Sexy Sadie

In 1968 the Beatles attived in Rishikesh, to stay at the ashram of Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. In their wake they brought their wives and girlfriends, managers, camp followers and an army of reporters. They went to study the Maharishi's Transcendential meditiation technique.

Ringo Starr left after ten days, possibly because of a lack of good (!) English food and a dislike of insects and McCartney only stayed a few weeks. Lennon and Harrison departed in great haste after tensions arose with the Maharishi. There were financial disagreements between the band and their guru and women at the ashram had claimed sexual misconduct from the Maharishi. Other sources float the possibility that the Beatles were using LSD against ashram policy. But despite the sour note the visit ended on, the Beatles' visit started a Western trend for the spirituality of the East that continues to this day. Apparently even Western dress was influenced when band members appeared in clothing made of saris and fabrics bought locally in Rishikesh.

I'm sorry to say that L and I arrived in Rishikesh without the media entourage. And we weren't there long enough to stay on an ashram, but we loved Rishikesh which, despite having the same river flowing through it as Varanasai, is as different from ancient Benaras as a place can be.

The difference starts with the river. While in Varanasi the water is choked with debris, oily scum and the occassional body, in Rishikesh the Ganga is as clean as you could wish. And with the steep, forested hills on either side, L and I were both reminded of New Zealand a little. And like New Zealand, adventure sport is now a firmly established part of the local landscape. Rishikesh is full of signs advertising bungy jumping (with instructiors from New Zealand!) and rafts full of tourists are always floating down the river.

In Varanasi the narrow lanes are filthy and the wider streets of the modern city are so congested it can take an hour to travel 10 k, in Rishikesh the small town is quiet and even the street dogs look well fed. And it's probably safer than Benaras. Please don't think that this comparison diminishes my love of Varanasi at all though!

What starts with the Beatles tends to catch on, and Rishikesh is still the place to come if you want to meditate, live on an Ashram or do yoga. To be honest, L and I felt a little out of place because we didn't have om tattoos (though due to a wardrobe emergency I now have an om t-shirt). there is a large population of hippie travellers in Rishikesh, some still teenagers and some LSD-wizened relics not much younger than the Beatles. One of these was in a yoga class and made the whole experience much more interesting with his groans of enjoyment.

We experienced a tiny taste of the delights Rishikesh had to offer, including a couple of blissful wades in the Ganges. I even had my palm read.

I have to admit it was a very disappointing experience. I'd sort of been hoping that it would be scarily accurate, but no. It was scarily inaccurate. Apparently I'm very indecisive, have just changed jobs and am a long way from finding my life partner. I neglected to tell the guy that I often make up my mind too quickly, have been in a relationship for nine years and have worked at the same place for four. But I hesitated before having my fortune read, and was alone so he probably drew his conclusions from more than my palm. Yours truly remains a sceptic.

Yoga, on the other hand, was not disappointing. Afterwards I could definitely feel muscles I didn't know I had. I'd love to go to Rishikesh for a couple of weeks just for the yoga.

Best of all though, was the day treck we did back down to Laxmanjula (the part of Rishikesh we were staying) from Kanjapuri, a Shakti temple. We got a puja from the priest at the top and then we walked down.

The landscape is amazing with craggy mountains covered in steeply climbing forest and schist slopes. There are also a number of people living up there, which, while gazing at the perfect green mountains from Rishikesh I somehow hadn't imagined. The locals main language is Gharwali and one of the guides spoke it fluently.

All down the mountain from Kanjapuri are villages and their lands. You might think it would be impossible to grow crops in such steep rocky ground, but like many mountain dwelling people in the world (L has seen similar constructions in Bolivia) they have built amazing terraced gardens that climb the hills like steps made by giants.

We ate delicious yellow berries that were a little like raspberries and we were shown other plants to eat and chew. We also saw the rather unlucky attempts of a young guide to talk to girls. Male female relationships seem very traditional up in the hills and while the Westerners in Rishikesh still have a Beatles era free-love hangover, Lillian and I were allowed to step into a village and look at a traditional house while the younger guide stayed on the periphery because 'I am unmarried boy.'

