Jodhpur, India

A new day, a new city and a new outfit for Kamal who this morning is dressed in a bright white chauffeur's uniform. Stood with him is our guide for today. Pradeep introduces himself and tells us his name is Sanskrit for 'light'. Unfortunately he talks at the speed of it with a very strong accent so we only make out half of what he says. But within the few minutes it takes to get to our first sightseeing port we learn;

1) Jodphur is the size of Dublin with 1.2m people split between 60% Hindu, 20% Muslim and 20% Jain

2) The whole caste system of Rajasthan is visible in the colour of the turbans: Royalty and associated family are highest with a white turban, warriors next with multicoloured ones, merchants are third sporting orange and fourth come the untouchables who wear brown. He's talking so fast I don't get a chance to ask about the electric yellow and neon pink that I've seen people in, clinging to the back of trucks for dear life - but perhaps they're just a safety measure.

3) Pink is however the colour of Rajasthani brides, and marriage can never take place between castes, or during the monsoon months of July, August and September as the gods are asleep then.

4) There is now so little monsoon happening that drinking water is only available every other day in Jodphur. People regularly pray to Shiva for rain, as Shiva built the Ganges.

5) Drinking water is kept in claypots as it keeps water exactly at body temperature all year round. Which is apparently why there are no coughs or colds in the Rajasthani population.

6) The coldest it gets are winter days like today which is why he's wearing a jumper (I estimate it's already 25 degrees, we're covered in suntan lotion and it's only 9.30am). The hottest is during May and June when it averages 49 degrees.

7) To keep cool people painted their houses blue earning Jodphur the epithet the Blue City which upon seeing the view from the fort is far more accurate than Jaipur's somewhat flexible pink nomenclature.

8) The blue houses have flat square roofs so people can sleep on them at night in the open air to stay cool and are built along very narrow streets that provide lots of shade to protect people from the heat.

9) These blue houses were built by the Brahmin sect who believe in purity of the body so no milk, meat, alcohol, onion or garlic are allowed.

10) However the locals traditionally loved to get off their tits on opium which they believed made them strong. People here still drink it on special occasions (weddings, parties, Tuesday's when there's nothing on TV) and the only thing that separates it from heroin is the addition of sugar.

We hear all this as we drive out of the old town and ascend the hill to the Mehrangarh Fort, stopping en route and persuading the usually shy Kamal to model his uniform in a picture with us.

This incredible building perched on a rocky plateau was started in 1459 and took nearly 400 years to complete. We enter through Jeypol, the victory gate, and ascend up the 40 metres to the royal levels by a new-fangled elevator. At the top we are greeted by green parrots and amazing views, before being led through room after room after room.

Hindu motifs of lotus flowers and peacocks adorn many surfaces and the decorative stonework of intricate lattice balconies and windows, delicate and beautiful, set this apart from the more Islamic work we have seen in Agra, Delhi and Jaipur.

The rooms house many treasures - great seats to carry royal personages, a gold palanquin with wing mirrors, an extensive armoury with incredibly fine and delicate-looking instruments of assassination, murder and wholesale slaughter.

Pradeep fires out nonstop trivia, churning out inexorably long names and titles of royals past without pausing for breath. There's a respite as we are seated in one room to watch a fawning film where the current maharajah's family tell us they are so proud he is helping with a couple of water projects for the poor. But then huge on the horizon we see the Umaid Palace - his vast home built only a few years ago with a massive cupola which is silhouetted grandly overlooking the city, part of which he now sublets as a 5-star plus hotel - and think of this enormous public display of unimaginable wealth. We contrast his spectacular home with all his female subjects in the fields still trudging to carry water for miles and he obviously ain't helping that much.

We see the flower palace, where dancing girls strutted their stuff for the maharajah's eyes only, his discotastic bedroom and the private family conference rooms. All OTT and fabulous. But then a sobering reminder of life in the court of the king. Orange handprints on the wall marking the final moments of royal wives who committed satee, throwing themselves on their husband's funeral pyre. Apparently this was a voluntary act rather than a forced suicide but thankfully the act was outlawed by the British in 1853. Some handprints are small, those of 14 year old brides who chose living cremation. Horrible.

We drive a short distance to Jaswant Thada, the memorial palace built for Jaswant Singh and final resting place for all subsequent maharajahs with great temple-like sarcophagi laid out in the ground. It's very tranquil, set by a lake with trees and flowers. Inside the main structure is a shrine to the previous maharajah. They royal family are still treated like Gods, as the populus believe maharajas are descended from the sun. There's already a space prepared for the next tomb in line. Lucky current maharajah, with his time already ticking away.

Next stop is the sprawling street bazaar around the clocktower in the centre of the city. Everything conceivable is up for sale including big piles of leaves for chewing. Apparently they're for cleaning your breath after eating but are very bitter. Oral hygiene is on display elsewhere with open-air dentistry happening as crowds swirl past. 10 rupees for instant tooth extraction right there on the street. Ouch.

We are taken into a fantastic shop, named Maharani. It's 98 yrs old, spread over eight floors and a complete treasure trove. Piled floor to ceiling with textiles of every hue and design it's a true multi-coloured cloth shop at the heart of Tambaku Bazaar. This is high end design and the likes of Hermes, Donna Karan, Louis Vuitton, Valentino and many more outsource their textile work here, to a factory employing nearly 9,000 people set in 20 acres outside Jodphur. The amazing works are sold at up to 500% mark ups in the west. We buy a bedspread and wall hanging for a mere fraction of the price they would fetch in the design houses of Europe.

After a brief comfort stop (I'm taken through a back alley to the house of a young employee and use the family wc; a salutary experience) Pradeep leads us through the wheat and vegetable markets; myriad smells, sounds and colours assault our senses. Everyone is happy and smiling, very charming and this is obviously the social place to be, where all the city gossip takes place.

We finish at a spice shop full of spices, incense, teas and pungent oils for food and the body. "Ah, the frangipani. One drop and the girls will go crazy for you." We decline but load up a basket with masala spices and various other goodies, starting to seriously worry if we'll be overweight on the baggage for our internal flights. The spending spree has to stop.

Pradeep suggests a late lunch at On The Rocks, a fabulous restaurant in secluded gardens where tables sit under the shade of trees and sophisticated diners while away the afternoon over glasses of Californian and Australian wine. In fact, the whole ambience is more Los Angeles than Rajasthan. Except for the seats shaped like camels and the waiters whose uniform look, including ubiquitous moustaches, doesn't half give them the look of Saddam Hussein's revolutionary guard.

We return to the hotel via the Umaid Palace. The Maharajah is at home as the flag is flying. We face security checks just to drive through the gate then up the huge sweeping drive. Further gates bar us from getting within 300 feet of the Palace so we marvel from afar. Obviously all those thirsty locals are to be helped from a distance. God forbid they should actually be allowed up to the palace, that's a privilege reserved for high-rolling, paying guests.

Back at our hotel we sit in the sun for a while and then Coman suddenly needs to hotfoot it to the loo. Oh no, seems a dose of Delhi belly may be on the cards! Fortunately our room is gorgeous, so much nicer than the dingy backroom we were shown to originally, and we're both exhausted.

Coman takes to bed for the evening alternating between shivering and fever, with frequent visits to the bathroom. We watch lightweight American movies on TV while I order room service and dig out the CD we persuaded Kamal to lend us of Now That's What I Call Bollywood. We are now owners of the entire Punjabi pop parade. Years of enjoyment to come. Outside a wedding party is cranking up by the pool and the music continues until midnight but we fall asleep eventually hoping that tomorrow we have enough immodium for Coman as another long drive awaits.