Amritsar

The previous day had taken me to the New Delhi train station tourist office to get my ticket for Amritsar. Having heard horror stories of the touts who linger at the bottom of the stairwell convincing people the office is closed and they must book through them I went ready for a fight. To my slight disappointment there was nobody there and I freely walked up the stairs and into the office. So armed with my most expensive ticket to date (I had opted for the 'superfast' service which was to take a mere 5 hours, a blink of the eye compared to some other trains), I boarderd my a/c carrige, accepted my complimentary tea and sandwhich and settled in for the long journey ahead.

Now Amritsar is the home of the Golden Temple, the most holy of sites for the Sikhs, and the main purpose of my visit. The Sikhs believe in the philosophy that everyone is the same despite differences in religion, colour or whatever else, this was to be made evident to me from the moment I stepped off the train. I was instantly approached by two young rickshaw drivers enquiring where I was staying, my digs were near the temple itself so I told them just to drop me there, I was then quoted the usual astronomical prices, showing my disgust in the most honourable way I continued walking alas I was to be followed like the proverbiable bad fart. I was then met my an older bearded man with a pink turban neatly coiled on his head, he couldn't speak english but knew my hotel and for a fraction of the cost the two previous guys had quoted. So I set off in his rickshaw surrounded by pictures of the Sikh warrior kings and with the whole of the back covered with one large picture of the golden temple, I felt like I was there already. Soon enough my miniture, motorised temple pulled up at a no vehicle entry barrier, expecting to walk the last part I was surprised to see my driver hail a cycle rickshaw pay him a third of his fare to take me the last couple minutes journey to the hotel, I was very impressed. This however was not my reaction when I was shown my room. I walked back to reception and made it clear that I couldn't stay there...well not at the price he wanted anyway. After taking away my A/C and hot water but with the promise of his cleanest dirty sheets we came to an agreement, I could always have stayed with the pilgrims in the temple dorms for free and whilst this would truely have been an experience, it was one I wasn't ready for.

I set off for the temple, buying a mandatory head scarf on the way deciding the communal ones at the gate probably weren't worth the risk. I deposited my shoes at one of the huge shoe stations and walked barefoot round to the entrance. After a quick wash of the hands and a dip through the foot baths lining the gateway I was ready to enter, a friendly guard tiedied up my head hankie and informed me of the temple ettiquette and set me on my way. The temple is set in a reflection pool surround by a huge walkway which teamed with thousands of pilgrims walking clockwise round the perimeter and many more just sitting in the shade chatting with friends. I joined the masses and navigated round the walkway, on reaching the far end there was a huge stall selling puja offerings to take into the temple itself, the queue to go in was over a thousand strong and wasn't going anywhere fast, I completed my lap and headed towards what could only be described as a massive shelter emmiting a loud clattering noise. I discovered it was the communal kitchen, they feed all the pilgrims for free and when you consider there can be in excess of 80,000 a day you can imagine its scale. A huge conveyer belt of people waiting, being served, eating and cleaning up all going seemingly like clockwork. I discovered the source of the clattering was the metal serving trays being dunked in various vats of hot soapy water before being thrown to the next then being hammered to get rif of excess water before being thrown to another station where they were stacked ready for reuse, the whole process taking under 20 seconds for about 50 trays.

The other major 'attraction' in Amritsar is the Jallianwala Bagh Park, the site of a massacre carried out by the British against a peaceful ralley. The site is a reasonably sombre affair with an eternal flame burning alongside walls littered with bullet holes and the well where 150 people jumped into to escape the firing squad only to meet a watery death. There was also.a small museum dedicated to the Indian man who subsequently assasinated the commanding officer of the man who ordered the attack, it was on exiting here I was to find myself the centre of attention. I was stopped my a man who spoke perfect english, a professor from the local university. On seeing me speak to this man the other nationals must have decided that I was an approachable guy and before too long a woman came up to me and asked for "one snap". I obliged, not thing too much about it and even when more family members flocked into the frame I wasn't too concerned. What I hadn't noticed was the tens of other families who had seen this pioneer family getting there photo taken with the white guy and decided they too wanted a piece of the action. Before I knew it queue had formed and there was now at least 8 or 9 mobiles and cameras pointing at my flashing away. I got a nudge from behind, it was the professor, he told me I should probably sit down, I agreed. After about ten minutes I decided to close Dougies Grotto much to the dismay off the remaining families and beelined for the exit. Not quite how I imagined my trip to the site of a massacre carried out by my country men on the local people would have turned out but an interesting experience.

The next day i explored the outer city finding myself in one of Amritsars finer dining establishments (it alsways amazes me how the colour of my skin can allow owners to over look the fact I am considerably under dressed). I was soon approached by an elderly gentleman sitting opposite me, very well dressed and obviously very wealthy. He struck up conversation and he was soon telling me of his 'new' life in an Osho ashram. I declined his offers of going to stay in his village for the next week, in one of his many empty bedrooms, and infeed I was welcome to stay on after he left for Nepal but in the meanwhile we could talk, listen to music...dance?!!  I obliged him with my email address and it was only till after he left that my waiter informed me he was old bollywood royalty, oh well, thems the breaks living a tentative life in India.

Now running late I had to hot foot it back to the city centre to catch my minibus to the border with Pakistan. I wasn't visiting, just going to see the border closing ceremony, and all the pomp that accompanied it. After an hour of rushing through traffic we arrived 2km short of the border and we were told to walk the rest of the way. I was soon met by a crowd thousands strong all pushing and shoving to get a good position near the closed gates. Not knowing what to do I walked to the front and stood with the other confused looking white people near the front off to the side. They then opened a small side gate allowing only the women through but this caused a huge surge by all parties and soon they had no choice but to open the main gate and allow the eager locals to proceed. The mounted police men troed there best to keep the crowd under control but theres no stopping a crowd of Indians looking to get the best seats. Nearing the stadium all those holding a foreign passport were allowed to enter via a side entrance and we were shown to a privare area nearest the boder gates, one perk of being a whitey in India. The ceremony kicked off with women and children running up and down the main road carrying the Indian flag, then they all had a little disco dance, was actually nice to see the women getting to let tneir hair down for a change. On the Pakistan side of the border it all looked a much more sombre affair, the men on one side the concealed women on the other. Then the main show kicked off literally, one after the other soldiers proceeded to high kick and then goose march to the border where a Pakistani conuterpart would be mirroring their actions. There was lots of gate slamming and then the flags were lowered similtaneously and at that it was all over, and as fast as tbe stadium filled it began to empty.

In the morning I did a quick circuit of the temple before embarking on my long journey up to the hill station of McLeod Ganj, happy to be escaping the heat my only worry was the 3 public busses I was going to have to take to get there!

More Delhi

The next day feeling refreshed and slightly chilly I had breakfast on the roof terrace which to protect its customers from the morning sun the owners had covered with a blue tarp, this served no other purpose but to create a very hot environment, and in this purpose it suceeded, exceptionaly well. Before my tea and toast had arrived I had saturated my shirt and asked politely if they would mind sending it down to my ice parlour, they obliged a sweaty man.

After another quick freshen up I strolled out to explore Delhi, I headed off to see a mausaleum of some description but to be honest compared to the Taj everythig had become a little bland in my eyes. Even the Red Janter Manter wained in siflgnificance compared to that of its yellow counter part in Jaipur. I found sanctuary from the midday heat in a little bookshop and on asking the shop keeper for a recomendation I did not expect the answer he gave. On looking up at the section I was standing infront of, Indian Writing, he let out a disgusted sigh. He unleashed a barrage of abuse against his fellow country men claiming they had very few passable authors and that most of it was tripe. It transpired he was a homosexual, feminist, Cambridge graduate from Bombay now doing a post doc at Delhi University and he was having a bad day. His counterpart who ran the shop on alternate weeks had destroyed his 'system' and it had taken him all week to fix (something I suspect she will spend next week rectifying as he has destroyed her system). I decided to change the subject and remarked on the comic book styled Indian character mugs and coasters next to him on the counter. This of course provoked another rant where he criticised the makers calling them various racist expletives, his grasp of English profanities was quite something to behold. I purchased a racist mug and Salmon Rushdies Midnights Children which the only criticism he had of was that I hadn't already read it, and then left. I quite enjoyed the little exchange in the bookshop but it left me somewhat drained and I retreated to the nearest Cafe Coffee Day and drowned myself in a tropical iceberg (my favourite iced addiction).

I spent the rest of the afternoon exploring Old Delhi, the never ending bazaars piled one on top of eachother and so tightly packed its difficult to tell where one vendors wares stop and anothers begin. As I was being bombarded by sellers from every concievable angle (even from above, most of the shops spill upwards into the 1st and 2nd floors) I ducked up a quieter alley only to be accosted by the mobile vendors who can seemingly pop up from anywhere. Walking away with 3 bollywood LPs I realised that these guys were exceptional salesmen.

I jumped on the metro back up to my hotel and spent the evening with a new friend indulging in that all time traveller favourite, the chocolate banana pancake.

Escape from Agra

At 6am after another terrible night I stepped over the sleeping night guard and let myself out of the hotel and was swiftly ripped off by a greedy rickshaw driver, having no fight left and I was just glad I was getting closer to my destination of New Delhi and further from Taj Ganj.

I was surprised by how quiet the train was, in second class 12 people are supposed to sit where 8 are in sleeper, not bad I thought, but then again that doesn't include standing/free loading passengers. After the first two stops the train was now starting to resemble those of the typical stereotype, the roof providing more space and better air conditioning. I tried to take refuge by directing my head out the window, this was ok in unpopulated areas, of which there are very few, but once you hit a village or town you are met by flashes of white and brown, this being the local village men doing there buisness in the mostly secluded area that is the train tracks. I mean I suppose for 99% of the time this is fine but for that split second you are exposed for the whole commuting world to see, some even face the train, exposing a touch of the voyuer in the locals maybe.

