New Places, Old Dilemmas, and Big Stone Boobies.

Hello people- I am in Kajurho, stuck in Kajhuro in fact as I can't get a train out until Thursday, which is a bit of a ballache, as whilst this is the smallest place I have visited in the last couple of weeks by some margin, it is by far the most annoying.

You may recall in an earlier post my observing that whilst the locals were keen to sell me their usual plethora of crud, this was tempered by a politeness quite alien to North Africa. In India a simple, "No thank you," usually suffices, and there is no subsequent pursuit or irritating coercion. It makes cities bearable, even pleasant places to wander aimlessly around.

Kajuraho appears to be an exception to this rule. The persistence of touts here resembles that of a drunk that mistakenly thinks they've pulled in a pub, unaware the charm that they are laying onto the object of their lager fueled desires translates more as non-nonsensical shite-speak and drooling. Yeah that's right- they're like boozed up sex pests, except armed with tacky jewelry and hash, rather than drooping eyelids and unconvincing erections.

Now being white, slightly goofy looking, and about a foot taller than any locals, I tend to stick out like a bull elephant in a dress trying to infiltrate a transvestite penguins only nightclub. Here, that's not going well for me- lots of attention. Tall isn't in their vocabulary though, instead I am told a lot that, "You are very long!" "Mate you have no idea," I reply with a wry smile. I'm such a dick.

Could be worse, I could be Roy Hodgson. I mean in football terms obviously, although thinking about it to look like him would be even worse. Everytime I visit the BBC Sport website he looks more and more like a ballbag with a sad face drawn on it.

In fact Khajurho is not the worst place in the world to be stuck. Jazz and I spent a good few hours meandering around the temples here, which are adorned with Karma Sutra sculptures. Pretty amazing place really, every available inch of stone ornately decorated by carvings of everything from flirtatious encounters, to full on pornographic, (if a little implausible,) foursomes.

Some of them are more cryptic. I spent about 5 minutes staring bemused at one picture only to move back a few paces and realise that it was a guy up a ladder fucking an elephant. I mean there's bravery and then there's that. (For any readers who did Virtue Ethics- think Aristotle.)

It was quite an place to spend a morning and I look forward to showing you the pictures so you can all giggle like school children, just as Jazz and I spent the morning doing. About as culturally aware as Wayne Rooney gargling sambuka in La Louvre.

So there's that and of course the standard good things about hanging out in India- Sunshine, Rooftop gardens, cheap food, fags and well everything. I may get a massage while I'm here given their only a couple of quid for an hour. I was offered one at the temple, but I refused. I'm not expecting Norwegian lesbians walking on my back and feeding me grapes between tongue heavy kisses, but I think I can afford better than a toothless old man giving me a good old rub down on the pavement with his boney, acrid hands! I'll let you know how it goes. Like I say- there are worse places to be stuck- England for one.

Being here has brought an old problem sharply into focus, a problem I encountered when I first started backpacking. You know the dangers of travelling, the touts and the con artists that target slightly green travelers. After being stung a couple times, as is inevitable, any remnant traces of nativity are chiseled away and you begin to know your way about the world- become a little street wise as it were. (Not that I claim to be any kind of authority as my recent losses suggest otherwise!)

You build up a wall of cynicism and mistrust for your own protection, as is entirely necessary or you'll get bent over a rickshaw. It remains of paramount importance though that this wall is not impenetrable. You see if you mistrust everyone off the bat, you miss out on meeting genuine local people. People who you can form actual friendships with, which is amongst the most rewarding of all travelling experiences.

This is how you get a real flavour of what a place is about, understand something about somewhere alien to you. Really it's the only way, and all my favourite memories pay tribute to this. (Apart from inter-railing, that was just the last days of Rome with more trains.)

Tariq in Morocco who willingly offered me and Sam his bed when we got stuck in Casablanca, Ahmed who despite approaching us with familiar and usually empty promises from a taxi, actually delivered on what he said and more. Manazee who showed me round Malindi and Lamu asking nothing in return- these people are true gems in a sea of pugwash, and I am unfathomably lucky to have met them.

