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Published: December 11th 2005
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I spent the morning trying to take unposed photos of people passing by on the street below. It had been quite difficult getting such shots (unguarded or otherwise) because so many people expect payment. I managed a couple but they do lose something from being taken at maximum zoom. It's a shame, because the village people here are so striking - the men, some with very light eyes, wearing their orange turbans, sporting earrings and enormous moustaches, the women in their colourful saris, with nose-rings and henna.
Fifu gave me a CD of the gypsy music as a parting present, which was both thoughtful and a good memento. This place has definitely been a winning combination of a very good room, and a management keen to keep customers happy.
I was given a Jeep ride to the station for my 3:30PM departure, and found my carriage without any trouble. For whatever reason, I'd been put in a cabin on my own, so I had no-one to talk too whatsoever, initally. This was actually a slightly different train to the one I had from Delhi, due to it being on broad gauge (though this didn't make it any faster). The
corridor has a further row of bunks on the opposite side, parallel with the direction of the train, and there is no wall, only curtains, screening all bunks from the corridor. Even better, there's a sensible ladder arrangement to get to the upper bunk, rather than a useless little footplate. Of course, as I was taking a daytime train, I didn't use any of the sleeper enhancements.
At Pokaran, I was joined by a couple of Indian guys, who I quickly fell into conversation with, which passed the time all the way to Jodhpur. They both knew a lot of English, though I got the impression that they didn't use it much. The entire conversation took place between "Mr Rishi", "Mr Vijay", and "Mr John". They were extremely interested in my Pocket PC, especially the MP3 player - Belinda Carlisle and a-ha proved popular, with Chicane and Eiffel 65 resulting in requests to turn the thing off. We arrived (late) into Jodhpur at about 10:45PM. I decided to avoid the massed ranks of autos outside the station (a notorious touting spot), and walked a few hundred metres along the road instead. The first auto driver I flagged down claimed
not to know where Singhvi's Haveli was, a common ruse employed by drivers if a particular hotel does not pay commission. The next one said it would cost Rs 40 - I told him the hotel owner had said it was 25, and he came up with some good improvisation about a late-night tariff. I wasn't having any of this nonsense, so I walked away and was rewarded with him following me and saying he'd do it for 25.
On arriving at the hotel, as arranged over the phone with the owner, I asked him what his name was - he gave me the correct response, and I went in. Such shenanigans is necessary because there are several hotels in the city that named themselves after his, in an attempt to get custom from unsuspecting tourists. Such is the power of being listed in the Lonely Planet. The place, which was a recommendation from Fifu, is another great hotel. It's a 500-year old haveli which has been tastefully refurbished, so the structure of the building has barely been touched, though the decoration is predominantly modern. I had the pick of 2 rooms, both of which would have done, so
I picked the cheapest.
As is the custom in most family-run guest houses, people go to bed early, so I didn't feel as though I could head out for food and keep them waiting for me to get back. Fortunately they were able to quickly manufacture a toasted cheese and tomato sandwich, which went down fine and was served to me by Ashok, the English-speaking lad who is on loan from Fifu for 2 weeks.
After I'd done my ablutions, there seemed to be a faint sewer smell in the room, presumably from the drains, but this didn't stop me from quickly entering the land of Nod.
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