There were so many white-knuckle moments. Which was the worst? Overtaking a bus while facing an oncoming Jeep? Or being undertaken by a klaxon-blaring truck festooned with pompoms? Or being nearly run down by a moped under the towering gateway of Jaisalmer Fort? I think the most terrifying of all was agreeing to a road trip around India in the first place.
I explain to my family I am about to drive around Rajasthan. Myself. Next week. There is a communal intake of breath and a single comment: 'You're mad.' When I tell them this tarmacked adventure has been refused by Top Gear's Richard Hammond and James May (due to their diaries, apparently), concern grows to full-scale anxiety. My brother-in-law insists I speak to a friend of his who knows all about the potholed, cow-festooned, congested death traps that are Indian roads. I never call him. I've made up my mind.
It's going to be a first, in more ways than one. It's my first time in India and I'm going to test-run a new type of Indian holiday: the self-drive holiday. I'm a pioneer, I tell everyone. 'Guinea pig, more like,' they say.
To make matters even more exciting, I'm driving an Ambassador. This most iconic of Indian cars, manufactured by Hindustan Motors, is essentially unchanged since its manifestation from a Morris Oxford III in 1958. The 'Amby' has been in continuous production ever since, and even has its own terminology: the boot is the dickey, and the spare tyre is the stepney. Which brings me to one of my biggest worries. What happens if I break down? How will I manage getting the stepney out of the dickey, and onto the Amby?