He was also very interested in whether L and I were married. Then he wanted to know why not. Then he asked us if we had boyfriends, to which we said YES (and no we are not plannign to swap them for you!!!)

Further along the track we walked a little way beside an elderly man who the guide talked to in Gharwali a while. When the conversation finished the young guy said to us, 'Don't laugh, but he has two sons and three daughters and all are married but one daughter'. Apparently he was asking about the available daughter. Later when he called out to a girl she completely ignored him (probably very sensible) and he reassured us, 'I am not playboy, I am good boy.'

In Rishikesh more than anywhere we've been I got a sense that a transient Western population and a local population cohabit in similar but also completely different spaces. Aspects of cultures mingle and exchange but other things are completely separate.

Rishikesh might be an enlightenment tourist's paradise, but one part of it is not touristy at all and that is the ashram the Beatles stayed at. Now it lies deserted just outside a seedy end of town. It was built on land leased from a national park and when the lease ran out it was just left to fall down in its own good time. Now the forest is creeping back behind the high walls and the place is deserted apart from tourists who break in up the side through a hole in the fence (if you're interested there is a path up the left side through the forest and a gap a little way in, but you have to clamber through lots of foliage). We checked this out but went no further than the gap, being just two lasses and having read about muggings at the ashram.

If I were to take the abandoned ashram as a symbol, I might say that it's as folorn as the idea of all the people living their lives in peace. As if Western idealism inspired from Eastern influences has well and truly crumbled. But I think I'd rather not think on this too much because I'd rather be a dreamer than a cynic.

And so I can now say I've seen the ghost of Sexy Sadie walking! Did you know that 'Sexy Sadie' was originally called 'Maharishi'? The Beatles changed the name for fear of libel.

Walk with the Animals

I was going to have a subheading about animals in India in the Varanasi post, but then I thought, no. Animals in India need a post to themselves because the way they live and interact with people is just so special. And bizarre, hilarious and sometimes frightening.

One of the things I noticed about Delhi on my first walk around Connaught Place was the street dogs. They are everywhere in India. I think every city or town street we have walked down has had its own dogs. The poor mutts on Connaught place huddle against paan-stained walls and seem to spend most of their time sleeping or scavenging. In many places are piles of rubbish and dogs and cows sift throught the debris. I saw one woman in Delhi buy a plate of food from a street vendor and put it down for a dog. I've also seen a few signs around advertising charities for street dogs.

It's very easy to feel sad about the dogs, especially when there are puppies like the dear little things we saw curled up next to their mother in Varanasi, but another thnig that struck me about Connaught Place on that first day was that a lot of people aren't much better off. In some cases people are sleeping in one corner and dogs in another. This closeness seems to be the essence of the relationships between people and animals here. In New Zealand the areas for humans and the areas for non-domestic animals are clearly delineated. In India the animal kingdom stops at the front door.

It wouldn't be a post on animals in India without a mention of cows. Outside of Delhi they rule the streets. Cows and bulls actually. A friend we met in Varanasi said that she and a companion had once been charged by a belligerant bovine and raised a stick to threaten it. Immediately they were surrounded by furious Indians. One does not undermine the sanctity of the cow.

But being sacred does not give the cows a velvet-lined cow-pen or the finest fresh grasses. Like the dogs they scavenge in rubbish heaps and eat leftover food and often paper off the streets. We have sometimes seen locals out feeding the cows with fresh greens and in many places there are troughs in the streets for water and food. In Varanasi, Pushkar, Rishikesh the cows look at least well fed.

But they also have sharp horns and an imposing bulk. In the narrow streets of Varanasi passing a cow can be a dangerous exercise if the beast is in a malicious mood. L and I were making our way along a particularly narrrow Varanasi lane when we saw a large horned cow taking up at least two thirds of the alley. Until now I'd considered the cows of India to be quite harmless. Most of the time they seem very benign and relaxed. But this creature took exception to me for some strange cow reason and deliberately rammed its long and pointed horns into my backside. Bang. Of course I made a noise a little like, 'Arrrrggghhhh' and quickly hurried away from the cow's pointy end. This left L in a dilemma because of course she did not want to pass the cow.

