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

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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.