We slowly made our way to Delhi with the train bursting at the seams with people, luggage, parcels and a few suspicious bags leaking a foul smelling liquid, and that was just in my limited eyeline, with visibility limited to about 6cm I'm sure there were many other wonderous things going on past the Indian womans arse directly in front of me. The train began to thin out as we made our slow approach to New Delhi station, the ever impatiant locals taking the oppertunity to hop off as we neared walking pace. I waited till we came to a full stop before hopping off, much to the disgust of the passengers behind me, and I was met by the hustle and bustle of the capitals main station.

On leaving the sanctity of the platform I was instantly bombarded by rickshaw drivers easy to make a quick buck. My hotel was a ten minute walk but despite this I was quoted upwards of 500 rupees for the two minute journey, although if I went to another, "better", hotel of their choosing they would gladly take me there for 10 rupees. I eventually decided to walk and after a short, sweaty trudge I arrived at the Amax Inn.

I had splurged and opted for A/C as the summer temperatures were hitting the mid 40's and with the night providing little relief it seemed worth it. The room was nice enough and despite the pigeons who had made a home on the A/C unit outside my window, relatively quiet.

I decided to head sraight to the heart of New Delhi, Connought Place, a series of circles in a typically British style with a huge roundabout in the centre, which at the time was host to a pack of bears, of the fibre glass painted variety, each country represented by a stereotypical incarnation of an 8ft grizzly. Well that is except Britain which opted for a middle eastern sheik type figure which was a little perplexing especially when plonked next to americas statue of libearty and round the corner Irelands Leprabear. Anyway, I srolled through the main circle and was confronted by shops that you would expect on any UK high street and the occasional old style stationers hanging on in a vert modern world sandwiched between a McDonalds and a Levi shop. I decided to check out the metro for my return journey and once through the metal detectors and baggage xrays I was greeted by something I had not yet expierenced in India, a clean, well organised, efficient, punctual, air conditioned method of travel.
I returned to the Hotel and crashed out with the A/C on full and only the faint scratching and shuffling of pigeons shagging to disturb me, utter bliss compared to Agra.

Not possible Mr Douglas

Agra being a reasonably well connected city I was surprised at how few trains ran from the city to Delhi, well at least trains with seats on them. I found one seat myself but alas my booking abilities were limited to checking availability, leaving me to the mercy of the commission hungry travel agents. I stopped at a couple laughing at their charges and then realised I was in the depths of tourist India and there was no escaping over inflated commission. I quickly realised that I was going to have to stay the two nights I had originally planned but left one agent with the promise of a train early the next morning. After a couple hours I recieved a call saying it would not be possible Mr Douglas and I would have to wait another day to get a train, the thought of a third night sent a chill down my spine and I hung up. Against my judgement I went down to see the grinning thief that was my hotel owner, he was happy I had finally relented to his offers of bus tickets which I had previously been snubbing. I opted for the early morning bus and went back to my cell to pack my bag.

In the morning I recieved a knock at the door, I opened it to find my tear drop clad jailor on the other side with a grin on his face. The bus I was due to get on in an hour had been cancelled and it was only possible now to get the 8pm bus which would arrive somewhere in the early morning. This not particularly appealing I declined and went in search of yet more travel touts but was met by the all to familiar head wobble of ambiguity.

I relented in the end after too many "Not possible Mr Douglas"'s and returned to my hotel. Again I was greeted by a large grin, I reluctantly agreed to spending another night and he charged me 200 rupees for the train ticket, having recieved only a fraction of the value of my bus ticket and his commission being non refundable this was turning out to be an expensive venture.

That night I was the proud owner of a 60 rupee second class train ticket that had cost me well over 500 and inumerable hours of discontent. However as I slummed it once again in my cell I was just glad to be leaving in the morning.

The Taj

After a short and sleepless night I was awoken 15 minutes before my 5am alarm by the sound of scraping chairs above me, I got up and dressed and once again climbed the stairs to the roof terrace. This time I was greeted by the Taj in all her glory bathed in the morning twighlight, oh and a slightly surprised cleaner who was happily dragging the cast iron chairs around the roof.

Having forgotten my tiredness I was eager to get up close and personal. I wandered through the empty streets stopping of at a chai seller to perk myself up with caffeine and a bread stick. The ticket office was empty bar a few other bleary eyed tourists but judging by the snaking entry barriers this was not the norm. I entered the complex which was already buzzing with happy snappers and guide touts, I shrugged them off quite happy just to be immersed in the beauty of the Taj, ignorance is bliss indeed. Walking through the large gate I was met by the immaculate gardens and the infamous reflection pools leading to the majesty of the Taj Mahal which had now taken on a slightly pinkish tinge with the breaking of dawn. I joined the hustle and bustle of everyone trying to take the perfect shot of the scene, trying to do justice to the whole symmetry of the place (these spots were unferstandably popular and the meek had no chance!). I walked slowly towards the main building snapping whenever possible a shot that would actually try and do justice to one of the new wonders of the world.

A strict policy on footwear is adopted and whilst you are issued with blue plastic shoe covers at the entrance I just left my shoes at the racks and went barefoot. On entering I was slightly taken aback by how small it felt, and of course you are remided that this is actually a mausaleum, the two epitaphs of Shah Jahan and his wife lying side by side surrounded by a wall of lattice marble. The superior craftmanship of the tomb is undeniable, mainly of marble the closer you looked at a design the more detail you noticed. There is a series of interconnecting rooms that loop around the main chamber which take you out to the rear which over looks the large gardens over the river. After doing a couple of laps I decided to explore the two flanking buildings, one seemingly disused and the other a mosque, in a mainly Hindu country its easy to forget that it was under Muslim rule for a long time and that the Taj was built under one of the greatest Mughal emperors.

It was exploring the mosque that a bumped into the girl I had met in Jaipur whilst there was no romance or secret espionage exchanges there was a mutual benifical agreement regarding photo taken, you get to get at least a couple snaps in the infamous Diana pose (well thats if you could be bothered to fight the ever increasing numbers pouring in). We sat in the gardens for a while before my rather insubstantial breakfast got the better of me and we parted ways. The mobs had well and truely arrived now and the empty barriers when I entered were now packed with impatient Indian tour groups all ducking and diving trying to gain a few extra places in line.

I grabbed an early lunch on my roof terrace where I could see clearly the ever increasing visitors and whilst I thanked myself for raising out of bed at 5am I was soon kickick myself for the lack of forsight into how difficult it would be to escape from Agra!

Jaipur to Agra

I had a lazy start to the day after the strains, mentally more than physically, of yesterday. After rechecking my train ticket I discovered I had an extra few hours to kill before my train so I headed into the city for some last minute shopping. I had been meandering through the bazaars aimlessly when I was approached by a man asking that all too familiar question 'why do tourists hate Indians?', I told him I didn't have time and was due to catch a train, which fell on his hears with doubt. I insisted it was true but then somehow, once again, found myself on the back of a motorbike being whisked to a coffee shop en route to my hotel where we were to 'chat'. He had informed me he was working with the Indian tourist board and that all he wanted was for me to talk about my time in India. We ordered a coffee and he gave me a form to fill out asking me to name my top 5 pet peeves of India (only 5??!!). He then took a phone call which lasted for about ten minutes, I was just packing up to go when he insisted we go through the form together. At the top of my list was the differing prices for foreign tourists and nationals at various sights, he replied that this was because we were rich and they were poor, a weak and generalistic argument from a supposed member of the tourist board. He then proceeded to my fifth point, more of an expansion on my first really, that shop owners/rickshaws will instantly triple prices when they notice your Western, this seemed to please him, and in my opinion he revealled his true motive. He told me that his uncle owns a shop selling everything not 5 minutes away by bike and he became very insistent I should visit with him as he offered fair prices. Angry at falling for his scam yet eager to keep my cool in light of yesterdays incident, i simply put my share of the bill on the table, said goodbye and left. Now I really was running late for my train. I grabbed a guilty pleasure KFC and made my way hurridly back to the hotel.

I arrived sweating and slightly flustered, I met a German girl who was also catching the same train so we shared a rickshaw. On arrival the driver insisted that the fare of 100 rupees was per person, a new one to me and one which echoed point 5, we grudgingly paid running to late to argue. We parted ways as the girl headed for her first class ac compartment and I to my second class sitting sweat box but arranged to meet on the other side.

The journey passed quickly enough despite a couple of hours delay in the middle somewhere. We reunited, the girl looking refreshed and cool and me feeling dirty and sweaty, and shared a rickshaw into the Taj area of Agra. It was difficult to judge what the city was like in the darkness, the traffic being similar to the other big cities, chaotic, and all the familiar smells of over population, shit. I was dropped first and we made loose arrangements to meet at the Taj at sunrise (can't say I'll utter those words again but it felt rather romantic/like I was a spy arranging a secret drop-off, either or).

I went into the hotel to the reverbaration of raised voices coming from the reception, two americans claiming the host was a money grabber, not a good start. I waited for the situation to diffuse then approached the owner, a fat man in his 30's with a tear drop tattoo under his right eye and a constant grin on his face. He showed me to a spartan room with a window looking onto the corridor and nothing adorning the walls except dirt and mould, the bathroom was in a similar state only it smelled worse. I asked if this was the only room, which of course it was, and as it was dark, against my better judgement ,I took it.

One of the main selling points was its rooftop view of the Taj, I climbed the stairs and was met by an empty terrace and complete darkness on all sides. To my surprise they don't light up the Taj at night, so as I sat with a beer squinting to make out the dark outline of one of the most iconic buildings in the world I decided that this was to be a fleeting visit and that I should make my way to Delhi in the afternoon, how wrong I was to be.

