We were brought chai and eventually huge plates of rice, mixed vegetable curry and seemingly unlimited chappati breads. After lunch the camels who had wandered far and wide to eat whatever green shrubs they were able to find, were re-herded and we set off again. By the time we reached the site for the night's camp our butts were growing sore. We arrived at a picture perfect, large sand dune, the deep soft ridged sand felt just devine on our naked feet and we all ran up and down the slopes like kids before finding good photo opportunites in the early evening light. By the time the sky had turned bright pink with the onset of twilight, Kheta and crew had already served hot chai in stainless steel mugs, and spread the blankets around a sheltered area they had chosen behind a big cactus tree. A couple of the younger lads were scouting around for suitable firewood - it seemed that they knew exactly where to look as they came back with arms bursting with dry twigs and branches.
We chatted by the roasting fire for some time and enjoyed the luxury of a slightly warm beer before dinner was served, on plates which had been washed with sand - a new survival tip for us all and as impressive as the use of ash as detergent we witnessed in Nepal. Again vast quantities of rice, dahl and chappattis appeared, albeit with a slightly gritty texture. This was surely going to clog us up for a week!
A random desert acquaintance had showed up and chain smoked beadies by the fire (thin rolls of dried tobacco leaves) and at some point in the night, we believe, sneaked a beer from the bag :) Following dinner our conversations were hushed as the camel handlers turned to improvise amongst the cooking gear for instruments and proceded to play and sing for us. The music went on, percussion from an empty plastic Gerry can and tapping on a stainless steel plate, and Irati, a dance and drama teacher from the Basque country of Spain (but who spoke English with a mild Scottish accent after living in Edinburgh for several years) kept little Luka entertained with some dancing around the fire. Lana was soon falling asleep - a mix of the beer, a full belly and the heat of the flames. We rolled out our sleeping bags onto the blankets and made pillows from the sand beneath us. Waking up in the night we were reminded of our remote location as we stared up at the millions of stars bright and clear, despite the almost full moon glaring across the navy blue sky.
A beautiful, bright sunny morning ensued as we slowly stirred from possibly one of the best sleeps in a long time. Looking back, it's obvious that this was due to the fact we were in clean air and there was none of the relentless honking of horns, screeching of bikes or packs of dogs howling out abuse at each other across neighbourhoods all night long. Silence is a wonderful thing, and even more wonderful in India if you can find it! We rose slowly to hot chai, in sand-cleaned cups, which pre-commenced the serving of perhaps the most tasty omlettes we've had since leaving Australia.
Back on the grouchy, groaning, stinking camels, we trudged on into the flatter desert planes in a direction at a right angle to our approach the previous day, wondering how easily ticks transfer to human bodies. We watched from our prime, elevated view points, the sleek and elegant gazelles grazing in the shrubs. These are easy to spot once your eyes catch hold of their waggling white and black tufty tails. Kheta's pet dog was accompanying us and the younger lads made efforts to point out the gazelles to him. Once clocked, he was off. On spotting the hound's mad-dog-in-a-china-shop approach to the 'hunt' the gazelles scarpered. When they noticed he was actually gaining ground on them they reverted to a super-deer speed, springing action, covering some metres in each jump! We were loving the display of the deers in nature; the dog had no chance, but we cheered him on regardless!
