Jaisalmer, Rajasthan.
I set off from the magnificent golden city of Jaisalmer into the wilds of the Thar Desert, completely alone (apart from 2 guides, 4 companions and 8 flatulent camels). A challenging voyage, seeking an image in the mirror of self discovery that can only be reflected in such a hostile and solitary wilderness. Like the warriors of old (or a least that guy in the film '300' - the one where he kills the wolf by punching it in the gooch. Or was it a tiger with a glare? Or his lawyer with a Biro? I forget... ) I went away a mere boy and came back... still a boy. I survived an encounter with a crazy man and his rifle and pooed in a hole, but it doesn't count unless you have a moustache, apparently.
Our guide Padma is a 60year old self confessed 'camel man' with a neon orange turban and a penchant for the word 'crazy'. The man has a magnificent moustache, the upturned ends droop only a little as water drips from it down into his smiling mouth, his superbly accurate impression of a camel drinking now complete. He carefully pulls the ends back into place with weathered fingertips, the upper-lip broom is again a perfect bushy 'w'.
Uninterested in my grossly macho-ified tale about how I had to flee the desert man who showed me his rifle (steady ladies...) then pointed it at me saying "India, England, Fighting" Padma interjects saying "No moustache: no man". His comment aimed directly at the centre of my consciously naked philtrum. It will hamper my chances with the Indian ladies he tells me. It might make things harder for him to arrange a wife for me - a task he's set upon with vigour since I unwittingly unearthed that his only son wanted a love marriage (Tchu! Kids these days!) and that I had no current marriage plans.
The 'tash culture is, to me, an interesting study in evolution. Indian men have truly grand moustaches, everywhere you look they sit, obese hairy leeches, mimicking in unison the laughter wobbles and word wiggles of their host lips. I saw a boy, no older than fourteen, on the train today who had one that reached down to the floor (- he tripped over it at one point and fell in a bucket of chapattis). This unequivocal prowess on the facial hair front is surely a product of genetics. That the culture dictates that a man with a good moustache is more so than one without, and hence presumably more attractive to females of that culture means he will be more successful in the mating rink. And hence the great moustach is perpetuated, becoming ever larger, more bushy and luxurious with the generations. My prediction: a race of massive moustaches with consciousnesses terrorising the planet looking for something hard to find, err say, 'Unobtanium'... the film title? err, "Moustaches On a Plane"?...
Bye for now poppets!
I set off from the magnificent golden city of Jaisalmer into the wilds of the Thar Desert, completely alone (apart from 2 guides, 4 companions and 8 flatulent camels). A challenging voyage, seeking an image in the mirror of self discovery that can only be reflected in such a hostile and solitary wilderness. Like the warriors of old (or a least that guy in the film '300' - the one where he kills the wolf by punching it in the gooch. Or was it a tiger with a glare? Or his lawyer with a Biro? I forget... ) I went away a mere boy and came back... still a boy. I survived an encounter with a crazy man and his rifle and pooed in a hole, but it doesn't count unless you have a moustache, apparently.
Our guide Padma is a 60year old self confessed 'camel man' with a neon orange turban and a penchant for the word 'crazy'. The man has a magnificent moustache, the upturned ends droop only a little as water drips from it down into his smiling mouth, his superbly accurate impression of a camel drinking now complete. He carefully pulls the ends back into place with weathered fingertips, the upper-lip broom is again a perfect bushy 'w'.
Uninterested in my grossly macho-ified tale about how I had to flee the desert man who showed me his rifle (steady ladies...) then pointed it at me saying "India, England, Fighting" Padma interjects saying "No moustache: no man". His comment aimed directly at the centre of my consciously naked philtrum. It will hamper my chances with the Indian ladies he tells me. It might make things harder for him to arrange a wife for me - a task he's set upon with vigour since I unwittingly unearthed that his only son wanted a love marriage (Tchu! Kids these days!) and that I had no current marriage plans.
The 'tash culture is, to me, an interesting study in evolution. Indian men have truly grand moustaches, everywhere you look they sit, obese hairy leeches, mimicking in unison the laughter wobbles and word wiggles of their host lips. I saw a boy, no older than fourteen, on the train today who had one that reached down to the floor (- he tripped over it at one point and fell in a bucket of chapattis). This unequivocal prowess on the facial hair front is surely a product of genetics. That the culture dictates that a man with a good moustache is more so than one without, and hence presumably more attractive to females of that culture means he will be more successful in the mating rink. And hence the great moustach is perpetuated, becoming ever larger, more bushy and luxurious with the generations. My prediction: a race of massive moustaches with consciousnesses terrorising the planet looking for something hard to find, err say, 'Unobtanium'... the film title? err, "Moustaches On a Plane"?...
Bye for now poppets!
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