Jaipur Revisited

After a swift breakfast I was off for my day of sight seeing, keen to go to the Amber Fort situated a few miles out of the city my 400 rupees fare was not too bad a price (somebody quoted me that just for the return fare alone never mind a whole day). My friendly driver set off pointing out various sights along the way, then disaster struck, a puncture (really I'm surprised I hadn't encountered this incident sooner due to the state of the roads). We pulled off to one of the many roadside garages, clearly a booming buisness, and luckily enough for me it was next to a Cafe Coffee Day so I could get my Tropical Iceberg fix (kinda like a coffee/chocolate slush puppy). After maybe an hour the novelty of sitting at the garage had well and truely worn off and my driver could tell, he decided to get the use of a motorbike to run me up to the fort and drop me off and whilst I was sight seeing return after the puncture was fixed. I got on the back of the bike with him and he instantly stalled, he started it back up and then  shot it onto the wall, none of this was filling me with confidence. The owner of the bike, dismayed at its abuse, pushed my driver off and got into the seat, we sped off hanging on for life as we dodged pot holes and showed no concern for speed bumps. After 5 minutes of pure terror we arrived at the fort and i thanked my impromptu driver and set off on the steep climb up to the entrance.

The fort was impressive, as they all tended to be and as I paid the over inflated tourist rate I was treated to a complimentary headset for a guided tour and a very faded map which I was asked to return. I wanderd from station to station being informed, in a very dramatic manner, of the history of the various buildings and statues. My map soon failed me and I found myself in what felt like a lesser visited part of the palace, I saw an unfriendly guard descend a flight of stairs and exit from where I had entered. I wandered up the winding staircase reached what felt like was a never visited part of the palace, then, just as I was going to about turn I heard the metal gate at the bottom of the stairs close and a jangle of keys, great. I rushed down the stairs but it was too late, I was locked in. I went back up and reached a bat filled room with another small staircase leading down, I eventually, after a bit of panic, got to what looked like a familiar part, except this time I was on the other side of the velvet rope. Jumping over un-noticed I decided I should probably leave as I had been promised many other sights by my driver. I soon discovered a flaw in the audio guide office position, I exited into the main courtyard and once again had to queue to gain entry to the palace to return my headset, which I did on the assurance I could exit this way once I had returned my guide and map...wrong. On my return the guard simply pointed at the no exit sign, after miming that I had just went to return my auido guide, no simple task, I was once again motioned to the no exit sign. I was left with no choice but to retour the whole fort, well minus the bat cave, before making my way back down the hill to my eagerly awaiting driver.

After he explained he had almost given up hope and I explained my adventures he told me I was now off to the old city to see how the famous 'block printed' fabric was made, I was intregued. I needn't have been. It was in actual fact a commission based shop which had a few lacklustre fabric hangings and one set of elephant printing blocks which a young child demonstrated, not exactly making me put my hand in my pocket. I was then shown up to the real buisness, a room filled with cloth and a tailoring section. I chatted to the owner for a while and then explained that I had no intention of buying and that even if I was to have shirts made why would I come with a rickshaw driver who is skimming a large chunk of commission. He admitted defeat in the end and I left, my driver looking a little sad that I hadn't bought anything...yet. We set off now in the direction of a silver smith, where I was to be shown workers setting the famous Jaipur gems into rings etc. Unsurprisingly this was again to be another show room, and with no intention of buying I refused the cup of chai and hence skipping the sales pitch and we left. I don't know why but I found myself apologising to my driver for the lack of my purchasing and in turn his lack of commission even though I felt no such guilt.

The second to last stop was an unknown temple, despite the minimal fee my driver insisted I just climb the large set of stairs next to it where I could peer in for free, which I did. As I, slowly, made my way up the stairs I was besieged by children begging, I gave them what remained of my stash of chocolate eclairs (a cheaper and more effective way of dispersing a group of kids, also means it doesn't line the pockets of a beggar pimp). On my way back down I saw my driver whizzing about on a moped, this was supposedly for my benefit, he seemed determined to show me that he could drive on two wheels.

Finally, and not a moment too soon we were on our way home, alas there was to be one final stop en route, his very good friends shop (this one wasnt even disguised as something else). I was greeted warmly and shown a seat surrounded by everything from pillow cases to pashminas. I once again insisted that I had no intention of buying anything which the owner seemed to take offence as if I was implying that he wanted to sell me things, I could tell this was going to be a much harder sell. He started off telling me my fortune, very good apparently, then informed me that the gap in my teeth meant I was to be very rich one day. On chatting about Scotland I mentioned that my hometown was famous for its mills and cashmere was big buisness there. Well this sent his into a frenzy, soon I was being shown every different type of shawl he had and then I was to be tested. He wanted me to pick out the cashmere scarf out of the twenty or so he had given me, reluctant to entertain him I eventually picked out the softest one I could find. He relished in the fact I was wrong and bellowed that this was actually an illegal type of hair and that I knew nothing, a funny sales pitch. Well that was it, I had had enough, and wether it was just a culmination of the days events or that other things were playing heavy on my mind I erupted in a manner that I only exhibit on the rarest, and most stressful, of occassions. My driver who had been sitting silently sprung to his feet and tried to diffuse the situation, maybe still hopeful for a sale, the owner clearly was, as I slung insults at him he retorted with the various prices of the scarves only ceasing when I was back in the rickshaw.

It was a silent journey back to the hotel, the driver coming to terms with the fact it had been a fruitless day and he had blown any chance for a tip, which he had. I handed over the pre arranged fare for the day, it looked like he went to speak but stopped himself, probably about to insist on a little extra and, rightfully, thinking better of it. I did him the courtesy of not reporting him to reception and retreated to the sanctity of my room. I had my train to Agra in the morning and the thought he being  immersed in the beauty of the Taj within 24hrs put me in a better frame of mind, little did I know that the Taj was truely to be a diamond in the rough.

Leaving Ranthambore

Post birthday celebrations included a day lounging by the pool with the fellow birthday revallers and doing as little as possible, I joined them for lunch and I watched their faces as we were served by running naan man, the novelty having worn off on me but not my companions.

The only slight inturruption in my day of nothing was the overly attentive staff phoning me enquiring if I would like another safari. I relented in the end and, on the condition I could keep the room till my intentionally late departure, was booked onto a 6am tour.

I awoke bleary eyed and stumbled to reception joining the other early risers indulging in the free coffee and pastries provided. Soon enough I was picked up and got into the jeep with 2 Italians a loud Australian and a Scottish couple from Glasgow. At the park we were allocated zone 4, pleased not to be assigned zone 1 I felt good about this safari...I shouldn't have. Again the tigers were nowhere to be seen and despite notification of a sighting and a whacky races style rumble through the jungle with 5 or 6 other jeeps we were again denied even a glimpse of our elusive stripy friend. It wasn't a complete disappointment, again the company was good and this zone did included one of the largest lakes in the park which at daybreak was a hive of activity with everything from monkeys to wild boar sharing the communal watering hole.

I returned a little disheartened and drowned my sorrows in the breakfast buffet before retreating to my cool box (I ramped it back up to 18°C, tropical compared to the day before). Making use of the pool for the last time I realised this was probably going to be the last time I was to have this indulgence for a long time, my future intinerary taking me to Agra, Delhi then up into the hill stations of the North, this justified an extra hour or so by the pool.

After packing and dragging myself away from my haven I headed for reception where I was met by the owner, he insisted on me joining him for coffee and I accepted on the prior arrangement that if he made me miss my train I would get a free nights stay. I was on time. His driver that took me to the station saw to that, what took 20 minutes there was covered in about 10 and as we pulled in, through a no entry section, right to the door of the station I just got out without uttering a word to Evil Kenevil next to me.

I got onto the train and ousted the free loader who occupied my seat and had a rather subdued journey back to Jaipur. I was booked into the same hotel and once again I was bundled into the Pussy Wagon and once again, I was subjected to the hard sell for the guided tour, only this time I accepted...

Birthday Tiger Safari - Ranthambore

I awoke on the slightly chilly side maybe having over done it on the a/c, i had never seen one that went as low as 15°C before! I treated myself to another hour in bed then decided I was hungry enough to justify emerging from my cosy cocoon. I wandered to reception to check my afternoon safari was all good and I was greeted with big smiles and a bouquet of flowers. I went for breakfast where I met the Kiwis from the night before who had returned from their, fruitless, tiger safari . We had breakfast and soon enough ended up lounging by the pool, where I was to spend the rest of my day, well till 3 o'clock anyway.

I wasn't too sure what to wear for my safari, having seen a very eager looking couple return earlier that day in full camoflage gear i felt a bit of a novice in my cargo shorts and tshirt, however I think it was Ray Mears and his wife who looked the odd balls out of the groups. I was called forward and pointed in the direction of my jeep, they hold 6 and I was the fourth to board, I got sat next to a Swiss guy and the rest of the tiger hunting contingency being nationals happily chatted away between us until we reached the final pick up, two rather large Indians climbed in making it a tight fit in the back. We were all handed disclaimers and next of kin forms to sign incase we got eaten whilst on the safari and we were soon speeding off to the park entrance.

We got alocated zone 1 when we arrived, something the guide didn't look to happy about, it was the smallest of the zones and as I can imagine happy tourists with numerous tiger sightings tip better he was maybe worried for his pocket more than anything. We bee lined for the watering holes in hope that a tiger was cooling off on what was a particularly hot day and whilst there was plentiful deer, wild boar and monkeys (the tigers certainly weren't going hungry anytime soon) there was not a tiger to be seen. We drove around for the next hour or so passing similarly disappointed tour groups before coming to a stop at a particular tiger hot spot, but not today. As a large cobra slithered passed we were provided with a little excitment alas it was a tiger we came to see and it seemed we would remain disappointed. Exiting the park we encountered a group of crocodiles basking in the sun, oblivious to the overly exited Indians filling memory cards with their slumbering state.

When we got dropped off, no tip, on hearing of the luxury of my hotel my Swiss companion came in for the use of the pool, we had a couple of extremely over priced beers and he snuck into the buffet restraunt for a bite. No sooner had we finished, the naan man came running up towards us with not a bread but a cake, accompanied by that universal of songs Happy Birthday. To my surprise he ran right passed me to the table next door to us where a group of 8 middle aged, slightly drunk, brits sat. The song had just finished when it started up again and running naan man, afted a quick lap around the room, brought me a personalised birthday cake. We joined forces with the other group and had an impromptu joint birthday party indulging in yet more over priced beer, but hey its my birthday!

