Name That Smell!: Khajuraho (or if you're Paul, Khajaroo)

To get to Khajuraho from Varanasi we had to take a train to Satna the transfer to a bus... simple, right? But this being India, the buses had, of course, stopped running, leaving us with the choice of staying in the shit-hole-satna for a night, or continuing onto Khajuraho by Taxi. Knowing this, a mob of delighted (read, desperate) taxi drivers were waiting for us as we disembarked the train. A bidding war broke out. It was us versus them. We listened to their pleas in turn as each of them explained to us that they were the only one with the requisite car/permit/license/reckless Indian driving style to get us to our destination. Before we knew it, we, the only foreigners in sight, were surrounded by 50 or so taxi drivers and keen observers. We'd like to say we opted for the best qualified driver, but in reality we settled for the old dude who offered us the cheapest price. 2 hours later, we sat down for dinner in a Khajuraho hotel where Paul was repeatedly molested by the resident "massage man" who, over the course of 2 days, engaged in an unrequited relationship with Paul's scalp, shoulders and, most awkwardly, his knees. It was pretty weird, but given the 'sexy' nature of Khajuraho, we figured it was par for the course. Yes, you may notice that we just described an Indian town as 'sexy'... let us elaborate... the whole reason people go to Khajuraho is to see the 'sexy temples', that is, temples with 'sexy' scenes from the Karma Sutra engraved on them - by curious people who obviously had way too much time on their hands 1,000 years ago. It's risque, it's raunchy, it's quite hilarious, and, well worth the detour from Varanasi. Aside from the temples and some very Indian public toilets, Khajuraho has little to offer tourists, so after purchasing a range of 'sexy' karma sutra souvenirs, we busted a move onto Agra.