Udaipur, India

After Coman's uncomfortable night battling the dreaded stomach bugs, we check out and drop our customer service questionnaire into the reception box. Coman, groggy, unhappy and with just a dry piece of toast inside him, has filled them in, letting the hotel know exactly what we thought of the check-in experience. The rep from our travel company is also in the lobby to check all is well and brandishes another questionnaire rating his local office, to send in to his bosses.

Featuring scores of Excellent, Very Good, Good and Average we mark all our travel company's services highly but without a Poor box to tick for the hotel's service, Coman decides to detail its shortcomings face to face with our poor unsuspecting rep, backing up the roasting he'd just put to paper for the hotel itself.

While I'm hurriedly trying to settle the bill, change money, load our bags into Kamal's chariot and get us out of there with the minimum of fuss, the manager appears. The rep makes us repeat everything to him before we leave. We're polite and grateful for what has been right (our replacement room was fantastic) but the litany of broken in-room safe that took forever to fix, hours of requests to get online that were ignored, phone calls to room service, housekeeping and reception that all went unanswered or were hung up upon, surly attitudes from pretty much everyone particularly yesterday's bellboy and an unvoiced but strongly held suspicion that the buffet ice-cream had made Coman ill (it was the only food he'd eaten that I hadn't tried), meant that the manager's morning got off to a bad start.

But not, I suspect, as bad as the bellboy's was just about to get, judging by the effusive apologies and steely-looks the manager was giving us and then him...

Kamal, resplendent in his white chauffeur's uniform, is concerned to hear all was not to our satisfaction and nods his head. "People tell me yesterday they wait two hours and room not ready," he says. "Bad service!" he concludes. Oh yes, Trip Advisor, here we come.

With six hours of driving ahead we return Kamal's CD of Punjabi pop hits and expect he'll put it on for our daily choir practice as we hum along with the sexy, naughty girl. But today he treats us to a Hindi selection instead. Coman in his weakened state quietly slips on his Ipod in the back and tries to sleep while upfront I slip into an Indian reverie as the straight desert road stretches infinitely before us.

Just before we reach the turning for Udaipur, a road that carries on past Mount Abu and all the way to Mumbai, Kamal pulls over at a roadside shrine and we all get out. It has a motorbike garlanded with flowers and pictures of a turbanned man. Some 35 years ago a young chap of royal personage had a fatal accident here. Since then he has become a god and a shrine established where people pray for safe journeys. Suddenly Pradeep's unlikely assertion yesterday that there are over 36 million Hindu gods makes sense. If a playboy racer can become a deity for road safety then anyone can become a god. It must be well crowded up in Nirvana.

As we drive Coman slowly starts to feel a little better and reads out a report from The Times of India claiming that the Pink City of Jaipur is living up to its name by trying to attract gay travellers to Rajasthan as the overseas pink pound is now helping to drive the Indian economy, especially during a recession in the West when the average family is reluctant to travel. Seems the news is yet to reach Jodphur and the Park Plaza in particular.

More concerning though are reports of heightened security in Mumbai as bomb threats have been made today. We're still well over a week away from Mumbai but it's a reminder that India's security situation is volatile. But then, hopping on the tube back in London is fraught with risks so we sail on regardless.

Around midday we drive through a large town called Falsa. Quite pretty and prosperous, with an impressive hotel and railway station it also has a large school. The pupils are all leaving, walking along the road in their blue uniforms, as their day starts early and ends at lunchtime to avoid the fierce afternoon heat. In May and June schools close completely.

We are taking a indirect route to Udaipur as we want to see the Jain temples at Ranakpur and the drive is beautiful; little villages with bougainvilleas in profusion, dotted with gorgeous trees, distant hills and winding country roads, the whole area strangely reminds us of last year's trip through New South Wales.

We stop just outside Ranakpur for lunch at an unfinished hotel called Chandra Resort where women ferry bricks on their heads up and down stairs. In the garden there is a restaurant set up but Kamal insists he'll eat out the back with the locals as it'll save us money - we'll be charged a huge amount for his meal if he sits with us, whereas he gets local's rates 'round the back of the building.

Coman decides against risking the buffet but I tuck in. Tables start to fill up as a minibus full of Spaniards arrive, followed by a stern German couple in sensible clothes and haircuts who eat their food with slow, deliberate movements and talk to each other in sharp, clipped sentences. Afterwards our bill for one plate of food, one beer and a lassi for Coman comes to 650Rs. Kamal pays just 30 for his. Talk of a tourist mark up!

We carry on to the temple complex at Ranakpur which is simply stunning. Set in beautiful grounds, the Jain temples are covered in ornate carvings. They seem to have more in common with the Buddhist temples of south east Asia than the Hindu temples of India and bring to mind the wonders of Angkor Wat. Inside the main temple I have to cover my bare legs in fetching blue pyjama bottoms and we read the list of prohibitions in amusement, especially no. 6, from which we are happily exempt.

The interior is utterly breathtaking, like something from Indiana Jones. 1844 pillars, each intricately carved with hundreds of figures, create a cool forest of stone trees with the sun peeking through concentric domes. It truly is a thing of wonder. Visiting the bathrooms we are led past cramped monk's cells and scavenging monkeys.

The road from Ranakpur takes us high up into the mountains, weaving around hairpin bends, dodging monkeys in the road who leap out at us and keeping eyes peeled for leopards. As the wilderness gives way to farmed land, fields are tiered steps in the hillsides and Kamal says it's just like where his family farm in the Himalayas.

By now, it's 3pm and Coman feels strong enough to risk a banana. 20 minutes later he feels further improved and challenges the maxim we had been given before India; "never trust a fart". His triumph at successfully letting one out without an accident suggests he's through his bout of Delhi belly and we breathe a sigh of relief. Although not too deeply as the car windows are closed.

The landscape starts to dramatically change as we crest the mountains and enter the plateau. Every vista is a painting, every panorama worthy of a photo. It's one of the most scenic drives we've ever done and very different to the rest of Rajasthan. Palm trees sway, streams flow and hills rise and fall. Cows work circular pumps in the field, temples dot the landscape and each bend in the road brings fresh wonders to behold.

Yellow mustard crops and red poppy fields are interspersed with parched grasslands and rocky outcrops. Villagers in multi-coloured saris abound alongside buffalo, sheep and goats. Pretty houses and shops are dotted here and there, and life looks peaceful, without some of the harshness of desert lands.

We stop to take photos of a water pump and well and two boys appear from nowhere. "Ten rupees, ten rupees," they cry. I oblige. One of them hands it back, demanding a different note as the one he has just been given is old and tattered. I root around for more. "Chocolate? Shampoo?" they ask. We hand over bananas and chewing gum. One of them points to the bottle of water in the car. It's empty. I pass it over to show there's no water left and he takes it, happy to have a container. It reminds us that however idyllic the countryside looks, these people live a very hard and basic life.

Our next stop is the ridiculous luxury of the Lake Palace. Their's is the grim reality of existence...