Tips for Surviving the Subcontinent

India is a place of extremes, from lavish wealth to abysmal poverty; from beautiful natural landscapes to brutal urban slums; from blissfully peaceful settings to areas where you'll receive constant harassment; this country is guaranteed to induce emotional highs and lows in any traveller. It is certainly not for everybody, but if you have a keen sense of adventure or require an experience that will give you a jolt, India will thoroughly reward you. Extreme poverty, hideous pollution, an endless tide of touts and scammers and very poor infrastructure is offset by a diverse and warm people, amazing scenery and fantastic monuments, temples and history.

Culture shock is something you will definitely experience no matter what part of the world you are from. India is highly populated and the sheer number of people around you can be overwhelming at first. However, it's also important to remember that violent crime is low - generally the worst thing you'll experience is being ripped off by commission touts or a crushing bout of diarrhoea.

Single female travellers may find it harder than others; Indians interpret Westerners from our own media - especially advertising - which has a habit of depicting scantily clad "available" women. Thus many Indian men think all western women are of loose moral virtue and may try to get away with the odd sleazy approach or even grope. If possible, hook up with other female travellers, or if you find yourself in an intolerable situation, loudly draw attention to it - Indian men are easily shamed in public.

Travel

Be aware that many travel agencies in India are merely commission men who book through more reputable agencies and pocket the extra money you give them. Nearly all hotels and hostels can arrange flights, taxis etc. and usually only charge 5-10% commission which saves you the hassle of standing in the queue at the railway station. Always ask for a quote first and if you feel you aren't getting value for money, phone around or search the internet for comparable deals.

Railways

Travelling by train is a rewarding experience in most cases. However it can be confusing if you do not know how things work.

When you buy a ticket, you will either be assigned a seat number immediately or put on a "wait list" shown as W/L on your ticket. The wait list will consist of two numbers. The first number is the position you start the wait list on. Thus if you are waiting at 19th in the queue, 19 will be the first number. The second number is your current position, so in our example, initially that will be 19 too. However, if two people above you in the queue cancel, the second number will drop to seventeen - you will be W/L 19/17. Two hours before leaving the station, all the seats that have been set aside for dignitaries and railway employees etc. will be freed up and there's a good chance you will suddenly find yourself with a seat. I've started a wait list well into the 30s and still been assigned a seat two hours before departure, but it all depends on the train and the type of seat booked.

The railway carriage you are assigned to will often have a list stuck next to the door with all of the people booked and their seat numbers, so if you cannot check whether you have been assigned a seat via phone or the internet, turn up and check the carriage door. If you can't see your name, you can then decide if you want to take a chance and bluff your way on. You will usually be able to pay for either an upgrade or downgrade (be warned that a downgrade could mean travelling in a filthy carriage jam packed with people in very hot weather with no air conditioning).

For bookings, use the Indian Rail Website. You can use international credit cards to book, but the site is a little flaky (it has many, many users) and it may take a few attempts to actually book anything.

For more information, check out Seat61 which contains lots of useful information about riding the trains in India.

Taxis

Taxis and are cheap in India. Fares vary between states, but sometimes a pre-booked cab is the only way to travel, as you can go from A to B whilst visiting C and D on the way. Cabs can be booked via hotels, local travel agents, or take your pick from the local yellow pages. Drivers are generally reliable, honest and can occasionally act as a guide or even as a minder to keep away those pesky hawkers. Cabbies are normally paid a reasonable wage, so it is in their interest to keep you happy so that they keep their jobs. However, watch out for the fly-by-nights who offer you great deals on the streets. Their vehicles are usually on the verge of extinction and you may have to sit in sweltering heat while the driver tries to fix it every five miles you travel.

Vehicle Hire

Obviously you can hire a car in India, but almost invariably you have to return it to its point of origin. It's the same deal with bikes. Make sure you are a confident driver, as you'll need nerves of steel to confront the Indian road system.

Auto-rickshaws

The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was by cloning himself all over the world and going into the auto-rickshaw business. Treat every auto-rickshaw driver as a cheat and a liar (because they are). Do not let them take you anywhere other than your actual destination. Aim to pay 10 rupees per kilometre (it's actually less but that is a fair price) and make sure you agree the price up front (metered auto rickshaw drivers will drive you around for ten kilometres before dropping you off at your destination which was three kilometres away). Okay, so not all auto-rickshaw drivers are the devil, but in most big cities they will rob you blind or cart you around to every handicraft shop in town where they earn a commission before leaving you bruised and battered at your destination. Always refuse to be taken anywhere other than your destination and be firm about it, or you will be ripped off or exposed to high pressure sales techniques that can easily turn ugly.

Nearly all major railway stations have prepay auto-rickshaw stands outside them. Take your time and find these, or ask for directions at the information desk in the station. When you find them, you usually pay a nominal fee of 1 or 2 rupees to the stand and are given a ticket with a fair price to your destination. You will generally get no hassles from these drivers as they only get paid to take you where you want to go, but do not give the ticket to the driver until you reach your destination - he will not be paid without it.

Most importantly, do not encourage touts by going with the first idiot that latches onto you when you leave the station - you will pay between 3-5 times the regular price and encourage "good" drivers to the dark side when they see others making silly money by being aggressive at the station entrance.

You have been warned.

Buses

State buses have regular services - often hourly - to long distance destinations and can be jumped on at most central bus stands. You pay the conductor once you have climbed aboard in cash only. They are cheap and can get very packed at certain times of the day, but are definitely worth a go. Most state bus drivers are clinically insane and blind to any other traffic on the road. They also have a phobia about taking their foot off the accelerator.

More comfortable buses can be booked, but for me they weren't comfortable enough to justify the extra cost and the driving was almost as bad. At least you get the ultimate hair-raising thrill of nearly dying on a state bus. Don't sit at the back though - the buses thunder over bumps and pot holes in the road like they don't exist and you get the full spine rattling effect in the back seat.

Planes

I must admit, I only used Kingfisher Airlines as they had extensive internal routes, were cheap and were excellent in terms of service. However, there are other airlines you can use such as Jet and Air India.

I did have problems using my credit card on the Kingfisher Airlines website, in which case I used Ebookers for the same price plus a 5-10% commission.

Skyscanner is a good resource for finding cheap flights.

Rules of the Road

Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!

No seriously.

Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Haaa!

Okay, from meticulous study, the only rule I've worked out is that there is a hierarchy of objects on the road. Let's start from the lowest to the highest in order of importance (and therefore right of way).

Women. Sorry girls, but if anything is going to be run over it is you.

Children.

Men.

Bicycles.

Motorbikes.

Bicycle rickshaws.

Auto rickshaws.

Cars.

Vans and trucks.

Buses.

Finally the thing that gets complete right of way, the humble cow.

Travel Essentials

Immunisation. See your doctor at least six weeks before you travel to find out what you need to be immunised against.

A visa. Make sure you have one - nearly everybody requires one to enter the country.

Travel Insurance valid for what you intend to do (action sports etc.)

A medical kit including sterilised needles.

A mobile phone. Essential for emergencies and useful at all other times.

Conservative clothing - you need to cover up not just in Temples but on the streets. Local people can become indignant at the sight of foreigners wandering around in beach wear - even on the beach!

A torch and spare batteries (or even better, a wind up torch). Power cuts are rife all over India.

Toilet paper. Some hotels don't stock it, so always carry a roll just in case.

Mosquito repellent. Those pesky flies are everywhere - especially near areas of stagnant water where they breed. Deet based repellents are most effective, but be aware that deet is toxic and can cause allergic reactions.

A mosquito net.

Anti-malarials if you are going to a high risk zone.

A rain jacket. Even outside of the monsoon period, Indian skies can deliver lots of water very rapidly. Monsoon periods also vary between geographical regions, and some places have more than one monsoon.

A universal adapter for plugging in any electronic items you may have such as a mobile phone.

A pen knife or multitool.

Gaffer tape. Great for temporarily mending bags, mosquito nets, even clothes at a pinch.

Needle and thread.

A travel pouch. Something discreet that you can wear under your clothes to keep passports, credit cards and money safely hidden from the clutches of pick pockets.

Passport sized photographs. Always useful in case you lose your passport, need a phone sim or decide on the spur of the moment to get a visa for Nepal or something further afield.

Earplugs. India can be a noisy place especially in the cities.

A padlock and chain for securing your bags on trains, buses and even your hotel room. The padlock can come in handy to lock doors in some hostels/hotels where the lock is broken.

Two photocopies of your passport, kept in separate places in case you lose the original.

Phone numbers - emergency numbers, credit card and bank numbers etc. Keep a printed copy in case you lose your phone.

Loperamide (Imodium) tablets to stave off diarrhoea temporarily on those long journeys. 

Accommodation

The variety of hotels all over India is vast, from renting a room in a converted palace (seriously) to a grubby, rat-infested toilet (seriously).

If you are just turning up in the hope of finding cheap, quality accommodation, then good luck! Always ask to see a room, check the toilet to make sure it has working facilities, lift a pillow and have a look for bed bugs (also on the floor next to the bed) and have a quick look behind furniture or in dark spaces for cockroaches. Smell is also a fairly good indicator! Make sure windows shut properly or you could end up being eaten alive by mosquitoes.

In my opinion, the best way to find decent accommodation is to discover what other people think of a place. This is where the internet excels. My favourite sites for checking the quality of a place are Tripadviser which has hundreds of user reviews of different hotels and B&Bs (some of them very amusing) and Hostelworld which has cheap but usually good quality accommodation listed (again with user reviews). Remember that you don't have to chose a place in the top five listings; many decent places can still be found half way down the list.

I also found Booking.com quite useful in reserving the actual rooms as they don't have an obvious surcharge (I've used most of the big booking sites and they are only good value if you can get a deal when staying more than one day). Hotels.com is a useful alternative, but you will pay a surcharge at the end of the booking process.

