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.