Covered as much as possible from the unavoidable sun exposure we looked a picture in our dodgy 'desert wear'. Loose light coloured cotton shirts and some terrible examples of how not to tie a turban, added to the reality that camel safaris behold very little glamour. Mark's khaki turban was by far the funniest - sometimes he had green cones protruding from each side of his head, others he looked like a ninja turtle, or a green mummy wearing sunglasses. Adam had his 6 metres of colourful cloth sussed, and managed to recreate something fairly close to the merangue style of turban tying that Rajastani men wear (resembling the icing part of those little Gem biscuits, which Adam is yet to be acquainted with in England). After a rest stop while Drouyn (a fellow Australian, voted best hair and best beard for 2010, and given his preferred name by Adam of 'poor man's Jesus'), had to go back to find a lost sandal, which had flip-flopped it's way off of the camel. The recovery would be made quicker on foot...We continued to our lunch spot which unfortunately required some short down-hill sections where the camels are inclined to break out into a lurching trot! Lana's camel, being of the underworld and not to be trusted, had to be led most of the time, and for some reason after the leg stretch the custody of the reigns had gone to Adam. Just before lunch Adam managed to conveniently lead Satan dangerously close to one of those heavily thorn-ridden bushes, on a slope. Lana pulling her leg up as far as was safe without keeling off, and with the minimal warning had to lay sacrifice her left foot to the brushing force of the spines. Scratched and bleeding with Adam already in hysterics, an initally pained Lana soon saw the funny side. No problem really, we would just wash it out with sand when we stopped, and hope the tree wasn't poisonous...
Further on a large, old, tree stood in the centre of a clearing. It was hard to tell why this tree had been spared for so many years from the axe and allowed to grow to such an impressive size. Grateful for the shade, we spread out blankets under the canopy and rehydrated. We watched as five young village women in brightly coloured pink, red and yellow saris walked passed us carrying huge bundles of sticks and firewood on their heads. Some large birds were spotted in a tree to our far right. Drouyn and Adam went to investigate in the event that they were vultures. Vultures are now an officially endangered species. WWF are running awareness and conservation projects at the moment in India, and to have spotted some would have been a real treat. Lana wandered over when one took flight and exposed it's huge size. It was still hard to tell from such a distance as to what they were. It soon became evident why they had taken flight as Kheta's hound was getting wholeheartedly stuck into the gory scene below. A dead young gazelle, fairly fresh judging by the amount of blood still in the flesh the dog was tearing into, was lying beneath the tree and the birds were obviously also eyeing it up for their lunch. It turned out that they were some type of large brown eagle with a face resembling an owl (we're sure all those twitchers out there are cringing right now!).
More stodgy but tasty lunch emerged from behind the tree; thankfully with a much lower sand content. Feeling rested and chilled out we were mounted back onto our methane inflated animals and headed into the now nearby village of Barna, where Kheta was hoping to pick up some extra food supplies. From a distance it looked like a tiny, mud brick and thatch settlement of about 12 houses. We dismounted for a brief time and walked over, the children had started to gather around us, and were enthusiastically trying to gain Luka's attention. We looked curiously at the mud and stick houses which appeared to have been made from packed sand, with uneven but smooth rounded corners, small windows and roughly sculpted external walls. Some had been decorated with crude thick lines and dots in white or blue paint, others had been entirely painted, we assume to repel the heat of the sun and also protect the outer layers from damage during the monsoon months. One of the youngest camel herders led Lana into his family's home through the tiny front courtyard and into a long rectangular room with blankets piled at one end on a shelf under the curved roof, as this was where they slept, with metal storage trunks at the other. Women started to crowd around, giggling and pointing to jewellery, seeming to expect that Lana would just hand over her rings as gifts, despite the fact they were wearing more gold than she would ever be able to afford. Unable to communicate as to whether they were sisters, mother or grandmother of the boy and feeling uncomfortable, she made her thanks and escaped. By this time Anna, Mark, Luka and Irati had arrived on the scene and were ushered into the room and subjected to an unavoidable nail painting experience, for which they were compelled to make a financial donation. Sadly, the deep red varnish was not applied with the care of a trained manicurist, and didn't wholly suit Mark, although it did produce a few laughs when catching glimpses of his finger tips mid conversation! Another disappointing aspect materialised when Irati noticed that her two anklets were missing following the village stop. Irati is so good hearted that she didn't make it an issue of concern. Nothing was said to Kheta, but we reflected that it was all a fairly rude way to treat guests.
Our second night's camping spot was again on the edge of another large dune. This was still serene and peaceful, but unfortunately littered with empty plastic water bottles and other rubbish including toilet paper and uncovered human feces, from previous camping parties. Somehow we have been in India long enough to not feel perturbed by fecal matter on the ground, but the mindless trashing of the desert leaving behind water bottles and other empty snack packets was pretty infuriating.
