Princes Amongst Men by Garth Cartwright Leadtext: Darting amongst congested traffic . tanned teak brown from the August sun . wiping windscreens with gold-toothed smiles then proffering an outstretched palm . The Gypsies move easily, seemingly oblivious to the tense congestion around them, occupying a South east London traffic junction, marking out territory, performing the squeegee hustle. The women, dressed in long, heavily patterned skirts, headscarves and aprons - indicating Romanian origins - are the most active, bouncing on their heels, laughing. The men, shirt sleeves rolled up and trilbies cocked at an angle, are more interested in pursuing sedentary pleasures: smoking cigarettes and girl watching. Cars crawl past, drivers wearing the London motoring mask - brow furrowed, lips curled - refusing eye contact. Or swear and spit at the squeegees.

Only too familiar with this behaviour the Gypsies step back, shrug, wait for more benevolent vehicles. When I pull-up on my bicycle we share a bemused look. "Patjival o manus an'' la vi anda gav xaljardo," I say. "A righteous man will profit even in a poor town." Or it would be if my pronunciation wasn''t so poor and recall of Romani even worse. Most likely I uttered something sounding more gibberish than proverb. The sisters - they have to be sisters, corners of their mouths curling to the left, opaque beauty and Orient eyes - laugh. Gadje dilo.

Crazy stranger. The lights change. I''m off. The Roma remain, exotica amongst exhaust fumes. That Balkan Roma can be found in South East London at the dawn of the 21st Century is no cause for surprise. Southwark''s traditionally been a dumping ground for the poor and dispossessed and as London councils struggled to house refugees across the 1990s the ruined North Peckham Estate played host to a vast ethnic mosaic. Alongside Jamaicans, Nigerians and Vietnamese came those fleeing the disintegration of Yugoslavia, Somalia, Sierra Leone. And then the Gypsies arrived.

Supposedly so many that by spring 2000 The Sun, The Express, The Evening Standard and The Daily Mail all featured shrill front pages warning readers a Gypsy invasion of England was underway. These headlines were recycled in early 2004 when the tabloids realised that the new EU member states accession date was May and Roma in Poland and Slovakia could well decide to spend summer in England. Was this media driven climate of fear and loathing so different from when their Roma ancestors first landed here in the late 15th Century? Considering the anti-Egyptian legislation passed during the reigns of Henry V111 and the first Queen Beth, I''d guess not.Being a Peckham estate dweller my new neighbours fired my interest - who are these people? Where exactly do they come from? Why do they carry themselves with such pride? Having repeatedly crisscrossed the former Eastern Bloc, backpacking and chasing an elfin Czech beauty, I was conscious of the Roma - dark skinned/brightly clothed - yet never encountered them individually. They didn''t appear to be employed in shops or hotels or on trains or planes; a visible yet socially invisible presence. Asking East European acquaintances about their nations'' Roma resulted, too often, in a litany of invective. "The Gypsies are dirty and dangerous," the Czech elf told me. "Have you ever met one?" I enquired.

"Noooooo," she replied. "But I know." This book then is rooted in my desire also to know. Where to start? The only Gypsies I''d ever encountered were in movies, books and music, characters often as rooted in reality as leprechauns or Golems. Thus Gypsy women are always cast as tempestuous beauties: the indomitable Ava Gardner in The Barefoot Contessa, Bizet''s Carmen, two babes fighting alongside (and bedding) James Bond in From Russia With Love, Curtis Mayfield''s campfire dancing Gypsy Woman, Caravaggio''s palm reading/pick pocketing hustler, John Singer Sargent''s scarlet temptress and Otto Muller''s tan, naked beauties. If the women were hot the men lived way, way outside the law. Virginia Woolf described them as savages. D.

H. Lawrence as noble savages. Cher''s Gypsies, Tramps & Thieves was Woolfian while Van Morrison''s Gypsy (moon above, road below, woody glens etc) chose a Lawrencian outlook. Hippies and alt.lifestylers feted Gypsies as romantic outlaws. Jimi Hendrix wrote songs and named a band after them. All of which had me pondering - could any people possibly possess more bohemian cool? Also - beyond acting as mythic touchstones what was the Gypsy existence? To answer these questions I dived into the Balkans. One extremely steep learning curve lay ahead.