We've ridden through the desert on a camel with no name...

(narrated by Will Ferrell as Professor Von Klassen while in the hot tub.)



Jaisalmer, India 2007



It was 9am under the searing desert sun when we set out on our fierce beasts. For those of us unfamiliar with the Camelus dromedarius, they anger easily and harbour resentments. But we digress, all great epics must reveal themselves in due time.



It was 9am under the searing desert sun when we set out on our fierce beasts. The first steps were shaky, unsure even, but the great animals surrendered to our steel will and began their steadfast march into the depths of the rising desert sun. 9:01am we were still walking. 9:02am see above. 9:03am; did you expect anything different - it's a damn camel safari.



As we quickly escaped civilization, or walked slowly away (and just outside of earshot), we were overcome by the power and immensity of the desert; or was that just our melting brains playing its Jedi mind tricks? The ol' Mercury was playing its childish games somewhere around the 40 - 45 degree mark. But we stayed the course (thanks Dubya, you are an inspiration) determined, nay destined, to reach the dunes that would serve as our starlit abode for the evening's rest.



As the sweat poured like Baby Duck champagne at a frosh week birthday party, and similarly seemed to find its way to the body's every nook and cranny, we discovered (for the 10, 343rd time on this safari route) the deserted desert village of the Brahman's, evicted by the thwarted Raj king who would not be granted the hand of a young Brahman girl in marriage (violence, tragedy and love unrequited; an epic of Shakespearean proportions is born).



Montage #1 (music starts, 'Chariots of Fire' plays faintly in the background):



walking, sweating, walking, walking, sweating, melting, burning, oh the burning! eating lunch, laughing, commiserating, girls beating boys at euchre (the sting of defeat running deep, as the boys had just taught them the fateful game). Arriving at the dunes.



We desaddled our desert chariots and settled down under the fading sun, nestled on a 1cm thick mattress on the hard desert sand, our evening's entertainment consisting of the close observation of the mysterious and mighty Dung Beetle, effortlessly wrestling pieces of shit thrice their size into the security of their sandy solaces. The night would be fierce, but fear not dear friends, as we would not be so bold (or shortsighted) as to slay our beloved protagonists.



The night was filled with the promise of cool. Little did we know that mother desert was crossing her fingers at the time. The clouds dashed in. The pitter patter of humid footsteps quickly followed. The sweat returned. Tossing. Turning. Sighing under the wet blanket sky. On this night, the Big Dipper was instantly transformed into the Big Dripper. Fact. Look it up. Just when it seemed there would be no refreshment from the oppressive heat, alas, a shadowy figure appeared on the dunes, with those fateful words: 'Sprite, Fanta, 7-Up?' We had come face-to-face with the ever elusive enterprising desert business man, Indianmanacus salesmanamus.



We endulged and endulged we did (what does that mean? (cameo by Jimmy Fallon)).



The desert was angry that night my friends, just like an old man trying to return soup at a deli (Costanza, George, Seinfeld, circa 1995) and just like love at 13, our situation did not last long. The clouds parted, stealing their shelter from the aloof desert sky and our ol' friend Mercury slipped and fell. Slipped yes and fell indeed, past cool and comfortable, past temperate and tolerable to shameless and shivery, cold and calculating. The sun in cohoots with the moon, testing our will and determination with nature's extremes.



On day 2, it really warmed up. We laughed at the trials and tribulations from the previous day. We bawked at the trivial temperatures that were thrown our way. We resaddled, defiant, perhaps stupid.



The day would take its toll. The slow rocking motion of our desert steads slowly ground our inner thighs and other unmentionables into the hard, unforgiving saddles. Apparently, a hump can be quite the pain in the rump.



Montage #2 (music starts, Johny Cash's 'Burning Ring of Fire')



Walking, sweating, sweating, sweating, walking, cringing, complaining, slumping, legs a shakin', hearts a breakin', arriving under the relative shelter of a large tree for an early 10:30am lunch and our 4 pm jeep pickup. Yes the math is correct, that is 5.5 hours in the devil's waiting room, where the air conditioning is broken and the only magazine is a 1982 copy of Homemaker's. Jeep arrives. Saved.



It was 9am under the searing desert sun when we set out on our fierce beasts. It was 4pm, 31 hours later when we returned. Wiser? Yes. Older? Slightly. Hydrated? Ha! We laugh at your silly questions.



But in the end, your beloved protagonists triumphed, proving too resilient and resourceful for the desert's most fierce arsenol.



That night we dined in Jaisalmer Fort. The fusilli was drenched in a delicate saffron sauce, the air was conditioned. We were home, even James Bond stops for a martini.



Fade to black.



The End.



Synopsis: We went on a 2 day camel safari. It was really nice and fun but quite hot.