It was hot, dry and dusty when they finally arrived in Jaisalmer.  But then, how often is it not hot and dusty here? 

In the markets a wizened woman, of indeterminate age, is using a straw broom to aggressively sweep the area in front of her shop. The dust will soon be kicked-back by passers-by; or swept back by her neighbours; requiring her to sweep again, and again.  She will do the same again tomorrow; and the day after; and the day after that.

Jennifer's mind is elsewhere. She's has dreamt of visiting exotic India ever since a client at the hairdressers told her, with enthralling details, of her adventures here.

They've arrived in the dusty city late in the afternoon, by road from Jodhpur.  In spite of his preference to visit California or Las Vegas again, she's finally persuaded Bruce that he might like India. He should try something a bit more adventurous for a change.

Below the entrance to the famous Jaisalmer Fort, is a small square that marks the start of the road winding up, then turning at right-angles, through the protective elephant-proof gates.  In this little square, motorised trishaws: Tuk-tuks, jostle restlessly like milling cattle.  They are waiting for tourists, like our travellers, who may hire them tomorrow to see the town or, if they are lazy or tired, just to mount the steep hill up to the Fort. 

One or two tourists per vehicle is ideal.  But some, like those four older Australians earlier today, used just one when they returned from the cloth market, because there was only one of the little machines waiting and, anyway, it's a short trip.  But cramming four big tourists into one is not as hard as transporting the locals, who expect a little Tuk-tuk to carry six or more, a couple crammed in beside the driver and, occasionally, a goat or two.

Like much of this area of Rajasthan, the surrounding countryside is desert or semi-desert, dry grasslands interspersed with sand in great dunes.  Wild peacocks share the landscape with sheep and goats and the ever-present wandering-cows of India.  On the horizon, hundreds of wind turbines turn spasmodically, gleaning whatever energy they can from the fitful afternoon breeze.  And across this part of India the electricity grid has been turned off, so that a cacophony of small domestic generators has begun, in daily protest against the uncooperative wind. 

For Jennifer, this part of India is the most romantic. Once, Jaisalmer, with its commanding Fort, dominated the millennia old trade route, linking India to Central Asia, Egypt, Arabia, Persia, Africa and the West.  Its wealth grew from its position, as a strategic halting point for the camel caravanserai of Indian and Asian merchants, carrying:  opium; copper; silk; cotton; dates; coffee; and all manner of exotic goods, both east and west. 

But the camel trains no longer snake across these dunes. Since the Partition, of India into India and Pakistan in 1947, the relationship between the two new nations has frequently been hostile. Now divisions of armed soldiers trace these ancient camel paths and a new border severs the ancient trade route. 

Military jets from the nearby air-force base scream high above, patrolling the desert.  And the camels carry trekking tourists instead.

Bruce is an accountant. They met when he came in to the salon to check over the books. After months of dating, Jennifer quit her rental apartment and moved in with him at his place in Brisbane West. It's been over a year, so they are definitely a couple now and some of the gloss has worn off. For example, he's been like a 'wet rag', dampening her romantic fancies, all through the drive here.  At one point, after reading from his tablet, he announced that:

“This is interesting. Exploitative tourism and militarisation have replaced the ancient trade route, in the Jaisalmer economy.”

He went on to describe the weapons used by the Indian army, something about the Cold War and Russia and NATO ammunition. and even the Taliban in Afghanistan.

Jennifer shut him out, trying hard not to hear about modern conflicts and to hold on to her belief in the exotic mystery of these ancient lands.  Somehow cashed-up tourists and machine guns; rockets; and tanks; are not romantic.