After a few to many, more in the respect of my wallet than my head, I retreated to my ice box and had one of my emergancy whiskies my sister and gifted me on leaving Scotland (these for one of those 'I need a drink' moments however so far so good so I tempted fate by cracking one now). I sank into bed glass in hand and despite the lack of a tiger sighting decided it had been a different, but successful birthday.

To Ranthambore

I arrived at the station after a quick breakfast and found the platform the train was leaving from. Now the train stations have the capability to be very organised however this is very rarely the case, the train was already at the station and along the platform an electronic sign corresponds to each compartment telling you where to board. To my surprise my ticket pointed me in the direction of the first class a/c compartment, surley a mistake. Reluctant to board I waited as the train quickly started to fill up, suddenly, 10 minutes before its departure time, the train started to move. Panic stricken I started to gather my bags and enquired, fruitlessly, to anyone in earshot as to what to do. Much to my relief, and very quickly my dismay, the train stopped and I found myself infront of me a very chotic looking second class sitting compartment. I pushed myself onboard and was met by a solid wall of passengers. I began jostling and shoving my way through the near impenatrable crowd and finally found my seat, which unsuprisingly was occupied. I flashed my reservation slip under the reluctant passengers nose and after a game of musical chairs I was given a seat, not mine but I was just happy at not having to stand for the next 3 hours to Ranthambore.

The inspectors on the train are unlike their bus counterparts, whilst they tend to do an initial sweep from the originating station they are never to be seen again, in second sitting anway, this allows for these carriges to become quickly swamped by commuters, the carrige now housing well over 200 passengers. The next few hours did not pass quickly, everytime a seat was vacated it started an argument as to who was now to occupy it, after a couple of minutes of stand off and sometimes people just sitting on top of each other usually the original occupier would return and oust the successful candidate.

Finally we pulled into Ranthambore, I got up to get my rucksac down from the overhead rail I then turned back to get my bag and found that my seat had already been taken. After wrestling my bag from underneath the new occupant, reluctant to stand up in fear someone else should take his newly acquired throne, I pushed my way off the train and onto the platform. As I was walking up the stairs I noticed a plaque with my name on it being held by a well dressed man, I made myself known and I was quickly unburdoned of my bags and shown to a very nice a/c jeep, a distinct contrast from my last mode of transport. We sped off from the station and after around 15 minutes turned to face a small unasuming hotel front. I was greeted warmly at reception and adorned instantly with a flower garland, I was spared the usual rigmarole of filling in the visitor paper work and shown instantly to my room. Walking down a long corridor we emerged into a large complex with neat little gardens and a nice big swimming pool, it was like a little bit of paradise compared to some of my recent hovels. The room was big with a massive bed and a huge bathroom, with a bath tub even, and most importantly tea and coffes making facilities, what...you gotta appreciate the little things!!

As it was full board I headed in for some lunch where I was quickly befriended by the very attentive waiting staff, one of which had the sole job of distributing nann and roti bread (which he did with great efficiancy, running the length of the restraunt to the tandoor oven outside, I think he may break health and safety protocol but he did it with a smile). After lunch I spent the rest of the afternoon lounging by the pool, retreating to the bliss of my ice box of a room when it got too hot. I headed back out to the restraunt to eat and met in with a great couple from New Zealand and we spent the night chatting about our various experiences in India so far. They retreated around 11 as they were booked on the morning tiger safari leaving at 6am, as it was my birthday the next day I had gifted mysf a lye in and opted for the afternoon safari. I sank into my bed with a complimentary cup of hot chocolate, engrossed myself in some trashy film and decided that my birthday splurge was, so far, worth every rupee.

Jaipur

The train arrived into Jaipur roughly on time, however not the station. We sat for over an hour tantalisingly close, much to the dismay of the rickshaw driver who had been sent by my hotel to pick me up (a nice benefit to pre booking accomodation, although i sometimes think its more of an assurance by the hotel that they get your buisness and are not coersed into another hotel by a rickshaw driver, anyway it seems mutually benaficial). Eventually I made my way out the station and was greeted by my driver, he showed me to his rickshaw, named the 'Pussy Wagon', this was reconfirmed by the presence of the slogan in large pink lettering on the back window.

I was soon being given the hard sell for tours of the city, wondering now if maybe the drivers offered the hotels free guest pick ups in the hope they could score an over priced day tour. Trying to explain that I was only there for one day only seemed to encourage him and push harder, i gave a reasonably non commital answer and remained silent till we arrived. I had booked into the Sunder Palace, and whilst it wasn't a palace it was not far off! I was shown to one of the nicest rooms I had been in since my arrival in India, and by no means the most expensive either. I grabbed a fresh lime soda on the roof and tried to get my bearings in this huge, pink, city.

I started walking towards the walled, old city and after 30 minutes of walking only then realised the true scale of this city, with a population of over 4 million it shouldn't really have been surprising! After passing a kfc, a mcdonalds and the ice cream shaped Raj Minder cinema I finally reached the huge pink walls of the old city (the city was painted pink to celebrate the visit of the Prince of Wales, not Charles, and they decided to keep it that way). Nearly the whole of the old city is now dedicated to the art of shopping, the streets are lined with every kind of shop imaginable, all set out neatly in there own little areas, they also have what many other indian towns and cities do not, pavements. As these are slighty raised it means they are free even from the motorcyclists too lazy to walk the 4 extra steps to a shopfront or the cheeky rickshaw driver in a hurry. No sooner had I entered this great marketplace when I was bombarded by offers of guided tours by cycle rickshaw drivers, which locals call helicopters (something which at first caused me much confusion). The sun was starting to set and whilst i wouldn't normally indulge in these activities I soon found myself being whisked around the streets and allies of Jaipur in the back of my 'helicopter'. After an hour we arrived back on the street to the hotel, which was uphill, during the journey I could tell he was maybe having to work a little harder than for his average fare, so I decided to give him a reprieve and get out and walk the rest...I shouldn't have. He now went on about how much hard work he had done over the last hour, something I couldn't deny, and maybe a little extra would be nice, then proceeded to ask for double the set fare. After 5 more minutes of haggling we agreed on a new price, walking away I realised I should have just stuck to my guns but when you find yourself getting irrate over 20 pence sometimes you have to wonder if its worth it!

In the morning I rolled out of my extremely comfortable bed and wandered up to the roof for breakfast where I got absorbed into a loud frenchmans conversation/sermon on the state of rubbish in the streets, railways, countryside and generally everywhere in India. His congragation seemed about as interested as you can be with a problem that is well beyond the resolve of any mortal man and I engrossed myself in the local newspaper (an article on the food and drink to be consumed at the london olympics, and I quote "that bolus of starchy white sugar paste, the snot of the Gods, tongued only grudgingly from its ridged brown cocoon" or the creme egg as its more commonly known and "a mid strength lager taste sensation that can only be compared to drinking elite athletes urine out of a rinsed baked bean can" or simply put Heinaken, they certainly have a way with words these Indians).

I doged past the rickshaw driver come tour guides and headed into the old city under my own steam. The heart of the old city containing most of the cities sites, the usual palaces and gardens but Jaipur also had a gem under the name of Janter Manter. This is one of five observatories built in the same style but arguably the most impressive, a 40 meter sun dial dominates the garden and to be honest the other dials and planitary alignment devices look more like pieces of abstract art than anything else. Understandably popular the numerous tour guides all try their hand at coaxing you with their knowledge for a fee. Due to the concentration of tourists and guides I found you were very rarelly out of earshot of one giving their textbook commentary so I just eavesdropped, a small victory for my wallet I decided.

After that I ticked off another palace which name eludes me, probably lost forever after the hefty bang on the head I gave myself entering through a stone doorway, inventing a new expletive at the same time.

I returned to my hotel for an early night, keen to get to my luxury birthday treat hotel in Ranthambore I had booked the first train available at the sacrifice of a/c or even sleeper class, no tomorrow I was to have my first experience in second class sitting!

Pushkar

After 9 hours of mainly chai stops for the driver and conductor I arrived sweaty and tired to Pushkar, having decided on the bus that I was quite prepared to be ripped off by a rickshaw driver and taken to my hotel (which I had specifically booked for the swimming pool). To my amazement there was not the usual comotion as i departed the bus and to my dismay not a rickshaw to be seen. I got my ruckdac into the most comfortable unccomfortable position and started trundling through the streets towards what I had been vauguley told was the direction of the bramha temple near to where I was staying, only after the man i asked wanted to hear my life story. Eventually after more directions and life stories I arrived, I was shown to a pretty minging room and just out of the corner of my eye I noticed what looked like an open cesspit but I presumed it was the pool.

So far off to a bad start, maybe a walk around town will get me in a better mood. Within 5 minutes of leaving the hotel I had been pestered by more beggers and hassled by more hairy sadhus than anywhere else I had been. On going into see the sacred lake where Brhama dropped a lotus flower I expected to see a small oasis in what otherwise was a pretty non-discript town. It was certainly no oasis, the ghats completely surrounded the lake and made it look a little like my swimming pool but there was a certain something about it I couldn't put my finger on. Just as I was starting to come round a sadhu, or at least a man posing to be one, started hastling me, offering me a flower to give as an offering, i politely declined and then he started saying how it was for my family, which is apparently the standard rouse, priest performs puja then asks you to value the price on your familys blessing asking for thousands of rupees in exchange. I walked off feeling a little deflated and saddened that in even the most holy of places the con men are out in force.

I can't say i did a huge amount over the next couple of days, a quick visit to the Bhrama temple about the only thing of real note. Otherwise I meandered through the main street, bumping into a couple familiar faces that i had met in Goa (Pushkar actually did feel like a bit of a rajasthani goa, except the fruit shacks lined a busy street and not the golden sands), and enjoying the experimental fruit cocktails the stall owners would conjour up.