A young girl saw our problem and called to an older man, 'Uncleji!' and before we knew it he had made a sort of human wall between himself and the cow. I now have an incredible bruise on my hip but I'm otherwise unscathed. Apparently people are sometimes injured quite badly by bulls here.

This incident gave me an (I think) perfectly understandable fear of cows and later when I was out alone and looking for a particular temple I found another narrow lane with another large, horned, irate looking beast in the middle. Like a typical coward (excuse the pun) I froze and wondered how best to get past.

At this precise moment a teenage girl emerged from a doorway, saw my predicament and began giggling at the idiotic tourist. She also called her brother out of the house and yet again I had a human wall between me and the cow. And so I continued on my merry way. Until I realised that the street was a dead end and I had to go back ... past the same bloody cow.

The cows truly do go everywhere and you even see them at the burning ghats and bathing in the Ganga.

In india you will also experience monkeys on the power lines, lizards in the shower, cobras dancing in a basket and little squirrels that scuttle up trees and scale the sides of palaces.

Inside homes domestic animals are adored and petted and we met Chilli the dog at our hostel in Jodhpur who was a sweet, tubby, pampered little daschund. In Varanasi there was also a friendly green parrot in the hostel and the manager introduced us to his 'wife', a female who apparently bites. The dogs in the hill villages aroud Rishikesh were huge, strong creatures and very well taken care of.

In Jaisalmer we were warned by the hotel owner not to be out too late because of the street dogs but they seemed like such sleepy creatures when we saw them in the day that this seemed a bit dramatic (and Indians warn you about just about everything in India, which is probably fair enough, but if you listened you'd never go anywhere without a driver and a body guard). We did notice more activity from dogs at night in Jaisalmer, but I realised how dangerous they could be in Varanasi.

It was a night to remember. L and I and some friends from the hostel walked along the ghats to a pasta restaurant for dinner (there are places trying to do Italian food everywhere in tourist areas). The Series of Unfortunate Events began when we arrived there and realised that the bearded gent who looked like some sort of Sadhu was our pasta chef and that he was screamingly, unequivocally, drunk. Dressed all in white, his long beard flowing over his chest, he loosely waved his arms in the air and cried, 'We make party!' then he plonked himself down at the table with us, smiling and swaying, and refused to budge, despite the pleading entreaties the waiter.

When your pasta chef is drunk, the logical outcome is usually that your pasta is late and this proved to be the case, although our wait was far from boring since we had a fight between the owner, the waiter and the plastered chef to witness. I think the owner was far from pleased with the state of his cook and blamed the waiter, who he cuffed around the ears. In New Zealand assult charges would be laid, in India they were all good friends again five minutes after the fight.

By the time the tardy pasta had been eaten it was after ten, maybe nearer eleven, so the eight of us got into two tuk tuks and headed home.I was in tuk tuk two. Tuk tuk one, with L in it, got home without incident. Tuk tuk 2 was surely the most crook tuk tuk in Varanasi.

After a couple of hundred metres the engine died. The driver got out, did something with the engine under his seat and off we went. Then it died again. This time the driver called a friend and with R, an Argentinian who drew the short straw and got the front seat, pushed the vehicle back to life. When this happened a third time the driver enlisted another tuk tuk, and we drove along in that with the new driver pushing the ailing tuk tuk along with his foot while steering his own vehicle. We got to a service station, got more petrol, kept going for a little while in the seriously ill little car and then, sure enough . . . Phut! We stopped again. R approached another tuk tuk when the driver started pushing the one we were in along with his foot.

When he saw we were going he said, 'No problem' (while still driving his foot propelled tuk tuk). We got out. Yes, problem.

It was funny, but you also have to wonder how desperate the guy was for the fare.

