It's been a hard week on the Christmas campaign trail. What we four unlikely candidates (see end) have been campaigning for is not quite clear. perhaps the usual cheer and goodwill? cleaner buses? better tourist souvenirs? whatever the intention, we gathered enough issues and philosophies along the way to assure us at least a wooden bench on the global village Parliament.
It all started in Delhi and meeting up with the team - Helen, Richard, myself and Max (see end for descriptors). And like all good campaigns, we could smell victory before we even began and decided we needed a taste of it too. So we opened one of the two good Christmas bottles of red wine brought from our home states and toasted the start of a good race.
And what a race it has been. We bus into towns, throw a few toothy grins and conciliatory waves at the locals, make a few deals and then, in the dead of night, get shunted into rickshaws and onto trains, leavingh a small paper trail of money in our wake. Of course we are smart. our presence is just enough for locals to feel that we have made a contribution to the community coffers but not to memorable that they might remember the broken promises a few years later when me might return (see you next year! coming back now now! I'll definitely visit you on my return!)
Agra wasn't as agro as made out but they definitely understand the 24 hour tourist. before you can say "where's the western toilet" you have bought a taj mahal souvenir, booked a bus outta there and come away with a complimentary (for good business my friend) toilet roll. i was a bit suspicious of the hospitality (and cleanliness ) when after my first meal the waiter asked if i wanted a toilet paper and water to go? hey, if you are only there 24 hours, you cant really blame the squirts on Agra can you. its the poor schmuck town just a few km's away that fits the bile bill while Agra comes off squeaky clean. they be smart business people.
24 hours later and the team was on the train, posing difficult universal scenarios like, if you're squatting on the shitter and you drop your sunglasses into it do you fish it out or let it lie fowl and fallow? Do you give attention to the mangy dogs and ignore the diseased beggars? Do you bring your poor currency (the rand is same same rupee) into the bargaining occasion? but as you can imagine, with shifting train eyes and bouncing bowels being thrown into the mix, what may have looked and sounded like your typical Obama family situation slowly slid into the Simpson family with Homer and his honeys loosening belts and farting furiously. high culture, it has to be said, is not the platform we were campaigning on.
Pushkar was next. Max bought a Don Corleone ring which he proceeded to pimp around in Maharajah style and ask if they wanted to kiss. they looked confused, but not amused by our grinning Aryan. With a luxury two days in Pushkar, we were taken to shopping, doing a yoga stretch and taking in the occasional rooftop gathering to take in the spectacular sunsets over the lake.We even seem to have gotten our message of free love and free trade (i give you a hug you give it free yes?) through to the locals but left before they got to discuss our confidence trick.
In Jodpur the search for the famous pantaloons and obligatory polo horses (who must whinny at the sight of these men in these billowing tights) proved as dry and fruitless as the surrounding landscape. Our previous night cuddling up on a lumpy mattress on a cold rooftop tent proved less romantic than anticipated. Strangely enough, discussing ones daily constitution doesn't seem to kill any idea of shacking up with your honourable candidate to the left. But the morning grumps tend to follow you all the way up the winding hill and into the majestic fort and palace buildings. small mercies come in the form of tourist translation walkie talkies which you listen to instead of moan at each other.
A few million photos and hot chais later and you are back on the campaign bus, separated by plastic chairs and blatant stares (the men do look like plastic dowls that never blink. its incredible) but propped up by each other and the memories you have shared in the days passed.
The 500 year old fortress of Jaisalmer was sooooooooo worth 6 hours of the snorting man behind us and the stares from the men falling out of every air pocket. at times i felt like i should stand up and address the men who looked on us so eagerly from their lowly aisle squats. but then you choose to pass your time staring at the locals in a similar fashion with a camera at the ready. touche.
And so it came to pass that our campaign came to an end in the most beautiful fortress on the hills of Jaisalmer, a town in the Thar desert just 100km or so from the Pakistani border. we know this because as we celebrated with our final bottle of red over the final reds and pinks of the day, jet airplanes shooted past us like red stars with sound capabilities. And all was still well with the world as, thankfully, the boys were but in training to be men and the leaders were acting like sissy girls (local sentiment) and peace was the only wish launching itself across the sky that night.
The desert, four not so wise "men" and a few cows let out of their lowly stable - that was our Christmas, and I tell you, dear reader, we couldn't have campaigned for a better one even if we tried. and we did.
Peace, goodwill and love to all in cyberspace.
Cat
********The unlikely campaigning candidates were:
- Helen, 33 my sister, lives in London, art student
- Richard, 22, my sister's boyfriend, Australian, graphic designer
- Max, 29, my boyfriend and a technophile and NGO specialist
- Me, same old same old
