Adventure With a Mission

Inside the fort, four horses mounted by turbaned flag bearers flank cannons on either side of a grand red-carpeted staircase. These Marwari horses are famous for bringing their riders home from battle and for their curiously curved ears. They are smaller than I'd imagined. Not ponies, just very compact. Part of me is relieved -- I won't have so far to fall.

Tabla drums begin to beat. Souri, our group leader, comes down the stairs dressed in vintage jodhpurs, tall brown boots, linen shirt with Nehru collar and felt hat right out of "Indiana Jones." Souri personally leads each of Relief Riders' three annual expeditions.

He has preceded us, choosing mounts to match our levels of experience. I am assigned Durga, named for an 18-armed goddess of power. In Hindu mythology, horses were winged deities superior to man. Only royal warriors could ride them.

I go with my new roommate, Sunny, a professor at Harvard Medical School, to the outer court to see the three camels that will pull our supply carts. They are tattooed with our mission symbol: a circle in a circle. I keep a respectful distance. I've known a few camels. There is nothing cute about a camel. No one ever asks a camel's name.

Souri has told us we can ride in a camel cart if we get too saddle-sore. When I see the camel carts in the corner of the yard, I know I'm in trouble. They are rickety, slatted affairs on big awkward wheels with no shade or seats, something Fred Flintstone might ride. I'll be better off on horseback.

Sunset Ride

For our ceremonial first ride, we are presented with necklaces of marigolds. A Hindu priest blesses each of us by daubing red paste on our foreheads and tying red strings on our right wrists. We are not to remove them for 41 days lest we bring on bad luck.

My mare, Durga, has large luminous eyes, a velvety Roman nose and one white sock. Her coat is fine, like silk, not like horsehair at all. The furry ears remind me of a rabbit. They curve like the sides of a lyre or a sickle, almost overlapping at the top.

The horses are nervous. I mount, and we skitter around the field. The ears, part of the animal's adaptation to the desert, are unique among horses. They swivel in all directions, enabling the horses to avoid sand and giving them uncanny hearing.

We're off. The cavalry saddle's stiff edges rub my inner thighs. It's worse when I try to post.

Schoolchildren in blue shirts watch us with wide eyes outlined with what looks like kohl. Someone tells me it is linseed oil mixed with lampblack used to ward off diseases; desert sand and sun are harsh on eyes. Many here have cataracts by age 50; they become a burden to their families and a danger to themselves. Relief Riders' Give the Gift of Sight clinics provide cataract and lens implantation surgery to as many as 100 villagers on each ride.

My stirrups are too long, my marigolds flopping around my neck. I know that Marwaris have a smooth fifth gear, a gait called the revaal . I seem to be in second.

Our laconic horse master, Arvin, smiles and asks sweetly, "Is everyone ready for a trot?" The horses react as if he had pressed the starting buzzer. Trotting quickly escalates to a gallop. I am being pelted with sand from the pack ahead.