A Day India Life

No sooner had we arrived in the safe haven of Pushkar, when Flo fell ill with food poisoning. All of our meals have been served with a dressing of doubt and, despite being careful, it was probably only a matter of time. While Flo battled against bum wee, I spent days running errands and replacing toilet paper.

In the absence my fair skinned friend, I can walk the streets without the usual clamour for attention - no more slick haired Romeos, smarmy salesmen or charlatan priests. However, there's no escaping the beggars!

Whether you are walking the street or waiting in traffic, you can always expect an open palmed hand to be put your way - usually belonging to a smudged child with pleading eyes. Sometimes, a small gang of dirty faced angels will follow me, pulling at shirt sleeves and heart strings along the way. You can't please all the people all the time but I try and spare change when I can.

However, it has been brought to my attention that I discrminantly give more baksheesh to the bright-eyed kids with the best banter - while ignoring the feral ones who look slightly contagious. This made me feel as shallow as a summer puddle. So, I decided to share the wealth with one of the runts.

In Pushkar, instead of typically asking for 'Rupee' they go to great lengths to explain that money is not necessary and all they want is a 'chapati' to feed their hunger. Ten Rupees for a small meal and sense of humanity seemed a fair price to pay, so I agreed to buy one particularly unkempt little boy a chapati - not quite Geldof, but my good deed of the day.

The boy eagerly led me...passed the chapati place and into a grocery shop - where, after a secretive consultation with the owner, he presented me with a kilo of chapati mix and asked for 180Rps! "OK, 150!?" the pair of them shouted as I left the shop. Only in India.

"There's a rat in my bed/What am I gonna do?"
I was midway through a strange dream when the screaming woke me. And, by the time I had regained my senses, Flo was tap dancing on the bed, making like a cartoon housemaid and shouting everything but, 'Thomas, Thomas!"

My sleepy mind reasoned through possible worst case scenarios and, after a brief flirtation with bed wetting, settled upon the surprise of waking up with a cockroach in the bed. I began searching for a flip-flop to hunt my insect prey, when a large rodent hurtled across the floor into the bathroom. At this point, Fred joined Ginger on the stage matress.

Apparently, every girl's worst nightmare, had crawled along our headboard and slipped onto Flo's head - before she abruptly awoke and they faced each other in a who's the most scared contest. I may have only seen its pink tail but the omens were there that we were right to be leaving this room today.

This was after the monkey attack and, when a pack of menacing street dogs barked us all the way to the bus station, we wondered why India's animal gods were frowning on us.

Getting the hump!
Apparently, the 40C heat in Pushkar wasn't hot enough - so we headed to the desert. Jaisalmer is the site of a sandcastle-shaped fort in western Rajasthan, within whispering distance of Pakistan. The so-called Golden City is also a market town with obvious Arabian influences, and a roaring trade in camel safaris...

We had wanted to book a trek with the legendary Mister Desert - a former Bollywood model-stroke-actor taken to running camel safaris - whose catchphrase is, 'Don't book the place...until you've seen the face'.

But, for fears that the time space continium may implode had the two of us shared the same room, we ended up using the hotel. I was swayed by being offered a free night's stay after mentioning that I was a journalist ('Winston from Mushroom Records'), although I later found out that everyone was given the same upgrade.

Our camel travelling companions were two Canadian girls - like Americans, but quieter and with a smaller sense of grandure. We met our camels, who have been given English names like Thunderbolt and Mr. Rocket. My camel is called Johnnie Walker - it's only rock and roll, but I like it! Stubborn creatures with poor hygeine and a penchant for spitting, describes both the camels and their Indian guides.

The main guide, Isaac, has apparently spent 17 years living in this desert - the worst side effect seems to be that he truly believes he can sing and spends the night seranading us with the worst wailing imaginable. His camel caddy is a quiet boy who's constantly chided for running away from a snake they found last night - the only part of the story that I can remember is, 'they found a snake last night!?'

Riding a camel is possibly one of the most uncomfortable experiences imaginable - I think I speak for all of us (except perhaps one of the Canadian girls) when I say that I've never been asked to spread my legs that wide before! And, as we have a date with dunes at sunset, we are forced to ride at the humped equivalent of a canter, which involves bobbing up and down on a tough saddle while unavoidably using my nutsack as a cushion. It's agony that leaves me walking like John Wayne and Bobbit for the rest of the evening.

We watch the sun set over the bleak wilderness, filling the dark night with a galaxy of stars that gradually fade with the rising moon. After eating a meal prepared over a fire, and listening to the guide's Flop Idol singing performance, we attempted to fall asleep in the open desert. Even after two bhang cookies, it's not the most restful of nights...

I'm not sure the so-called 'magic circle' that the guide has drawn around us is really a mystical deterrent to dangerous animals or simply a means of sleeping closer to the Canadian girls. Two wild dogs fighting during the night do not observe the circle's secret defences (the 'boy' does another dissapearing act). Bullying gusts of wind continuously kick sand in my Face all night. And, the sting in the tale, is finding a scorpion near us the next morning. Time to leave.

