Why in India?

I was in New Delhi preparing for the 2008 Desert Storm Cross Country Rally.

The opportunity arose to do a recce of the course with another crew. Ashish Gupta is a long time competitor and he very kindly offered us a ride in his vehicle through the deserts of Rajasthan. Circumstances beyond our control made it impossible to be with him for the first day of the recce so we flew to Jodphur and caught a taxi to Jaisalmer – about 280 kilometres. The five hour taxi ride cost about AU$100 (and a few years off my life).

Jaisalmer is 200 kilometres from the Pakistan border, the last 100 kilometres of which is a military-controlled no-go area. Tensions between India and Pakistan are still high – and not just because of the cricket.

The Jaisalmer Highway

We are screaming along on the Jaisalmer ‘highway’ at 95-100 km/h in a little Indica with stuffed rear shocks – but then what taxi anywhere in the world doesn’t have stuffed shocks? As with all Indian drivers, the hand on the horn is the most important part of driving a car, and white lines painted on the road were done just to provide someone with employment.

The country outside Jodphur is one big quarry. The main industry is breaking pink sandstone by hand into convenient sizes for building, loading them on to tractor or animal drawn trailers and then creating a mobile roadblock on the main road. They use slabs of sandstone like the Australian farmer uses split jarrah or jam for fence posts.

We slow to about 60 km/h through villages, dodging auto rickshaws (tuk tuks) and sacred cows. Head on kamikaze is the main game played on the road from Jodphur to Jaisalmer. And our driver is very good at it. Though he did get upset when I yelled at him to stop going around the outside of two trucks uphill on a (blind) bend. We pass a 4WD on the inside of a bend with our horn blaring and have to swerve for a dead dog before scattering a crowd of people.

Passing trucks is interesting, sometimes frightening. The Indica may be able to do 100 but it takes a while to get there. We move up slowly alongside the slabsided truck. It veers right to go around a pothole. Hand on the horn, our driver also veers right. We’re on the wrong side of the road, centimetres from the edge (and prostrate goats), with a 12 tonne Tata 100mm from our left door. Slam on the brakes, dive right around a goat in the middle of the road, dive left to avoid an oncoming car.

I’m writing this in real time, without pause.

For some strange reason the truck ahead of us is travelling on the wrong side of the road. Our driver decides to undertake but then we see the reason why the truck driver was over to the right – a tractor lugging along at 20 km/h. Slam on the brakes, cut right, continue as if nothing has happened. It’s now open road with not much traffic. A chance to let the heart rate get back to normal.

The driver is on the horn big time. Can’t see why. Just practice, I suppose. We slide around a bend coming into Mithi Beri, avoiding a dead dog, tyres screeching ever so slightly. Missed those goats but we’ve dropped down to 20 km/h, meaning another slow crawl back to race pace. All the women are dressed in very bright coloured dresses. I observe that this is to give them a sporting chance when crossing the road.

This must surely be the world’s biggest quarry, fifty kilometres in length so far. It seems that they build stone walls and enclosures just for practice around here. Many of them certainly have no immediately-obvious purpose.

Oh joy!, back up to 100. We screech around a right-hander at the turnoff to Pokaran. This is where the Indians dug a big hole, placed a nuclear bomb in it and detonated it. The locals were allowed back a week later. At least with this driver we won’t be in the fallout zone for any great length of time.

Wandering cattle – a symbol of India.

We pass an ambulance – and no, its lights aren’t flashing but even if they were I’m sure we would have passed it anyway. We pass a holiday resort called The Desert Havali Resort on the left. I’m sure that residents of any Australian prison would complain if housed there.

We have settled down to a country road cruise. Two trucks enter from the left. The road sweeps to the left. I have to yell forcefully at our driver again as he wants to overtake them on the outside of the blind bend. He thinks I’m no fun. I think he’s a maniac. Slam on the brakes, miss the goat. We’re travelling on the wrong side of the road again. We nearly rear end a water tanker. It slips left and we’re smack bang in the middle of the right side (wrong side) of the road. Fortunately no oncoming traffic. Now we’re weaving between cattle and trucks. This is non-stop action.

The bitumen highway is in good condition and we’re sitting on 100 km/h. I’m not sure if this is a good thing. I think our driver subscribes to the “speed through intersections” theory, believing that the less time spent in one, the less chance of collision – or in this case the less time we are on the road to Jaisalmer the less the likelihood of becoming roadkill.

We stop to take some photographs and I time our charge back to our cruising speed – the all-important three figures. 0 to 60 in 27 seconds. A tad gentle, even for a 1300cc diesel. Several more kilometres to reach 100. Agonisingly slow around a truck and then we duck left to narrowly miss the unconcerned oncoming tractor driver. The signpost states ‘Speed Thrills But Kills’.

Another town. More filth and poverty and, of course, wandering cows.

