In 1997, Ally and I were backpacking through Rajasthan, India. We found ourselves in Jaisalmer, the "Golden City," and signed up for what we imagined would be a majestic three-day camel trek through the Thar Desert.
The reality was a bit more abrasive. Our camels were incredibly bad-tempered, and the seating was a masterclass in discomfort. However, the desert scenery was spectacular, and as the sun began to set on our first night, the vast, shifting dunes almost made the saddle-soreness worth it.
Our expedition leader, a local man of practical habits, began preparing dinner over the campfire. As he was plating up, he noticed one of the metal dishes wasn't quite up to his standards. With a loud, guttural clear of his throat, he delivered a hefty spray of spit directly onto the plate, then gave it a vigorous buffing with his filthy shirt sleeve.
We watched in paralyzed horror as he piled our food onto the "cleaned" surface. But, being young, exhausted, and absolutely starving, we ate every last bite.
The consequences arrived with the morning sun. As we set off the next day, Ally’s stomach decided to stage a full-scale revolt. She signaled that she had to get off, and the camel performed its awkward, jarring "press-up" maneuver to kneel in the sand. Ally dismounted, threw up, and climbed back on. A few hundred yards later, the process repeated. Press-up, dismount, vomit, remount.
Eventually, the sheer physical labor of the camel’s gymnastics became too much to bear. Ally simply said, "Fuck it," and began projectile vomiting directly from the height of the camel’s hump. I have never seen her so sick. We eventually limped back to the Jaisalmer Fort, where she spent the next several days in a darkened room, recovering from the most scenic—and hygienic—disaster of our lives.
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