We also pass masses of people, industriously hustling to stay alive. As we slowly glide by village after village, piles of circular, morter-like objects catch our eye. Some are freshly made, lying in the blazing sun to dry. Others are piled in great mounds, near habitations. There is no gatherable or cutable wood throughout most of the countryside.
Every square inch seems to be under cultivation of one kind or another.
What isn't plowed and planted, is desert. We see few trees. As night falls, obscuring the landscape, we bunk down to sleep during our long train journey to the State of Rajistan, to the West. We are after the real desert, and a camel experience, and then, perhaps, a search for Tiger in one of the government-managed preserves. We'll have to wait until next week to see if we're successful.