After a swift egg and vegetable pancake with chai tea we were all set for the dreaded return to Delhi. Following a quick hug from our hotel's other guests, we heaved our bags into the spacious boot and were off.

Despite our driver purchasing us a bubble gum as we started our six hour drive back to India's capital, I couldn't help but get the usual pangs of uneasiness as I realise that we are completely at his mercy in this chaotic place. Every time he unexpectedly pulled over to the side of the road for a drink or some tobacco I immediately think that he is going to brutally murder us and bury our bodies in a sugar cane field - thankfully I have my trusty Swiss Army knife stowed in my beige bum bag should the situation get tasty.

The traffic, as usual, is chock-a-block and our journey is either painfully slow or grotesquely fast! The taxi drivers in India are undoubtably good and have reflexes like gazelles but Christ they like to cut it fine! I am probably underselling it when I say they leave a fag paper's breadth between themselves and another vehicles - my palms were moist for the duration of the journey as my knuckles turned white holding onto the head rest in front of me.

As we moved closer to Delhi, the air became horribly polluted to the point where you couldn't clearly see 200 metres in front of you; the road and signs ahead were a ghostly silhouette where the sun's rays were smudged by the thick dust - I swear at one point I actually saw a pigeon cough in a wheezy fashion. As for myself, my eyes were stinging and I can only hope that my nostril hairs were doing their job; if not, with the amount of dust that will have entered my lungs my life expectancy has probably been halved.

Now I know what you're thinking, 'That sounds terrible Matthew! You poor thing! ...certainly something along those lines. Well I can tell you that the pollution, the suicidal driving, the constant fear of being murdered, the slow traffic and owning a beige bum bag was nothing, NOTHING, to Chelsea taking continuous videos of the bloody traffic. Every five minutes she would undo her window (letting in a torrent of dust every time) and poke out her camera on a pole to video identical traffic: the same cars, the same sounds, the same roads, the same landscape - every-single-time. I bit my tongue like the decent human being that I am but when she had evidently accumulated two hours of monotonous and identical footage I began to feel that every time she popped it back out of the window, another tenuous thread connecting my soul to my body was cut loose. I arrived at Delhi a broken and bedraggled shell of my former self.

Slowly recovering over a bowl of chicken noodles on a rooftop cafe I attempted to get ahold of myself in preparation for our looming train journey, which I was secretly dreading. Having collected our tickets and shared a tin of kingfisher beer with our old friend Shonny we left for the train station.

The drive to the station was short but exceptional as our rickshaw driver (the infamous Shonny) was undoubtably drunk. Two of his friends accompanied us and roared with laughter all the way as we swapped jokes and laughed at Shonny's driving.

On boarding the train I quickly realised how cramped and hot our journey was going to be. The beds were stacked three high with six bunks facing each other and two other adjacent bunks lay across the isle. Each bunk had roughly three foot of vertical space and two foot of width. I thought it prudent to give Chelsea the top bunk as she was proving very popular with our carriages' passengers - she had photos with everyone, she bloody loves it. With Chelsea being on the top bunk and out of most people's eyeline I had the pleasure of the middle bunk and felt very foolish as I tried to slide like a letter through a letter box onto my bunk - naturally this didn't go to plan and as I scaled my tiny ladder I closely resembled a brain damaged chimpanzee.

Everyone on the train was pleasant however and we all exchanged polite conversation about our work and families whilst two men travelling together ate a curry with their fingers and sounded like oxygen starved goldfish the entire time that they ate - the sound was vile as they sucked and slurped at their food.

I am about to go to sleep now, but I'm looking across at the top bunk opposite me at a jolly and morbidly weighty man (I tipped my cap to him as he gracefully scaled his way to the top bunk) and I just know that he's going to be a snorer.

Wish me luck...