(I don't want to go to) Delhi

Scene: a train station in Jodhpur, Rajasthan.

Enter stage left, one Young man in t-shirt, brown, and long trousers. The Young man is a first-time traveller. He is slightly unclean but still has a faint air of clinging optimism, and he whistles gaily as he saunters along, stopping to take an inquiring peek over the railings of the walkway at the dark tracks beneath. In his left hand he clutches a bag of samosas. He has no rucksack.

As the Young man nears the steps which lead down towards platform 5, a change begins to come over him. There is something in his bearing which indicates impatience, or possibly anxiety. His pace, almost imperceptibly, begins to quicken.

Descending towards train platform 5, the Young man pauses. He stops whistling. Wearing a slightly puzzled look, he jogs lightly back up to the walkway, and squints hard at the sign. '5'. He looks again down the steps. A plastic bag skitters mockingly across the platform towards the tracks, as if to emphasise its utter emptiness.

Over on platform 4, the commuters turn their heads as a strange squeal hangs in the air.

'Shit! Shiiiiiiit!'

*

Well what a week, what a week. From the Bond-infested lake city of Udaipur, via the dunes and camel farts of the Jaisalmer desert, here I land once more in an internet cafe just off the Pahar Ganj Maaaaiiiiin Bazaaaaaaar. From the living room of the Sudha guesthouse in Udaipur, where I slept among photos of dead relatives and paid the owner's son in multivitamins when he learned to say 'Yo!', I have arrived once more in one of the subcontinent's premier tourist traps. Booked in at the Shelton Hotel with some friends in preparation for Dixie's arrival - pretty pricey but worth it for the views and the rooftop oasis. And now my last companion in the Rajasthani Odyssey has flown home, it's great and a bit sad to look back on my experiences in some very unique cities. Nostalgia? Already? Ridiculous.

The wheels on the bus go round and round - or do they? For three hours of the coach journey from Udaipur to Jaisalmer, we sat in gridlocked traffic. The rest of the time was spent chiefly in the air as our lobotomised driver hit the bumps at fifty. With windows that didn't close and no blanket (arse), it was probably the most unpleasant nine hours of my life, including that time I was burned at the stake. So uncomfortable was it that when we reached Jodhpur - hours late for our transfer - Rob and I decided to cut our losses and stay. After a winkless night, we were too tired even to fend off the group of rickshaw drivers rallying after their battle over the asian travellers (who are extremely polite, and pay too much). The Hare Rama haveli waited patiently in the sunshine for our arrival.

Google it for pictures: the city of Jodhpur, Rajasthan lays proud claim to the hugest, most impressive fort I have ever seen. Perched high on a cliff and with walls so sheer that Gilette should sponsor them, the Mehrangarh is so impregnable that in the history of regional inter-city warfare (think Athens, Sparta, Thebes and Corinth) it was never once taken. The sandstone heights of Jasailmer's citadel appear lackadaisical in comparison; this really is the business as far as Rajasthani fortifications go.

Views aside, the blue-rinsed city of Jodhpur didn't seem to offer very much, and we were keen to taste real desert. After the fiasco of queueing with Indian ladies for a ticket (they don't queue), at an ungodly hour the next day we heaved out of the train station bound for Jaisalmer (Rob flatly refused to take another bus). We arrived in the city at about 1pm, having already 'tasted' as much desert as we wished to - the train windows didn't close and we were chewing dust all morning. A guy had schmoozed us hard since Jodhpur station and we decided to reward him by staying at his hotel - a mistake, but an entertaining one. It turns out that Salim was probably the most unscrupled man in all Jaisalmer, but for the first two nights at least we slummed it there in two double rooms with TV, bathroom and balcony at 70 Rs. Aha, there's a catch. Camel safaris are big bucks in Jaisalmer, and when Salim through his repeated, almost compulsive lying tactics drove our business elsewhere, he responded by dumping us out the next day. In leaving, I bolted the door of the hotel from the outside as the idiot dozed in his office.