Don't make the mistake of thinking that Guest Houses are a poor option. There are some fantastic, clean and inexpensive options all over India. Just do your homework first on the above listed comparison websites.

Homestays are a great way of meeting Indian families and having a great adventure too. I stayed with my friend Anil at the Buena Vista Hut in Wayanad. Check out the site - it lists other homestays around the country too.

Health and Safety

Get comprehensive insurance before you go. I hate insurance. As an insider in the insurance industry for several years I know what a con it can be. However, comprehensive travel insurance is a must. When it comes to your own personal health, you do not want to be stuck in some backwater medical facility suffering from an infected wound just because you can't afford proper treatment.

The biggest threat by far to your health in India is on the roads. According to statistics, India has the most dangerous roads in the world and once you see how Indians drive you'll understand why. Learn how to cross the road properly - always keep your wits about you, keep a steady pace and always stare at the oncoming traffic, gesturing for them to slow down with an upraised palm. Keep looking both ways especially as you near the far side of the road as some people travel the wrong way on bikes near the kerb. Most tourist accidents involve scooters or motorbikes. Only hire one of these if you are confident handling them and you think you understand how the road system works (which I doubt because not even Indians know that). Never drink and drive - the roads are crazy enough when you're sober, and always wear a helmet on a bike.

Malaria is something you should not ignore and dengue fever even more so. Visiting most areas of India does not require you to take anti-malarials (see this map for details of malaria hotspots) but you should always use a deet based mosquito repellent spray or cream (Odomos is a cream you can buy in India which is actually very good). Cover your feet, legs, arms and head (either with clothes or repellent) and wear bright clothing (mosquitoes love emos). The truth is, some people attract mozzies more than others (I'm lucky - I rarely get bitten) and infection rates are quite low but prevention is better than cure - malaria and dengue are rotten illnesses, sometimes fatal. The bites themselves can become very itchy, irritating and occasionally infected.

Diarrhoea is a very common traveller's complaint in India. If you get it, drink lots of fluids with rehydration salts when necessary. If it persists for more than two or three days, seek medical help. Dehydration will weaken you severely and if left untreated can damage your internal organs or kill you.

Always drink bottled water and make sure the bottle is properly sealed as there is a scam where old bottles are filled from the tap and resold. Crush all bottles after you use them to avoid this. You can obtain water purification tablets from any good travel shop for emergencies. Tap water in India is often unchecked and unreliable in terms of cleanliness, and most Indian people have built a natural immunity to many of the bugs that would wipe a foreigner out. Because of this, also avoid ice in drinks.

Similarly, be wary of street food or empty restaurants where "static" food is being exposed to flies and other environmental nasties. Peeled or cut fruit is usually a bad idea unless you cut it yourself.

As part of your medical supplies, bring a sterilised needle kit - you can't be certain that in a medical emergency you or your doctor will have access to a clean needle giving rise to the risk of infection from Hepatitis or AIDS.

Many animals carry rabies in India - you can catch it even if a dog licks an exposed cut on your skin. Rabies is fatal, so be wary of any roaming creatures, no matter how cute they look.

Communication

There are many public phone booths/shops available in India. Just look out for the PCO (local calls) STD (inter-state calls) and ISD (international calls) signs - usually around Internet Cafes which are easily found due to the fact that there are so many of them.

Phone sims can be purchased for your mobile if you have a passport sized photo available. I used Airtel which has extensive coverage all over India. You can also enable GPRS for internet requirements. It is extremely cheap compared to using your own sim card, even for international calls. Note that you have to enable roaming if leaving the state you bought the sim card in, and topping up - which can be done at any small mobile phone shop - will cost slightly more if you are roaming. Make sure your phone has an IMEI number or you won't be able to use it - India banned the use of unregistered phones in December 2009 in the wake of the Mumbai attacks.

Scams

Indian people are generally reserved by nature, so anyone who approaches you on the street - especially near transport hubs and tourist attractions - is doing so because you are being singled out as a tourist and therefore a source of income for them. Of course this isn't always the case, but the number of ingenious scams going on in India that will separate you and your cash - sometimes in very large sums - is endless.

Usually, a firm "No!" will do, but India is the land of the persistent scammer and you must be persistent in turn by putting the palm of your hand in their face or telling them to go forth and multiply vociferously - or better still, be prepared to completely ignore those who approach you as if they didn't exist.

The most common offenders are auto-rickshaw drivers who will attempt to charge you as much as possible if you are from out of town, or try to take you to their "brother's" shop or hotel where you will be massively overcharged and the driver will earn a nice commission out of you. Other scammers just stand around in the street waiting for their mark (i.e. you) and will strike up a conversation with the classic "Where are you from?" or by claiming they are just practising their English.

There are many dodgy travel agents in India too - always shop around or ask your hotel what they can offer. "Too good to be true" offers are usually there to entice you into a place where a trap will be sprung and you'll end up literally paying far more than you bargained for.

Never use a credit card for purchases - cash only. The temptation for some unscrupulous shopkeepers to run up a number of transactions on top of the official one is just too great a temptation. Hotels are generally trustworthy in this respect.

Tout's are usually confidence tricksters - that is, they will try to gain your confidence with sweet words concerning great deals (or even a meal with their families), but you will ultimately pay the price when dumped off on a high pressure sales team or are deposited in a quagmire of a hotel which has the best front desk you've ever seen, but the worst rooms. Again, use common sense. Source all of your hotels or guest houses first and only use these touts if you are desperate and willing to pay the price (which should never happen with a little preparation).

Scammers always ask you if this is your first time in India. This is to determine how gullible you are. Always answer "No."

Never accept food or drink from a stranger. It could potentially be drugged (it's a known scam) and you may end up waking up without your possessions in a hospital with sore orifices (okay, so that's a worst case scenario, but you will usually be robbed at the very least).

There are many other scams in India. To give the scammers credit, some are actually beautifully inventive. To keep up to date with them, check out your guidebook or the IndiaMike Scam Forum. Don't get depressed about all of the scams out there - following the above advice and simply knowing they exist will ensure you don't fall prey to them.

A final word of warning - corruption is rife in India, so try to avoid any reasons for having to contact the local police. You may end up having to buy your way out of any situation you find yourself in.

Shopping

India has been trading goods with other nations for thousands of years and haggling runs in the blood of most Indian people. It is in fact a very social practice and somewhat of a battle of wills. Remember, the idea is not to try to grind someone down so they hardly make a profit, but to reach a mutually acceptable price. What you have in your favour is that if one bazaar is selling that carved rock elephant you desperately want, another will also be selling the same a few metres away and a threat to buy from another trader will nearly always get you a price drop.

Major shops and chain stores operate in the same way as the West, and options for bargaining are limited, but many independent shops will nearly always display the maximum price they want for an item (if there is a price at all).

Remember, as a foreigner you stand out, so prices will often be three times as much as an Indian would be quoted. Start by offering a third of the price and start haggling up. If you don't get the price you like, walk away. This act in itself will usually be enough to get you the price you asked for. If not, there will always be an opportunity to get that item somewhere else.

Toilets

Some would say this is not only my favourite subject, but the main inspiration for my sense of humour. Personally I think they're talking out their arses.

Most toilets in Indian hotels and guest houses are western style. Occasionally you will find squat toilets where you straddle a hole in the ground, squat down and drop one into it. Many places have a small "water gun" hanging by the side of the cistern. This is for spraying a jet of water into your arse crack to clean it. Personally, I found these to be very hygienic - especially for the hot climate - keeping your anus clean, fresh and itch free, especially if you have piles.

Public toilets are few and far between and are about as hygienic as a blocked sewer (which is often what they are).

Showers generally come with two buckets - a large one for filling with hot water which you clean yourself with and a smaller one for filling with the water from the big bucket to pour over yourself. You don't have to use these if the shower works however.

Beggars

Do as your conscience dictates. I've seen a beggar pull out a mobile phone to tell another beggar I was travelling in his direction. I've also seen desperate, starving people that have nearly brought me to tears. Whatever you decide, I would advise not to give to children as this only encourages them (and whoever may be coercing them) into a lifetime of begging and poverty. Instead, buy them some food and do as I do - donate money on a regular basis to one of the many charities that support the poor all over the world. Contrary to popular belief, they don't actually spend all their money on advertising - that's just an excuse for the apathetic and tight bastards.

Also, consider getting involved in an aid program.

Resources

IndiaMike is in my opinion the best travel resource for India, with an excellent forum for any questions you may have about your trip.

Virtual Tourist is useful for seeing other traveller recommendations for local places to visit, especially nightlife. Good scam information here too.

I love Wikitravel. I use it all the time to source possible destinations for my travels.

Lonely Planet guides can be both exasperating and a joy, mainly because of their over-exuberant scare mongering and because every hotel they recommend is full of people carrying Lonely Planet guides. Still, they are definitely useful - especially their "walking tours" if you are only in a place for a short time. Their forum is pretty good too.

Travel Junky is a witty and irreverent site that looks behind the scenes of the major travel destinations. Thoroughly entertaining.

British newspaper, The Guardian’s take on India.

British Government Travel Website is useful for seeing if riots/natural disasters/terrorist threats/alien invasions are coming to a town near you.

The Indian Ministry of Tourism website has some useful info to help plan itineraries, and most importantly lists all the Tourist Offices which are actually very helpful in India.

Foreign Embassies in India. Use this resource to note details of your embassy should you lose your passport or be involved in an accident or crime.

The Library of Congress has a list of Indian Internet resources.

Indian Blog Entries

Overwhelmingly, people comment that one of the most entertaining and informative blogs on India is by a dysfunctional miscreant called Rob Jamieson. Actually, only I would say that, because it's me.

