Yes, I remember Ajmer.

Chaps and chapatis, what you are about to read is the distillation of about ten days' travel, so you'll have to forgive me if it's a little long. However, each of you has my full permission to have a tea break halfway through, perhaps even have a nap. As long as you pay close attention, that is, to every single word. Word. Every. Word. Single. Single. Word. Every. Good, let's begin.

Ok! From the strangled alleys of Old Delhi to the gridiron system of Jaipur's bazaars (unique in India) my little craft wended its solitary way. I had my first experience of Indian train travel, albeit in a slightly posh class (all there was available), and got talking to a few old Indian blokes who furnished me with some useful if cryptic advice: 'Beware the fiendish monkeys of Jaipur!'. Landed on my feet at the 'Pearl Palace' guesthouse, described by the RG as the 'gold standard of all budget accommodation'. Flowers lined the marble staircases, every room had traditional Indian decorations and there was an idyllic rooftop restaurant looking out over what must have been one of Jaipur's most affluent districts. The houses resembled Mallorcan holiday villas - I counted 11 swimming pools. When I arrived, the receptionist presented me with a booklet entitled 'Jaipur for Aliens', including useful city maps and even some traditional Indian recipes, and I think that this little luxury just about sums up 'The Pearl Palace' - helpful if a bit cosy, and certainly catering for a particular kind of tourist. It was good to have a hot shower because I smelled. And - whisper it! - I spent the rest of the day relaxing.

On Sunday 19th I staggered around what is in reality a brutally busy, pretty exacting metropolis. Indeed, my overall impressions of Jaipur (and most other backpackers agree) were not good, and it seems a shame that the tourists of the so-called Golden Triangle (Delhi, Jaipur, Agra) might leave India disappointed. In the evening I watched the crowds outside Jaipur's titanic Raj Mandir cinema complex and witnessed with amusement the phenomenon of Indian queueing for the first time. Essentially, the idea is to leave no space between onself and the person in front - six inches and somebody shoves in an arm. The general senses of panic was augmented by the presence of an armed policeman who went around dealing hefty blows to anybody transgressing the two-by-two rule. From there I walked down to 'Geoffrey's Pub' - really, I was pampering myself - which managed to be more 'British' than Britain could ever be (the glass-polishing, white clad barmen all have lighters and attempt to strike up conversations with questions like 'Hard day?'), but there was football on the telly and the beer was good. Fiendish monkeys were thin on the ground.

By this stage, I was wearing my first curta, a type of traditional Indian garment which reaches down to the knees. I've since adopted it as a nightshirt due to its excessive size (think Ebenezer Scrooge) and bought a smaller one. If in the street my previous shirt was a handy fan-cooling system, these things are wind-tunnels.

In Jaipur, wandering through the 'Elephant Owner's Quarter' in search of elephants - a completely unreasonable thing to do, apparently - I fell into conversation with Rade Rashid, probably my first true Indian friend. Up until this point, I had religiously avoided the gazes of almost every Indian person, but this very friendly man showed me that what might have appeared aggression, was only curiosity, and what might have seemed like greediness, was only poverty. True, in the end he took me back to his house and tried to sell me gemstones, but I don't begrudge him that considering that he opened the door for me towards a new type of interaction with the Indian people. Within seconds of his opening conversational gambit ('Andrew Flintoff!') a crowd had formed, and they were all practising their English phrases and playing with my camera, entertainment which was only curtailed when one of them accidentally dropped it! The poor guy nearly committed suicide, he was so upset.

The one overridingly good product of my stay at the Pearl Palace was that I made the acquaintance of a lovely chap called Dave, a forty nine year-old Brummie staying in India for two weeks. In fact, we've only just now with a certain glumness parted company, 200 miles southwest in Udaipur - he to Agra to see the Taj before flying out of Delhi, we to the desert city of Jaisalmer this eve. Dave was a writer and a parent with many fascinating things to say, and excellent company in Jaipur, Pushkar and beyond.

From Jaipur, then, I truly kicked off into backpacker, budget-traveller territory, and witnessed a completely different India. On the morning of the 22nd, I caught a bus south to Pushkar through the featureless wayside town of Ajmer, where 'no one left and no one came'. Eight of us were crammed in the driver's cockpit, chewing on our knees. And gone, all of a sudden, was the pushiness, the fleecing, and in its place we have all been lucky enough to experience the unbridled friendliness of a lovely, lovely people.

