Ben-wallah's Guide to India

MOUNT ABU, Rajasthan - We've just come down off the mountain after taking in a staggering sunset. We looked down from our craggy vantage point far away onto the plains, and the sun's disc turned a gratifying deep red as it melted into the misty horizon. Beautiful.

Mount Abu is renowned as a resort for honeymooning couples - so James, Andrew and I fit right in then. Doesn't seem to be quite the season at the moment though; nevertheless, our coach was billed a "couple bus" and, by sitting next to a poor Indian girl who was also part of a group of three, those giggling around us interpreted it as practically a marriage proposal. The air is clean and clear up here and we're going to fill tomorrow with various walks - to lakes and Jain temples - run by the guy at the place where we're staying. There's a great international crowd here and it'll all be good fun, though I think I might hurt myself if I attempt the yoga ... If I roll off the plane at Heathrow with my foot stuck behind my neck, you'll know what happened.

UDAIPUR, Rajasthan - Cor, what an evening. Auto-rickshaw chases through the streets, knife throwing, tiger evasion, dodgy Russian accents, Fabergé eggs and a fold-up jet that emerged from a horse's arse. And then we watched Octopussy! It was an interesting experience huddled around a TV set with some Norwegians and a French couple, eating veggie curry and drinking what appeared on the bill as "Mixed Masala" in our unlicensed restaurant. Roger Moore spent the evening competing with the strains of raga music from an arguably more cultured set a few streets away. But who needs culture when you've got gadgets galore and a nuclear bomb to diffuse?

We spent our day exploring Udaipur's exotic locations that lent themselves so well to a film set. Cafe Edelweiss wasn't one of them - more Von Trapp than Mr Bond - but the cake was good. Moving on, the City Palace (another one!) had the usual airy courtyards, ornate carvings and art galleries ... it seems such a shame to describe such a beautiful place with this element of palace fatigue! What distinguishes Udaipur's palace is, from the upper stories, stunning views over Lake Pichola, taking in the luxury Lake Palace Hotel, Jag Mandir Palace behind, and the brooding hills beyond, with the romantic Monsoon Palace (AKA Kamal Khan's lair!) perched upon one of them.

It was such a great view that we decided to spend more time taking it in by going all colonial and sipping G&T on the terrace of a hotel just next door. The sun beat down (just like at home at the moment, I hear) and made the lake shimmer. A couple of musicians turned up and capped the whole thing with some raga music: truly bliss. It was a short hop from our terrace down to a jetty where a boat trip can be taken around the lake, via a brief stop at Jag Mandir Palace, affording more of those stunning views, but also interesting glimpses into waterside life - the women beating their washing dry on the ghats, the kids playing cricket at the end of the alleyways, the super-rich guests being elaborately received by the turbaned staff on the Lake Palace Hotel's plush and perfect wharf. And, always, the misty vista away to the west, sun dipping behind the crests of its mountains, that took your breath away.

UDAIPUR, Rajasthan - Udaipur could be famous for so many things - its beautiful situation nestled beside Lake Pichola amongst evocative hills, its vast array of traditional handicrafts, its winding, snickety streets with a temple here, a haveli there, hidden gardens in between. However, none of these seem to be the main attraction. In Udaipur, the tourist industry is focussed around the town's greatest infamy. One upon a time, Roger Moore was in town, and, lo, it was in this place that He filmed Octopussy.

More of that later - we've had a gorgeous couple of days. Crawling out of bed at Yogi's in Jodhpur yesterday morning, we were all geared up to go on a quest for an auto-rickshaw, perhaps not so easy in the depths of the labyrinthine alleyways at half six in the morning. They're everywhere when you don't want them, and nowhere when you actually do. However, the stars shined benevolently upon us. We walked out of the gate to find one disgorging a couple of newly arrived German backpackers; we swapped our room for their rickshaw, and off we sped. It was evidently to be our lucky day.