All of the information above is distilled from more than two months of travelling around India which I have extensively blogged. The blog is descriptive of all of the sites I have visited with plenty of pictures and sometimes video clips, and is also highly personal and hopefully amusing. But don't trust me until you've checked it out for yourself.

I've listed each place I've visited in chronological order and by place name to make it easy to scan if you are planning an itinerary. Some links go to the same page if I've covered two places in the same blog.

Bangalore

Chennai

Mamallapuram

Pondicherry

Kumbakonam

Thanjavur

Madurai

Bangalore (again)

Mysore

Wayanad

Kozhicode (Calicut)

Ernakulam

Kochi (Cochin)

Allapuzah (Allapey)

Kovalam

Trivandrum

Padmanabhapuram Palace

Kanyakumari

Goa

Delhi

Agra

Taj Mahal

Jaipur

Jodhpur

Udaipur

Mumbai

Warning: Contains vivid depictions of toilet related escapades and graphic scenes of monkey sex. So what's new?

Mumbai from the air is a bewildering sight. Large areas of high rises and commercial buildings are interspersed with strange patches of undulating grey - like the view through a monochrome kaleidoscope. As the plane nears the ground, these strange blotches coalesce into millions upon millions of small ramshackle buildings with corrugated roofs squashed into a maze of tiny alleyways: the Mumbai Slums.

I had chosen a hotel near the airport for the first night because it was cheap and downtown Mumbai is notoriously expensive. I dumped my stuff and went on my usual reconnaissance of the local area. I was on the busy Mathuradas Vasanji Road, teeming with life, overcrowded with noisy vehicles. I passed a few restaurants noting which I could use later. A foul, heavily polluted river oozed nearby.

I walked around the edge of some slums. I wanted to walk down the darkening alleyways but strangely, it wasn't the threat of any danger that stopped me, but the feeling that I would be intruding. I was tired from the flight - air travel always knocks me out - so I grabbed dinner and went to bed early.

The next morning I did a little research and found that I was near the Nehru Centre, so I opted to stay another night and explore the area more. I wandered the streets aimlessly, hoping to find something interesting. This may sound like an ineffective way of doing things, but it usually works very well for me as I love walking and nearly always find something unusual or interesting to see that is off the beaten path. Today wasn't to be one of those days. I walked for what seemed like miles past nothing but construction sites and empty buildings. Feeling tired under the onslaught of the midday sun, I hailed an auto-rickshaw. It took five minutes to explain where I wanted to go before I gave up on the driver and continued to walk in the general direction of the Nehru Centre. By now my underpants were filling with sweat and my continuing diarrhoea made every fart potentially fatal.

Suddenly, my driver reappeared driving slowly along next to me. Apparently he had become enlightened and knew exactly where I wanted to go. Dubiously I climbed aboard. We trickled down the road in gridlocked traffic for five minutes before pulling in at a petrol station. He left me alone in the rickshaw while he disappeared for a while before jumping back in again. We stop-started down the road for a few more minutes before he turned left at a junction, did a U-turn and joined a queue for another petrol station that looked so long it could probably be seen from the International Space Station. We had travelled a grand total of fifty metres in twenty minutes. Exasperated, I tapped the driver on the shoulder and said, "I've had enough."

Seriously dehydrated from the diarrhoea and the temperature, I jumped out of the auto-rickshaw, bought a huge bottle of water and retired to my room for the rest of the day where I regained my strength gradually. During the evening, I let rip with what should have been a huge pump. Instead of the usual entertaining frapping sound, there was a dull pop. I can only conclude by saying that my fellow Stevenage alumnus Lewis Hamilton may be a better F1 racer than me, but I can leave more impressive skid marks.

The next day, I booked a cab to take me to the Hotel Oasis, a cheap downtown hotel I had booked online the night before. I shared the cab with a girl called Kay from Oxford who, by coincidence, was also going to the same hotel.

We drove in the clamorous Mumbai heat, casually chatting. I warmed immediately to Kay - she was well travelled, good natured and entertaining.

We stowed our bags and took a walk into town. We walked past an elaborate police station which the guards outside wouldn't let us look at for security reasons. Since the Mumbai attacks, there are armed police posted all over town.

We hit the Gate of India down by the docks, a large stone edifice similar to a triumphant arch designed by the British for a visit of King George V. I thought it was tired looking and preferred the view of the misty (polluted) bay.

We walked past the Taj Mahal Hotel which had been a focal point of the Mumbai attacks, with explosions, executions and people escaping from windows by tying bed sheets together. Around the block was the famous Leopald's, a Mumbai Café Bar where we had lunch. The food was average, and later I found out that more people had died in this place during the attacks.

We continued to walk around downtown Mumbai, taking in the University and High Court - all very grand and European in design and architecture.

As the sun was dipping we visited Jehangir Art Gallery. Although it contained some exceptional pieces, I found it pretty uninspiring. However, the good thing about this place is that it has a high reputation in the Indian art world and artists are on a fairly rapid rotation, so give it a go - you might get lucky.

Back at the hotel, I noticed a black spot on my pillow. I shook it and the black spot fell to the floor and slowly started crawling away. Repulsed and without thinking, I stamped on it. A thick sheen of crimson blood spattered across the floor. My blood - it was a bed bug.

The next day, Kay and I went on a long walk. First, we headed to Chatrapati Shivaji (Victoria) Railway Terminus, a grand and eloquently designed building, where thousands of people traversed the platforms.

I found a large colony of cockroaches scurrying around the ticket office in broad daylight. These were obviously the cockroach equivalent of the marines as they showed no fear as I approached and observed them.

We headed to Crawford Market - an amazing place which defines the word "lively". I saw a kitchen sink being sold there, so there's no limit to what else was on offer. I'm also pretty sure I saw a fully working light sabre, the One Ring and the Ark of the Covenant near the pitches of Elvis and Lord Lucan.

Crawford Market – this women is an expert at ignoring hawkers. Kudos!

Crawford Market – a young woman with something on her mind sells vegetables.

We walked further afield towards a mosque which we never found, where the streets took on an almost rustic, Gallic appearance.

Then we found our way into the backstreets and past some makeshift slums. A little boy was joyously playing in the streets and Kay noticed that his mother asked him to beg from me. He didn't - that kid will go far.

Back towards town we ran across more dilapidated dwellings by the side of the road.

One of the major things I noticed about downtown Mumbai is that on the whole, it was sedate and modern, with a few grand historic buildings thrown in too. And the biggest difference of all? No cows. I didn't see a single heifer swaggering around like it owned the place. The thing is, I'm a vegetarian so I have a real fondness for Hindu beliefs. However, letting cows wander wherever they like, although an admirable trait, simply isn't practical. Firstly, the cow needs to eat a lot and consequently, defecate a lot. When you have cow pats all over the road coupled with poor or nonexistent public services, sanitary conditions spiral down. And let's face it, if the mighty cow can shit and piss all over the place, why shouldn't people? I surmise that is why a lot of people follow suit - apart from the fact that there are large numbers of homeless people in the big cities. Not only that, but the cows end up eating rubbish left out in plastic bags. The plastic bags get entangled in the cow's gut, leading to a lingering, painful death. Personally, I think Mumbai is leading the way in not allowing cows into the city centre - intentionally or not. It certainly is one of the most sanitary city centres I have seen in India.

The next day, Kay's friend from England, Davita turned up. She was quick witted and lively and kept the conversations moving along nicely. We headed for Elephanta Island - a popular Mumbai tourist spot. On the island are many cave temples with embedded shrines. Most of the statues have eroded with age (the temples were carved out around 1500 years ago) but the most impressive statue of a three headed Shiva that stands six metres tall is both a captivating and immensely beautiful work of art.

There are several colonies of monkeys on the island and they caused mischief all day, from stealing some of Kay's lunch to a huge monkey war which we were lucky enough to witness. The monkeys were pin wheeling, gesturing and physically battering each other on the nearby hillside while others looked on dumbfounded. There was also some dirty monkey sex if you're into that kind of thing. They were going at it like England footballers at a fashion show, prompting one young lad to embarrass his mother by asking what the stringy, viscous fluid hanging from one young monkey's fingers was.

John Terry, yesterday.

That evening we relaxed by going to the Taj Hotel and sipping cocktails in the bar. We attempted to find the Insomnia nightclub but it had been temporarily closed. Never mind - I don't think any of us could have lasted the night anyway. I said my farewells to the girls - it was to be my last night in Mumbai, and in India.

The next day I packaged some books and clothes up to send back home. In India, you have people who parcel up your package in front of you before you mail it. As I stood opposite the Post Office while a large demonstration was going on outside it, the parcel wallah asked me to step away from underneath the overhead trees. I didn't understand why until a few seconds later a large white streak flashed down on my black shirt. Dirty pigeons!

I dispatched my goods (it cost more for me to post them than to initially buy them) and grabbed a cab for the airport.

It had been nine weeks, twenty three towns and cities, seven states and over three and a half thousand miles of travel. I'd been bitten by insects, stalked by giant arachnids, met some wonderful people, bumped into a few scoundrels, witnessed some heavenly places and been torn up by some terrible sights. India is truly a country of extremes; wonderful, absurd and intangible.

Most importantly, in India you always have a keen sense of the here and now; of being alive. Every sense is active, every heartbeat felt.

There is no other place like it in the world.

This blog covers the period 13-19 December 2009.

Warning: I like to say rude things and I'm a very naughty boy.

Pale winter sunlight falls gently on the amber earth. Stunted trees rise from the arid soil. Occasionally, a swathe of green cuts through the crenulated hills as irrigation ditches crisscross the landscape to nurture large paddy fields.

A soft wind blows; the rice gently yields.

In the distance, a roaring beast thrashes along a pit filled road, belching smoke and furiously beeping at eternity. Sat inside this monstrosity, I smile at my driver's lack of fear and ignorance of danger. I'm used to it all now. We pass the open countryside, disturbing a few geckos. A distant hawk flaps its wings. Then we are gone in a cloud of dust; thundering through the next valley, careening around every bend in the road.