You essentially have to strike an impossible balance between guarded and open minded, between friendly and cynical- it's a paradox that has dominated my travelling experiences.

What are you talking about Tim, get to the fucking point. Fair. So I have developed a general, and I believe healthy, distrust of rickshaw drivers, having been successfully robbed by one, basically robbed by another and having fended off numerous attempts by all the others to do likewise.

A little guy jumped in the front of our Rickshaw from the station in Khajurho, obviously a friend of the driver's hitching a lift. Joel wanted to see if he could borrow a motorbike so he got talking to the pair of them and managed to procure one. So he sped off for the day whilst I went to the temple.

Joel and Rob return later with sufficiently windswept hair and effusively inform me that we've been invited to celebrate Dunga in the old village. I have no idea what this entails and neither do they, but hey, its sounds fun.

Basically Dunga is a big party in the lead up to Diwali (Hindu Christmas essentially, but with better music,) and we spent the next three hours dancing behind a truck and throwing powdered paint at each other- I don't have a camera lead so I can't show you, but the photo's are amazing! Our being there did strike me as a little odd, sort of like me meeting some Indian travelers in England and inviting them to come caroling, greeting every door that opened with an incomprehensible version of Silent Night and shit eating grins, but I guess its okay over here.

Afterwards we then went back to our rickshaw driver's house, a guy called Laxman, where his wife, who he had gone against his families will to marry, which is a big deal btw, cooked us food and we sat around drink whiskey until she kicked us out!

The next day Harry introduced us to his family, who took us for a picnic in the countryside. We ate delicious curry prepared by his mum, (with chopping help from us,) learned to make Japatees, and generally had a lovely day, followed by another whiskey session in Laxman's house.

As it turns out Harry's cousin is one of the most beautiful Indian girls I have ever seen- an absolute stunner in a sari, but given I'm trying my hardest to show some cultural respect, and given my checkered history with these matters, I decide to shut my eyes tight and think of Anne Widicome.

We paid Laxman for the day he took off work to accommodate us, and tipped Harry's family a bit, but it was all in the spirit of generosity, rather than obligation. Money is always going to be an issue, but really Hari and Laxman have given us a taste of real India that we could not get from any backpacker hotspot or Lonely Planet recommendation, and for that reason it's handsdown the best use of ruppees thus far. Apart from maybe that Bang Lassi- anything that can get you that utterly wrecked for 80p is always going to take pride of place in my estimations!

The paint as it turned out was extremely hard to get rid of. The floor and walls of our bathroom are splattered and stained purple top to bottom. It looks like we just brutally hacked a Klingon to death with an pick axe.

By the way that analogy is fucking brilliant. Unfortunately it was somewhat lost on my Australian companions, who barely know what a Klingon is, let alone that they have purple blood. When I tried to explain this I was greeted with a blank indifference that bordered on the disdainful that I had watched anything on TV other than ballsports.

I mean I have never heard anyone greet Badminton on TV with such enthusiasm, "Ah Badminton, Bonza!" (They didn't really say Bonza.) I reckon if competitive ass shaving was on sky sports, they'd be cracking open a few cold ones and settling back for the day. Hell, they're probably too balls deep in some nubile young Pom, overcome with lust at their surfy hairdo's and sexy accents, to watch classic sci-fi at half six on BBC2. Bastards.

I feel like I've given the Aussie's a hard time now, so to finish up I'll leave you with some absolutely golden barn- barn which has flown plentifully the last few days.

(Vicky- stop mum reading here.)

So we're high as balls watching cricket in our room, while I get a massage in the corner smoking a nice big bifta- oh yes mate- and suddenly the power cut out, as it is prone to do round here, to which Joel exclaims, "Ah fuck me, we're gonna have to go see the temples now." Thankfully the power came back before they were forced to endure this arduous cultural ordeal. Bloody cultureless criminals.

That said playing cricket with some of the local kids yesterday was a blast, a real highlight of the trip so far, despite being dominated by a fourteen year old kid's fast bowling!