We approached the somewhat scenic dune. I dismounted (same ordeal as getting on, only in reverse) and halfheartedly snapped a few pictures, then climbed back on. The camel con man demanded 200 more rupees to take me back to the parking lot. We turned and started back. I winced in agony as the camel’s odd gait caused new pain to my raw flesh. This was the mother of all wedgies. I considered becoming an underwear activist, making manufacturers’ warning labels mandatory. “Caution: wearing thongs atop camels could result in full-body bifurcation.”
As we rode, my mother’s warnings echoed through my mind. She had been less than thrilled about my trip to India. “I'll bet a little bit of camel goes a long way,” she had said when I asked her whether I should do the short sunset ride or go on a three-day camel safari. I confessed to the video camera that she’d been right. Suddenly my guide decided it was time to get chummy. “You are married?” he called back to me.
“Yep,” I lied.
“Me not,” he said. “I want tourist wife. Some tourists give me presents, you know — wristwatch, rings, Walkman radio, even airline ticket.” He continued with a laundry list of possible gift ideas I might consider.
I wanted off as soon as my camel’s hoofs hit the parking lot pavement. The guide held out his hand for a tip. I glared at him and limped to the car. In Delhi, I phoned SITA World Tours, the company that had contracted with Rajasthan Tours. I was told they would be happy to reimburse me. I was half disappointed that they didn’t put up a fight. I was prepared to show them my video footage like an investigative reporter.
Back home in Los Angeles, I flipped through my photos. There was a shot of me atop my camel. The sun had already dipped behind the sand dunes, but it still cast a soft orange glow on the rippled sand. There seemed to be a smile on my face. I framed the picture and put it on the mantel. Later a friend saw it and remarked, “Wow, you went on a camel ride?”
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