Pushkar is a holy place - purportedly formed when Brahma scattered three flower petals, the largest of which formed the town's lake, and centrepiece. An unspoken rule in the town is that everyone receives a blessing from a local brahmin, for a small 'donation'. After this one is allowed the 'Pushkar Passport', a red wristband which theoretically means the cessation of all holy hassle (these brahmin, or priests, can be quite pushy). Unfortunately, not all of them are as pious as they report, and we heard stories of travellers paying up to 1000 Rs. for the privilege, while, surrounded on the ghats by holy men, I decided an already extortionate 100 should suffice. My brahmin blessed all my immediate family and you too, Dixie, so if any of you guys feel unusually contented/wealthy/physically healthy over the next few weeks, I'll accept cash or cheques.

A sidenote on the whole money issue - one of the essentials for understanding and appreciating the Indian people is accepting the fact that people will always want money, want things. Take the child of the guy who owns my guesthouse in Udaipur - I've given him sweets and pens aplenty and he still asks for more every time he sees me! To be honest, I find those travellers a bit pathetic who loudly refuse to pay a small baksheesh when a man wearing nothing but shorts wings their bags on top of the bus for them. Likewise, in a temple if one of the worshippers should give you a helpful quick tour of the shrines, a small tip is always appreciated. Neither should you expect applause for acceding to what really is such a tiny demand - India has a culture of 'give and take' which is essential to coexistence in such close proximity. On the first day, a guy walked into the internet cafe I was using, picked up my pen and wrote a number on his hand, replaced it and walked out without saying a word. Really, this is no crime, but you can imagine the frowns and tuba-like hrumphing this kind of behaviour would elicit in the UK. At the end of the day, 10 Rs. is a pittance to us - they know it and we know it too. In fact, it's exactly like borrowing a pen.

Pushkar is surrounded by 52 ghats, consisting of steps which lead down to a platform at the water's edge. It's expected that you remove your shoes before descending, and at sunrise you can watch the local men and women washing themselves and performing their ablutions - a very picturesque scene. As a Hindu holy place, the town is theoretically free of meat, eggs and alcohol (although a brahmin offered my friend Rob hash, opium and even Indian women within a day of our arrival) - perhaps a surprise, then, that it has become so popular with backpackers, and a symbol of hope for all who suspect that young people travel merely to live a fast and free lifestyle. Pushkar, you see, is positively rammed with travellers. Despite this, it retains a great deal that is Indian - more, in the opinion of most, than the scrimmages that are Delhi, Jaipur et al. It is one of the three Hindu holy places, after all (the others are Varanasi and Rishikesh), and there are many Indian pilgrims there besides.

The peaceful cohabitation of Indian and foreign was epitomised, for me, on my first evening in the town. After an evening meal, a few of us went for a wander and stumbled upon an Indian wedding procession in full swing. Drums sounded, lights were waving, and a local man was perched nervously atop a splendiferously-decked white steed. Every hundred metres or so, the procession would come to a stop for dancing and singing, and before long I was pulled into the centre of the fray to give my best imitation of Indian dancing - I stuck to the 'shoulder-shake', 'screwing in a lightbulb' and 'patting the dog' - and I'm pretty sure I must have looked like a lunatic but the groom and his company couldn't have been more thrilled. Everybody was exceptionally friendly and all the local teenagers wanted to shake my hand, clap me on the back or walk beside me with their arms around my shoulders, as is the Indian way. As the celebration culminated at the top of town, I was finally able to extricate myself with the promise of returning the next day. And as I walked home alone through the peaceful, traffic-free streets I lost count of the 'namastes' issuing from the darkness and the smiles from the waving shop-owners. This kind of friendliness I've never seen anywhere else.

Tangent number 18: I've let my beard grow since reaching India. Unfortunately, I haven't quite managed to achieve the 'mysterious and intriguing' look I was going for. Instead, my lower jaw is surrounded by a fog of downy, not-very-manly-looking hair. The barbers pick me out in the street and nod me sympathetically in the direction of the chair, as if to say 'I'll sort it out, mate, don't you worry', but I won't give up! Sometimes, a manchild's gotta do what a manchild's gotta do.

