Roni mailed she was staying in Pune instead of going to Israel, and that we'd meet up later. So I headed for Puri, avoiding bandits in Bihar. This would involve a couple of days of yellow roads on the map, which range between the qualities of red roads (two good lanes, the best) and pink roads, (one or maybe two lanes of sometimes old tarmac).

In the roadside Dharbar, where I pulled up for the night, all the indians gathered round with gobsmacked expressions as I munched on raw chillies. They have the same conversation about me everywhere I go, based on the terse answers I give them. And as I sip my chai, the natives stand around the bike talking "Pondicherry","Dharamsala", English, "monocyle" and speculating that I might have come from Goa if my number plate is to be believed. Night having fallen, and being in no rush, I humoured the indians with a little juggling and unicycling, and some reluctant strumming on the guitar. Rami had left me in no state to accompany my own singing. I was constantly awoken by the sound of my guitar being tentatively mauled in the night. By morning having left my ignition on my battery was flat so I got a 1km towing bump start from one of those swollen rickshaw things.

Then I turned off onto the yellow Yellow roads. It would probably be about a day and a half before I saw another dotted line. These roads tended to be one lane going straight from village to village. If a TATA came the other way, I would lapse into the dust at the side. In addition sometimes the tarmac was so jiggedy or wavy that 15mph was about the max. The villages were regular and similar. Then the road degenerated into rugged permanent harcore. Frequently I saw teams of rural people building the road - by hand of course - cutting away with picks and shovels. I wondered what they were being paid and how a road would benefit them. I wondered how to go about paying my road tax. I wondered a lot of things. When night came, I was past the worst of it, and found, of all places, a government rest house, for a mere Rs20. I had to write an appication to stay there.

To: the district sub commissioner
Re: the allotment of one suite in government guesthouse
In the course of my journey from Dharamsala to Pondicherry by motorcycle, I was directed at dusk this evening to your rest-house. I therefore apply for permission to sleep in it for one night only, and be gone in the morrning,
Signed

Then the guy picked up the phone. . . "Englishman . . . Dharamsala . . . violin" etc. etc. and the room was mine. Except that some business men were using my room for a meeting. They stayed a couple of hours longer than they intended, and kindly invited me to play the guitar for them. . . I feel mean refusing these people who probably think I'm some kind of wondering minstrel or circus, who has a show up my sleeve to perform every time I'm feeling lonely or fancy a cup of chai, or ask for directions, or pass a roadblock.

Here, in Andra Pradesh, were many lakes, and I longed for a dip, but the thought of snakes, and bacteria and Indians prevented me. By lunchtime next day, and running out of rupees, I made it to a proper town. But it was Sunday and the bank was closed. I followed directions to the main road and found myself on a beaten track leading out of town apparently in the wrong direction. I knew I must have gone wrong but the directions to the next town were consistent, so what could I do? The track degenerated into more of a pathway and I got no further that afternoon.

I found an less beurocratic government guesthouse and after the indians had wondered in a hoard into my room to watch me taking out my contact lenses, I spent my last few rupees on a chai and treated myself to a joint.

An hour before dawn I was awoken by bells and tape recorded music, and from the roof I could make out people bathing in the lake. Maybe it was a special day? Maybe every day was like this? Today I had arranged to do a day's work online, so I stopped at lunchtime at the next city, and spent an hour in the back changing dollars. Then while I was struggling to find a cyber cafe that understood about computers and plugging them in, and would let me either plug in my PC or my hard disk, a couple of guys approached me. They were from z-tv, and were looking for the days story. They didn't really help, but I gave them an interview anyway as soon as I'd persuaded some teenager managing a cyber cafe, that I probably wouldn't wreck their system. They asked some questions about what I was doing, and my perceptions of India, and how I understood the problem of terrorism.

Saw a dog with elephantitis.

The computer's case was rather bashed, but it worked! My client had not prepared for me to do this day's work and the speed of the connection didn't help. There were 7 computers in there sharing one 56k modem connected to a server provided by the government telephone company. It was worse than under Milosevic 3 years ago. It was late when I got out and all of the posh hotels I was directed to claimed to be full. I asked for the government rest house, a formula which has worked very well the last two nights, and was taken in unofficially by the caretaker, a Brahmin who meditated before and after bed, and was most meticulous and attentive. I looked in the mirror and didn't recognise myself. It must have been three days without washing. No wonder the hotels were full! And there was me on the telly talking about the dirt in Varanassi. The whole of India was laughing at me tonight!

It must have been one O'clock before I set off that day. And before 50 km was up, the bike broke down and I spent the rest afternoon while a clutch of mechanics scratched their heads. Slept in a Darbar. Next morning I still had bike problems, but correctly guessed there was a block in the carburettor. Later the exhaust fell off. Managed to spend the afternoon programming, but not to upload my work for testing or viewing by the client. Stuck the exhaust back on and headed for Puri in the dark.

Once there I sniffed out the westerners enclave and located the coolest place to be, which was called the Pink house. Met a French guy called Florent, who next evening gave me some opium. We both enjoyed the evening, but didn't talk much. Went on the bike to visit the Sun Temple at Conark, 35km away. We met some Canadian girls there, who are touring a bit before going to bihar to set up a project where travellers can teach English in exchange for board and lodging. They had hired a TVS (a ladies bike, they had been assured) Met on the beach for a swim, but then they had a puncture. Spent the afternoon racing round on the bike firstly getting a pump, then a puncture man.

Next day went to the government Bhang Shop. Grass for sale at 10% of the black market value. I'm not smoking much, but I had to get some. The mechanic in Puri has a really top bike. He's modified it to burn a mixture of petrol and kerosene (cooking fuel) and put on some very loud horns and an extra working exhaust. He said my bike was totally defect, but sorted it out right enough.