After eventually surfacing well after mid-day, I went out to try to get my latest photos backed up to CD. Eventually I found a camera shop which would do this because none of the cybercafés here had card readers. While I was waiting for this, I sat watching a real (Adobe) Photoshop artist at work, retouching photos, arranging family portraits and generally doing professionally and well many of the things I do (now) badly and slowly. I was a bit narked when the artist made strenuous attempts to buy my camera, a bit more narked when he removed my photos from my card after burning the CD (however, he copied them back to the card from the CD when I told him that it was a back-up, not trying to create room on the card) and very narked when it was time to pay: I asked him the cost of this service and he said 'up to you', then appeared unhappy with what I thought was a reasonable price for a blank CD and 10 minute's PC time.
This prompted me to buy a card-reader of my own (it cost Rs 350 [about £5) because I'm sure I'll be backing up more as I go along and don't want any more such hassles. I got a bit of grief from the owner of the shop where I bought the reader because he wanted me to pay in dollars and/or give him UK currency. Er, if I'm going to give anything to anyone here, it'll be to folk who are down on their luck or who have become special to me in some way or other, not to flashily dressed PC-sellers!
By now it was 5pm and I was very conscious that
So I phoned them, wondering if they would have time to meet before I had to go to the station or whether I'd spend another night in Satara.
By luck they were taking a break just then from revision and so we headed to a nearby cheap restaurant for chai and masala dosa* (and a lesson in how to eat them properly: apparently the thing to do is use cutlery or right hand to dunk some in the sambar, then spoon a bit of what I'd taken to be coconut dip into my mouth.
*Of course, I was happy to pay this time, even though they again tried to insist I didn't.
Mahesh and I shared an autorickshaw with a young couple to the station while Hrumesh followed on his motorbike. I bought my ticket, not realising it was a third-class (AKA passport to pain) and then chatted a bit more with the lads before they left me in the hands of Munaa, a very young bloke who was heading back to Goa to work after spending a long weekend with his girlfriend in Satara. He was keen to say goodbye to his lady but his phone was out of credit so I offered him use of mine. He couldn't get through, probably because mine is a UK phone but this still kicked off at least a 'single-serving' friendship (obviously I hope for more) and he found us seats and we guarded each others' luggage as the other tried to sleep or visit the toilet.
A word about travelling third class on India trains: DON'T! The seats are made of wooden slats with no padding, there are about 10% more passengers than there are seats and the squat toilets stink. There was no sign of unpleasant matter on the toilet floor but all the same I'm very glad I didn't have to use them. I also found I can't sleep on a wooden seat and was too slow to grab a luggage rack, not that I would have slept on that either. So I sat up most of the night, sustained by chai and matchsticks propping my eyelids open. I also got to try some of the chewing-tobacco and chalk mix that's so popular here: once was enough.
I found out later that the smell was the ammonia water thats's used to hose down the toilets. Also, at least one of the four toilets on this type of carriage (properly called 'unreserved') is western-style. The smell of ammonia is also useful for covering up other smells.
© (except the blatantly ripped-off bits) Random Bozo 2006