The sand dunes at Sam west of Jaisalmer are, more than anything else, sensuous. They sprawl about like the folds and curves and crevices of a woman's body, gentle and soft. There's almost a certain disrespect in stomping all over them, and yet camels with people on them do it all the time. But what gets me are the bottles and Frooti boxes and Lays wafers packets and assorted other junk, tossed on them.
That's a gorgeous shape, pal. Why do you fling your empty bottle of White Stag whisky on it?