Having an over active imagination and being told a harrowing story concerning a couple travelling in India (which I refuse to divulge) by Chelsea shortly before bed, I unfortunately spent the entire night laying rigidly awake with my pen knife sticking precariously out of my knickers. This however, didn't dampen my spirits as I slid down the hotel bannister in a Disney-princess fashion and cartwheeled gleefully away from the hell hole that was the 'Lovely Hotel'.

The tea towel of smog that had covered Delhi, due to the Diwali fireworks the day before, had finally dissolved into the tarmac and the crisper spectacle of the city in full flow was wondrous, if not a little daunting.

The hotel we booked, The Star Hotel, turned out to be in a slum. The carts of ginger and garlic did little to mask the smell of poverty and cows, though the crafts and merchandise were enticing.

We took sanctuary in a roof top cafe with a great view of the slum below, the eclectic mix of umbrellas and tents made for very interesting viewing. We discussed our options over a Diet Coke and Fanta and decided that we would feel safer in a different hotel, after all it had only cost us £11.50, so why endure it?

We ended up in a tourism department with Zafar, Sami and Shonny for company (I thought that they sounded like the three hyenas from The Lion King). For quite a premium they arranged our travel for the rest of our trip, after much scepticism and debate we decided to take their offer. I guess that every now and then with travel you have to put yourself on a bit of a ledge and hope that your foreign hosts don't nudge you off with their toes whilst counting your money in their hands...

With the trauma of parting with a few large notes behind us we set off into the rejuvenated dust in a luminous yellow and green rickshaw, the likes of which swarm around Delhi like ants. You discover a lot about yourself whilst being a passenger in a rickshaw; you learn to control your urge to scream; you also realise that you want to see what's coming to kill you rather than it be a surprise (you just can't stop staring, wide-eyed out of the cracked windscreen in fear of missing your own death hurtling towards you; and finally, you learn to love the back of your driver's head whilst it bobs around with the bumps in front of you. Over all Shonny's performance behind the wheel was amicable, though he did seem to take great pleasure in narrow misses and would glance at us in the rear view mirror with mirth pouring from his eyes.

Shonny proved a great host however and I feel lucky to have met him. He spoke very good English for someone with no schooling and told us that he had just picked it up from driving his rickshaw for 30 years. As a diligent host he told us about the things we were seeing and how Delhi worked and came up with the aphorism: 'Delhi is great, but you're always late!' I even had a go at driving his Rickshaw, it is very similar to a motorbike. Due to it not having any doors I felt very exposed and was relived of my driving duties within a very long minute, I don't think he had much confidence in me. He also persisted in buying small packets of tobacco and mixing it with another small packet of dried, hard spices. The resulting masses of brown saliva produced by the concoction was wonderful! When offered to sample its delights I gratefully obliged and was stunned to find that my poor epiglottis was set alight! Which much frantic spitting and eye watering the flavour became relatively bearable if the now paste was wedged between the gum and cheek, and I found I could enthusiastically join in with the spitting and loud hecking up of phlegm.

On our tour with him that cost a reasonable 1000 rupees (£13) we saw most of what Delhi offers in terms of site-seeing:

The Lotus Temple, which was incredibly picturesque and beautiful in its architecture. It is a place we're all religions are embraced and can be entered into freely. As you would expect from the name it is in the shape of a white lotus flower that is half opened. There are 27 petals in total, all adorned with white marble. The temple also has 9 clear blue pools of water tickling the edges of the structure so that it appears to be floating on water.

The India Gate, where everyone wanted a photo with us (I say 'us' very loosely, I was gently nudged out of shot whilst arms were flung around Chelsea). The arch was on a huge, straight road that was adorned with the nations flags and was far bigger than I expected, a large murder of crows flying around it added to the sense of importance that the place possessed. The gate was originally called the 'All India War Memorial' to commemorate the 82,000 soldiers of the undivided Indian Army that died in the wars between 1914-21. The gate sits astride the Raj Path which means 'King's Way'. It is considered one of the most important roads in India and stretches from Rashtrapati to the New Delhi National Stadium.

Humayun's Tomb was more of an empty shell with deep, red, sandstone walls and impressive arches than anything else; it was unfortunately a bit of an anti-climax. After a 500 rupee entrance fee I was expecting something a little more interesting - it was more of a casual walk around a parched looking garden. That being said, despite the somewhat basic structure, the floor inside was very decorative and complex with lace style windows that let in ribbons of light. We are back in Delhi for a day later in the trip so hopefully the Qutub Minar and Red Fort can be seen then.

After our days adventures, the inquisitive Shonny was keen to go for food with us and have a drink (little did we know that he'd smuggled a small bottle a whisky on board halfway through the day, and had by now drank half of it). We agreed on this whole heartedly initially but as the evening wore on we decided that we would rather just hit the sack ready for our long drive to Rishikesh (in the North) tomorrow. Shonny's gumption however was inspiring as on the way home he bought myself and Chelsea a can of Kingfisher lager and parked up on the side of the road, swivelled around with a broad smile and began talking of everything from politics to his family in Varenasi; being a good companion and very friendly we didn't mind too much but we're relieved to get back to our hotel; Hotel Relax Inn (which I can only assume is a break down of English and was actually supposed to be called Hotel Relaxing).

This hotel was far nicer and, as Chelsea ecstatically pointed out, had a security guard! I was quick to remind her that he was just as likely to pillage us as anyone else, with the added benefit that he possessed a firearm.

Feeling safer and ever-so-slightly more hopeful, we settled down to a dominoes and a thicker matteress.