The bus ride down to Ranakpur was an experience. It was a pleasantly empty and spacious vehicle, at least to begin with, though it filled up later on. Jamesy and I had a couple of games of chess, not only for the thrill and strategy of that particular game of battle, which has many links with this part of the world; it was also a great way to take our eyes off the road. As we rattled along (the state government buses don't run to the wanton excess of providing suspension), we took part in some of the most audacious overtaking manoeuvres I have ever seen. In one memorable swoop, our bus took on three goods lorries, taking the first two, swerving in front of that second to narrowly avoid an oncoming coach, and looping out again to thoroughly skin lorry number three. A sedate game of chess was just what was needed. I needn't have wondered any longer why the conductor, experienced in such matters, had taken a moment as he boarded to remind his god that he was on the road again, and needed a watchful eye ...

We arrived at Ranakpur - it seemed to consist of a tea shack and phone booth - and got a cab to our hotel down the road (the bus had whizzed past it just before, but had refused to stop there). We climbed the steps to the Castle Hotel, and took it all in. There was this sudden realisation that we were in the countryside. There were no nasty smells assailing you. We could actually breathe easily. We didn't have to watch your back for rickshaws and we weren't being hassled at all. The hotel was a collection of bungalow-style rooms around gardens, hills on the horizon, the quiet road beside, with the odd villager ambling by. After the hustle of the cities, it was bliss, completely chilled out and a great place to relax.

We decided to walk back down the road to see Ranakpur's gem - its Jain Temple. The walk was lovely, hills up ahead, while passing decorated camels, quizzical villagers that hailed us with "Namaste!" and "Hello!" and a truck literally filled with babbling kids in uniform, later to be found on a trip to the temple, who built up an excited crescendo as they passed us by, waving manically. The, um, Jain event is, in fact, four temples, a few little ones grouped around the amazing edifice in the centre. Built in the 15th century, completely from shimmering white marble, the temple has 1,444 pillars holding up its structure, covered in intricate carvings that are each unique. Taking our shoes off, and making sure we were not sporting any leather (the Jains are a little touchy about people who wear cow), we ascending the staircase into a magical oasis of complete peace. There were other tourists in there, wandering around, looking this way and that to try and take in the carved elephants, the complicated arrangement of levels, the lines upon lines of these superbly carved pillars. Smiling Jain idols in the lotus position peeked out of every alcove (supposedly the perfect, pure human being, he has a right to look smug), with the central idol presiding over a raised platform, with flower petals strewn around and the faint whiff of incense in the air. Outside, we climbed a nearby hillock to look back at the temple. Amongst palm trees and standing in front of craggy brown hills, it looked like the archetypal lost temple, of Indiana Jones myth. It was quite something.

Back up the road to The Castle, and after a bit of a reading and postcard session, we settled into our seats on the verandah for a meal under the stars. We ran into our first posse of Brits, also newly arrived in Ranakpur, two of whom had been working for a Jewish Youth Organisation with Tibetan exiles in the north of India. They had apparently been sharing the Jewish experience of keeping aspects of their culture alive under difficult circumstances with Tibetan groups, who had been starting up their own groups influenced by a long-established Jewish model. It was really interesting to hear what they had been up to - and a few ridiculously cheap beers made for a very pleasant evening. We ended up sitting around the fire with the hotel staff and various Indian drivers that were staying too, warding off the supposed "cold" that people here feel on mild and mellow nights after perfect days at 25 degrees. Mmm, lovely. One of the drivers was Kashmiri, from Srinagar, and recommended that we take in that part of the world on our trip. According to him, all of the stuff in the media about shooting, terrorist bombings and high tension fomented by separatists is vastly exaggerated. It's perfectly safe, he said, it's paradise on earth! I would love to go there one day - it is reputedly beautiful - but, well, it is a little chilly at this time of year, so we wouldn't want to, erm, catch our death, would we? However, in Baghdad, the air's so bracing! Pack your suncream and off you go!