Within 20 mins of riding our desert ships, anyone who is not a camel guide is grimacing with pained expressions. I tactically wait until female murmurs talk of mutiny and then tell the guide (while rolling my eyes) that, "The girls are complaining and want to stop". Our pelvic-rescuing prayers are answered by a Land Rover, which neither spits, farts nor reduces the possibility of having children at a later date.

Blues Bother
While in Jodphur, I was convinced that the world was going to end.

Jodphur is dubbed 'The Blue City' courtesy of the colour wash used to paint the buildings sprawling from beneath the imposing high ground of Meherangarh Fort. We spent the day wandering through the blue rinsed alleys and taking another impressive audio tour of the fort, then organised to meet an English couple for drinks in the evening.

We left early to arrange for a rickshaw driver to stop at a cash machine en route. The sun was shining when we left. While waiting for the cash machine, the wind swept up violently from out of nowhere and, within seconds, an enormous black cloud enveloped us in total darkness. Then the sand came.

I was expecting the arrival of the Four Horsemen of the Appocalypse any minute, but the driver explained it was 'only a sand storm' and insisted we could still reach the restaurant. As we drove in zero visibility, blinded by the attrition of sand, with trees falling in our path, it soon became clear that the driver was more interested in his 50Rps than health and safety.

Later that evening, we received a second unexpected guest. We were in our room getting ready to sleep when turning the lights out revealed the shadowy silhouette of a man behind the thin curtains of our glass panelled door. At first, I thought he had come to complain about the music but, when I rose to the door, Peeping Tom saw Dick and Harried away - forcing me to give chase wearing only a cushion for modesty!

I couldn't find him in the small courtyard (leading me to believe he was a member of staff) - but caused enough noise to wake the grandmother of the haveli's family. Trying to explain that I am looking for a sex pest to a sleepy 80 year-old women, while standing naked except for a cushion, is an awkward conversation that eventually decides to wait for the morning.

The next day, we're 'outraged' and decide to leave immediately. The haveli owners are extremely apologetic and offer us an upgrade if we would like to stay. We agree that there is no way we are going to accept such 'a desultory offer in exchange for a moral violation to our human rights' - until we see the room.

The Maharaja suite is centuries old with the original ornamental walls and coves embedded with gemstones and thousands of mirrors. There's a beautifully lit alcove with antique furniture decorated in miniature paintings, a bed bathed in silk and an enormous wet room. We decide that the nicest room we are likely to stay in during our travels is a satisfactory price to pay for seeing Flo in her pants. They had me at mirrors:)

Oasis in the sun
Udaipur is renowned as the most romantic city in India. I imagine the name was not decided in the weeks waiting for monsoon when the centrepiece lake is completely dried out, stranding the famous Octopussy floating hotel in a basin of brown earth. The rains have started to arrive in angry outbursts but, otherwise, it's disablingly hot.

A measure of the sun's ferocity is that my final pair of shades literally spontaneously combusted - the heat expanded the metal screws until they popped the plastic and fell off my face in mid-conversation!

We took cream teas at the City Palace and watched dervishes whirl during a traditional dance display but the heat made it difficult to leave the room for more than a few hours a day. And, the agressive touts and staring locals were only making temperatures rise. Fortunately, we discovered a desert oasis at the Rang Niwas Palace hotel.

The owners are royal descendants who were left the property by the king. The whitewashed palace overlooks a manicured lawn where a pair of daschunds unsuccessfully chase chipmunks up palm trees. There's an ornamental swimming pool hidden by a garden wall from the madness that lies only a few metres away. And, the room comes with the service of our very own butler - a smiling old man wearing pyjamas who will deliver fine food and bottles wrapped in newspaper to your patio at anytime. We stay longer than anticipated before putting a great divide between north and south India.

Do you remember the time?
It was 9.15am, and I was in the waiting room of a dentist in Bombay when I heard the news. I was having a tooth reconstructed after losing a filling, it was possibly the most professional and painful dental treatment I've ever experienced, although the tears welling in my eyes were for different reasons. I vaguely remember Lennon, Cobain and even Diana - but I never had their posters on my wall.

Michael Jackson is dead.

I wouldn't ask him to babysit, but MJ (the one closer to black boy than white women on the colour scale) was my childhood hero. Do you remember the time? The Grammy's moonwalk, sequined glove, Pepsi commercials, paving stones lighting up underfoot, the Thriller video! A small part of childhood innocence, filled with memories of sunshine, good times and boogie, died with Michael Jackson.

I've since forced Flo to sit through an entire iPod tribute (think I may even have held up a lighter during Man in the Mirror), and asked to her capture a drunken dance homo-age on camera (the pictures from which will never be seen). Ignore a weird family, plastic surgery, pet chimps, Neverland, oxygen tents, Jesus Juice, Macauley Culkin, baby dangling and prescription drugs...RIP MJ.

We spent an evening in Bombay being entertained by my heavy drinking cousin, experiencing how a far smaller fraction than the other half of India lives in private members clubs and expensive restaurants.

And, then we had a pressing engagement to keep in Goa...

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