As it was nearing my birthday I had decided that I would treat myself to a tiger safari at Rathambore and after a little bit of email haggling I had booked myself into a luxury resort. I cut my time short in Pushkar and got a train booked to Jaipur to kill a couple days before heading to the jungle.

I boarded a local bus to take me to the train station in the larger town of Ajmer. The bus was packed to capacity and after contemplating waiting for the next one I decided just to persevere and pushed myself on. The most interesting part of a packed bus is not the jostling for the occaisionally vacated seat, which can be fierce, or even the way a young man will never relent his seat even when the most infirm board, it is in fact the agility of the bus conductor. These most nimble of men can manouvere their way through even the tightest of spaces, at times swinging from the handrails in order to negotiate oversived luggage or sometimes just those who are fed up of standing and all the while never missing a fare!

Once I arrived I quickly checked the train was still on time and then went for a spot of lunch. As I left the station I was pounced on by a plethora of drivers eager to take me back to Pushkar, unable to convince them I was just waiting for my train I ducked into the first place I could see, a rather unsavoury drinking hole, I spent an uncomfortable hour before deciding it would be better, and safer, to sit on the platform and wait out the last hour till my train arrived.

Jodhpur

As we pulled in we were yet again dropped in an obscure location and left to the mercy of the rupee hungry rickshaw drivers. Picking one of the less shady looking ones we starting hurtling towards the city centre, although i couldn't help but notice the close proximity we were driving towards the vast open sewers either side of us as the winding, narrowing streets took us deeper into the heart of the old city. As we pulled up to the guesthouse the sign seemed to dishearten the rickshaw driver somewhat, NO commision given, painted clearly in bold letters. I was ousted with a grunt and practically a shove and as I handed over what I suspected was a reduced rate fare in hope of a deluge of commission he emphasised the traffic and that he now must return empty, i held my ground and he soon sped off.

The guesthouse was ran by a Jain family and there was no shortage of hospitality, the tea poured freely and when I was on the roof terrace in the shadow of the mighty Mehrangarh Fort I was plyed with all kinds of creations from the kitchen. Seeing I had an interest in cooking she was more than happy to take me through a few recipes including the most famous of indian drinks, massala chai. After all this we sat and chatted for hours on the differences between our cultures culminating in my shock at the amount, and length of time in saving it, of her daughters dowry (the Jains being one of the most strict castes, arranged marrige is still strictly adhered to, and the bigger the dowry the better the husband). Heading to bed I realised I hadn't even stepped foot into the blue city yet, tommorrow was going to be a busy day.

I set off early to the fort being assured it was only a 20 minute, steep, walk north from the hotel. After 45 minutes I found myself completely lost and succomed to the advances of a rickshaw driver who could tell i was well of the beaten path. A couple minutes buzzing through the back streets I was whizzed past my hotel and up the road that I had decided was not the right way from the moment i stepped onto the street. Soon enough I was at the entrance of the huge fort and after parting with the usual inflated foreign entrance fee I adorned my complimentary audio tour headphones and set out. Jodhpur still technically has a Maharaja but he no longer live in their ancestral home, choosing now to live in a wing of a huge 5 star hotel on the outskirts of the city. The fort was everything you would expect from a deeply divided area, battle scarred on the outside and filled with oppulent living quarters beyond the 10 foot thick walls. After a nice stroll inside it wasn't till i was out on the battlements I realised how hot it now was. Sweating to the complete saturation point I decided it too was time to abandon the fort in search of some 5 star a/c surroundings.

On my last day, complete with a list of 'local prices' courtesy of my host, I headed off to the spice markets. So far I've always found the spice markets the most interesting of the market sectors and Jodhpurs was no different. Various spices pilled up into neat pyramids of all coulours and fragrances surround you, and everyone seems to be offering you a better price than their neighbours. After enquiring at a few vendors to the price of saffron, the most expensive of spices, I was given numbers that would have covered my hotel stay for 1g, finally I spied a little old man in a tiny shop not seeming to care for any buisness but looked content just to watch the world go by. On asking about the saffron he produced a number of small boxes and directing me to the best quality he quoted me a price less than that on my spice list and both parties departed with much laughter, although I was just laughing with him as i had no idea what he had said in induce such a guffaw.

The morning of my departure I was given a hearty breakfast and waved off as I headed for yet another bus journey to the holy site of Pushkar, a mere 6 hours by bus...or so I was told!

Journey to Jodhpur

The next few days were spent wandering the city by day and watching Octopussy by night on my sociable but windy, roof terrace. Having bargained with the owner that if i stayed 7 nights instead of my original 5 he would knock the rent down. Being a victim of my own tightness i I stayed on thr extra 2 nights, enduring, unnessicerily, another two nights in the sweat box and my soaking shrowd.

On my last full day I booked a bus to Jodhpur (Rajasthan being reasonably well served with 'luxury' tourist busses i decided to give the trains a rest), and was surprised to be offered the option of sleeper on what I presumed would be a standard coach.

As I boarded the bus it had a very strange layout. The right hand side was set out like a sleeper bus with two teirs of bunks runing the length of the bus, the left hand side was seating although those every ingenious Indians had squezed another sleeping birth above the seats, giving for a clostrophobically low ceiling for those in the seats. The bus appeared to be overbooked, a fact which seemed to please the conductor as he pocketed the extra fares, at the expense of the personal space of the passengers (something which is not respected). As we were heading closer to the Thar desert the scenery was mainly of flat scrubland and the hot winds battered the bus. Regardless i had my window fully open and was hanging my right arm if not for the breeze then for the extra bit of space it granted me, this was something I was to very soon regret.

The Indians have a ponchant for chewing betel nut, and despite the fact it turns their mouths a blood red and rots their teeth it is as popular now as it was hundreds years ago when it first started. The main problem, not only on a personal level but as of late when it was banned by the government, is the spitting of the bright red excess juices (you may see where this story is going). So as I gleefully hung my arm out the window I was completely unawares to the betel chewing going on in the sleeper birth above, that was until I heard the all to familiar 'Wild Western pontoonesque' spitting noise and the sudden wet feeling on my arm. As I hastily withdrew my arm the red ooze stared to trickle towards my elbow, not knowing wether to express my disgust or retaliate with something equally as nasty I did neither and tried my best to clean myself up with my sleeping neighbours newspaper. After 5 minutes of applying that most nessecary of items, the pocket size hand sanatizer, i felt a little cleaner although the smell lingered on, I closed my window and now realised why people tend to do this, only opening them to spit out of.

With nothing left to do but sit there and hope for jodhpur I closed my eyes and hoped for my iminent, uneventful, arrival.

Udaipur

In the morning after a reasonably sleepless night I have breakfast on the roof, selecting a table which was not in direct sunlight, even at 9o'clock the sun had a desert like ferocity about it. As I peered over the rooftops I was surprised to see a figure waving at me from the adjacent hotel, after a moment or two of confusion I realised it was the German troll from the bus. We communicated we would meet downstairs in that universal language of distance that is pointing and silently mouthing the words, an even more futile action due to the distance.

As she was a regular visitor to Udaipur i let her lead the way as we headed straight into old town and the heart of the market bazaar. Surrounded by bangle shops and saree makers it would be easy to get disoriented but my guide traversed the streets with...well German proficiency. Soon we were into the food markets, offering anything from chilli's by the kilo to blocks of ghee bigger than your head. The fruit and veg section stretched out for miles and with each vendor selling the same produce and in vast quantities I enquired as to why so many sellers, my guide informed me that obviously the Indian people like to shop around for not only the best quality but price too and also that different vendors would belong to certain castes and as such would receive business from those of the same 'level'.

With all rooftops competing for the highest and unobstructed views over Udaipur it was difficult to choose, deciding on the trolls roof we watched the city disappear into twilight to the sound of Octopussy playing in the background.

My room remained to be hotter than it ft in the midday sun, finally succoming to soaking a sheet in cold water and wrapping it round me in bed which, at least for an hour, seemed to do the trick although the process did require repeating with increasing frequency.

The other main draw in Udaipur is the city palace, a home to the Maharajah of Udaipur and now, like most of these royal relics, has been turned into a museum and top end hotel. As expected the palace was filled with all the opulence you would expect from a royal abode however there was one other familiar sight that wasn't so pleasing, the dreaded Indian tour group. These particularly bold species tend to huddle in large numbers surrounding a central alpha male, or guide as they are locally known. The group moves together in a singular body, absorbing all in its path and swarm from point of interest to point of interest, the only straying from the body when said point of interest requires photographing, however, on hearing the voice of their alpha male will, without hesitation or consideration for those in their path, bid to rejoin the body as quickly as possible in case they miss any of the guides gospel. As you can probably guess I got absorbed, bashed into and stuck behind numerous tour groups, slightly hindering what would otherwise have been a pleasant stroll.

With the heat of the day hindering all but the most essential of activities I was in luck that Udaipur had to shortage of cafes and coffee shops to ply you with refreshment and a plethora of pastries from the seemingly obligatory german bakery. With a number of these cafes being situated on the banks of ths lakes it was all to easy to be absorbed into a wicker chair and read the afternoon away.

The state is famous for the Rajasthani Puppet and accordingly a section of yet another, smaller, palace cum museum was dedicated to the art. The whole room was filled with hundreds of puppets depicting anything from royal courtyard scenes to various Hindu gods in states of wrath. As I was exiting I noticed that there was a line of puppets lying on the floor, these looked a rather sad set compared to the fine examples around the rest of the room. Enter the depressed looking ticket collector from the entrance. He announced with great pride that this was his shop informing me that these were all handmade by his family, something that was clearly not their calling. As he dangled two purple maharajahs in front of me announcing the cost he could obviously read my face and instantly slashed the price, i walked out with them wrapped ungracefully in a black bag where they would remain until they were posted off to haunt Blighty.

