I left Marty at the Pink Sun Hotel in the backpacking ghetto of Jaipur. As usual, he insisted on paying for the hotel, the breakfast, the tea. His generosity never ceases to astound me. I jumped in a ricksha with a Belgian girl called Eva, bound for the Central Bus station. After walking her to her 'super double deluxe' cruiser bound for Delhi, i set about the new task of discovering a passage to Pushkar. I felt suprisingly calm, and very quickly located the bus leaving for Ajmer; immediately. Once again, i was the only whitey on the trip and young children and sarree wrapped women demonstrated little desire to restrain their staring.

As we left Jaipur behind, i was reminded that i was in a desert state. This is easily forgotten when amid the incessant drones of the capital. Elephants and camels seem more out of place than Westerners shopping for exotic silks. But as the sprawling crowds gave way to the open plains, a vast emptiness was revealed. As i located Thurston Moore on my ipod, it seemed that by blurring my vision i could transpose the shimmering arid flatness of rural Victoria over the Rajasthani desert. A little fuzz and home was not far away. But 'desert' is a stretch. Occasional squares of loud emerald scream out as rice patties slide pixelate the yellow dust. The sand seas and cascading dunes lie further westward. Moore's symphonic guitar arrangements were a fitting soundtrack to the ride.

Ajmer? I can't really comment. I only really saw the bus station while finding a connection to Pushkar. It is only 11kms away, so maybe i'll hire a bike and come back for a day trip. That said, it was in Ajmer that i started to realise that "i was on my own." As the idea ricocheted off one stoney corridor of my consciousness, my hypothalamus began to pulse with the excited realisation that the nausea in my gut possibly had more to do with nerves than the mutton i ate for dinner the previous night. (note: I will stick to vegetarianism for the rest of my time in India. I trust you don't require illustration) The bus to Pushkar was one of the local buses i had seen shuffle past, crammed full of men women children, but never actually been on. Once inside, one has the feeling that they have boarded a 1950s prison bus. They produce a lot of noise and not a lot of speed. But i got to my destination no problemo and after telling the usual ricksha wallas to bugger off, found myself a very friendly family run hotel on the outskirts of town.

Now, being on one's own for the first time... today was a little terrifying. My heart was temporarily put at ease when i noted the depth of the library at the hotel. E.M Forster, Rohinton Mistry, Franz Kafka and Aldous Huxley, to name a few. Before setting off to explore the town i shoved Virginia Woolf's "Mrs. Dalloway" into my bag, excited at the possibility of revisiting an old, albeit misunderstood the first time around, friend. All the usual scams are in place in the bazaar here, and a few new ones. I managed to find my way across town unscathed, but kept clear of the lake for fear of "priests" who might offer me flowers in return for large wads of cash. I've discovered that if i want to avoid hassles then i've got to shove my hands in my pockets, keep my eyes locked on an imagined horizon and just go. This rather closed physicality also seems to deflect potential gestures of friendship, but i'm sure i'll open up as i settle in. Without really meaning too, i stumbled across the Sarasuati Music School, where i signed up to take voice lessons starting the day after tomorrow. The guy there seemed a little disappointed that i wasn't planning to stay more than a couple of weeks, but he offered to let me stay in one of the rooms anyway, so i can practise and use the instruments.

Hungry and a little overwhelmed, i walked into the first (really) touristy garden cafe i came across and sat down to reacquaint myself with Mrs Dalloway over a (kinda boring) pasta. I need a break from Indian food. The constant sauces and graveys are turning my guts to mush. With appetite quelled i felt ready to set off again.

Pushkar is an uneasy fusion of funky tie-dyed hippyisms and sacred hindu faith. Sitting astride a small lake, Pushkar is the home of one of the only temples dedicated to Brahma, the god who imagined the universe into existence. It is believed the lake appeared when he dropped a lotus flower in the desert. There are plenty of temples here, white washed, strewn with thick veils of delicate flowers and some tackily cast in flouro shades (only apparent once the sun went away). While the bazaar is reminiscient of the markets in Goa and the main shopping districts of Delhi, there is something else here. The old arcithitecture and endless winding alleys buzz with a mysticism i've not encountered anywhere else in India. As i write this i feel regret that Marty and i terminated our journey together in Jaipur. He would have liked it here. If not for the excitement of weaving through the bazaar, the temple checkered hillscapes provide a strange and stunning backdrop for this quirky little place.

I made it back to the hotel, where i considered calling it a day. After doing some exercise (my first in weeks!) and reading a few more pages, the electricity cut out (a common event in India). A tiny panic did a lap of my diaphrgm, making me seriously consider jumping into bed. But a determination to not be a wimp escorted me out the darkened corridor and onto the nervously quiet street. Within minutes i had relaxed and was walking bac through the bazaar. A cup of tea at a street cafe, i exchanged smiles with a few friendly looking travellers, and now i am here at the internet cafe. And so you have it. I am on my own. While i often longed for solitude in the past month, the apparent reality of it makes one anxious for company. But thoughts of isolation mingle with feelings of dread and excitement. I guess i should shoulder a day or two of loneliness. It surely wont last long. Not here. Not long.
I'll post some more photos with the next entry. Thanks for reading. Ben