Friends and Impromptus-ites, welcome to Part VI — and here are links to previous installments: I, II, III, IV, V.

I think that, in a journal like this, I once described Jordan as Arizonan — pink deserty. In Rajasthan, a member of our group notes that our environs have a southwestern feel. And that’s right.

‐Did I ever tell you about me and camels? I don’t think so. Years ago, in Egypt, I vowed I would never, ever again get on a camel in my life. The circumstances were as follows: Two friends of mine thought it would be really, really neat to get me on a camel. Neat for them, I mean. This was at the Pyramids. I said no-thanks. But they paid a camel driver, and I had little choice. Up I went.

The camel was very, very tall, and very, very lumpy — humpy. He and I were not a good fit. I didn’t know where or how to sit. I didn’t know where or how to hold on. And below was an extremely hard surface — nothing like sand.

I was kind of sliding, lurching all the time — thought I would fall off. I’m sure it was unenjoyable for the camel, too. We didn’t really go anywhere, so he couldn’t get into his rhythm. We were just kind of standing — posing — for a photo.

With me was this camel driver, or handler, or whatever we call him. And, while I was up on the beast, the guy extorted me for more money — more than what my friends had paid. He said that he would not let me down unless I paid more; he had his hand out. I pleaded ignorant foreigner, and got down, without forking over.

(I should point out that my friends were Egyptian. They’d paid a fair and right price. The guy thought he could get me for the know-nothing-tourist price.)

My friends had their laughs, and we got the photos. I recovered from my fright and distaste. And I made my vow: Never again. I’d had my camel experience. Cross that off the “life list.”

So, in India, we’re in the Rajasthani desert, and a camel ride is on the agenda. Watch the sunset and all that. So up I go again. Sure enough, the second I’m on the thing, the guy is pumping me for more money. This must be part of the Camel Driver’s Oath or something — you have to extort the customer, or mark, for more money. The mark is feeling shaky, vulnerable, and he’s in no position to say no. He’ll agree to anything.

I fend this guy off, as I did the other one. Also, my Rajasthani guy tells me that my particular camel is a wonderful runner, and he’d be happy to show me. That must be part of his repertoire. I guess I try to smile through gritted teeth.

When he’s not pumping me for more money, my guy is pleasant enough — even charming. I’ve read that Rajasthani camel drivers sing folk songs, so I ask him for one. He agrees, but I have to give him a song, too. He sings his Rajasthani number; I give him Irving Berlin’s “Blue Skies.” Why, I’m not sure.

My gang gets back to base, and we tip our drivers generously. And they plead for more — insist on more, scolding us, almost threatening us. Extremely unpleasant. We are walking away, and they are following us, and suddenly a member of our party — a distinguished senior lady lawyer — wheels on them. She gives them a royal tongue-lashing. It is a stunning burst of speech. The guys shut up, and become contrite.

Of course, I ask my friends what she has said (for it was in a language I know not). What she said was, “If that money’s not good enough for you, give it back — we’ll take it.”

Well done.

‐Are you an addict — a true “CrackBerry” type — if you check your BlackBerry on a camel? Hang on, let me explain — let me defend myself. I was not checking my BlackBerry. I was unsheathing my BlackBerry in order to use its camera function. But there were a couple of e-mails I wanted to read, and . . .

‐Next morning, I have a walk in the desert. For 45 minutes, I see no one — not another person, not an animal. I do see some animal skulls and skeletons. I am walking in a Georgia O’Keefe painting. Then the area sort of comes to life — some camels, some camel people.

They all ask if I want a camel ride. Think I’ll pass.

An unusual walk, for me — not much like Manhattan.

‐I don’t think I’ve mentioned, in this journal, the touchy subject of race. And race is a considerably touchy subject in India — where skin colors are sliced very thin. I check out the “personals” section — though they don’t call it that — of the Hindustan Times. Lots and lots of chicks are advertised as “fair and slim.” Funny, but I don’t see dark and chunky, at all.

The ads go on to give height and weight — I wonder how accurate those are. Also academic credentials (“MBA!”) and other data.

Talk about a meat market — though most of these fillies are advertised as vegetarian.

I think of the rules back home, in the good ol’ U.S.A. You can’t advertise walk-in closets, because that discriminates against the crippled (as does the word “crippled”). You can’t advertise scenic views, because that discriminates against the blind. Etc. (Really.)

“Fair and slim” — no, I don’t think that would fly!

‐In Borsad, a town in Gujarat, I have an extraordinary experience. A young man has advertised for a bride. He is of age, ready. And young ladies have sent him their applications — photo, of course, along with CV. I see these applications, or dossiers. And the young man has two stacks: “possibles” and “no-gos.” It is a very exciting process — he seems jazzed about it, understandably. But nerve-wracking too, I would think. Not to mention how the applicants feel!

Anyway, I feel I have glimpsed something . . . as I said, extraordinary.

#JAYBOOK#

‐The variety of cellphone rings in India is incredible. The variety of cellphone rings in the world is incredible. In Udaipur, our guide’s ring is “Jingle Bells.” I ask whether he knows it’s a Christmas carol. He didn’t know that, no. But, funnily enough, the friend who recommended the ring to him is Christian.

‐Speaking of Udaipur, consider a sign outside a tourist attraction: “Please Don’t Encourage Baggers and Tout’s” (i.e., Beggars and Touts). There are many, many such charming signs.

‐I like a sign at the approach of a toll booth: “Dead Slow.” Wonderful phrase.

‐A sign in Jodhpur says, “Use Condom While Inter Course.”

‐Bharuch has both a Rotary Club and a Lions Club — and I am reminded what valuable organizations these are, wherever they sprout. They don’t get the credit they deserve. Of course, they don’t seek it, either — that’s the kind of institution they are.

‐A further word about Bharuch: I visit one of the most admirable places you can imagine. It’s a school for the mentally disabled, and it is immaculate, welcoming. It is also a vibrant place. The facilities are top-quality; the curricula and programs are thoughtful and helpful; and the staff is committed, knowledgeable, and caring. These children are extremely lucky to be here.

But I have to tell you something. You know the expression “labeling people”? I see three classrooms, side by side. At the respective entrances, they are labeled “Mild,” “Moderate,” and “Severe.” Talk about labeling — literally.

This jars, but you can’t bring yourself to criticize. These people are doing blessed work.

‐Along the road in Bharuch, I see a laborer wearing a Harvard sweatshirt. Harvardwear gets around, doesn’t it?

‐Traveling through Rajasthan, we pause at the town of Pokhran. Any reason you should know it? Well, it looms rather large on the world map, or at least the regional map. It certainly did in 1998 — when India exploded its A-bomb. Pokhran is its nuclear town — the Indian Los Alamos.

‐I’ll tell you what takes some getting used to: open belching, particularly by distinguished older ladies. In fact, get used to it I don’t — I don’t have the time. Two weeks is not enough. Maybe two years?

That’s enough for Part VI, ladies and gents. I’ll see you tomorrow for No. 7 — our penultimate.