I digress: this morning, despite being offered a trek into the hills around Ranakpur by Mr Ajker, we decided to head on down to Udaipur; we'll have hill walks aplenty when we turn up at Mount Abu, no doubt. The plan was to get the bus and we camped outside the hotel gate, ready to flag it down, steeling ourselves for the rattling rollercoaster to come. But before the bus arrived, something so much more fun picked us up. A chap called Daan Singh was driving down to Udaipur anyway; did we want him to take us there in his cool old-style jeep, for only a little more than the bus fare? Er, you bet we did! The boyz hopped into the back, while I sat up front to become better acquainted. In fact, we were to become extremely well acquainted. As Mr Singh passed through each village on the way, his cries of "Udaipur, Udaipur!" attracting anyone and everyone who wanted to go any distance that way - either to the next village, or all the way to the town itself. He was seemingly a known character and it transpired that his brother is the manager or custodian of the Jain Temple; we were introduced as we passed by. Anyway, the jeep soon filled up with unquantifiable numbers of people: a Rajasthani tribesman in a big red turban in the back with the lads, a chap with his toddler child upon whom James tried out his phrasebook Hindi, an elderly lady in a vibrant green and blue sari. At one point there was four of us in the front; it had got to the stage where I was pressed right up against Mr Singh, my legs straddling the gearstick, with any foray into second somewhat awkward, at least from my cultural perspective! All of this as we snaked up winding hill roads with barren tree-studded slopes dropping away vertiginously, onto a cultivated plateau with herds of animals, crops in the fields, and, surreally, dry stone walls,that could almost have placed us in the Peak District, had it not been for the odd towering palm. It was a marvellous journey, and, though driver and fellow passengers had barely a smattering of English, a good time was had by all. I ascertained, for example, that James Bond and "shaken not stirred" was not part of the vocabulary of the Makesh, the young jeweller squidged next to me.

And into Udaipur itself - our hotel, recommended by Mr Ajker (funnily enough, we found his brother there, a driver for some American tourists staying at the posh hotel in the middle of the lake) looked over one of the smaller lakes. It isn't quite finished; in true Costa Brava stylee, they're still sticking bits on, but it is pleasant enough, and we're going to have a brilliant view of the sunrise in the morning. We made our way into town and found our way around. I had a great chat to a guy called Babu, who runs a shop selling stationery with paper made from coconut fibre and covered from discarded saris. There's quite an industry in that line round here; Babu's organisation is a co-operative, so all of the people that put in the traditional skills to come up with the goods get a share of the profit. I'll certainly be going back there in the next few days to do a bit of shopping. We also got a glimpse of the Jagdish Temple, which we're bound to visit, and saw the Lake Palace hotel across the water, lit up on Lake Pichola as darkness had fallen. We popped into a beautifully restored eighteenth century haveli, or town house arranged around a courtyard (pursued around in by the custodian, locking the doors as we went - he obviously wanted to get home for something on telly).

There was an amusing incident on the way out. India is associated with a number of great religious texts, whether it be the Rig Vedas, those original truths divinely revealed and handed down by Hindu sages, the epics like the Mahabharata or Ramayana, or the cosseted, well-groomed Guru Granth Sahib. But it seems that the most sacred text in India today is none other than that spiritual guide of all guides: Lonely Planet. A lady, who sounded Australian, was berating the admission clerk, for quoting a price for entry that was at odds with what was printed in her sacred tome. "Why did you lie to Lonely Planet?" she cried, summoning lightning bolts to smite him down. It's authority was unquestionable, having been printed only six months before! Reality cannot be trusted! It's the book that is king of kings! It was an instructive lesson of the power of LP. If a travel agency or cafe is praised in The Good Book, all other travel agencies and cafes in the vicinity change their names to match, to bring the travellers in. An accredited place is full; travellers tend to avoid those unmentioned like demonic plague. They're great for a bit of advice - but to adhere to its Scripture to that extent seems, erm, a little bonkers to me!

We ate in a tres stylish restaurant; it looked a little like a wine bar, was called Savage Garden and, naturally, was blessed by The Good Book. It had pleasantly boinging tabla in the background and a huge plant in its courtyard - very tranquil, just like the rest of town. What a wonderful day. The waiters even made up a pungent tea, with cloves, ginger and black peppers, to combat snuffles that had developed amongst us weary travellers. I felt I was going to enjoy our time here.