For a fraction of a second I see a girl carrying a large clay pot on her head. She is making her way to a small well near the side of the road. She is about twenty, though the sun has aged her slightly. However, those harsh rays can do nothing to diminish her beauty. She is adorned in a peacock coloured sari - blue, green, gold - all melting around her slender figure. Lustrous black hair falls loosely around her shoulders; rich brown skin forms tautly around her high, regal cheekbones; wonderful, large brown eyes stare straight into me.

It is a perfect picture-postcard shot that only exists in my mind and she will remain frozen in time, forever within my memory.

We drive on.

The landscape opens out once more. We speed through a wide expanse of almost desert-like terrain. A huge backlog of lorries has blocked the road for about a mile ahead of us, but it's not a problem for the driver, he just jumps into the opposite lane until we reach the blockage: a lorry has skidded across the road. Luckily, it has just been corrected as we reach it and with a tasty bit of driving he nudges the vehicle to the front of the queue and drives off down the open road. First class.

Back up into the hills again and we slow so I can observe a man driving oxen round in circles to mill grain.

We thread through the hills then hit a plain where the small town of Falna is situated. We sweep through the town and just before we hit the railway crossing I see a young girl raking her arms through a big pile of rubbish looking for something that has recycling value. My driver speeds on but the image stays with me, for now the onslaught of the Delhi slums comes flooding back. I was too shocked by the poverty I saw there to even acknowledge it - never mind act on it - but now I know what I have to do.

At that moment, I had enough money on me to pay for my food and lodging for the day. I would give that little girl a day of my travels; just one day to me but possibly a lifesaver for her. She was only a single person, but it is said that a random act of kindness can trigger a chain of events that brightens any number of lives.

I asked the driver to turn around. He looked confused as I asked him to drive slowly so I could find the little girl at the side of the road. We crossed back over the railway. I searched. It was definitely here, near this big pile of rubbish. I got out of the car. I looked up and down the road, searching frantically for her. I was possessed. Nothing could stop me from doing this deed. Nothing except for one thing. She was gone.

I cursed slowly and wretchedly under my breath. I kicked a big clod of dry earth into the air.

I hadn't acted quickly enough.

Dejected, I climbed back into the car, thinking good thoughts about her for the rest of the journey, hoping that my feelings would somehow filter out into the world and evoke the same butterfly effect that the gift of a few rupees might have done.

Half an hour later, I was in a queue, chatting to a middle aged Indian man about my travels. As I told him of all the places I had been and how Kerala and Rajasthan were the two most beautiful places I had seen in India, I could see pride shining in his eyes.

The queue was for Ranakpur Temple. Whenever you visit a place that has been described as stunning, incredible or amazing in tourist literature, then your arrival at such a place is often accompanied by a gnawing disappointment that you try to ignore. Such was my predicament when I laid eyes on Ranakpur temple for the first time. Sure, it was pretty, but incredible? Such superlatives are only truly justifiable for places that are great wonders of the world, for people who have changed many lives for the better and for things such as my penis. (A girlfriend once said, "It's a wonder." Her following words were, "I can feel it." Unfortunately, I fear it was all part of the same sentence).

I stepped inside the temple and was almost immediately accosted by a "monk". I put monk in inverted commas simply because this guy looked more like Sinead O'Connor on a very bad day. Also, he was carrying a dish with a 100 rupee note in it and asking for a donation.

This immediately made me wary. Firstly, hadn't I already paid to get in? Secondly, why was a holy man asking for money – aren’t alms always given freely? And thirdly, why was he using a known psychological con like having a single item of the largest denomination possible in his collection plate (the con is that you don't think about not giving - he's a monk after all - but you don't want to look like a cheapskate so you match what's already there, and he's obviously not rich as he only has one note in his collection). Caught off guard, I did give him a donation, but only for 20 rupees as I thought he was being cheeky. In hindsight, I realise he was a complete fraud as he wasn't wearing a facemask or brushing the ground before him to avoid killing any small creatures as all Jain monks do.

It's a shame that some of the people you meet in holy places are the last people that should be there - I think the Catholic Church can vouch for that at the moment. In fact, things have been getting so bad on the religious front lately that I've been inspired to start my own religion and these are the rules. Firstly, sins of the flesh are no longer sins. Go forth and do what you want in a mutually agreeable manner. Secondly, drinking is not a vice, it's an obligation. Thirdly, all murderers, rapists and paedophiles shall be burnt alive. And with that, I've just realised I'm the devil. Any takers?

I started to wander around the temple. This is when it started to hit me that this place is actually very beautiful. Nearly 1500 white marble colonnades, each of them carved differently, hold aloft domes and carved archways giving a cavernous feel to the temple.

Every column is different.

Extreme wide shot to show the roof and the columns supporting it.

Column detail.

The inside of the temple feels like it is shining even without direct sunlight.

I walked around feeling calm and very comfortable, yet there was a nagging feeling that I was missing something. Then I heard the source of my disquiet: a very distinct noise just like a kettle expelling steam but without a whistle. I turned around and almost jumped out of my skin. A man who looked like a cross between Ron Moody's Fagin and the Child Catcher from "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang" was beckoning me to follow him. As if this wasn't chilling enough, his smile alone looked like it could cut paper. Due to his surreptitious behaviour, the fact that I had been conned in a temple before (see blog here) and his Texas Chainsaw Massacre looks, I ignored him. Still he persisted, blowing and making as many different quiet sounds as is humanly possible, but if there's one thing my mum taught me, it's not to talk to strange men - especially if they look like they want to rob you, bugger you and cut off your head (and not necessarily in that order).

I continued to look around, unimpeded this time and examined a number of statues and carvings. Not for the first time in India, I marvelled at the intricate craftsmanship and the many hours of labour that individual people had put into this masterpiece of a building and I wanted to know who they were; to shake the very hands that had made all of this beauty surrounding me.

I find my car and we steam back off into the mountains. The driver beeps repeatedly on an open road, but I suppose it’s because he’s still cruising down the wrong side of the road for no good reason at all. In the fields, circular hay roofs sit atop bales of hay like badly woven wigs. Broken rocks spill across the road in defiance of man’s intrusion. The wildlife wisely continues to avoid us.

After an hour we start to approach Kumbhalgarh Fort. However, we’re now looking hopelessly lost, stopping to ask the locals directions every five minutes and with my GPS showing no roads at all in our vicinity, we're literally off the maps. I really don't mind though, the countryside around here is rugged and beautiful and the local people colourful and friendly. In fact the drive itself is one of the highlights of travelling between Jodhpur and Udaipur. At one point I jumped out of the car and took a picture of a woman and her children walking down the road in the distance. I waved to them and the kids waved back, but not the woman. It was only when I examined the photograph a few days later that I realised why.

We make it to Kumbhalgarh eventually and I start the long trek up the mountain.

Another fort, another long arduous climb, but if you want to see a fort, you don't generally stroll up a hillock. What with all the walking and diarrhoea it's no wonder I lost twelve pounds in India.

As you ascend the fortress grounds you can see a small run-down village and an extensive temple complex stretching out to the surrounding countryside, but unfortunately I never had the time to explore them.

The fort is out in the middle of nowhere, but it was once in a very strategic position. Built by Rana Kumbha in the 15th Century (he also built over thirty other forts), it was used by Mewar warriors to fall back to in times of attack. The wall surrounding the fort is the second longest in the world and held off all but one occupation - from the great Moghul Emperor Akbar (see my blog on the Red Fort at Agra here) - which only lasted two days before the fort was retaken.

Kumbhalgarh is wonderfully deserted except for the monkeys that scamper and play around the grounds. The only effort that is made to maintain it is to keep it in its current state of disrepair. But that's what I loved about it - its authenticity. No audio commentary here, or even guards strolling the halls. No furniture or paintings either - in fact some parts aren't even lit and a bit of exploring in the dark with a couple of flash photos revealed empty dilapidated rooms inhabited by pigeons and no doubt rats. However what you do get is atmosphere and tons of it.

The main courtyard.

Some of the rooms upstairs from the courtyard are dark and barely decorated, but the wind blows through all of the screened windows, making a sound like a thousand people whispering, as if the previous inhabitants over the past six centuries were trying to tell their story.

The views from the roof of the surrounding countryside for miles around are vivid and immediate for which photographs can do no justice.

There are hardly any other visitors here and you can explore at your leisure. And that's another great thing about the place - there are many nooks and basement rooms that you can wander around if you have the time, a flashlight and a helping of courage - some rooms are pitch black.

I wandered back to the car and my driver tore down the road to Udaipur as if his driving earlier had been a Sunday stroll for him. We made the town as the sun was beginning to dip and I was greeted by a worker from the guesthouse who led me to it and booked me in.

I staggered to the bathroom and let loose an almighty gush of watery excreta. The diarrhoea was getting worse.

I flopped on my bed. It had been an exhausting day full of sights and sounds, ups and downs. I immediately wanted to tell someone all about it and the first person who popped into my head was my mum. And then I got that jolt again. That fiery, blue, electrical arc that twists through your mind every time you are grieving for someone but had temporarily forgotten they were gone. It's one of the worst feelings in the world - like waking to hear the same news day after day that someone you love has just died; a constant realisation that you've lost something very beautiful and precious.

Tears came. They flowed for what seemed like an age. But this time, instead of the usual deep sorrow and an unending pit of loss yawning before me, something different happened. I felt an overwhelming sense of love, warmth and respect for my mum. After all, it was her that nurtured me to become the big, fat idiot I am today. And you know what? It's fun being a big, fat idiot, doing big, fat idiot things. I'm mostly happy with life and that sense of well being was derived from her.

This was an acceptance of sorts and the following days would bring a real acknowledgement of all the things my mum had given me over the years.