On my second night in Pushkar I went to a fantastic concert by a band called Prem Joshua. It took place in a Hindu temple just off the main street. The place was full of travellers, and it was quite a hilarious sight to see the brahmins begging the ladies not to dance too provocatively. The young ones, however, were quite obviously fighting with themselves to avoid joining in with the festivities. The whole thing was rabid with cliche, as the dropouts of capitalist society worldwide boogied with abandon to sitar/dance music crossover numbers and the German band leader intoned 'Tonight, the subject is looooove' with the deadpan sincerity that only Europeans can manage. Me and my English friends certainly suppressed a few sniggers, and I'm sure you would all have laughed heartily, but it really was great fun.

The next day was spent befriending locals at 'Sunset Point', and we ended up giving away a few things we no longer needed to the local kids. I love the company of Indian people, it's very refreshing that a smile or a pat on the back will go so far. Personal space issues do not exist, and it makes me ashamed to think of the loneliness of the English street, with each embroiled in his separate thoughts. An Indian man is, for the most part, so appreciative of any display of openness - even the hawkers will gladly sit down and talk cricket after a pat on the belly or a friendly word. The young men are invariably fascinated by the subject of sex - 'Do you have sex experience?' is becoming a very common question. That evening, a local kid held my hand all the way back to my hotel after I bought him a chapati. Another especially endearing feature is the head-wiggle, ubiquitous throughout India. As far as I can tell, the head-wiggle has no definitive translation - it can mean 'hello', 'thankyou', 'you're welcome', 'yes' and even 'no' - but it is meant in good faith and is always utterly charming.

As much as I loved it, alas, there came a day when we had to leave Pushkar behind. By this stage, one of our group, Tom, had gone north to Jaisalmer, and the four of us - Rob, Dave, a girl from Eastbourne called Charlotte and myself - headed south to Udaipur (yes, that's where they filmed James Bond's 'Octopussy', screened in restaurants across the city every night). Possibly the most picturesque place I've ever visited, Udaipur is also built around a central lake, this one colossal in size. Pics I can certainly provide ye with. We're staying at the Sudha guesthouse, where we can dine at any hour of the day while the down-at-heel owner witters on about the Lonely Planet recommendation he never received - obviously a big thing for hoteliers hereabouts. I've bought a guitar and we've had a few rooftop singsongs. Actually I'm very proud of that haggle - I managed to cut him down to around half price for a genuine 'Givson' (an Indian make), case and pick. It took about an hour, and I had to get up and pretend to walk out several times, but the guy eventually caved and I got the lot for a mere 2550 Rs.

So, that's it, and to Jaisalmer this eve! I'm sorry if your spouse has got bored and left you during the course of reading this, I promise to make the next one a little shorter.

And Dad - I've heard both the words 'excellent' and 'shithole' attached to Kolkata, so be prepared to keep an open mind.

My Favourite Methods of Deterring Hawkers

My Favourite Methods of Deterring Hawkers:

1) Hawker: 'Hello friend, where you from?'
Hawkee: 'Delhi.'

2) Hawker: 'Hey man, you English?'
Hawkee: 'Deutsch.'

3) Hawker: 'Hello/ Excuse me/ You like rickshaw? Very cheap/ Good sir, you want some jewellery? Indian price, very good.'
Hawkee blows raspberry in response to every question.

And last but by no means least, the old classic:

4) Hawker: 'Hey man, how are you?'
Hawkee: 'Hey man, how are you?'
Hawker: 'I'm ok thanks. You want grass?'
Hawkee: 'I'm ok thanks. You want grass?'
Hawker: 'No, man, YOU want grass. I give YOU grass.'
Hawkee: 'No, man, YOU want grass. I give YOU grass.'
Hawker: 'Hey man, what's the problem? You very strange.'
Hawkee: 'Hey man, what's the problem? You very strange.'

and so on.

Having said that, I've left the stressful towns behind now and am currently reposing in wonderful, wonderful, peaceful Pushkar. More on this tomorrow - a concert in the old Hindu temple at the centre of town is due to start in 15 minutes.