And you are probably wondering what all of this has to do with animals. Well, when we were dropped off by the new, fully-functioning tuk tuk, we still had to make our way through Varanasi's famous lanes. There were four of us and we didn't notice that the dogs barking around us seemd to be following. When this became obvious we were nearly back at the hostel, so we kept going, but suddenly we were surrounded. Another group of dogs had come up on the other side. There were four of us in the middle and maybe fifteen or twenty dogs in all. They had us cornered. It was an efficient piece of hunting and damn scary.

Luckily there was still an open lane we could go down, but of course there was a great bloody cow in front of it. At this point we all became very glad of R, who it turns out is a sort of Argentinian Dr Dolittle. In an instant he had us sheltered in a doorway and was speaking coaxing words to the cow, which, several terrifying moments later, moved aside.

The dog pack didn't follow us and we soon tumbled into the safety of the hostel.

I don't know if I could ever get used to having animal world so close all the time.

Banaras

ARRIVAL

To go to Varanasi (also called Banaras or Benares) as a Westerner is to be a cultural alien. Watching what happens in the most sacred of Hindu cities is fascinating, but also, I think, very difficult to understand for foreigners, no matter how much information the tourist touts may pour on your unwilling ears.

For us Varansi was a place where strange and hilarious things kept happening. We arrived at about nine at night after a fiasco with plane tickets that I can't bring myself to describe, but if you go to India don't book anything with Make My Trip. Varanasi airport is a long way from the centre of the city, so we got a cab and wound and jolted and swerved through a dark city. Traffic congestion in Varanasi is a problem. If there isn't a hole in the road from roadworks there is a huge cow.

Our hostel was in the Godaulia region of the old city, whose winding lanes make it impossible to get to by car. We got to an entrance to the lanes and our taxi driver dropped us on the road with the insturctions: 'that way, one minute'. This was not correct. Trying to lug a huge backpack through tiny, narrow, cobbled streets is not much fun. It's even less fun when, becasue of very active animal life in the old city, the streets are smeared with dung. Never mind, this is India.

After a couple of minutes we realised we weren't going to get anywhere so we asked for directions and what followed was a bizarre pattern of stopping, asking for directions, getting one more peice of the puzzle and then following those instructions until we were lost again.

Us (to shopkeeper): Kautilya society hostel?

Shopkeeper: straight then left, Madame.

Us (wildly gesturing): straight then left? Like this?

Shopkeeper: Yes, Madame.

And so we follow these directions only to find ourselves in another narrow alley looking for the next person to ask. The aren't street signs and maps of alleys don't seem to exist in much detail. But this manner of navigation works - although not efficiently - and a few wrong turns and forty minutes of weaving round cows and dogs and people later we found where we wanted to be. And of course we later discovered that if our driver had dropped us at the other side of Godaulia, it would have taken maybe ten minutes to get to our hostel. The thing is that you can't expect order in Varanasi.

THE GHATS

A ghat is a set of stairs leading down to a body of water. Pushkar was also full of ghats. Varanasi is the city of ghats. Hindus believe that drinking the waters of the Ganges river will cleanse from sin, particularly in Varanasi, which is one of the holiest of 'tirthas' which allow Hindus access to the gods and for the gods to communicate with people on earth. To die in Varanasi is to obtain instant moksha (enlightenment) and I also read somewhere that it's the place to die if you want to avoid the cycle of reincarnation.

Walking around the ghats it seems that there are several worlds at work here: there are pilgrims and holy men who are there for religious reasons; there are tourists who come as spectators, but don't really understand what is happening; and there are those who come to make a few rupees from both pilgrims and tourists.

The ghats are an incredible sight at whatever time of the day you are there, but sunrise is definitely the best. Always there are wooden boats sitting on the river's edge waiting for passengers and for about 200 rupees you can take one for an hour. At about 5.30 am the sun is rising and a soft grey mist is rising off the river making it look like an atmospheric painting by Turner - especially if the sun is rising blood-orange colured as it was the morning we were there.