I fell asleep feeling like I wasn't alone for the first time in months.

The next day I took some rather unconvincing pictures from the rooftop of the guesthouse, then stalked the streets of Udaipur looking for adventure and whatever came my way. Nothing much did.

A rickshaw driver asked me if I wanted hash, cocaine or a lady. I laughed in his face and strolled on. In smaller towns like this, ignoring hawkers works a treat. They start off with the usual, "Hello, excuse me sir", and when they see I'm not taking any notice, their voice diminishes, their tone drops and their words peter out. Perfect.

I wandered further and a smart, eloquent man of around forty started chatting to me, saying how he was taking his business to an expo in Birmingham (lucky him). He really built this up for about five minutes and then asked if I would be so kind as to check out his exhibition to see if it was worthy of being shown in the UK. When I politely declined he seemed to give up all his pretences and asked if I wanted to buy some drugs. I made my excuses and left.

A man of around twenty body checked a young European girl on the street and stared at her like a piece of meat as she walked away. She looked both embarrassed and intimidated. Suddenly enraged that any man should do that to a woman, I did the same to him, leading with my shoulder and digging my elbow sharply into his ribs, making sure it hurt. His look of surprise and pain showed me he didn't like the taste of his own medicine, but he definitely got the message. I was immediately set upon by another tout trying to sell me drugs which made me wish I had followed through with my fist.

I strolled down to a bakers shop and ate a tasty pastry while I watched cows and dogs shit in the road. Flies swam in shoals around my head.

I sauntered down to Lal Ghat at the side of nearby Lake Pichola where women were washing their clothes and an old man was bathing naked. Here I could see Jagmandir, the island upon which the Lake Palace Hotel is situated. You may recognise it from the movie Octopussy, and if you don't, you can watch one of the endless nightly reruns of the film in some of the local hotel bars.

Walking back through the bustling streets to my guesthouse, a boy of about twelve cycled up to me and beamed a brilliant smile.

"Hello!" he said.

"Hello," I smiled back. And then he was off, clattering down the streets on his tatty old bike. Brilliant.

Nothing seemed to be happening in Udaipur and I didn't really mind. For the first time in a long time I didn't feel any drive to get out and explore everything around. And that was fine. I would just enjoy my stay here as if I lived here rather than rushing around all of the tourist traps. I returned to my room and read a book, listening to children playing cricket opposite in the temple grounds, breathing in amazingly fresh air for an Indian town and relaxing deeply.

In the evening I went for a meal in Maxim's Cafe, one of the local restaurants with great views of Jagdish Temple from the rooftop terrace. While the food was delicious, the rice smelled a bit off. When I told the owner, instead of trying to save face, he immediately apologised and offered to make me more. When I said I was leaving, he offered to make me a complete meal to take with me. I explained that I was leaving because I was full, not because I was upset, but with that level of customer service, that young man and his restaurant should go far.

The next morning I tried to find the City Palace and Museum, a huge imposing edifice in the centre of town. Apparently it’s huge and imposing, because I couldn't find the fucker. My sense of direction was gone, gone, gone, like some confused albatross that had found itself perched upon a Toy'R'Us store in Basingstoke. I pottered around the town for a bit smiling to myself, then packed my things and set off for the airport. From what I could make of it, Udaipur was a gentle, laid back town - quite pretty in its own unique way. I hadn't really made the most of it, but I had enjoyed it nevertheless. Now I started to get excited because I was heading to the airport and the last stop on my mammoth trip around India: Mumbai, the City of Dreams.

This blog covers the period 11-13th December 2009.

Jodhpur by night. Outside the train station, people sized bundles of rags huddled together on the pavement, fighting off the sting of the night air. A light smog peeled from the walls of buildings and rolled insipidly down the dark streets. Skinny dogs padded around looking for a castaway idli or a warm place to rest.

I looked around for a moment, trying to get my bearings. It was 11:00pm so most of the hawkers were tucked up in bed - if they had one. I was greeted by an auto-rickshaw driver holding the name of the guest house I had booked. I relaxed.

We rattled down the tight, claustrophobic alleys of the Old City before arriving at my new abode. So far, I had been luxuriating in low to mid range hotels, so a guest house was a departure for me. However, I needed to be more frugal if I was to have any chance of seeing out a whole year of travel. Luckily, The Blue House was not only cheap, it was clean and friendly.

Unfortunately on arrival, I was beset by another bout of diarrhoea, but it wasn't incapacitating and seemed reasonably controllable, so I wasn't too dismayed.

The next morning I made my way into town and began the long clamber up the hillside that led to Mehrangarh Fort. This huge and intricately designed fort containing several palaces was first built in 1459 by Rathore ruler Rao Jodha, who buried a man alive in the foundations to ensure its prosperity. However, much of what can be seen today was built by Jaswant Singh in the 17th Century.

An audio guide is part of the entry fee. It was the best audio guide I had heard in India - excellently written and researched with a narrator whose fine resonant tones and witty anecdotes reminded me of my friend Jay Kembhavi, making it all the more entertaining.

The fort has a number of gates, leading to the main entrance and as you look up, you feel the scale and enormity of the structures within the fort.

There are a number of palaces within the walls of the fort and various period rooms are maintained as they would have looked when in use. The walls of these palaces are beautifully rendered.

The Moti Mahal (or the Pearl Palace) is a State Room for the Maharaja to meet his ministers and nobles (these events were known as Durbars). With multicoloured windows and a gold filigree ceiling, it is one of the finest rooms in the fort.

There are also a few rooms dedicated to the museum of Mehrangarh, which has an excellent collection of paintings, costumes, furniture, palanquins - you name it, they have it. Many of the rooms are hosted by Fort employees in period dress.

A man with a grand moustache.

The views from the walls of the fortress over the city are stunning.

Mehrangarh Fort walls with Jodhpur lazing in the background.

Enlarged view of the Blue City.

On leaving the Fort, I noticed a number of handprints - some of them tiny - on the wall by the inner gate. These were the prints of Maharajah Man Singh's widows, all of them taken just before these girls and women climbed upon his funeral pyre and burned to death - probably in an opium induced stupor. This horrific and tragic tale really affected me for some reason, and I couldn't stop feeling both sadness and anger about it for the rest of the day. This ancient rite known as sati has its origins in prehistory, and was often voluntary on the part of the widow, although there is much speculation about whether this was always the case - especially in royal households where traditions had to be maintained. Now outlawed, it still rarely occurs in some parts of rural India.

I descended back down the steep slopes and into Sardar Market. A distinct counterpoint to the sedate Fort, this ancient, bustling marketplace was actually so chaotic that I found it really amusing.

The clock tower that fronts the market place.

Wonderful chaos. There are even people on the roof...

I made my way back to the guesthouse through the labyrinthine, mediaeval streets of the Old City and climbed to the rooftop restaurant. There I watched the sun go down, saw monkeys scampering across the rooftops and hawks alight on nearby mobile phone masts. Across the town, innumerable mosques began their call to prayer, each voice vying and intertwining with the other in a strange, ethereal harmony.

Jodhpur Call to Prayer.m4a

(download)

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Jodhpur Call to Prayer.m4a (827 KB)

I looked at the fort on the hill and thought about the Maharajah's wives who had immolated themselves on his funeral pyre. I stared at it as if it were some ancient, venerable figure that had been involved in every aspect of life in this small town. It surely had answers - and I wanted it to speak, to tell me what had really happened to those poor women; that it had not all been a tragic waste of life. The fort stood resolutely, imperiously as it always had, cradling the town below as the dying sun made it glow.

This blog covers the period 9th December 2009 - 10th December 2009.

Warning: I believe swearing is both big and clever.

“Life’s what you make it, celebrate it.” – Talk Talk.

Agra train station was like a city within a city. Hundreds of people traversed the platforms as twilight descended over us. Passengers carried huge suit cases on their heads as they hurried to find a space to stand under the darkening sky. The sounds of men singing out their wares and the bashing of ladles on pots as they cooked food on makeshift stoves on the platform defined the evening tumult.

The poor, who lived on the railway line around the station wandered around looking for useful rubbish. Families sat around on their suitcases watching the smaller children run around in circles. A swarm of flies, up well past their bedtime, buzzed manically around a small spot of shit on the ground.

I hate flies. For me, the fly goes a long way to disprove reincarnation. How can you possibly do anything virtuous as a fly to justify being reborn as a higher life form? All you can wish for is to be reborn as something more infamous; something which has caused many needless deaths such as the mosquito, the flu virus or Tony Blair.

I asked a porter if I was on the right platform for the Jaipur train. He officiously demanded to see my ticket, stared at it for an age as if he had never seen one before (I believe he was trying to look very important indeed) and then nodded quietly before walking off.

A lad of about eleven asked me to buy him a banana just as a fruit seller carted his produce by. With my backpack restricting my movements, I didn't get my money out in time, so I gave the kid enough money to buy a bunch. It's not as if he needed them - it looked like his main source of vitamin C was pie.

For the next two minutes, he stood in front of me begging for more money. When I'd had enough, I said, "If you're not careful I'm going to take that money back." We looked sternly at each other for a second, then both burst into giggles when he realised the game was up.

As the train pulled into the station, I had trouble finding my carriage - the platform signs didn't match and Indian trains are very long. I made my way near to where it should be and jumped in the train so I wouldn't miss it. Almost immediately, a guy in a smart but stained black jacket jumped in front of me and asked where I was going. I told him I could find my own way.

Then he demanded to see my ticket.

"Why? You don't work for the railway," I stated.

"I do, now show me your ticket."

"No - you show me your ID."

"What?"

"Show me your railway employee ID." All railway workers carry an ID to prove they work for the department of railways.

He smiled - that same shallow smile I'd seen before in India when I had caught someone lying to me. However, at that moment, an older man sitting in the carriage said, "He does work for the railway."