Mount Abu - Udiapur

I spent my remaining few days having the same conversation over and over again (which country, your profession, your salary etc) and with every day having a little bit of a groundhog day feel about it I decided it was best to move on. Having booked a bus to Udiapur through the hotel I packed up, said good riddance to mr squatty and dropped the keys off at reception. On leaving the man called me back and tried to tell me to wait as there was a troll coming too. Having failed to clarify what he was wanting to accompany me i made as hasty a retreat as I could with my seemingly ever increasing in weight rucksac. When i arrived at the 'bus station'/dirt track, i was faced with a line of buses, none of which signed obviously, so I did the only thing you can do, start at the beginning. One thing I've realized over the past few months is that the Indian people really don't like to say they don't know, instead they will, at best, hazard a guess. After having spent hours in the past criss crossing between train platforms and bus stands I chose to ignore his vague pointing towards the back of the line and continued with my systematic approach that was until i reached the back of the line and found the bus the original driver had pointed at. I boarded another stereotypical bus, the familiar musty smell, the wooden boards replacing windows even the ever present Deity fixtures and fitting. I took a seat and to my surprise it was a recliner, even more to my surprise it wasn't actually a recliner, it just wasn't bolted to the floor. At this point the troll boarded the bus, which was in fact the german woman who had been staying at the hotel, she joined me in my lazyboy and we were soon off, every acceleration putting us further into our neighbours laps.

With the thermometer hitting 40 the gap in my plywood window felt like someone blasting a hair drier at me. The conversation flowed easily enough and the german took great pride in her ability to drink the local water, not a feat beyond anybodies grasp really its just how the other end deals with it. Soon enough we had stopped for lunch, meal breaks are sacred here and if you happen to be on a bus for any longer than 1 hour you will stop for around a half hour break (which goes part of the way towards explaining why a 100 mile trip takes 7 hours).

Nearly an hour later and i was back in my chez longe and making terrible time. After all conversation had been exhausted we resorted to ipod therapy (something I've found invaluable on these long trips, for if nothing else to drown out the sound of the horns), and about 5 albums later we had arrived, somewhere, in Udaipur. This appears to be another common situation, buses drop you off not at a bus stand but at the most inconvenient place available, but hey presto just like magic there are always a plethora of rickshaw drivers eager to take your money.

The german girl having a reasonable understanding of Hindi she got us a reasonable rate and we were soon hurtling through the back streets in a very Octopussyesque manner. After negotiating a nuetral location to be dropped off in in an effort to avoid the commission sting we parted ways and i was left to find my half booked accommodation. After wandering aimlessly for 15minutes i finally got directions off a hash dealing rickshaw driver, i set off and seconds later he pulled up and offered me a free lift, i thought that was very kind of him but it wasn't till we arrived and he jumped out and ran into reception did i realise his motive. Angry at him, and myself for falling for it, i expressed to the receptionist i would just go elsewhere, he gave me my original quoted price and the disgruntled rickshaw driver left uncomissioned. The room was nice, with some typical rajasthani murals and fixtures but it would be till later that i would discover that it was actually the hottest room in Udaipur. The rooftop gave unobstructed views over the city and the lake palaces and it also had the obligatory nightly showing of Octopussy (the Bond film was mainly shot here, a fact of which the are immensely proud) the soundtrack of which reverberates round the city from dusk till midnight. I retire for the night to my sweatbox and pray the power doesn't cut depriving me of the fan.

Mount Abu

Mount Abu is a funny little place, sitting as the desert states only hill station it appears to be a big tourist draw, more the nationals than internationals though. One of the Gods dropped something or stood here and created the lake (those Gods were always dropping things and creating holy sites). After a reasonably pleasant, and by that I mean short, train journey I embarked on the 90 minute up hill climb to Mt Abu by local bus. It appears the bigger you are the more right you have to the road in India, so buses are pretty much top of the food chain, which you can take a little comfort from as you hurtle round hair pin bends with 100ft drops on either side whilst heading into oncoming traffic. Mt Abu is free of rickshaws which at first was a bonus as there would be no competing for pedestrian walkways or constant horn tooting, then I realised there's only one thing worse than dealing with rickshaw drivers, dealing with taxi drivers. After announcing that it was a minimum fare of 100rs this was quickly reduced to 50 as I started to walk away and so I was taken to the two minute journey to my guesthouse. I received a relatively frosty reception at ganesha guesthouse and was shown to my 400rs a night room, it was small but appeared clean enough, the only thing was that the bathroom had one of those nasty sewerage whiffs, oh and it was a squat toilet. I reluctantly accepted being assured I could change rooms in the next day or two. It wasn't till later on that day, when the pong was particularly prevalent that I went to investigate. It appeared that the toilet didn't actually have an automatic flush and that a bucket of water was required to clear up, it also appeared that the last occupant of the room was lazy, and ill, explaining the worse than normal pong (It wasn't till a couple days later when this theme kept occurring that i realised my room was at the end of the line of the 4 rooms prior to me in not only the corridor sense but also the pluming and i was actually getting to know the other residents better than they could ever know!

The main attraction in Mt Abu was the lake, and to be fair it was quite a nice lake, providing a nice hour long stroll along its banks or if you were feeling brave you could also dawn a swan pedalo and paddle across the murky depth. The other main attractions were all a little further out of town and although there was only one place, the Jain temples, I was actually keen for I signed up for an all day sight sering tour, moments after paying I began to have flashbacks about the Panjim river cruise and had visions of drunk Indian tourists crammed into the aisle of the bus dancing to Kanye West, who appears to be extremely popular here. My fears weren't realised but as I suspected I was the only Westerner on the bus and as such, understandably, the tour was in Hindi, the tour guide feeling the need to shout angrily his whole commentary and when departing the bus give me a very condensed English version then sent me on my way. The first of the stops were all either mediocre temples or photo points, where the resident photographer was poised and ready to superimpose your face onto the side of a rock or have a gargantuan version of you and a loved one in the classic titanic pose emerging from the lake. So with the bus thoroughly tikka'd (the red or green or grey or white, i could go on, dot they receive in the temple after a donation) we proceeded to the next stop, the Om Shanti hall of universal peace. A strange choice for a stop i thought but I didn't actually get past the reception, an older Indian man clad all in white started taking me through the history of their followings, for so long in fact i could hear the driver of the bus angrily blowing his horn. Using at as my exit strategy i hastily left before the man coerced my into signing over my soul. The next stop and we were back to the temples although this one was slightly different, it sat on a perch with 360 steep steps between us. Whilst the rest of our group was given a full explanation i was nudged on ahead, allowing me extra pit stops if nothing else. At the top i joined the queue, not realising that there was still one obstacle between me and the deity, a very tight squeeze through some boulders into a very cool cave. I received my tikka, purple, and squeezed out on my belly on the other side blaming the fact that i am larger than the average Indian and was faced by another religious article, a shivas trident with coins stuck over it, two young guys informed me that if i pushed a coin onto it and it stuck my wish would be granted, the two lads failed whereas mine held fast, although i think it probably had something to do with my sweaty hands. And from that point forward I was rewarded with two new Indian pals, not what i wished for, but they did start buying me various drinks and snacks which was nice.

So the next stop was the Jain temples I had wanted to see, after disposing of shoes and all leather articles oh and any menstruating women, thems not allowed, we headed in. Now the story goes that the masons were paid by the amount of dust produced from their carvings of the huge marble slabs and boy did they go for it, I have never seen anything so intricate and delicate, how they have stood the test of time i don't know, only downside photography wasn't allowed.

After my two aquatints had translated anything of worth i once again broke away from the group allowing me two enjoy this fairytale temple on my own, that was until I heard the angry horn of our tour bus. Back on board the fun bus we were soon hurtling up the side of a very steep mountain to another destination unknown, well to me anyway. Once again I was confronted by a set of stairs and a series of temples, this time there was the option to be carried to the top, you could sit in what I could only describe as a wooden crate whilst two men hauled you up the stairs, i didn't indulge although plenty of older women did, and being honest half way up i was wondering if i had could maybe hitch a lift, literally. Eventually at the top i was rewarded by views across the flats of Rajasthan, oh and a white tikka. After the long climb down i got in the coach hoping that was the last stop, and judging by fellow passengers faces i wasn't the only one. Alas there was one more stop, a garden ran by the Om Shanti bunch, tempted to stay on board with the other handful who had had enough i dragged myself out and was subjected to another talk on the history of the sect, although this time in hindi. I sat diligently through the 15 minute presentation, only really recognising Jesus's face when he popped up now and again. Finally we were released into the gardens and everyone plodded round with a lacklustre enthusiasm until the all too familiar bus horn picked up our paces.

Back home I was feeling a little India'd out, I take advantage of the branch of U.S. Pizza and return to my room and immerse myself in the seemingly endless reruns of Die Hard 4.

Gujararat

I find myself next to Mr Patel, born in India but has lived in Pennsylvania for the last 40 odd years running a convenience store, although he was a test driver for Audi for many years until an accident rendered his lower legs practically paralyzed. It was for this reason he announced he would be taking my lower birth sleeper tier leaving me to the middle birth, sandwiched (train rule number 4: seat reservations mean hee-haw!). Everything was going smoothly until a large man plonked himself opposite us and started preaching in Hindi, I'm not sure what he was talking about, paranoia insists it was me, but you could tell the people around us were merely humoring him, engaging him only when he insisted, usually indicated by a nudge/punch on the leg. An hour or so passed with the man continuing his boisterous conversation when the conductor came along, a quick check of his ticket and he was ousted from our party of 8, leaving us only 1 too many for our birth of 6. As we started assembling the beds to bunk down for the night I was still intrigued as to where our extra room mate was intending to sleep, then it became clear, he was.just going to push our shoes aside and sleep on the floor, see train rule 4.

Its only when your in the dead of night that your other senses start to heighten, when your on a train this is particularly troublesome as the night is filled with the glorious sound of a 60 or so men coughing, spitting and farting their way through twelve hours of train ride. Also as i mentioned we were the first set of seats therefore closest to the toilets, this allowed the through breeze to carry the all to familiar smells through the night air, as a result sleep did not come willingly for me that night.