This week, I will be mostly wearin'....traditional Indian garb

Today: Old Delhi, and I have to say that it's worlds away from Pahar Ganj, though only ten minutes on foot. Old Delhi is, for me, where 'The Real India' (registered trademark) begins. I was met with scrupulous honesty - one chai-wallah even called me back after I walked off without my 5 Rs. (about 6p) change and 'Where are you from?' is not a prelude to the hard-sell - although one doesn't hear it often as most don't speak English. Luckily my Hindi is coming along nicely - 'Namaste, kyaa aap haathi bach-te mayng?'/ 'Good day, do you sell elephants?'. I've smoked a beedi - sorry, mum -, a sort of Indian cigarette (known as the 'poor man's puff') favoured by all the cycle-rickshaw wallahs and workmen which consists of a fragment of tobacco wrapped in a single banana leaf. Don't worry, I didn't smoke them all - I gave the rest away to children (is he joking?).

The undoubted pinnacle of my saunterings around Old Delhi - during which I was not hassled once, though I attracted my fair share of curious looks - was Jama Masjid, a vast mosque about half a mile away from the Red Fort. At the call to prayer, a long, loud, chilling wail booms out from the loudspeaker system across the whole of the old city before descending into those chunnering Arabic syllables. The sound, so different from homely church-bells, is awesome and utterly, utterly foreign - a sudden reminder that you have journeyed halfway across the planet to a place where things have panned out very differently. The mosque itself is breathtaking, a crop of huge onion-domes and spires framing a central courtyard. The sense of of scale there, like everywhere else, is augmented by the Indian dust that hangs in the air and makes the great curves of the architecture seem somehow very far away - almost in another age. Never fear - I have pics aplenty to show you all when I get home.

One other local institution I have more than a few pics of is a certain Miss (Adriana? can't be) Shah, approximately 5 years old, who marched up and introduced herself to me as I was sat waiting for the prayer-hour to finish, demanding 'photocamera'. Her and her family maintain and live beside a small monument at the gates of the mosque, and she was very sweet. Soon a few other kids were gathered round and some men left their rickshaws to come and have photocamera too. I was really very cheerful in handing over my rupees this time.

I've kitted myself out in full Indian garb and am contemplating giving away my t-shirts. The loose, flowing garments traditionally favoured by Indians really do help in the heat, acting as a handy fan-cooling system for you and everyone within a ten-metre radius as you flounce ridiculously down the road. Most of the young Indians, besides the Muslims on their way to prayer, are meanwhile trying to look as Western as possible - in shirts, jeans and leather shoes, and with mobile-phones sellotaped to their ears. It makes for some curious stand-offs when you blunder out of a sidestreet, traveller cliche number one, and into a group of young lads propped jauntily against mopeds or car-bonnets. Bafflement abounds on either side. Likewise, I was laughed at when I smoked the beedi - why, when I can afford the prestige of cigarettes? It makes you question yourself. Why is it fashionable to look dishevelled in the West? Over here, scruffiness means poverty.

I've learned that most Indians judge a man by his footwear. The spanking new Merrells I bought attract envious glances all the time and I'm frankly relieved that they're starting to get a bit battered. 'Hey man, nice sandals' is supposed to be a compliment, but I can't quite escape the sarcasm these phrases would have in a Western mouth and feel like a rich tit every time. More or less every transaction is implicitly guilt-inducing, and I have to resist an urge to pay well over the odds for any small service. You can sense the silent question every time you haggle, and I usually end up acquiescing far too easily, especially at the end of those dangerous rickshaw voyages as the wallah hunts around for change.

Small coinage, incidentally, is surprisingly hard to come by over here, and one of the reasons why you have to be selective with the beggars you donate to. Paying at a restaurant with a 500 rupee note for a meal which cost 117 (not my fault, the ATM has saddled me with hundreds of the buggers) will entail a scramble, sometimes with a boy running off down the street to change up.

I've had to withdraw 20 000 Rupees - I think that, shockingly, the amount is more than the average yearly Indian wage - because tomorrow I set sail for the historic city of Jaipur (not known for its cashpoints). At 6am. Sob. Paid up at the Hotel Namaskar today and the four nights have cost me only 850 Rs. - pretty much a tenner. One of the reasons why it was so cheap was because I volunteered to eschew a bathroom on the second nite and got the hotel's cut-price room at 200 Rs. per nite. There's a communal toilet I can wash in (in the sink in the communal toilet) and it's really not that bad, well worth saving 50 Rs. a night for. It has a fantastic window down into the street and a fully-functional fan which is this very moment drying my snazzy/silly Indian shirt.