So, yes, James Bond. The Lake Palace Hotel is the glam location featured heavily in Octopussy. Not sure whether I've seen it or not, but that's not a problem round here. Innumerable rooftop restaurants offer free screenings each evening at seven. We could go to see traditional Rajasthani dancing or something - but tomorrow we're going to opt for a little 007, and sip at the cocktail bar, just to help it along. Just like our trip to Pizza Hut, it's all part of the authentic experience!

JODHPUR, Rajasthan, where I don't trust the internet connection enough to write all this in one go!

And so to Mehrengarh Fort, towering on the Rock of the Birds above Jodhpur for centuries. The rock belonged to someone else before, but such was its strategic value that the Rajput rulers just had to build there. The previous owner cursed the fortress to a damned future of scarce drinking water (fair play to him); in order to negate this curse, it was necessary to inter someone alive in the foundations. To this day, the family of this "voluntary" victim enjoy a special relationship with the Maharajahs, thanks to their ancestor securing the future of the fortress, which was never breached in anger.

We learned all this from the MP3 audioguide, highly technological for an Indian tourist attraction, in our experience, and this made for an interesting amble around the galleries of weapons and paintings, the ceremonial throne on which each Maharajah is crowned (the current one in 1952, at the age of 4), the intricately screened zenana (ladies' quarters) for the purposes of keeping the gals under purdah, the bedroom of the Maharajah himself, complete with overhead fan, to be operated by a servant through those long and oh-so-hot summer nights. There was also a collection of palanquins, the sedan chairs that the Maharajah and family would often use to get around. The most modern was the model that the Maharani (=Queen) used on her trip to London in the early years of the 20th century, much to the fervent interest of our glorious tabloid press. They stalked her every move, eager for that elusive picture of her face, reputedly beautiful beyond belief - but in the end, only got a snap of her ankle. They tried to publish it, provoked such outrage amongst Jodhpur's royals that they bought up EVERY copy before one found its way back to India!

We got to the top of the fort to be treated to some spectacular views. The blue city was sprawled way beneath us, its colour magically pure against the dull brown rocks and plains. The sun beat down from a fabulously clear sky; you could see right out to Umaid Bawan, the current palace of the Maharajahs (now in a purely ceremonial role) and far beyond. There were cannon trained in every direction, indicative of the impregnability and sheer indestructibility that this family embodied. We could pick out our hotel roof terrace, where later we were to eat curry in the moonlight, under the stars, peering back up to the vertiginous floodlit battlements.

The fortress was a powerful symbol of a very old India - but even there we found something of the new. As we walked through the first gates, a typically garish lorry was parked, and there was much activity beyond. On closer inspection, a old man, bearded and turbaned, sat on a stool smiling, with all kinds of other people buzzing around him, including some arty types in vests. There was a canopy and a camera (and an ornately made-up camel behind) and, on asking someone, who turned out to be "in production", it turned out that, in this medieval fortress, a commercial was being shot. For a well-known mobile phone company. As it said on the back of that lorry: "Nokia: Made For India!"

Off to Ranakpur in the morning. On the bus. Very very very early. And hopefully, we'll manage to actually get there ...!

JODHPUR, Rajasthan - Happy Republic Day! As you can see we're not in Jaisalmer ... and thereby hangs a tale.

We anxiously waited for our tardy taxi on Saturday night in Jaipur, as our train's departure time edged ever closer. As it was, we made it with a good twenty minutes to spare - only to find that our train was going to be three hours late, so getting on for 3am. But by the time the clock ticked towards that appointed time, it had long been superseded by the ultimately more accurate projection of nearer to 6. Jaipur railway station is probably one of the more interesting places that we have spent the night. It is certainly the cheapest. No running hot water, but lots of chai to be had. And of course we didn't have the place to ourselves: there were people waiting around for loads of other trains, as well as the rather sorry characters that seem to live there permanently. We saw a train loaded with army gear - armoured trucks, trailers to haul around guns, that sort of thing - no doubt heading in the general direction of Kashmir. At one point, the "Palace of Wheels" coquettishly glided into the station: this is the famous Rajasthani train on which tourists with rather more cash than us get shuttled around the desert state in luxury. We weren't bitter. It sounded its horn, excruciatingly piercing and long, a number of times, just to show who was boss.