Having been informed by Mr Patel that I was to assist him off the train at his stop, two hours before mine (which wouldn't be too bad if my stop wasn't at 6am), I received a nudge at 4am. I dutifully helped him off the train and went back to bed, noticing that the floor man had promoted himself to my...sorry Mr Patels berth.

Soon enough we arrived at Ahmadabad, and not really being a tourist hotspot I didn't expect too much hassle on arrival...wrong. Yet again i was set upon by rickshaw drivers eager to make a quick buck on the commission racket. After 15 minutes of trying to persuade them just to drop me in the centre.of town I eventually found a driver who would take my fare. The city was empty at that time, a little eiry. When i was dropped the driver insisted on hanging around, still eager to take me to a hotel, so I just sat on a ledge until he left which was a good 5 minutes. I then begun the trawl through the over priced run down hotels, picking the best of a bad bunch I put my bag down, and tried to get a little quality sleep.

Like i said Ahmadabad is not much of a tourist town, and to be honest you can kind of tell why, the streets are more traffic ridden than they felt and Mumbai, in fact its the first time I swore at traffic, after trying to cross the road for over ten minutes. The few sites are spread far and wide which means being left at the mercy of the rickshaws. Although I must admit the people I had encountered had been very pleasant so far, a female roadside water vendor taking pity on me gifted me a pouch of water and ok it only cost 2 rupees but the sentiment was there. So i decided to get the main site ticked off the list Gandhi's Ashram, he lived here for around 30 years and founded his main ashram along the banks of the river where some of his ashes were later scattered. I jumped in a rickshaw and told him to take me to the Saramvati Ashram, its proper name, or so I thought. After a surprisingly long journey, way off from the lonely planet guide (although that was nothing new), he dropped me off at the gates of A ashram. On entering I couldn't quire help but feel there was something wrong about the whole situation, there was no mention of Gandhi at all so far. Looking hopelessly lost someone pointed me in the direction of the main office, the man then proceeded to give me a guided tour, saying how it was established in 1973, that should have been the main give away as Gandhi would have already been dead for over 20 years, and then showed me to the holy tree which if circumnavigated 7 times would grant you any wish, this of course was a gift bestowed on it by the ashram founder. Finally realizing I was in the wrong place I tried to make a hasty retreat but not before being bombarded by leaflets and books on the ashrams philosophy, the section on sex and masturbation proving too good, for the wrong reasons, to discard with the other paraphernalia.

Hotfooting it into another rickshaw I was driven back into town and to the correct Ashram, on entering the boards clearly signposting Gandhis living quarters, prayer square and the spot the ashes were scattered. Being a free site there was no opportunity to charge depending on race, in true Gandhi philosophy and I have to say the museum and photo gallery were one of the best done of any I've seen in India. His house was preserved as he left it, displaying his fee possessions alongside those of his wife's and the whole place just felt very peaceful, even the nationals who can be described as boisterous at best seemed to display a degree of restraint when it came to queuing and photographing.

I left the ashram having a little faith being restored in Ahmadabad, maybe it wasn't the unforgiving monster I had first branded it as. However, I was unable to build on this faith further as I had a train booked for the next morning for the hill station of Mount Abu, the first of my many stops in the mighty, and hot, Rajasthan.

Farewell Mumbai...and Ciara

We awake refreshed and if anything slightly chilly, someone had been playing funny buggers in the 'chill' of the Mumbai twilight. We had our breakfast on the roof, my friend keen to absorb every last ray possible and we were soon setting off on our last day as a duo. Having ticked off most of the big sights we headed up to the older part of town, more specifically the shopping bazaars. Now i had been to a few markets in Goa but nothing prepared me for this complete and unforgiving assault on the senses, particularly from the nasal perspective! Within the first 5 minutes of entering the market area we were confronted by the stench of the meat market and all the other usual whiffs that come with being in an Indian city with a population of 16 million. Struggling to keep it together we took another road off and found ourselves in a little juice bar where, well lets say the hospitality didn't exactly make you want to get comfortable. After a quick consultation of the lonely planet map we found ourselves more lost than ever, we weren't looking for anything in particular but in India you'll find all shops of the same type are grouped together, and we found ourselves on stationary street and there aint much cause for rulers and wedding invitations when travelling. We did however get treated to a fight, a typical scene really, a man with a huge bundle of cardboard on his head knocked into a motorcyclist, or vice versa, and all hell broke loose. Now it appears the Indians like nothing more than a good scrap and soon a grown ten deep circled the men and the whole street came to a standstill. Enter whistle blowing, stick wielding police man, who quickly diffuses the situation, not seeming overly concerned about the incident as long as the crowd dispersed. However, with the heat getting to me we jumped in a taxi and got, slowly, whisked through the mayhem back to familiar grounds, and by familiar grounds I mean our rooftop, to catch the last of those precious rays you know. We spent our last evening dining in a slightly less sophisticated joint than Gaylords, they actually let us sit inside (a fact i omitted from the last entry), and then went across to the infamous Leopold's bar (a target of the Mumbai terrorist attacks alongside the Taj hotel, although Leopolds seem a little more proud of their heritage than the Taj, showing off the still prominent bullet holes in the walls with pride). We were shown upstairs to a packed bar and a table which hung precariously next to a 15 feet tumble back down them again, we declined and they managed to shoehorn us into the equally packed restaurant downstairs. We order one of the 3ft beer pitchers which i dully spill half of on the table after a little tap malfunction. We sip away at our final pints and reminisce over the last 3 weeks and my friend comes to the conclusion that this would probably be her last trip to India, I can't understand why!!?

We get up early and catch some morning rays on the roof and say our farewells before my friend embarked on the long journey home and as I say I'll think of her in the pouring rain and cold of England she replies she'll think of me when shes tucked up in her nice cosy, clean, cockroach free bed, touché my friend, touché!

So once again I was left to fend for myself and with my train not departing for Ahmedabad until 10pm I had another day to enjoy Mumbai. My friend being reluctant to spend any time indoors I hit the art galleries and museums. Once again I was confronted by racist entry fees and SHITax at every corner and soon I found myself taking refuge in a Cafe Coffee Day (Indias answer to Starbucks which appear with greater frequency than any Starbucks in Edinburgh, but probably not as frequent as Greggs in Glasgow, that would be hard to top). I wandered away the rest of my day and then headed back to the hotel where they gave me use of a bathroom to freshen up (although i think it may have been used by the staff judging by how many times the handle rattled). I was soon being taken to mumbai Central station, which didn't feel that central after half an hour in the taxi, where I boarded my train, yet again finding myself in sleeper class next to the toilets, more lessons were to be learnt very soon!

Mumbai Nights

So we tick of the Mumbai landmarks in one fell swoop, not too hard considering the Gateway of India and the Taj Palace are right next to each other. Like any major landmark you are commonly plagued with camera touts wanting to take your photo in various positions (although I've found many places will just super impose your face onto a background, humorous enough if you want to appear to be emerging from the ocean or be seen as a Mount Rushmore-esque figure). After a reasonably thorough security check we entered the Taj hotel and after being pointed in the direction of the closest bar we started wandering around the foyer, my friend, desperate to soak up some final rays, discovered the door that led out to the gorgeous pool, alas this was strictly for guests only and at $250 per night it was a little beyond us. After failing to find the bar we decided just to use the toilets and leave but not before checking out the tea menu in the foyer, at 5 quid for a cup of tea we decided not to linger should we be pressurized into buying anything from an overly helpful waiter.

We meander through the chaotic streets back to the hotel in preparation of our trip to Chowpatty beach, the only strip of 'golden' sand in Mumbai. We walked the 2 kilometers along marine drive which was labeled every 100 meters with the distance you had walked, at every checkpoint I announced we had walked another 100 meters a novelty which wore off on my friend after the first three hundred. We got to the beach were I treated my self to a well... deliciously different iced treat, I think it was mainly just a block of ice with different flavourings dispersed through it stored in a cup of rola cola, nonetheless I enjoyed it. So we stood tentatively on the beach fending off advances of touts wanting to rent us mats so that we didn't actually have to sit on the sand, neither of which appealed, believe me standing on it was bad enough! As we strolled the length of the beach we noticed that we had picked up a stalker, a middle aged Indian man who seemed harmless enough but after switching directions numerous times and having him mirror our moves we decided to leave, the sun wasn't down yet but the Mumbai smog had engulfed it sufficiently to justify our departure. We crossed over a road bridge were we seemed to attract the attention of a group of young men, a couple of which ran in front of us and down the stairwell we were about to descend, we hastily made our way down and practically jumped into the first taxi we saw, maybe just paranoia but you can never be too sure. It was at this point I realised how badly the tourists actually get ripped off by taxis and rickshaw drivers, we traveled back the 2Km plus the little extra to the hotel and as we were on the meter we paid the proper rate, a grand total of 33 rupees (around 38p), something we would have struggled to pay more than triple that by haggling a price.

After our eventful day we decided to eat close to home and both the guides we had listed a place that was just across the street, Gaylords. We were so taken away by the name we kind of underestimated the fact we were no longer in the holiday, and tax, haven of Goa and were taken aback by the prices. Having done a quick itinerary check on our wallets we decided we had enough for two mains and 2 breads but alcohol was strictly of the menu. The waiter, a little surprised out our minimal order quickly produced our dishes and we started to tuck in. I had ordered a medium heat dish but like with most places its a game of chance what you get, however Gaylords manager misses nothing. Noticing the beads of sweat appearing on my forehead and my rationing of water (although this was for monitory reasons also) he inquired if my dish was too hot, I assured him it was fine, and I was actually nearly finished, but this didn't stop him from rolocking our waiter and demanding that some yogurt be brought out to cool my dish. We finished up and decidsing we didn't have enough money to eat a dessert in we went to the in house bakery's and got ourselves a cake each wrapped up nicely in a gaylords box. We went back to the hotel and ordered room service, a pot of English tea, and got into bed with our couple of Gaylords, it was 9pm.