I decided to defer to the old gentleman - he looked respectable enough. I let the young guy lead me to my carriage. There were two young Canadian girls already seated when I arrived and we briefly exchanged pleasantries. When I turned around, the young guy was still in the doorway of the carriage.

"Everything alright?" he asked pleasantly.

"Yes thank you," I replied.

Then, with a theatrical flourish that would have made Stephen Fry cringe with embarrassment, he raised his closed fist to his mouth, coughed lightly into it, then flattened his palm and held it out for a tip.

Red mist descended. Tautly, I said, "Absolutely no way. I told you I didn't need your help. Not everything in this world should be done for monetary gain." I indicated for him to leave which he did.

I was sick and tired of scam artists and fools trying to extract every rupee out of me at every available opportunity. I didn’t care that they're not the richest people in the world. I didn’t care that they're only trying to make a living. In that mood I felt that they were all just greedy scavengers who didn't give a damn about anything except getting one over on their “stupid” mark; an attitude that stinks in any language, in any country.

I apologised to the girls for my behaviour which they were fine about, having been subjected to the similar experiences since they arrived in Delhi a week earlier. Kelly and Marie were Canadian girls who had been working in South Korea for a year teaching. Now they were on a whistle stop tour of the world on their way back to Canada for Christmas. We talked about our travels, their strange experiences of Korean culture and how they found some men there arrogant and bigoted towards women. We swapped ghost stories and basically had a laugh which helped to pass the time.

Leaving Jaipur station, an auto driver tried to accost me on the platform. I was later to learn he was called Jabad. I ignored him, but he continued to say, "You come with me, yes?" - despite the fact I repeatedly said no. He walked a few paces in front of me and changed direction whenever I did which made me increasingly angry. Being followed from behind is one thing, but someone obviously following you from the front is a challenge to your freedom of movement. He had a face ripe for punching.

"Let me take you to your hotel," Jabad said outside the station.

"No I'm going to the prepay stand."

"Give me a hundred rupees, I'll take you there," he insisted.

Again, I noticed that he had one of those faces that would only ever look good on the end of my fist.

"Get fucked," I replied, but I don't think he understood that beautiful little aphorism.

I walked to the prepay stand and got my ticket for thirty rupees, but astonishingly, the prepay stand assigned Jabad to be my driver. 

Normally touts aren't allowed to drive from the prepay. Jaipur was obviously different.

As we journeyed to the hotel, I diverted myself in thinking of the number of different ways I could stove the cunt's head in. Meanwhile, he rapturously talked of how most of his work was follow up business from delighted customers giving them tours around the city and of how honest he was.

"If you're so honest, why did you try to charge me a hundred rupees for a thirty rupee journey? Honesty is more than just words."

He completely ignored me and continued to exalt himself and his services.

At the hotel he gave me his business card. I still have it - I'm saving it for when I'm caught short without toilet paper.

I woke the next morning another year older. It was my birthday, and to celebrate I was going to do absolutely nothing. I lay in bed for a while reading, then watched a couple of films. Then I slept a bit more. I rang around my friends and family. I was really missing home. Here I was, a million miles from anywhere, on my own, seemingly surrounded by a bunch of morons whose only interest in me was how much they could extort from me. It was one of the lowest points of my travels.

You may be wondering why I moan so much about touts and scammers in this blog. Well apart from the fact that they are endemic in tourist areas in India (I've only talked about a fraction of the touts I've met), the simple fact is that I am a mug. I suffer from some kind of strange reverse autism where I can sometimes relate to people too much. I usually take people at face value without cynicism, so I'm easily misled. India is therefore a real struggle for me as I have to force myself to keep my guard up - not a natural state of affairs for me and something I find very tiring.

Just as I was pondering this, there was a knock at the door. It was the hotel manager. My guard was still up from my encounter with Jabad and I cynically started thinking that perhaps the manager had just invented a new "Backpack Wanker" tax that I had to pay for staying in his hotel.

"Hello sir, we've been trying to phone you all day." I had accidently knocked my phone off the hook.

"Everything ok?" I asked, wondering what could be so urgent.

"Certainly sir." He smiled. Behind him was a waiter carrying a big silver tray and on it, a Birthday Cake!

It was such a nice moment that all my cynicism disappeared and I was back to being myself again. I thanked them profusely and for the rest of the evening I was walking around on tiptoes. Sometimes the simplest gestures can make the most profound difference.

The next day I decided to face Jaipur. I was accosted by a number of rickshaw drivers straight outside the hotel. One bicycle rickshaw driver said he could get me to Nahagarh Fort for 50 rupees so I jumped in. 

Off he cycled and ten minutes later stopped at a crossroads in the middle of town, waiting for me to get out. I tried to explain we weren't near the Fort but he suddenly couldn't speak English. He started speaking to a cop on the street who was directing traffic. The cop explained to him I wanted to go to the Fort and then he demanded his money. I got off the rickshaw. I was annoyed now. I was tempted to walk off as the guy had either played me or hadn't understood a word I'd said and just got me onto his rickshaw to beat the other drivers to some cash. While I was thinking about this, he got really agitated and started screaming at me for his money. I gave him an icy stare and he continued raging. Now I'm not a violent person, but I can honestly say I was on the verge tickling his tonsils with my fist when the policemen came over to see what the fuss was about. I gave the guy his money, knowing that I would lose a lot more if I had to bribe the cop.

I found an auto rickshaw driver who was being pimped out by a very unpleasant old freak who was as high as a kite on weed. They stung me for 400 rupees but by this stage I was tired of battling scammers and just wanted to get to the fort.

They dropped me in a backstreet full of pigs and young naked children running around shacks with corrugated roofs. Here I walked up a steep incline for about half an hour before getting to the top.

The long and winding road.

I couldn't find the entrance to the fort, but it was in a ruinous state anyway. There was what appeared to be an amphitheatre filled with dirty water and rubbish.

Teenage boys wandered around lackadaisically in large groups, trying to outstare the few tourists bungling around.

One came over to me and said, "Are you alone?"

"What's it to you?" I replied. He turned around and sauntered off.

I really thought this place was not worth visiting. It wasn't kept well, it was shoddy, dirty and falling to pieces whilst trying to convince it was a premier league attraction. It reminded me of Burnley Football Club.

I had come up to see the sunset and in the words of the great English poet Lord Byron, “It were a bag of wank.” (I’m sure he must have said that at some point in his life).

On the way back down the hill, I passed a woman with three children all carrying firewood on their heads. Her face was tired and lined, though I knew she must have been in her early thirties. At times she would call out to her herd of goats further down the path. The goats responded by stopping, calling back and waiting for her to catch up.

Halfway down the hill there was an angry cow that I passed very carefully. I knew it was angry because of the evil way it eyed me as I approached and the way it mooed abusively as I passed. It also had a very cross face.

Very angry cow - possibly suicidal.

At the bottom of the hill was a pig feeding her young while she ate from a pile of garbage at the side of the road.

As I walked back through the slums at the bottom of the hill, a naked boy of about three with a big toothy grin on his face ran past me waving his hands in the air shouting, "Hello! Hello! Hello!" After all of the irritations and annoyances of the day, this really cheered me up and made me laugh aloud.

That night I decided Jaipur was the worst city in India, full of scam artists and terrible attractions. The next day I didn’t go out – just stayed in my hotel and scowled into the mirror - but on my last full day I forced myself to go out and see some of the sights. I grabbed an auto driver and asked him how much to take me into town. When he quoted me a fair price I hired him on the spot for the day.

The central walled streets of the original Jaipur are lined by buildings of faded terracotta, which is why it is known as the Pink City. The streets are packed with bazaars and markets, cows and people, rickshaws and bikes, all hemmed in by piles of rubbish and glorious pandemonium. So far, the Pink City had been more like the “Red Mist” city to me, but all of a sudden, I started to enjoy it.

First I visited the Jantar Mantar, a large collection of huge astrological instruments used to follow the constellations about the sky.

Built by the city’s founder, Jai Singh II from 1727 onwards, these innovative devices not only predicted seasons for crop planting, but eclipses and planetary positions. I had a guide show me around, and would not have worked out what all of the instruments were for without him.

The Samrat Yantra – the largest sundial in the world – is accurate to two seconds and its shadow can be seen physically moving at about a millimetre a second.

For me, the Jantar Mantar is Jaipur’s most prized possession. I loved it.

Next I went to the city palace.

Unfortunately, apart from nearly being run over by a speeding black limousine carrying one of the royals around, I found it all a bit boring. There is a museum which houses a large collection of weapons (with little context to their display), a host of royal garments (yawn), and a couple of very large silver vases (snore). The Hall of Public Attendance was pretty and had some interesting photographs, but there was no real atmosphere to the place and the exhibitions were lacking in co-ordination, although the audio guide was fairly informative, if a little dry.

Pretty door decoration at the City Palace.

After the City Palace, I travelled out to the Man Sagar Lake to see the Jal Mahal, a five storey structure that is now mostly submerged and off limits to visitors. Auto drivers constantly come up to you in Jaipur and show you a picture of the Palace, then charge you an extortionate fee to visit it. It’s nice, but it’s not worth being scammed over.

On the way back into town, many decorated elephants and camels were being ridden in, though I’m not sure what for. I would like to say they caused chaos on the roads, but Jaipur is so congested and chaotic that it made little difference.

I also witnessed a small oven on the street which used cow dung to power it - a genuinely good use of an old idea, and hilariously, a street barber, where men sat on a chair and had their hair cut in the public theatre of the city streets.

Finally, on my last day I visited the Amber Fort. Constructed in 1597 on the site of an earlier fort, its high imposing walls belie the sophisticated architecture of the palace within.

