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.