Mumbai

We arrive at Lokmanya Tilik station, around 10km from central Mumbai, having passed a large slum area on the way in and beginning to breath in that 'fresh' Mumbai air i was ready to get to our luxury hotel, a little treat for the last leg of my friends...experience. As usual as soon as we stepped of the train we were bombarded by taxi drivers (and also rickshaw drivers which is surprising as they are not allowed into the city centre, just incase your Bombay bound anytime soon). After succumbing to a drivers advances, much to my friends reluctance and rightly so, he assured us he would use the meter which he tapped a couple times then covered up with a cloth and we set off in search of Chateaux Windsor.

When we arrived, after a length and slightly frosty journey, the taxi man lifted the robbery cloth to reveal his prize. At 550rs it seemed a little on the steep side but it was his next action that was to confirm our doubts that he was dirty robbing bugger, as we were splitting the bill there was a lot of notes going back and forth, it was at this point i noticed him slipping a 100 note in his pocket. When we had handed over the right amount he did a quick tot up and hey presto we were 100 short, I quickly pointed out that he may find the remaining bill in his right pocket, he smiled nonchalantly like it was just part of the game, which i suppose it is, and got into his cab and left.

From one contrast to another, on arrival to the hotel we couldn't have been treated more courteously, we were shown a selection of rooms to choose from and told we could choose from more if we waited till after 11. We picked a room, cranked the a/c to as low as it would go and and my friend got straight onto the cable tv in search of her much missed soaps (unfortunately for Mumbai they don't get the visual and mental feast for the eyes and mind that is Hollyoaks).

After a quick bite of breakfast we headed out into Mumbai to see what we could see. Being so close to the train station I decided to quickly book my onward travel, now i should have known better that when in India anything involving counters, queues and little slips of paper cant be done quickly (Argos could revolutionise India!). After 2 hours of piss farting around, waiting for tellers and then the said tellers to finish chai breaks, a dash back to retrieve my passport and a final bit of queueing I was booked on a train to Ahmedabad.

So just after midday we finally got on the move, well as quickly as you can move in a city of over 16 million. One of first sights we were met by was the great institution that is the tiffin delivery. A tiffin is a set of cylindrical steel flasks with each compartment containing a different edible treat, usually chapati or rice and a curry or two. The amazing thing is these are prepared at home by the wives after the men have left for work, then they begin their journey to Mumbai via bicycle, train and foot, whats more amazing is they have over 99.9% success rate and when you think the tiffin-wallahs deliver millions of these a day it is quite the achievement in India's, seemingly, unorganised chaos.

We made a bee line for the quintessential of colonial buildings the Victoria Station, walking our way up the wide streets adorned with a familiar Gothic architecture you would be forgiven in thinking you had stumbled into a little Britain, although this little Britain is packed full of Indian commuter's and the red busses have bars on the windows and more people hanging off them than in them. Being the busiest train station in the world I was excepting more mayhem and whilst large and imposing on the outside, inside the station it was reasonably calm with wide well numbered platforms and departure sign's all displayed in English, a bit disappointing really but not that surprising if I've learned one thing its that India takes great pride in it railway network.

Om to Mumbai via Patnem

Om beach was a very sedate affair, the beaches were empty apart from the occasional cow and bead seller. However, there is one feature of any tourist clad beach that is never absent, the aptly named gawkers. Whilst they were fewer in number than their Goan counterparts they still managed to cause disdain amongst the few tourists culminating in a relatively unprovoked (most likely an accumulation of events coming to head) outburst. Now my view was from a hundred yards or so but the booming assault from the American and more importantly his actions were more than clear. A young group of, male, Indians had to decided to set up shop next to him and his middle aged wife under the shade of a tree (also in view were two russian girls adorned in very little), their bags hadn't touched the sand when the american made it quite clear they were not welcome, the wind took away the audio but as he started imitating what i can only describe as a gorilla having a wash then the actions of photography i can only imagine he was saying that we don't take photos of them whilst having a wash in the river. Anyway, whether he realised that he had went a bit far or had just let off enough steam he seemed to retract a little and after a more civilised conversation the group of lads moved on, to be replaced moments later by a fresh group. There appeared very little you could do about the men, nothing really being a deterrent, not even the presence of a man would cause a moments hesitation to take a photo of a bikini clad woman, just a slight adjustment of the zoom would fix that problem.

All in all Om proved a nice break after Hampi, and the greatest cause of concern was the open roof between our bathroom and that of next doors, and even that gave some comfort in that my friend wasn't alone in the world of the infamous Delhi Belly.

We decided to 'treat' ourselves to a taxi ride from Gokarna to Patnem in Goa, the ride taking around 3 hours. We were picked up by a young guy who immediately asked/informed us that his friend would be coming along for the ride. It wasn't until he slipped on a pair of white trousers over his jeans that our minds, especially my female companion started going into overdrive. Now both having Masters in forensic science we are well aware of blood splatters and at seeing this additional pair of overalls it induced an awkward glance across the back seats.

Having been subjected to 3 hours of blaring Bollywood soundtracks and an uncomfortable weaving in and out of traffic we arrived at Patnem alive and unraped, bot both thinking we should have got the train. After much confusion and a change of vehicles we arrived at our new home for the next week, the aptly named Minty Carlo's.

Patem and Palolem beaches lie side by side and have a pretty similar feel about them although, in my opinion, Patnem had the edge, being a little smaller and feeling a little more chilled out. Again the beach shacks lined the white sands offering everything from Goan seafood to decidedly average Mexican fare but admittedly after the dry reservedness of Hampi and the seclusion, and therefor limited choices, of Gokarna it was a welcome sight. Our accommodation, Minty's, was one of the nicest, on.appearance anyway, we had stayed in. There was a small kitchen round the back for those brave enough to give it a go and a big smelly dog, Wuffy, who was neither friendly or offensive, well apart from the smell, who liked to lounge around on our landing. We had been pre-warned not to leave edibles lying around the kitchen as it would attract unwelcome guests, now these unwelcome guests species were not specified alas we were soon to find out that there were numerous guests frequenting Minty's!

The days rolled by at Patnem, lazing on the beach and when feeling brave enough venturing into the sea (the waves at patnem and palolem seemed to possess a ferocity unlike any other of the goan beaches easily capable of sweeping even the most proficient of sea goers into the surf and leaving legs flailing and swim suits, well not doing their job). Local activities were again limited to the yogi's and reflexologists however the open air cinema, on the site of the weekly silent disco proved popular.

The requirement for clean clothes always proves a bit of a predicament and it was no different at Patnem. I had been informed that there was a couple of places on the beach road, so bundles of dirty laundry in hand we set off for in search of a 'lawndry service' sign. We soon happened across, probably the smallest, happiest woman in Goa, she took our bundles and in broken English told us to come back tomorrow. On our return from the beach my laundry was on clear show to the world, visible over the top over the happy woman's modest dwelling, giving us a large smile and reconfirming it would be ready tomorrow we continued walking. On our return the next day we were seated in her 'porch' and she started to display our clothes before us, assuring her it really wasn't necessary we paid her slightly over the norm price, took our bundles and left. Now a lot of places have a machine washer however, not surprisingly, i believe this lot had been done the old fashioned way. This was not given away by the odd button missing but more by the smell, whilst its unusual for things to come back smelling fresh it IS unusual for things to come back smelling of cow dung.

So with my cow dung pyjamas on i climbed into bed hoping for another decent nights sleep, however it appeared that we were to be paid a visit by the first of our unwanted visitors.

I awake to a fully lighten room with my friend sitting bolt upright with torch poised at one of the rafters of our open ceiling with a look of pure terror,a look which i had become more than familiar with over the last few weeks. It transpired that a little furry thing with a long tail had manifested itself in the ceiling above us, this backed with the occasional large dropping scattered around the room proved to be fatal for the nights ahead. For the next few nights i awoke to a spotlight aimed at the rafters and the paranoia only spread from there, spending hours looking at the roof little was I to know that it was not the night I should fear but dawn, when the next of our visitors was to arrive.

Now me and my friend go back years but I must admit to being a little surprised when I felt her tickling my face, presuming it was an attempt to make me get up early for yet another day of beach bumming i feigned deeper sleep but was now becoming a little concerned that the tickling was so persistent. I know expressed my concern in a sleepy state, making not much sense, i raised my hand to my face and was surprised to meet not my friends hand but something smaller and fairly solid, with a quick flick and a yelp i sat bolt upright in the bed. This prompted my friend to follow suit and adorn her 'what the fuck India?' face, i quickly scanned the bed and my fears were realised, a massive cockroach crawled up over my pillow. The creature was 'dealt' with and we resumed our slumber albeit now with two eyes open!

Our time on the beaches of Goa was up and we now only had one stop left as a duo, Mumbai. We again had the usual pa lava trying to get booked onto a train, eventually paying double the face value of the tickets going through a travel tout. At 7.30, after being let down by our 'pre'-booked rickshaw, we arrived a little flustered at the train station just in time for a half hour wait. After being directed around a kilometer down the platform it was clear that our extra roops didn't get us a better class once again in sleeper class. We were soon chugging out the station, flicking the cockroaches off our 'beds' and trying to protect our legs from the hungry mossies, to no avail. Soon we retired to our respective bunks and after a little tom foolery reminiscent of that when you were kids in a bunk bed for the first time we attempted to go to sleep. There is an art to sleeping on the trains, and it is one i am far from mastering, from this journey I learned the following rules:

1. Bring something to sleep on top of as well as a blanket for you (the faux leather seats prove for a very clammy sleeping experience, and it can get surprisingly cold, my friend realising that short shorts and only a sarong was a chilly mistake)

2. Bring earplugs (the locals have no qualms about making noise, be it orally or anally, at any time of the night)

3. Try to avoid the corridor berths (with what seemed like increasing frequency the requirement to get up and walk around, nudging and knocking those trying to sleep proved incredibly annoying)

This list will increase as my journey continues but for now, here endeth the lesson.