As we splashed through the water we watched the first pilgrims of the day at their ritual ablutions. Men in dhotis submerged themselves in water, some lathering their bodies in soap, others plunging right into the river. Holy men in orange robes are everywhere and if you are not careful you'll be forced to pay for an unwanted puja mark. Learn to dodge spice-covered fingers aimed at your forehead. Women bathe in the Ganga too, but we saw fewer of them.

As a foreigner it's hard not to be slightly disgusted by the Ganga. It's heart-breakingly polluted. A film of greasy scum lies on top of everything and plastic as well as human and animal waste is very visible. And the odd body. And factories upriver are pumping heavy metals into the water. You have to ask how a holy river could be allowed to get so polluted.

But despite this the ghats are an incredible place to be. And beautiful. At 6.30 in the evening there is a huge puja ceremony on the main ghat. Witnessing it makes you feel as if you are watching something amazingly ancient. Of course many Christan rituals are just as odd and old, but familiarity makes you foget this. Maybe ten or fifteen Brahmans perform the rituals simultaneously in a cloud of inscence smoke and fire light, all of them moving and lifting burning urns and swinging inscense in time, while chanting fills the air. Hundreds of people come to these and many watch from boats.

It's traditional to light a candle in a clay pot (only pay 10-20 rupees) and float it down the river. The sight of hundred of these little yellow lights on the flat, black water is magical.

DEATH

Varsnasi's burning ghats are unusual for India in that they are right in the middle of thie city. This means that they are very visible to visitiors, who of course watch the proceedings with much curiosity and almost certainly a little voyeurism.

The first you see of the cremation groundswhen approaching along the ghats is the black smoke and then the flames. Closer you realise that the ghat is surrounded by piles and piles of wood. Funnily enough burning bodied don't smell as I expected them do, although this may be masked by incense.

Bodies on the ghat are burned on the flat parts of the steps and maybe eight cremations seem to take place at a time. As the funeral pyres are lit the grieving realations walk around the ghat - five times according to a self-appointed guide we met.

Something that never fails to amaze me in India is how every opportunity is turned into one for commerce. The guide book warned us that at he burning ghats men claiming to be woodwallahs (wallah is pretty much Hindi for 'seller' or 'vendor') would get into conversation with tourists, give a friendly description of cremation and Hindu beliefs, talk about the rising price of wood and then ask for a donation. Our guidebook is a bit outdated now, and tourists we met were asked to donate to a 'hospice'. Sure enough we hadn't been at the ghat very long before a man stood next to us and began describing everything ('body in white cloth is man, body in red cloth is woman. Is lower caste man who owns ghat but he is very rich'). The problem is that different tourists seem to be given different information, so how do you know? Someone from our hostel was told by one person that burnings we done by caste and by another that they weren't (though caste is a sensitive issue) and there seemed to be other discrepencies too. Apparently some bodies, including those of children or those bitten by cobras, are not burned but floated down the Ganges. When out on the river we saw something that we thought was a rock. When it moved we realised it was a long grey-wrapped parcel.

For me corpses hold no particular terror - after all the living are much more dangerous - but it was still a funny moment to look down the ghat and realise that the long bundles neatly wrapped in cloth had been people very recently. I think the thing is that in Varanasi death is very open. You see bodies, you watch them burn. There isn't a descreet ornamental coffin or high-tech electrical cremator standing between you and death.

Mourners at the ghats must not cry. If you cry the spirit of the loved one will not want to leave so you cannot upset the dead. Often women do not go to cremations. Yet in these very personal moments nothing is private. mourning families are only metres away from each other. Tourists wander through looking amazed. Dogs wander through looking hungry.

Bring on the dancing boys

On our second day in Jodhpur, we found ourselves in the middle of a festival to celebrate the birthday of Lord Brahma. If we thought India was chaotic at the best of times, then you should see the narrow streets of Jodhpur during a riotous celebration.

Someone told us there were about 150 floats on the streets, and this was probably true. The narrow street we walked through was packed with people watching, dancers, dervishes (whirling of course) brass bands, drummers, paraders and floats full of heavily painted and slightly bored looking gods and goddesses. The deities were beautifully dressed and sat on cart that seemed to be made of hammered, patterned metal.