We got on the train, which did leave just before 6am, steeling ourselves for the twelve hour journey out west. We were ready for anything - quite possibly due to our dining experience that previous evening which had fortified us, buoyed us up for whatever gruelling experiences lay ahead. I'm always one for sampling local culture, and believe the local cuisine to be an important part of that. However, the impact of globalisation of developing countries such as India is fascinating and this (yeah, right...), combined with the need to soothe companions' stomachs, led us to that temple of stuffed crust wonder. In Jaipur, we hit the Hut.

And it had to be the best Pizza Hut anywhere in the world. We arrived, sat down and I went to the loo, aware of loud music suddenly being pumped from the tannoy as I entered the little boys' room. Drying my hands, a chuckling podgy businessman-type remarked: "You must hurry - you'll miss the Vengaboyz!" I emerged into the bright glare of bizarre Americana, as the entire waiting staff were in a line at one end of the room bounding through a high-kicking, jazz hands spectacular dance routine. Yeah, it was a little rough around the edges ... But, oh, the energy and enthusiasm! Our waiter, Durga, skipped back to our table, eagerly and breathlessly asking us if we had enjoyed the dancing. He zoomed off with our orders (we opted for the familiar, avoiding the chicken tandoori option) - and more craziness ensued. A chap dressed as a big white dog sporting a Pizza Hut fleece leapt into the room (to the backing of "Who Let The Dogs Out?" - naturally) and went around, table by table, giving high fives, having photos with the kiddies and being all cuddly and strokable. This, folks, was the sort of restaurant in which, when a tip is recieved, a bell is rung and all the waiters chirp: "Thank you!" It was a slice of "the west" in the capital of Rajasthan, full of Indian middle-class youngsters enjoying doing what Americans do in the movies. As these middle-classes burgeon, and more people have more money in their pockets, I have no doubt that the Pizza Pooch will turn up in many more places around the subcontinent. It was a fantastic meal!

The distant memory of pizza like the dying embers of a glorious bonfire, we rolled into Jodhpur railway station. We heard a rumour from a couple of shoeshine boys that any onward journey had been cancelled (and, no, we didn't want our shoes polished thank you so much). This was confirmed as the carriages emptied. We could have got a 5 hour bus on to Jaisalmer. More travelling sound like fun? Er, no ta. We stayed in Jodhpur, rueing the missed chance to meet legenday Marlboro Man Mr Desert and his humped chums, but happy that we had ended up somewhere at least.

We arrived at Yogi's Guest House, just beneath Jodhpur's striking, imposing Mehrangarh Fort. Yogi's, as much of the rest of the city, is coloured sky blue, dyed with indigo. It's a really relaxed place, covered in brilliant artwork, thanks to Sandy, an art student and one of the family that chips in to help out there. I can't remember the names of all of the deities on our room's wall, but we've certainly got Krishna sitting atop a cobra with seven heads (six of which, incidentally, look like they belong to dogs), flanked by some women whose torsos emerge from the mouths of fish standing up on their tails. On the opposite wall is a warthog with four arms. I love it.

We wanted a bit of an explore last night, and ended up walking via the bus station (to check out times for moving on) to a restaurant called On The Rocks. It was attached to some kind of hotel / resort complex on the edge of town. All of the tables were outside and it was dimly lit: not sure whether it was the light, but all of the waiters seemed to be dressed in army gear. Slightly odd. Food was alright though - but I guess I couldn't see it, so who can tell?!

We started our day today by rickshawing it out to a clinic. Jamesy's stomach had not been behaving for a number of days, and we thought it was high time get it sorted ... We expected quite a wait, we'd brought books and everything to keep us occupied. It was not to be: 150 rupees were handed over and Mr Webbe was ushered straight in to see a doctor who, apparently, had acted as a consultant of a famous film he was disappointed that we had never heard of. Anyway, he prescribed a cocktail of drugs that would be enough to stun a horse, and sent us on our way. I say prescribed: you can buy basically anything over the chemists' counter here, as long as you have the cash. Most people of course do not. There's no way on earth that we could see an NHS doctor as quickly as that at home - but, blimey, we're dead lucky to have an NHS at all. What they would give for that here.