Here there are shaded courtyards with elaborately carved gates, a hall of mirrors reputedly lit at night by a single candle, some amazing mosaics, a royal temple with silver doors closed to public access, extensive underground passageways with resident bats, geometric gardens in bloom and ornately decorated residences. The fort is certainly impressive and I spent a very pleasant morning exploring it all.

Geometric Garden.

Hall of Mirrors.

Residential rooms.

Finally I visited the Hawa Mahal, or the Palace of the Winds, which is part of the City Palace where the ladies of the court could go to watch the city privately through an elaborate stone screen stretching five stories high.

It is impressive from the outside, but I didn't spend long inside as there is little to see. Even the view of the city from the top is fairly dull, even though some commentators have called it astounding. Worth a short visit though.

After the Hawa Mahal, I went directly to the train station to travel to Jodhpur. As I travelled through the city streets watching the crowds jostle between the pink buildings, I realised that although I had first hated Jaipur, I had grown to enjoy its sights and history. After feeling hemmed in by scam artists and pedlars and a lonely birthday so far away from everyone I love, I had forced myself onto the city streets to face whatever awaited me. This was to change my impression of the place so much, that as I left I wished I had spent more time exploring and less time procrastinating. But sometimes life is like that – sometimes your mood is going to affect how you feel about the world around you. Sometimes, you can change all that just by forcing yourself to grab the world by the throat and shaking it a little. Most times,  life is what you make it.

This blog covers the period 05/12/2009-09/12/2009.

Warning: now contains new and improved sweary words.

I set out from Trivandrum early to visit the southernmost tip of India; Kanyakumari. I had originally intended to visit here whilst travelling through Tamil Nadu, but I ran out of time and had to return to Bangalore for Samba’s wedding. Now I had booked a taxi through the hotel to take me there and back, and although the driver didn't speak a great deal of English, I could tell he was a stoic, dependable person. Given that, on the road he was a fucking manic.

The first stop on the way was Padmanabhapuram Palace just south of the Kerala state border in Tamil Nadu.

Built for the Travancore kings more than five hundred years ago, this is the largest surviving wooden palace in India. At first glance, it looks a bit rubbish, but go inside and the hundreds of rooms all leading off from tight, maze-like corridors with polished floors and immaculately carved and decorated wooden struts and beams and this place springs to life with intrigue.

Designed successfully to keep out the oppressive heat of the sun, it would also have potential attackers lost within seconds, giving the royals and their entourage who knew it an immense advantage as there are many trap doors leading off to secret passageways and underground chambers.

The detailed carving on the ceilings, walls and windows is a highlight.

Ornately carved ceiling beam.

The throne room alone has 90 flowers carved into the ceiling - every one different. There is also a lamp that hangs from a chain here that has a no longer used mechanism that always keeps it pointing in the same direction. The fastidiousness of past kings all over the world has surely brought about some wonderful, if obsolete inventions. Such as peasant scissors – used to cut peasants in half if they got out of hand. Actually, that would have been my contribution to civilisation had I been a mediaeval king.

Outside, numerous courtyards contain meticulously tended plants and trees and a stone carved Royal Temple.

I wasn't in the mood for traipsing around Padmanabhapuram Palace at the time and found it all a bit dull. I was getting sick of walking around in bare feet and the day was overcast with drizzle. In other words, I was in a right old mood. Only in hindsight, remembering the detail in the place and looking at the numerous pictures I took do I realise how great a site this was. It wasn't swarming with tourists and was set in beautiful surroundings at the foot of a mountain. Definitely worth a visit.

Outside, I waited while the driver went to bring his car to me as it had started raining. A fruit seller started screaming at me from across the road, "Sir, sir, come here, please! Please! PLEASE!"

He started shouting the last in a high pitched voice over and over, and then started chuckling, knowing how annoying he was being. Sure, I don't mind juggling five melons, ten pineapples and innumerable jackfruit for the rest of the day. In fact I would gladly have bought a pineapple off him just to shove it up his arse the wrong way.

We drove through the end of the Western Ghats (a sprawling series of hills and mountains that stretches down from Mumbai) to reach Kanyakumari. It was a lovely drive, though some of the scenery was spoilt by various ugly hotels perched along low lying cliffs that looked like they had been designed and built by Lego.

The Western Ghats.

Kanyakamri itself is an unremarkable town awash with pilgrims and a few tourists. The pilgrims come to visit the temple and to bathe in the sacred waters. I headed straight for the harbour, as the southernmost point of India is actually on one of two islands just off the coast.

Now this may sound odd, but I’ve always been fascinated by capes. Not the kind you wear, but the termination points of land masses. Ever since I was a child, I’ve always wanted to visit these points in Africa, India and South America because to me they feel like “the ends of the earth” that inspired awe and wonder in so many adventurers of the past. So Visiting Kanyakumari was like an adventure for me. When I got there I immediately made for the ferry, not so much to reach the islands, but so I could look back on the tip of India.

On one island is a huge statue of Tamil poet Thiruvalluvar erected in 2000. It reminded me of the statue of Talos from the classic movie Jason and the Argonauts which scared me to death as a child. I had to keep looking over at it to make sure it wasn’t moving.

On the main island is a memorial to one of India’s most important religious philosophers of the 19^th Century, Vivekananda.

This island also harbours the southernmost point of India. Standing here looking back at the land I had travelled for more than six weeks, I felt calm and at peace. The quality of the light here is amazing. Everything shines. To the far right, a huge swarm of distant wind turbines produce free electricity for the Indian grid. In my opinion, it looks both elegant and technically amazing.

As your eyes sweep along the coast you can see the distant mountains, the bright white church near the waterfront, hotels and businesses of the town, the ferry port and a small rocky islet. The Arabian Sea is to the left, the Bay of Bengal to the right and the Indian Ocean is behind you. It’s the end of the world!

Before leaving town I went for a thali at a well known hotel restaurant in town. When it was delivered to me, the whole thing was stone cold, completely uncooked. I motioned for the waiter to come over and I said to him that the food was cold. He shook his head negatively, but I repeated that it hadn’t been cooked. He looked confused for a second, touched the bowls to feel if there was any heat, and then with the funniest face-saving comment I’ve ever heard, said, “Oh, so do you want it hot then sir?” as if thalis were meant to be served cold and I was the one who was mistaken. Brilliant!

At the end of the meal, I requested the bill in international sign language. When the waiter collected my payment, he looked eager for a tip, so I gave him one. In international sign language.

On the way out of town we stopped at the Suchindram Temple . I didn’t go inside because we didn’t have much time and also men have to take off their shirts. Frankly, if I had done that, they would have thought I was an incarnation of Hanuman, the Hindu Monkey God. Or perhaps just a stray monkey.

Men contemplating outside the temple.

The drive back to Trivandrum was a scream, and I was doing all the screaming. The driver was desperate to get back before sunset, and people, cows and other vehicles were not going to get in his way. Luckily, I managed to capture some of the more sedate moments. I’ve given the driver the voice of a London cabbie just for a laugh.

Warning: there might be some swearing in this blog – I can’t bloody remember.

“There is enough on earth for everybody's need, but not for everyone's greed." - Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi.

He was a raving, homicidal maniac and he had my life in his hands. I was travelling between Kalpetta and Calicut on a state bus. The journey had started regularly with the bus screaming down bumpy, unkempt rural roads, but suddenly the road began to descend steeply out of the mountains. When I wasn't gasping at the raw natural beauty of the astounding vista spread before me, I was gasping at the reckless abandon of the bus driver as he roared around hairpin bends with hundred foot drops on one side whilst attempting to overtake anything in his path. In India, they don't lock their maniacs away, oh no. They give them jobs as state bus drivers.

The scenery was as breathtaking as the driver's cornering.

Subsequently, I didn't know what was causing my heart to palpitate. I tried to video this headlong rush down the mountainside, but most of the footage was far too jerky to be broadcastable, and frankly, I was more terrified of losing my beloved iPhone out of the window than I was of dying horribly in the wrecked inferno of the bus. However, I have managed to cobble together some short scenes to give a rough idea of what the journey was like.

Too shocked by the drive to think of anything but a cliché, I remember whispering to myself that this fantastic paradise was like the Garden of Eden, and I crawled into foetal position and wept silently as fires raged above the driver’s horned skull and his hovering imps cackled with furious glee at the mayhem unfolding before the smoking wheels of the bus.

Eventually, under a fiery sun, we reached Calicut (or Kozhikode as it used to be called). It was a bright, reasonably clean workaday town with - astonished gasp - honest auto-rickshaw drivers, all with working meters. Calicut was a real pleasure, but there was little to do or see here so the next morning I caught a train to Ernakulam. On the way, I completely missed out on Ponnani. In fact, I didn't even get a sniff of Ponnani, it passed me by so fast. Ponnani is a small town on the coast of Kerala and could be comedy gold in the hands of the right person. Did I tell you that I didn't see any Ponnani in India? Bah I give up!

Close to my hotel in Ernakulam was a Pizza Hut, so I feasted on pizza after a month of gorging on spicy Indian food, and maintained my water content by sipping on this (the brand name of which you really don't want to see on a bottle of water in India).

The next day, I hopped on the ferry to Kochi, which is on a peninsula adjacent to Ernakulam.

Kochi (formerly Cochin) is an ancient spice trading port that was the first European colony in India (the Portuguese arrived in 1503).

I started by strolling through the old city streets, past ramshackle hotels, the usual open sewers and hopping over the great clods of cow shit that I had become so used to in the larger Indian towns. To give Kochi credit (and most of Kerala I might add) it was cleaner and better maintained than most of the places I had visited. Down by Fort Kochi, the buildings opened out and the whole place had a remarkably European flavour. Along the shore are the famous Chinese Fishing Nets, large cantilevered structures believed to be introduced in the 14th Century by traders from the court of Kublai Khan.