Around a donkey, around a tuk tuk, both at the same time. The sign states ‘Jaisalmer 159’. So, clearly, more time for more adventures. Good road, blue skies, not a cloud in the sky. Tree trunks on the left are painted in cautionary alternate bands of red and white like the traditional barber pole of old – cautionary because they are so close to the road!

The lull in the excitement allows me time to phone Australia, Dubai, Bombay and Delhi looking for our container. We accept that the Vitara will not be delivered in time and phone Raj looking for a Gypsy for rent.

A tractor drifts wide around a sweeping left-hander. We drift wider, horn blaring. Compliance with road line marking is arbitrary. The setting sun sends its rays through the back and side windows heating the cab to a level that overcomes the efforts of the Indica’s puny air conditioner. Somnolent.

Ah, a new challenge! Sheep on the road. And a shepherd! We pass another of those grossly overburdened, giant cart loads we have all seen in photographs of Asian transport technology. A tractor is hauling this one. Most giant overloaded carts are dawn by camels – are they really overloaded?

Rural India. Driving on the left is optional.

We spot an oncoming bus. There’s a cow on the left. Will we make it between the two? It’s clearly a matter a matter of bullshit macho pride that neither driver will slow down. Or maybe they just want to be home in time for dinner. Fortunately, the cow walks off to the left just in time to avert a head on. As I have my head down writing this account of our afternoon jaunt I fortunately miss a few of the more scary moments punctuated by a sharp intake of breath in the front seat. Nothing if not an adventure!

The presence of the Army is manifest as we draw closer to the border.

Roadside repairs to a truck. There are enough bystanders and onlookers to lift it without a jack. In India there are always bystanders and onlookers. When I bought a recharge for my mobile I had a dozen spectators looking over my shoulder – just to see what the interloper was doing. What is the affinity pedestrians have for the highway?

The entire country from Jodphur to Jaisalmer has been totally overgrazed to the point of desertification. Yet where it is fenced the land supports lush vegetation. Clearly, an education program is needed.

Aha, we have a car of nearly equal speed ahead of us. The race is on! We hit 105, then 110. No contest. We leave the tortoise in our wake and slow to a more modest, and less scary, 100kph. This part of the journey is becoming positively tame. No excitement. But passing an overwidth load injects some interest. First, of course, it was a left-hander and I had to yell at our driver again. The giant cylinder on the back of the truck was overhanging the full width of the road. The low loader was wider than a lane width so we were forced to the edge, under the cylinder being transported. As I looked up I saw that it was secured by 25mm ratchet straps. But is was OK – there were lots of them!!

Incredible India – where most things are problematic, including phone calls.

A new challenge. Roadworks on the right. There’s a deep ditch and mounds of dirt so naturally oncoming traffic wants more of our lane than usual. Just as naturally our driver disputes their claim to our territory. What’s a smaller measurement than millimetres?

A bit like turning up the radio to mask unknown noises, the setting sun is obscuring approaching hazards. Less to worry about. We nearly rear end a tractor with trailer, swing right after the oncoming car passes and the bloody tractor swings right with us. Off to the right edge we go. And this is just the taxi trip! I’m going to ask this taxi pilot if he’ll be our backup driver for Desert Storm.

The peace of National Highway 15 is left behind as we enter Jaisalmer. As we pass a wind farm our 700 kilometre flight and 5 hour taxi trip to do a recce puts me in mind of Don Quixote.

Entering Jaisalmer we paid the Tourist Tax ripoff (well, it was only 50c but in rupees it sounded a lot) and proceeded into rubbish-strewn Jaisalmer. Or any other town in India. The hotel was full so we found another under the lee of the Jaisalmer Fort, the major tourist attraction of the region.

 

Nightlife in Jaisalmer

Five hours of heat pounding excitement on the road left us in the mood for more. We left our hotel to venture into the early evening, sidestepping cowpads, wandering the streets and bazaars, dodging the motorcycles (most without lights), before finding our way to a rooftop restaurant with views of the Fort. I think I’m going to be tired of chicken by the time I leave India. Entertainment for the evening was two screeching, squeezebox-playing, castanet-clacking, be-turbaned gents providing ‘local color’ for the busload of Europeans who had just made their way up the perilous staircase leading past the closet-sized kitchen on their way to the tables. As the minstrels made their way through the restaurant I dubbed them ‘Curley and the Cocky Stranglers’.

Morning in Jaisalmer

India is a cacophony of sounds – and the lead instrument of the orchestra is the car horn.

Morning, and a cool breeze is blowing from the north. The Fort is shrouded in mist (or is it pollution), cows wander the streets and lilting voices sing out from the rooftops. A train can be heard in the distance. An old lady shuffles past the hotel balcony, labouring under the weight of an over-sized bucket of water. The train is closer and its horn more insistent. A dog howls. Another day in Jaisalmer is beginning.

Although I was not to know it at the time the recce provided a wonderful and very clear demonstration of how corrugations are created.

We successfully completed the recce and returned to New Delhi for the start of Desert Storm 2008.

 

 

© Kim Epton 2008-2024
2127 words, 11 photographs.

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