Safari So Good: or how I learned to stop worrying and love the Igor

Well, sort of kidnapped. Essentially a chap tricked us with tricks.

A young man walked up to us and asked if we were going to the Golden Palace Hotel, which we were, and he said that his boss had sent him to pick us up. We were bundled into the back of a Jeep with three Americans. But instead of going to our hotel we got taken to his hotel and shown around. 

Nothing could dissuade us from going on as planned however, as the Golden Palace had the pulling power of three Sven-Goran Ericcsons and two Paul Daniels combined - an 'Ice cold' (Lonely Planet, India, pg 426) swimming pool.

We had, however, listened to the hotel manager's spiel about his camel treks which take you out into the desert to see lots of well interesting stuff and that. Knowing that every man and his illegitimate dog would be offering us similar packages, we said we'd have a think about it, and managed to say to the Americans that we may see them later on.

We then went back to our hotel and met three young English guns by the names of Sam, Nicoletta and Ellie. 

We had a really lazy day with them, in and around the actually more like 'Half-hour-old-bath-water hot' pool and went up to the Old Fort with them for dinner. 

That evening we were serenaded by a man that was 300 years old and chased by a pack of rabid dogs, but the food was all right. These cats were off the next day into the desert, and, actually, come to think of it, we haven't heard from them since. God-speed young Britons, wherever you might be.

Pakistan, maybe. [In a flat round the corner from the army, perhaps? No one would notice.]

The camel treks were much more expensive at this hotel, and so the next day we went back to the other hotel, where we arranged to go the following day with the trio of Yanks, who we learned, amazingly, also had names - Liz, Paul and Jane.

Smashcut to the following morning, and the hotel owner shouting at Helen and I that we wouldn't be allowed any water in the desert as we refused to pay 200 rupees (about £2.50 - but it's the principle of the thing) for these shit fucking turbans that he'd tacked onto the asking price. Helen retorted that we wouldn't stay in his hotel when we got back (which put the willies up the American triplet as the hotel were looking after all our bags) and that if he had any business brain at all he'd realise he was losing money here. I think he got the point.

After promises of seeing loads of cool and interesting stuff, we essentially saw fuck all apart from a Jain temple that one of the girls shouldn't have gone in as she was having to employ the use of Vampire's Teabags (take that Jainists, you heathens!) and a village where I felt very awkward about walking around. 

Poorn.

In a nutshell, we got on top of a camel and got taken to a place with some shade where we ate a curry. Then we got on the camels again and went to somewhere in the shade and ate a curry. We then went to bed in the middle of the desert and woke up buried in a foot of desert. Although, in between this, some things of note did occur.

I really hit it off with my camel, Robert.

We led the pack, striding majestically over the dunes, farting into the wind and generally being the coolest human-animal partnership this desert has seen since Keith Harris and Orville did a promotional for Dixons out here. 

Bobby and I forged a relationship that frankly my fellow cameleers didn't enjoy, he was a strong character, a trusted friend and a compassionate lover. This made it a bit awkward when I gutted him and got inside, like I was on Hoth.

Helen convinced her camel, Rocket, to stage a sit down demonstration in protest over the wage structure and lack of a structured healthcare plan.

It wasn't until dusk, however, that the desert truly came alive. 

A barefoot man dressed in black strode over to our camp and said in a thick Soviet accent: 'Duzz anyvun have a zigarettes?' This was our introduction to the star of the desert show, Igor from Russia.

Within five minutes he had explained he was here with his mother and her friend, who 'no one in our country likes', quoted Blake perfectly and translated a 200-year-old Russian poem that bare no reflection to what was actually going on.

We stared in bemusement (although I have a feeling that the Americans were pretty edgy as soon as he had said 'Russia') as he retold how he had come to get a massive cut on his fist. 

'I am standink in big glass cage and I shout "No mother I will not go! Why won't you go! Argh, Arrrgh, AAAARRRRGGGHHHHH MOOOOOTHEEEEERRRRRRR!!!" he quite literally bellowed whilst making Hulk-Smash movements, before quietly pointing to his cut and saying: 'And that is how I got thees'.

As fast as he had arrived, Igor disappeared over the next dune, without saying a word. He was my new hero.

Fantastically, he returned when it was pitch black, explaining that he had been a professional flautist for twenty years (as he was only twenty-five I thought this was very impressive), wanted to be in Africa on his own and, to my great amusement and the American's astonishment, that there was 'nussink goot about democracy'. He then treated us to an epic whistled version of his favourite piece of music.

Every story started with 'I had eaten 400 marijuana cookies' or 'I was gettink stoned with 90 Belgians'. 

Then, out of the blue, he said he felt as though we were on a very big plane, but he was next to us in a very small plane. And there were tigers on both planes.

He then stood up, screamed 'Scooorpion!' and ran off. This was the last we heard of Igor. 

I hope he has found the English trio and they are having 'happy cakes' with some Belgians. Rather than being picked apart by vultures on the Pakistani border.

As you can tell, I made it out of the desert, and I'm almost certain Helen has too. We did leave separately as the offer of 200 camels was a bit too tempting I'm afraid. Only kidding. They were Camel Lights. Zing.

Off to Agra tomorrow to see a big building and then to a sanctuary for ex-dancing bears. Pole-dancing bears. Crazy bastards.

Hopefully we'll knock the building on the head by about midday as I really want to see Yogi moonwalk.

Tutty-bye x