Before we hit the desert proper, there's a word or two to say about Jaisalmer fort. Built in the twelfth century, it doesn't rival Jodphur's Mehrangarh in size, the attraction is rather the unique streets inside the walls, where the population is still 70% brahmin. Uniquely clean, that is. Where in Delhi it is the job of an untouchable to maintain a thoroughfare through all the rubbish, here the brahmin sweep the sandstone paving 5, 6 times a day. Also, as a local shopowner took pride in telling me, it is with great conscientiousness that the brahmin spit their bete tobacco juice in the gutter rather than on the feet of passers-by. With its tiny streets, its stones worn smooth by time, its changeless population and the delicious intricacy of its Jain temples, Jaisalmer is a tourist's dream and it is a crying shame that whole sandstone, World Heritage caboodle is under such a threat of subsidence after ten years of disappointing monsoons.

Chandra at Seven Star Safaris spoke the truth - everything he promised to us was delivered. In the thick of complaints from wincing fellow-travellers, we lost our bottle and opted for only a two-day, one-night trek - probably a shame in hindsight, though I was in a rush to get back to Delhi for Dixie's arrival. It turns out we were sharing our jaunt with a Finnish girl of about 30 and a travel-hardened old Aussie. Together, the four of us (Rob, Marika, Azadear and myself) had many conversations about life, love, the universe etc - the usual small fry. Azadear, the Australian lady, believed deeply in reincarnation and also that conventional medicine tackles only one aspect of what is in truth a bodily balancing act reminiscent of the four humours - comprising the mental, the physical, the emotional and the physical. It was quite a laugh to watch her attempt to coax from brash, no-nonsense Rob the deep-seated trauma underlying his habit of grinding his teeth.

My camel was called Gangia - a sickly young chap but, according to our excellent guides, apparently a hit with the ladies. He was certainly a hit with the flies, who sensed, I think, his weakness. Azadear, on the other hand, was set astride Atchoo - the alpha-male of the group who tended to wander off at intervals to crop the nearest bush, despite her protests. I spent two great days aboard Gangia and got quite attached to the little (ie. big) guy. Together we lagged behind, skived, generally wandered off course and produced an awful lot of natural gas (I'll leave you to decide who did the producing), and it was really quite sad to see the last of his horrible, malformed, stinking, yellow-toothed camel's face. We both being men, a hug, of course, was out of the question, but I like to think we established a rapport. I was thrilled when he accepted some tasty leaves from my hand on the second morning, but in fact he probably didn't have a clue who I was.

Anybody who goes to the desert around Jaisalmer and doesn't mention the borrt (burrs), the tiny prickly balls that grow on the local grass, is not painting you an accurate picture. These spiny little buggers are probably my abiding memory of the desert, apart from the hypnotically swaying image of Atchoo's colossal backside. They get everywhere, everywhere, I'm talking clothes, bag, hair, shoes, underpants, small intestine. They get into your mind. I'm still picking them from my blanket a week later and causing great damage to my fingertips.

The following day, at 4pm, it was time to leave Jaisalmer behind and brave the 21-hour train journey back to Delhi. This one stretch was probably more dramatic than all 5 days I spent in the desert city. It started out fairly pleasantly, we playing guitar and singing to some soldiers in our carriage as the train left Jaisalmer station. Then we had the faintly humorous little scene described above (not humorous at the time, although I did feel quite faint) when I nipped out at the stop-off in Jodhpur to buy samosas (a man cannot live on biscuits alone). In fact, after a short search I found the train sitting smugly on platform 1, where it had been transferred to link up with some other carriages. The real drama of the trip back, however, came when one of the English girls we were travelling with, Elena, had her bag stolen in the night. This in itself was no big deal because it contained only clothes, but in the search we came across a bag belonging to one 'Archie Davies' - containing passport, driving licence, credit cards. After a quick peek in his diary (woudn't you...?), we realised that his flight was only a few days away, and the whole thing became a bit Famous Five. 'But Peter, we must return the bag to the Embassy at once, otherwise poor Archie will be frightfully upset!' etc etc.

In true Famous Five spirit we stopped for a few beers in Pahar Ganj, and eventually found our way to the embassy. As we stepped inside the door, a young man came bounding out of the first building, almost in tears. He had just been informed that he would have to cancel his flight when lo! like angels from heaven appeareth the three whose coming was promised! He took us out for afternoon tea at the Taj Palace Hotel (one of the best 5-star places in Delhi) and then became a fully-fledged member of our motley crew.

Drinks in the evening, flights in the morning - by 7pm on the 5th all had departed, and I was left to stumble through the streets of Delhi as I had done with such wonder three weeks ago. But I wasn't to be alone for long...