On to Jodhpur

Following another memorable rooftop dinner, a rickshaw dropped us off at the local bus station. We joined a herd of foreign backpackers, most of who hailed from France, Britain or Spain. At 9:30 a stout man with a commanding voice ordered us to follow him to our bus. Everybody formed an awkward single file line and marched through the small dunes of red dust lining the busy street. We looked silly, like a pack of timid livestock migrating through unfamiliar territory.

After passing several comfortable-looking buses, we were ushered towards an unpleasant vehicle with rusty paint. “To Jodhpur,” our informal guide announced. Alexander and I made our way to the back of the bus and scaled the metal lattice into our sleeper (that same tiny compartment built into the ceiling of the bus that we had occupied in the first leg of our journey). But this sleeper was different. The windows were caked with a thick layer of dust. There was no air-conditioning. Orange curtains, dulled from the unforgiving desert sun, billowed in the putrid night breeze. It was not until the end of our ride that I would realize that the stench I assumed was coming from outside was in fact the cloth inches from my nose.

To make matters worse, our suicidal bus driver was intent on speeding. He careened to the right and left, dodging the slower cars and trucks, sending his passengers flying. My head knocked against the ceiling as I tried to brace myself; Alexander slammed against the compartment walls. When the paved roads turned to gravel, the bus often teetered on the sharp curves, giving the sensation that we were momentarily balancing on two wheels. It was impossible to fall asleep and so we lay as rigid as boards, preparing for impact.

At four a.m. the driver announced our destination- more than two hours before the scheduled arrival. Most of the tourists exited with us. By the time we had made it to the street, all but one rickshaw had departed, bumbling off in different directions. We squeezed into the one remaining vehicle with a British couple traveling in India for a two-week holiday. (The woman was an accountant- “very boring,” she said- and was enjoying the adventure.) The driver dropped us off at Singhvi’s Haveli, located in the heart of the old city. All rooms were occupied and so we were asked to wait until the 10 a.m. checkout time. In the meantime we gratefully snoozed on an abandoned twin mattress in the corner of the lobby.