The atmosphere was incredible. Behind huge speakers of wheels blaring Hindi music were groups of young men dancing like this was the party of the century. The appropriate style of dance for festivals seems ot be a sort of knees-bent bump, grind and thrust, which must be done with full enthusiasm and no shame. I tried to imagine fifteen-year-old kiwi boys dancing like that. Wouldn't happen.

Getting through the street was intense, especially when a stoned sadhu grabbed my hand and tried to drag me for a dance (Indian women were watching, not dancing) and I had to be very forceful to get it back.

There was one surprising moment when I felt a stange feeling at the back of my neck and discoved that both L and I had been piled in shaving cream.

Even more surprising though, was when I got pushed off the pavement by a reveller and landed with one foot in an open sewer. Yes, they have them. and yes, it was utterly repulsive. The sole of my foot to my ankle was coated.

I bought some 90 rupees sandals at once. (At once meaning 40 minutes later after traipsing around for 40 minutes with a foot covered in shit.)

This is India. Gods above the ordinary folk and shit on the streets.

Up in the palace and down in the town

If the fort and palace at Jaisalmer has a fairy-tale quality, the Red Fort at Delhi the used look of a faded courtesan and Amber a tribal pride and roughness, then the fort at Jodhpur is an old warrior who has lost nothing of the ferocity that makes him feared.

Yes, I know it's indulgent to over-use metaphors, but what I want to say is that despite its age, despite its uselessness as a military fortification in the age of tanks and bombs, Jodhpur's Meherangarh Fort is still an imposing sight. Up and up and up it goes and you'd have to be mad or desparate to try to lay seige to it. Which Jodhpur's enemies probably were. Despite the determination of Meherangarh's would-be conquerers, the fort was never taken, as the museum's audio guide proudly informs visitors (although it neglects to mention agreements made by Maharjas between the Mughals and the the British that made a seige unnecessary to the would-be invaders).

Unlike the great palace in Delhi, of which huge chunks were destroyed by the British in 1857, the Jodhpur fort is most or less complete. And since the Maharajas of Jodhpur are a dynasty that is still very much alive, the huge rabbit warren (although pigeon or bat warren might be more accurate) has become something of a manument to a dynasty.

Visitors to the fort can choose to get there in comfort on rickshaw or even on elephant in the high season (there were no elephants around when we were there), but far more interesting is taking the chance to wander up to the fort through the old city. You'll possibly run the risk of heat stroke or getting invited to tea by any number of locals (everyone warns you to say no, so we did), but the winding narrow streets and srumble-jumble buildings of Jodhpur's blue city are fascinating to walk through. And the gradually changing view as we reached the top was superb.

Jodhpur got its monkier, the blue city, from the distinctive blue-washed buildings which are still a feature of it. Originally blue meant a high caste Brahman residence and the blue colour was thought to deter India's determined swarms of insects and keep houses cool. Now anyone may paint their house blue and from high up the colour is easily identifyible.

Further out and dramatically silhouetted against the horizon is the Umaid Bhawan Palace, which Maharaja Umaid Sing had built in 1929. But don't think, oh typical royal commissioning a monument to his own glory, the palace was commissioned to give employment to thousands badly affected by famine. While the world's economy crashed that year, three thousand workers in Jodhpur had paid employment on the palace. Today the maharaja's descendents live there while the rest of the palace is a grand hotel (which we did not stay in).

The construction of Umaid Bhawan was bad news for the fort. The Maharaja moved out of the old place and left it to bats and pigeons. When restoration work was begun in the 1970s, the first funds were raised by selling the palace's congealed bat droppings to farmers.

Meherangarh has one of the best museums I've yet seen at an Indian fort. It has a wonderful collection of Howdahs (which are elephant saddles) including one that was a gift from Shah Jahan, builder of the Taj Mahal, a very fine collection of miniature paintings (many featuring past rulers of Jodhpur, of course) and also, rather more strangely, a room full of the silver plated cradles of small rajas in the making.

Much to my delight a former raja had hung the ceiling of one of his grand audience rooms with European Christmas balls - the British Raj shows its hand.

