Deerhoof totally rock

Those Israeli girls I told you about? Phew they are hard work. Because I have a relative fountain of knowledge cascading from my tentacles about Jaipur, they let me be their guide. Except they ignored all my suggestions and whinged a lot. They wanted to go shopping for jewellery so I brought them to an area with plenty of jewellery and clothes shops. They bought nothing and complained about the prices.

It was the same area of town that I proudly made my first clothing purchase. I think I even got ‘Indian’ price for my shirt because Teena accompanied me and did most of the talking. Judging by the prices in the shops, it seems that 70 rupees for my shirt was a good price. That is just shy of one pound. And it’s nice. I actually like it. I don’t even look in the mirror and hate myself. I don’t think "You big fraudulent ponce. Why must you pretend to be something you’re not?"

No, dear readers. I think "Hey, who on earth is that handsome devil, and what is that extravagant piece of inexpensive cloth adorning his frighteningly pale and frail torso?"

Mother, I’ll admit that despite my new found independence and resourcefulness, I did forget to check the washing instructions before I ploughed ahead with my reckless purchase.

When will I learn?

Wearing this kind of clothing – a red, white and black checked, long-sleeved Indian-style shirt with no collar and three buttons – and also looking generally scruffy is going to make things easier. Because a noticeably experienced and weathered traveller will get a lower ‘first price’ in the haggling process than an obvious tourist. It is starting to become a matter of pride. When that first price is nearing sensible, it is quite satisfying. Like the guy hasn’t just taken one look at you and decided that you are his bitch.

The first price can be pie in the sky. It often is. It is a delicate operation securing a decent price. It often depends on whether or not you want to offend the shopkeeper. I don’t really mind. I should probably stop being so outwardly offended by a high first price and leaving before haggling begins. It sometimes works. But I think I need to develop some kind of special eyebrow manoeuvre that lets the dude know that despite me having no clue how much I should be paying for a bag, it isn’t 600 rupees.

Last night, after accompanying the girls to the Bollywood film, Salam Namaste (see other post), I found myself, guitar in hand at a poolside gathering at the hotel.

Among the blend of French, Israeli and American, there was an awesome trio of women from New Zealand. All married with kids (and quite foxy at that). Only one of them had any experience of India as she was there to buy jewellery and bedsheets for a shop back home. Apart from their delicious, mature sense of humour (we got on) they had a refreshing attitude. They are only in India for four weeks. Money clearly isn’t an issue and they told me with a perverse pride that they hadn’t once had to haggle for a price. Not once.

"It’s still so bloody cheap." Fair point.

I tried to explain that it was fun to get involved, and they are probably getting ritually ripped off because they ooze money. They didn’t care.

Diana was my favourite. She was blonde with the warmth of Susan Kennedy and the wit of both Kath and Kim. She was the ultimate fictional Australasian. She produced some top quality New Zealand vodka and some special fruit cordial and offered me one.

Aww yeah!

When I had nearly finished my drink, she leaned in and with a voice of (ok, calm down) sun-baked treacle, she said, "Sorry love, your drink looks a little too sweet. Would you like me to pour some more water in there darling? And some vodka?"

Aww, yeah!

One American girl produced some beautiful marijuana. I think that for the first time I actually understood the term ‘high’. I wasn’t stoned. I was high. I felt marvellous. Relaxed, thoughtful, buzzing. My brain was happy. My guitar playing sounded beautiful. I was thinking profoundly about my trip, analysing my progress. I realised I was enjoying myself and that I was learning a lot. I even managed to maintain conversation while having such a joyous and potentially socially-excluding inner dialogue.

The grass felt pure – free from the temporary mind-loss that strong, THC-enhanced Western skunk always inflicts on you.

Should probably stop this. My parents do read this.

Hi Dad! Quick note to father. That documentary you mentioned about Jaipur– I have visited a lot of those places. The observatory was particularly ace. Some dude spent years making these enormous instruments and towers to monitor astronomical movements and get a good view of the cleavage of the hot American girls who now visit in their millions.

I guess some of you are probably wanting photographs by now. I do have nearly a memory stick’s worth. I will get around to doing it one day. But I kind of prefer the literary account. It stops me being so damn lazy.