Desert Nomads and Safari Chicken

From the Journal...

We wake in time to see the sunrise, but the others are already up. Eggs, toast and marmalade are brought to us, along with some delicious tea. Before starting out for the day, we walk over to the small Rajput village with Matar. The houses are made of sandstone; the shelter for the goats is covered with brush. The villagers come out to meet us. We stand head and shoulders over them as curiously they encircle us. Like a flock of brightly colored butterflies the women and girls pose for me with their burgundy and gold saris draped over shoulders and covering their heads. They are adorned with nose rings, earrings, arm bangles, toe rings, and a headdress made of beads that Matar says denotes them as Rajput Hindi. One girl balances a brass water jug on her head. Then the grouping of males… young boys in faded indigo cotton, two men wearing saffron colored turbans. They are all very thin. The desert is a hard place to live. There has been a drought for the last four years, raining only about once a year. We were told that it had last rained on August 11, at 6:30 pm for two hours.

We leave the village and mount our camels for another day’s ride. Matar begins to sing, a very long song with many verses. It tells the story of a Pakastani girl that is smuggled or kidnapped and brought here to the desert. I think of the camel caravans laden with silks and spices… moving across the desert so many centuries ago. Did they sing their stories to while away the time, adding verses as they went along?

We come to our mid-day rest near the Kanoi village well. A few trees provide shade. From their sandstone huts on top of a hill, a group of women walk to the well. They fill earthenware or brass jugs with the precious water and carry it back to their village, the jugs perfectly balanced on their heads. Desert nomads are camped nearby and they too come to the well. Small boys herd black goats that wear tinkling bells around their necks. Soon there are few people in sight. The animals have sought shelter under the trees as we have. It is over 100 degrees.

After a short nap, we wake to find the little black goats all around us, vainly trying to find even a small nibble of vegetation. Under another tree the rest of our party sits, laughing and having a good time with a group of the nomad women… there are about six of them and they break into a wild and wonderful nomadic song. Matar points out one of the girls and says she is to be married in ten days. She is 15 years old. Girls of the nomad tribes choose their own husbands. They can also divorce them. These nomads are the original (primitive) Indians and speak only Rajasthani. They acknowledge no government or justice but their own. They live in lean-to-tents and in the open. They only herd goats and what money they acquire goes for jewelry to adorn themselves (it is wealth that can be carried from place to place).

We ride to the nomad’s camp. Matar dismounts and walks over to the headman. He begins to negotiate for a live chicken, a scrawny little white-feathered hen that squawks loudly in protest. At the end of the negotiations and for the sum of 30 Rupees, the hen comes with us… destined to become chicken dinner.

Note: “Safari Chicken” was with us for several days before becoming the main ingredient in our chicken curry. Each time we would stop, she would get tied to a bush with a little piece of twine around one leg. She happily pecked away at bits of grass and insects, little knowing what was in store for her.

To be continued…