We climbed to the top of the nearest dune as Lana rolled down the hills in the soft, deep sand trying to entertain an energy abundant little Luka. We then sat peacefully and watched the sun set behind a band of trees at the base of the dune. We had a pleasant evening again by a hot camp fire, with plates of potato chips and vegetable pakoras to start, as we polished off the remaining warm bottles of Kingfisher. Anna and Luka slept for a couple of hours from sundown, then joined us for dinner; more rice, daal and chappattis we had to now politely refuse, being so well fed. Another heavy night's sleep found us waking well after 8am being warmed gently by the heat of the sun, almost midway up in the pale blue dome above us.
Packing up whilst getting stuck into plentiful chai, fabulous omlettes, and chappattis, we were soon back on our beasts for the last leg of the journey back to the highway. We worked out that we had probably covered quite a few kilometres but in a big loop. Spotting more gazelles on the return to the road, and as electricity pylons started coming into view again, our camel time seemed quite short, although I don't think anybody minded this too much. Soon the road was in sight and we were unloaded, saying goodbyes to the camel handlers and waiting for the daily bus by the edge of the road. Kheta made some attempt to flag down passing jeeps, which were devoid of passengers and heading back to Jaisalmer, but explained to us that several of these who continued to speed past were hotel owners. It appears he is unfortunately not a well liked man from a business perspective. We had already picked up a certain more aggressive vibe amongst the people of Jaisalmer in terms of their competition for tourist attention; unemotive eyes fixed on the dollar signs that foreigners represent to them.
After less than an hour on the rattley local bus we arrived back in the city, where the Desert Festival was well underway. We walked from the bus station down to the stadium. Now hot, the stickiness highlighted how dirty we had become in just two days! Looking like authentic desert rats we entered the stadium and smiled at the astounding colours of the decorated camels, with men and women adorning traditional Rajasthani costumes. We sat obediently on the mats set out in front of the stage. We were just in time for the foreigner's turban tying competition! It was really funny, a couple of the participants on the stage were really good, and fast too! Next on the programme was Miss Rajasthan / Moomal, and five gorgeous young Indian women took to the stage, in heavy make-up, wearing all the traditional jewellery. They wore the most stunningly elaborate deep red saris edged with gold thread embroidery, and were covered from head to toe in masses of sequins and beaded jewels sewn into the delicate fabrics which glittered incredibly in the sun. As you can imagine this was a hugely popular event for the men who crowded in as close to the stage as they could!
Next up was Mr Desert 2010. About 40 men dressed in white with green, red and gold waistbands and turbans sporting long, carefully groomed and precision-twirled moustaches made proud entrances as they were called up one by one and introduced to the masses. And what a spectacle it was too, with all the participants flexing their arms, holding high their traditional swords, axes, daggers, or just fluffing their impressive beards proudly as this is possibly the only day in the calender year when these simple men, mostly farmers, get to shine.
In the evening there was a big dance show in the city stadium. Lana walked down with Irati to witness the traditional display as the rest of the gang remained on the rooftop of the guesthouse. Where we were staying Adam, Drouyn and Anna could still see the stage lights and preferred the lasier option. The stadium was packed with families and groups of youngsters. It was great to see that the rich and poor could mingle equally at this free community extravaganza. The dance acts were nothing short of fantastic. The first act we witnessed on arrival was an acrobatic display with both male and female dancers. They were performing all the classic pyramid formations but also an astounding human camel which circled around and around the stage, a guy stretched out hanging off another guy at the front and bobbing like a camel head, topped off by a small girl on top of the 'hump' holding a parasol. Absolutely amazing! Next up were a small troupe with huge fans of peacock feathers, their irridescent colours glimmering under the stagelights. The following talent act was two women who did traditional Indian dancing with a twist - they suddenly dropped to their knees halfway through. The way that their skirts spread out you couldn't see whether they had knee pads, but they skitted and glided around the stage like iceskaters on their knees, seemingly weightless, fast and twirling...it was crazy! We discussed how battered their bodies must have become whilst learning this bizarre art. Growing tired we walked back through the atmospheric streets of the old fort, where most of the businesses, stalls and touts had vacated for the night.