Down the coast past a number of remarkably friendly hawkers I happened upon a tatty beach which I neatly avoided by sneaking down a nearby back street. Here was a small, run down graveyard, obviously European in origin. I later learned this is the Dutch Cemetery, a relic from the time when the Dutch had colonised the town in the 18th Century.

Walking around the backstreets, I bumped into a bunch of lads who had been on the same ferry as me. We got chatting - they said I looked unhappy and I laughed. If Morrissey and Amy Winehouse were to have a baby, it would look less miserable than my face in repose. These fellows were on a training course for a foreign exchange company in Madurai where I had been three weeks earlier. They were a fun bunch of characters, and we chatted about where we were from, our jobs, our marital status (these are the first three questions Indian people ask you), where I had been and my favourite places in India so far (Madurai was a popular answer).

We went our separate ways, and I emerged onto what looked like a typical village green surrounded by European cottages and an old church. A group of Indian kids were happily playing cricket and football on the grass. The church, St. Francis, was the oldest Catholic church in India. I had a quick look inside but it was glum and unimpressive, only the age of some of the gravestones on the wall actually sparking any interest.

I caught an auto over to an area unceremoniously called Jew Town, so called because it was populated by Jewish people 450 years previously. 

The auto driver was friendly and he showed me a few of the backstreets and a small canal that ran to the river where he lived. I tipped him well as I stepped off the auto and strode off into the alleyways around the central marketplace. The nearby synagogue was closed and the streets were full of predatory handicraft emporium shopkeepers. I ignored all of their persistent calls as I walked past. You would think that each one would learn from the previous that I was completely ignoring them, but no, they were intent on trying to send me into a murderous frenzy by whistling, shouting, even grabbing me as I walked along.

Again, I have to say it, this is one aspect of Indian culture that really irks me. It's such an obvious ploy to get you into a shop where you are going to be hijacked simply because you are a foreigner. After all, none of the Indian tourists get any of this harassment. The truth of the matter is that a small sample of the population are openly exploiting foreign tourists. They could easily sell these items at regular prices and have people attracted to their shops because of this, but no: fuelled by greed they hike their prices up and employ every devious trick in the book to get you inside and rip you off.

Fraudsters can come in the guise of touts, hawkers, auto-rickshaw drivers, handicraft shopkeepers, people milling around train stations; they are everywhere tourists go. This year is especially bad with tourism down 20% in India after the global recession and Mumbai attacks. There are less tourists and more fraudsters desperate to steal a buck. As I've said before, the great pity is that many short stay tourists leave India never to return because the only people they’ve had dealings with are these arseholes. Their robbery is short term because word spreads and fewer tourists bother coming to the country, which is a great shame. They are letting their whole nation down. However, the reason this exploitation is allowed to exist in the first place is down to one thing: political corruption, but I'll cover this in another blog.

I skipped around the back of the thief laden streets to Mattancherry Palace. Now a museum with a rather lacklustre facade on the outside, this place only comes alive when you step inside and stare at the walls. There are many items on display, such as swords and Raja costumes, but it is the exquisite mythological murals that make this place such a great attraction. Here, you can see Krishna cavort with milkmaids, Garuda playfully gesturing with his enormous tongue and other gods sleeping or staring back at you serenely. All of this is painted in such a delicate and stylised manner, It almost leaps from the surface of the wall and pulls you in to dance and laugh with the characters depicted. I loved it, especially considering that many of these murals are over five hundred years old.

I left the palace and started back to the ferry. As I was walking an auto driver tried to coax me into his rickshaw. I ignored him and grabbed my phone to see if I was heading in the right direction. The auto driver got out of his rickshaw and started shouting down the street at me. Again I ignored him, but noticed that I was over a mile away from the ferry and I was tired from walking all day. By now, the auto driver had followed me down the street and was at my shoulder jabbering away. There was no other means of transport available so against my better judgement I jumped into his auto.

"Take me to the Ferry for 50 rupees," I said.

"I take you for free if you go to my friend's shop."

"NO! Just take me to the ferry."

"Please, let me take you to shop. Great bargains."

"No."

He stopped at a shop. I stared at him like he had just tried to murder my non-existent girlfriend.

"Keep moving." I stared at him hard. He kept moving.

Just as we were reaching the ferry terminal, he tried one last time.

"Please, there is good shop here. Please go in."

Because we were outside the ferry terminal anyway, I just laughed. I gave him the money and said, "No tip for you." Then I walked towards the shop he had pointed out but feinted at the last minute and started walking back towards the terminal. I turned to look at him and started laughing. He looked annoyed which made me laugh even more. At least my childish game was entertaining me.

It was around this time that my love affair with Mirinda began. Mirinda (which means "amazing" in Esperanto, fact fans) is a fizzy fruit based drink (usually orange) which has the amazing claim "No artificial additives!" on the front of the bottle whilst also adding incidentally on the back, "Contains no fruit." Now that's magic!

I had booked a boat trip into Kerala's backwaters so I left Kochi early next morning and travelled by taxi to Allapuzah. On arrival at the landing where the boats departed, my car was surrounded by people desperate to haul me out and stick me on their boat. I made the most insistent person prove to me that it he was the right man by having him phone the hotel in Kochi that had booked the trip for me. Once this was sorted out I ignored the others and followed him down to his boat.

The house boat was crewed by three people, the captain, the pilot and a chef. I had the boat to myself so it seemed a little overmanned. I chatted to the captain as only he could speak English. He gave me the usual stick about my being single and not having children and I laughed at his mixture of surprise and mock outrage. He would chastise me a number of times about this, always smiling. I was later to learn that he was single too which is why he joked about it so much.

We pulled out of the landing and started to drift down the river. We were in a populated area of the river, with small houses lining the river banks. Here, women scrubbed clothes meticulously while old men washed themselves down in the waters. Whole families rowed in small wooden boats to destinations without a name. Strikingly coloured kingfishers perched on overhanging tree branches, eagerly searching for their next meal.

The river opened out into a delta that stretched as far as the eye could see. Glassy waters lapped lazily at small shards of land that harboured bushes and palm trees. The air smelled heavy but clean. A surreal glow infused the waters, a fantastic light spinning off of each tiny wave making everything look clean and bright and new, as if this was the first day of the world. They call Kerala, “God’s Own Country,” and now I could see why. My eyelids grew heavy and I fell into a contented sleep that lasted only five minutes. When I awoke, I felt as if I were still dreaming.

We had now moved to a narrow tributary and were gently floating past grassy tree lined banks. The captain of the ship asked if I would like some Keralan beer. "Yes please."

We stopped by a ragged, wooden shack and the captain ushered me into it. Inside this dark, squalid den, lots of old men sat around drinking idly. Pots and kegs were scattered everywhere. One man was ladling a muddy brew from a barrel into a cup. It was only then that I realised that they were actually brewing the stuff here. Kerala is a dry state and this was an illegal brewery. I like the idea of being able to see, so I declined the beer and returned to the boat. The captain stayed and had his fill.

As we pulled away from the banks, the serene beauty of the river was punctured by a raucous and strangely familiar noise. And then I heard these words, "She is ooooh-ooooh-oooooh. D-I-S-C-O!" someone was blaring the seventies disco classic from another boat. Five minutes later I stopped giggling at the randomness of it all.

We continued to meander lazily and the boat's chef knocked me up a huge meal. The chef was in his late forties and was a really lovely bloke, soft spoken and eager to please. Unfortunately, I hated his food; the smell actually made me feel slightly sick. I ate little of it, and later when he made dinner, I could sense him behind me, watching to see how much I ate, disappointed that his food didn't please me. Fortunately dinner was better than lunch.

In the evening, the captain let me pilot the boat and when we reached a few small houses by the side of the river, I carefully pulled in.

Here, the crew and their families lived. The pilot's wife and children came out to greet me and showed me their paddy fields behind the house.

I sat outside the pilot's house drinking chai - a sweet and tasty brew made with tea, cardamom and other spices - as the skies rapidly grew heavy with night and insects chirruped noisily around us. Huge clouds had been gathering on the horizon all day. Now, sweeping arcs of light punctured the skies as I anticipated the distant roar of thunder. I watched the children play and giggle together, the oldest girl looking after the younger children almost like a mother. I sat and listened to the adults chatting and laughing, moving and talking in ways which were familiar to them. As I silently watched them all, their love, veneration and contentment in each other's presence so obvious, for the first time in my life I wondered why I didn't have a family of my own to nurture and care for. It felt like a profound sense of loss, but lasted only briefly. Perhaps my biological clock has finally awoken like some bad-headed golem after a forty year sleep. Only time will tell.

I retired to my bedroom and went to the toilet. Here I encountered quite possibly the largest cockroach ever to exist. I froze and started to think of ways of getting rid of it. I automatically reached for my mosquito repellent and gave it a blast. I didn't want to kill it, I just wanted it to hate itself for a while so I could think of a way to get it off the boat. It scurried over to a bucket, it's wing casing opening and closing while it's wings buzzed horribly.

I could sense a definite intelligence in this creature. It was not just reacting to events, but planning it's next moves. I was the idiot reacting. In fact, it was thinking so far ahead of me it would probably beat me at chess.

After a huge battle involving wrestling, bare knuckle fighting and a spot of fencing, I managed to get it in a small bucket full of water. 

It flapped around for a bit and by the time I got it to the edge of the boat it had stopped moving. I threw it into the trees and I hope it is still merrily scampering around in the woods, because honestly it was a strangely elegant and beautiful creature.

I awoke during the night as it turned out that the air conditioning on the boat only had one setting: fucking freezing. I turned it off and managed to thaw out in about five seconds as the muggy night air immediately took hold.

The next morning we returned to the landing. In all we had only travelled about fifteen kilometres, yet the landscape had been constantly changing. As I left Allapuzha, I knew that I would remember my day of idyll on the river for the rest of my life. However, I wasn't to know that my next stop would eventually turn out to be my favourite place in all of India.