It had to happen, and happen it did. As soon as we reached Varansi in fact. The touts and the scamsters sensed us coming (either that or they just looked at our backpacks ... I can't be sure which ...) and they swarmed out of the woodwork and into my freaking path.

But we were tired, and our fuses were short, so some fireworks were in order!

Persist with this entry if you will, Gentle Reader, should you wish to hear a tale in which the touts get screwed back ...

It went something like this - we got off the train from hell (no blankets = no sleep) tired and slightly disoriented.

At Varanasi Junction, it wasn't immediately clear which of the many platforms and walkways would lead to the station's exit. Noticing that we were looking about, a friendly man said to us, 'it's this direction - just straight ahead and then turn right.' And with that, he left us alone. Excellent! Directions without a catch!

Making our way outside, we paused again - this time, looking for the pre-paid taxi booth. The same man materialised at my shoulder, saying, 'pre-paid is best. It's just this way.'

How helpful! How nice!

Accompanying us to the booth, he addressed the attendant in rapid-fire I-am-assisting-these-people speak. We were shown the board painted up with all the various destinations within Varanasi and the prices for each.

The precise section of the river we wanted wasn't listed - so immediately, we were told that our destination would cost the maximum amount listed: 150 rupees.

'But why isn't it listed?' I asked.

'Madam!' the friendly man scoffed, 'if all the ghats in Varansi were listed, the sign would be too, too long!'

The man in the booth disappeared, and we were led over to the shade of a tree.

'Why can't we pay at the booth?' I wanted to know.

'No, no madam - pay here, next to policeman.'

Sure enough, a police officer was busily making out a receipt - for 160 rupees!

'Whaat? Why is it now 160 rupees?' we demanded, getting tetchy now.

'Oh, extra charge. Sorry, madam-sir ... taxes, taxes.'

We paid up, feeling less and less confident.

'Where is the taxi?' I asked our helper.

'Right here! It's my taxi, my car, madam. I am your driver'

Oh sweet Jesus - this is not good, I thought.

We hopped in the car, and our packs were loaded into the boot - which was promptly chained and padlocked shut. Then a second, impish young guy got into the passenger's seat up front and we were off.

Frig! Every time an 'assistant' has EVER got into a taxi with us when we've travelled, that's been a sure sign that we are in for trouble. Of course, this was to be no exception ...

On the way into town, we were treated to some nonsense about how our hotel was 'very good, very clean, but I feel they will be full.'

We shot back - 'no, no, we have a reservation. It's fine - thank you.'

Soon, we pulled up in a deserted alleyway in the middle of nowhere. The only things in this laneway were diseased dogs, a brick pissoir frequented by a constant parade of men, and a guy selling betel-leaf munchies. The taxi stopped directly opposite the pissing station, so that my head was at eye-level with these guy's spindly butts and legs as they relieved themselves with visible satisfaction.

'Okay - get out here!' announced Mr Helpful.

'WHERE is the hotel?' I demanded, with barely concealed rage.

'Oh madam - not possible - very small laneway - cannot. This man - my friend - he take you and show you another place - very good.'

'NO! Take us to the Alka Hotel immediately!'

'Oh madam, cannot driving there. Just a short walk - no problem!'

Andrew and I agreed that he would get out and go with the 'friend' to the hotel we wanted, check us in, and then return for our bags. I would wait in the laneway with the taxi.

Many minutes passed ... the tout up front tried to engage me in all sorts of conversation to gauge how inexperienced I might be: how many times in India? How long had I stayed? etc etc.

I remained in a silent rage, so he eventually fell silent, too.

After some 25 minutes, I began to fret. I was in a disused laneway with men pissing and leering at me, and I had no guidebook. Andrew, on the other hand, had been lead off with a strange and untrustworthy guy into God knows where - and we certainly weren't in a tourist area.

Tired and stressed out, I began asking, 'Where is my husband?! Where is he?!'

This only garnered, 'I don't know madam. He is going somewhere now. He see other place now.'

'Where IS HE???' I demand again and I start to bawl on top of everything.

'YOU!' I continue, 'You should have told me, "no madam, I will NOT take you to your hotel. I will take you to a laneway in the middle of nowhere and make your husband go off and not deliver you to where you want to go. That is what you are paying me 160 rupees for!"'

'No, no, no madam. Stop crying, there is no problem,' he says, looking edgy as my tears have begun to draw a crowd. Men are materialising from everywhere to look at this crazy foreigner crying in the back of a taxi in the middle of their neighbourhood. 'You will making a headache now - stop crying!'

But once I've started, there's no stopping this production. I am genuinely freaked out about what's going on with Andrew as he's been away for so long. The guidebook is harsh in its reading of Varanasi - several foreigners go missing here each year, presumed murdered. 'Be careful' is its watchword.

Finally, with the crowd still gathered around the taxi, Andrew returns - livid. He's been lead around and around in a maze of laneways, having been taken nowhere. Each time he asked, 'How much further?' the reply came, 'Hotel is just around this corner!'

No hotel ever materialised.

Finally, his hissed demands to be taken back to the cab are acted upon. Getting back to the taxi and seeing me in tears, my mild-mannered boyfriend flings open the door and yells, 'You lied! Take us to the hotel we requested! NOW!'

He clambers into the front seat so that tout number two can't get in, and we drive off.

'Okay, okay,' says the driver, looking fairly hassled by now. We drive for a distance, this time to much more crowded streets - and a police roadblock.

'Ask the police where we are!' I say, but they are all but useless. Another crowd forms, thick with ricksha drivers and locals spoiling for some entertainment. Half of them gather around Andrew and the guidebook, and the other half press up against my window to get a good look at my tear-stained face.

'Fuck this, we're going to have to get out and walk,' Andrew announces. 'Look, all I can gather is that it's down in this direction.'

One guy announces it's two kilometres away. Rickshas are vying for our business. Andrew pounds on the boot to get the guy to release our bags.

'NO! I AM NOT GETTING OUT!' I start shouting. 'I paid you to take us to the Hotel Alka. You took us nowhere! Refund the money NOW!'

'Umm, she's saying she won't get out ...' Andrew announces.

There is a deadlock now. People are honking at the taxi, and I am resolute. I am not leaving this guy's car until he rectifies the situation. I have all day, and he can't move his vehicle.

I don't actually believe for a second that he will give us a 'refund' - but my temper is frayed to the point that I cannot face paying this man 160 rupees to take us to the middle of nowhere, frighten both of us witless, and then have to hump my pack 2 kilometres because he's lied to us. I remain in the car, and the crowd looks on.

Suddenly, the guy's breastpocket opens and he peels out 100 rupees from a wad of bills. YES!

'Thank you, ' I say, unable to believe this has happened and trying to regain some composure.

Ricksha-wallahs are jubilent - 'Come madam! I will drive you there! No problem!'

'I'm sorry, sir, sorry, but I can't get in any more vehicles today,' I snuffle. 'We're going to walk.'

And it's far and it's hot and it's a crazy mash of people and animals and vehicles, but we do eventually reach the old city and then our hotel.

At which point, they say, 'Sorry! All full just now!'

But we do eventually get a room (thank god for clean rooms and water that's sometimes-almost-hot and a great hotel!) and we are ecstatic that we got here at all.

Touts: nil. Us: one.