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National Geographic : 1993 Sep
Contents
pleasure: "And you would bring a big price." The police routinely side with the villagers, from whom they skim an illicit income. And, in a system rife with corruption, there is no law the Rabari can trust, no social safety net beyond the bonds of family and caste. FEAR AND SUSPICION met me every where as I moved among the Rabari. In one village, after it was agreed that I "could never make it," I was beset by a chorus of women: "We'll take her with us if she'll agree to be tattooed-neck, face, hands, and legs." "If she'll have large holes made in her ears, for the silver." "If she can drink ditch water that's green or black." "If she can go for days with no water at all, with nothing but sheep or camel milk." A crone stopped the taunting, took my hand in hers, and said, "You see, we cannot take you, because it is too hard and too dan gerous for you. Besides, others will think we have kidnapped you. They'll put us in jail." When I crossed the border into the state of Gujarat, however, I had the good fortune to meet Dr. Ramakrishnan, deputy director of the Gujarat Sheep & Wool Development Cor poration. Through him I met Phagu Bhai, the leader, or mukhi, of a group of Rabari who were about to leave their village in the district of Kutch. They would migrate south in a rough loop, through a labyrinth of sea and desert, into the fertile farmlands of the neighboring Saurashtra region, then back to Kutch at the advent of the monsoon. It was decided that I would travel with them, under the protection of Phagu and his family. But my camels were back in Jodhpur, and I was held up in Bhuj, the old capital, until I could acquire yet another-a sturdy but smallish young male named Ram Rahim. Migration waits for no one, and the dang left without me. The shepherds with their flocks, the women and children with their pack cam els, about 60 people in all, pushed along at more than 20 miles a day; there was little feed or water in the broad salt flat known as the Australian adventurer ROBYN DAVIDSON reported on an earlier trek by camel in "Alone Across the Outback" in the May 1978 issue. This is the first GEOGRAPHIC assignment for photographer DILIP MEHTA of New Delhi and Toronto. Little Rann of Kutch. As soon as I completed my purchase, I dumped all my gear in the jeep and headed off with Ramakrishnan and some friends. Ram Rahim would follow, by truck. We caught up with the dang, already five days out, as they were pulling into a camp in a dry riverbed near the town of Morbi. Night was falling, and women, dressed in black, were bringing huge bundles of thorn in on their heads for the cooking fires, then thrash ing the pile with ten-foot sticks to blunt the two-inch-long prickles. Other women had walked a mile to a well and were carting back brass pots, stacked on their heads. The men were bringing in the sheep, all 5,000 of them. Each family clustered around one or two large string cots on which all the gear, food, and saddles were placed to protect them from termites, whose appetite, it was said, could reduce leather to dust overnight. The women and children slept on this gear, two to five to a bed, using handmade quilts for warmth, as the animals milled around them. The men slept on the ground outside the flock, taking turns guarding it. Each family camp was maybe 20 yards away from the neighbors, close enough that a shouted joke could be appreciated. Three rocks in a triangle formed the stove. In front sat the women, rolling, slapping, patting, pounding millet dough. Around them stood sheep and goats so tired and stupid they singed their noses in the fire. I was told where to place my fold-up cot, near the women. On one side of me were Pha gu's wife, Nakki, a weathered but still grace ful lady, and their daughters Jaivi, Latchi, and little Hatti. On the other were Phagu's niece Parma, and her aunt, Lakhmi. In their silver jewelry and elegant black, they were as striking as a stormy day. I felt underdressed, wondering if I shouldn't have packed some pearls among my sensible cottons. Ram Rahim arrived later that evening and was tethered close to me for the night. When my jeep and friends headed back to Bhuj, I turned to face my "family." We had perhaps 20 words in common. Day One I have far too much luggage for one small camel. I mime concern. Phagu waves his arms about, mimes back that we have no choice. We will pack it all, but he and I will take a short route, through the cen ter of Morbi. The rest of the dang will go the long way, thereby avoiding paying bribes to NationalGeographic, September 1993
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