The following day was the big show at the alternative stadium on the other side of town. We hailed an autorikshaw and after some hard bartering all piled in together with us two volunteering for the boot space. It was hot and dusty already. The stadium looked like a Roman arena. A stand with covered seating areas ran along the length of one side. Independent entrepeneurs were scattered around selling kids toys and plastic horns in between the multitude of hot roasted peanuts and water stalls. When we arrived there were 3 transvestite dancers in costumes their routine including hobby horses, just inside the grounds on the field. They were having a great time prancing around to the accompanying musicians, enjoying the freedom of having an excuse to appear in public in the dress normally only found to be acceptable after sundown and behind closed doors. We watched them for a while before taking some of the last available seats on the edge of the shade at the back of the 'foreigner' seating area. Behind us was a stepped terrace where 'general public' Indians sat and the pathway in between was patrolled by policemen with sticks who were not afraid to wave around vigorously or even lash out at any of the 'public' who strayed too close to the foreigners, VIPs or VVIPs. We heard rumours that the Majaharah was going to attend, although I'm sure that the few police would have been ineffective against an excited and curious crowd this large who wanted a glimpse at their King.
The games started all be it slowly in the style of Indian proceedings it seems, with the previous day's winners being announced to a rather anti-climatic prize giving ceremony not visible by most of the audience as no stage had been constructed here. First some serious camel dress-up judging competition, the camels weighed down in heavy coloured nets and cloths adorned with more bells than Notre Dame. Then some camel relay race whereby the contenders, starting out wearing only their underwear, (if you could call it that) had to run and put on and tie a smock and belt, run further whilst tying a red turban, moving on to saddling up a camel, mounting the camel and trotting (not cantering) to the finish line. The event would have been far more exciting if they had been allowed to actually race the camels to the end - it was actually more akin to a donkey derby; the camels not particularly interested in their purpose.
Next up we had a demonstration of camel polo, where two of the state teams battled it out on the dusty pitch. The intermission brought four rounds of Foreigner v's Indian Tug-o-War. The men were first up; and apparently you needed to register the day before to make it onto the team to Adam's dissapointment. The foreigners, mainly from the US, Europe and Canada won two rounds. The ladies were next, and Lana and Irati ran to the front to try and negotiate a place to no avail. The foreigners won twice again, but not without a fair battle from some tough Indian ladies. Next was an event that the foreigners would not have a chance at winning...carrying water pots on their heads. The ladies lined up, including some frail looking elderly Indian nationals. The aim was to run and place the circular beanbag thing on your head, run another 10 metres and lift up a large jar filled with water (the clay pot and water must have weighed close to 10Kg) place that on your head then run to the finish line. A couple of the foreign girls mad decent efforts and crossed the line only minutes after the Indian ladies, others couldn't even stand up with the pots. We watched as three TV channel teams rushed over to interview a Spanish girl who was covered in water and mud but was smiling broadly having made it with her pot entact and still containing most of the water.
There was then a stunning skydiving show from the Indian Air Force. The jumpers left their plane and made formations in the sky under their orange, white and green canopies hailing awe and inspiration as a sense of national pride oozed amongst the spectators. They landed one by one and were introduced by their name, title and rank to cheers from the crowds. We left shortly after this show as the heat was soaring and we were baking in our renewed positions by the arena. We arrived back at the hotel rooftop shortly after for some well earned and much needed refreshments. As this was our last night in Jaisalmer and we would be saying goodbye to our desert companions in the morning. With quite a few beers under our belts and a random mohawk style head shave given to mark courtesy of Irati and half a bottle of Vodka, we hit the sack as Delhi awaited us in two days time and we had a long road ahead!