Mumbai: Can anything be said about Bombay that hasn't been said before? Friends who had been to India themselves had told me, warned me, about what to expect, what to watch out for. But nothing really prepares you for the experience. The beggar woman at the airport that you know is going to die soon (surely). The mad taxi ride from the airport into Colaba. (Imagine one of those long range shots at the start of the London Marathon, where all the runners are jostling for position. Replace the runners in your mind's eye with miniature taxis, moving at roughly the same speed, horns blaring.) The smells. The noise. The dirt. The heat.

Got talking to couple of English lads on the plane and we share the taxi ride and the luxury of an air-conditioned room at the hotel. Luxury is a relative term here. The room is pokey, it smells and the en-suite contains a toilet with no seat and a tap that will half-fill a bucket before the water runs out. I'd been warned, but you still have to make the adjustment after spending nearly six weeks in the US - land of the thrice-daily power-shower.

The next day the two lads are off to Goa. They've got less time than I have and are keen to get moving. I want to get over my jet-lag before trying out long-distance Indian transport. I'm already covered in mosquito bites and sapped of energy by the heat. I venture out into Bombay's hustle and bustle and on every street corner lurks a ragamuffin offering me his illegal wares. 'Cocaine for you mister?' 'Marijuana, psst!' 'You want girl sir?' Else it's street urchins and mothers-with-child begging for rupees or whatever. 'Hello my friend . . . Your country please? . . . you have English coin?' Or shop owners finding it impossible to believe that you don't want to buy anything from them. It's hard work.

After three days I'm ready to move on. Pune is four hours by train (but it takes a day and a half to get the ticket!). I travel air-conditioned class and it's surprisingly comfortable - and cold! - inside the carriage.