And Delhi belly? I know you're all dying to hear....well, as yet, not a sniff (so to speak). In fact, I'm starting to think that the Rough Guiders are a bunch of scaremongerers, because I've been eating and drinking all over the shop and feel great (famous last words). Just as well really because I'd probably have to go out the window.

LOST....in the Maaaaiiiiin Bazaaaaaaaaaaar

Well! It's all here, folks! Just as ordered, just like it said in all the guidebooks. They exist, the rickshaw-wallahs, the touts, the scammers, the beggars, the magnificent street-cooking, the midgets in bikinis (I made that one up). The narrow streets and alleys of Pahar Ganj are crammed with dogs, sadhus and chai-wallahs, and with row upon row of different coloured cloths. The cows really do wander the streets - in fact, it's quite a lot of fun to watch the Hindu stall and shop-owners shoo them away, obviously fighting against themselves to be civil. They're a lot more arrogant than English cows, the ones over here. They swagger a bit. In fact, the first attempt to pick my pocket was made by a cow. I'm surprised he didn't take me by the arm and try to guide me into a shop.

If I sound a bit cynical it's because the first day or so has at times been something of a hassle. I'm starting to wish mum hadn't washed my tops so well because the shop-owners and beggars can sense your freshness and look at you like so much meat. Understandable, really. The place is intimidating at first. You don't have a single moment to stop and peer between the piled-up signs, looking for that cafe the Rough Guide said was 'not bad' - in fact, the one time I tried to a nearby tout screamed ''LOST!!!...in the Maaaaiiiiinn Bazaaaaaaarr!!' and jumped out in front of me with his arms held weirdly aloft. That said, by far the biggest danger to your wallet and your patience are the well-dressed, thoroughly-groomed young men who fall into step with you as you walk the streets of the tourist district. The lines 'Hello, friend', and 'Where you from? England? Nice country' and even 'Welcome to India' are all starting to sound a little worn. These dapper gents are invariably trying to lead you to a shop, a market, a fake tourist office or to distract you long enough for their friends to pick your pocket. I chatted to a web-developer named (Chris? Greg?) this morning in a cafe at brekky - lived here for 2 1/2 years, no less - and he said the only way to avoid hassle is to ignore them. Practically everyone, that is. It sounds harsh, but if you so much as look at a pair of sunglasses, the walking street-vendors will follow you, murmuring the same words over and over ('very good quality...very good design...Ray-ban...very good quality...'). The same can be said, I'm afraid to say, of the street children. I'm glad that I read about the rampant solvent-addiction that lies behind every imploring look, every softly-spoken 'Sahib, namaste' and every tug at the sleeve because if not I'd probably have given away my first week's budget already without helping anybody.

And yes, I have been scammed ('Widows of Bangladesh', indeed). On the first day, also, barely twenty minutes after stepping out of the hotel, I was led to a fake tourist office by my charming companion, 'Raj' - I think he was taking the piss - and, what with my British diffidence, it was really a struggle to leave. I was told later on by the brothers who run the Namaskar that these places are a real problem, posing as official, and have duped many travellers (on closer inspection of the central district, Connaught Place, they are everywhere). That said, 540 English pounds for a car tour of Rajasthan was ever-so-slightly out of my price range and I was in no danger of paying up. They picked the wrong guy to mess with this time!...because I'm far too poor.

These things aside, the real Delhi - the chaotic markets and forgotten backstreets - has a real charm, and it's growing on me moment-by-moment. Today I took an a/c bus tour of Old Delhi for 105 Rs. (about one pound twenty) - I even tried to haggle with the operators and demanded to see paperwork for about ten minutes, such was my wariness, before realising that I was actually sat inside the official tourist office of India and the fee was non-negotiable - and after all those cool, spacious gardens and thunderous tombs it was actually quite a joy to put-put into brash, noisy Pahar Ganj market-place aboard my auto-rickshaw (I'll talk about Indian driving another time). Its colour, its sheer liveliness, is incredible. The place may smell like Satan's flip-flops, but it's starting to feel like home. And I managed to walk the whole length of the Main Bazaar without being hassled once! I think I've cracked it.

This thing on?

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