The outside of the palace is made up of carved panels or jali and it's hard to imagine how many workers it took to construct the palace.

Of course the rulers of Marwar (the kingdom Jodhpur was the chief city of) were extremely rich and powerful and as well as needing somewhere to house many relatives, many wives and all the rest, they needed a symbol of power; both enemies and subjects must have been awed by the spectacle of Meherangarh towering 100 feet above the cliffs.

Down in the town life is different and as you descend, the heat and smells and closeness of the city take over. Shopkeepers sit outside tiny stores, some with huge piles of spices and some with beautiful pyramids of traditional Indian sweets. Around the Sardar Market and clock tower are stalls with clothes, fruit, street food. We noticed as we wandered the old city that different trades still seem to be grouped in different areas and we found a street of sweetmeat sellers, a street of jewellers and groups of cooking utensil and basket stores.

It's possible to wander here for ages and getting lost is mandatory in a visit to Jodhpur.

Jaisalmer and the many wonders of a desert city

Jaisalmer! (pronunced Jai - sell - meer) I have literally one word of advice about Jaisalmer, and that is GO! It's a long way out (12 hours by train from Jaipur, six from Jodhpur and only 100k from the Pakistan border) but nonetheless it is very much worth the trip. Right now however, it's as hot as you want it to be (a cool 42 degrees in the hottest part of the day). Next month will be hotter and June the higghs will be 52 centigrade.

The Rough Guide describes Jaisalmer as the quintessential Arabian Nights town. I'd shy away from that description myself lest it conjur images of Disney's ALADDIN. That wouldn't do the town justice.

Jaisalmer was founded in 1156 by Rawal Jaisal of the Bhati clan. The town is dominated by a vast yellow-sandstone fort on top of a high rocky table-like hill. It's a magnificent sight, especially since the gold-brown colour of the 'golden city' melts into the desert landscape around it. Jaislamer is a desert city made of desert stone and colour. Aesthetically at least it is at one with the landscape.

The sprawling, high fort might look wonderful from a distance, but up close it's irresistable. Jaisalmer is famous for its carved stone Havelis (many of these were rich merchant's houses) and the finely worked detail of the stonework on these takes your breath away.

Of course most fort cities have histories of violence and war and Jaisalmer is no exception. It seems that its proudest moments were the three (actually, two and a half) johars committed: one in 1298, one in 1326 and the final in 1570.

Johar is ritual suicide. In the first instance, 1298, the town had been under seige for seven years. Decideing that they could not win the battle, the men of Jaisalmer rode out to fight a final battle - the idea I suppose being that if you are going to die, you want to take an many enemies with you as possible - while the women jumped off the fort into a blazing inferno. Rather like Japenese ritual suicide there seems to have been a lot of honour attached to this sort of death and the women would stay up the night before the johar to make themsleves beautiful to meet their husbands and fathers in the afterlife.

Because johar was a ritual with strict protocols, the 1570 johar is not considered a full one. There was no time for the necessary rites and the construction of the pyre, so the men cut the women's throats before riding out the city gates one last time.

Although nearly every surface of Jaisalmer is wonderful, the most extraordinary decoration I saw was in the Jain temple. The Jain religion is an ancient one and Jain nuns and monks live far harsher lives than their buddhist bretheren (for instance, while buddhists shave their heads, Jain religious orders pull it out by the roots). Although there are apparently few Jains in Jaisalmer now, they were one very influential and gave money for something like 17 of the 18 bastions of the fort (if you are wondering where all this information comes from, the audioguide at the palace is excellent). The two Jain temples open to tourists are absolute works of art. The sculptures are curving, sensuous figures, elaborately decorated, and each with an intelligent, knowing look.

Jaisalmer's palace is worth going to as well. It's exquisite, like everything here, but it also gives a good overview of the lives of the maharawals (this is the word used here rather than maharaja) of Jaisalmer, the history of the region and its life now. One odd fact I learned is that the wind turbines in the desert around here generate power for, amongst other things, the lights on the border fence between India and Pakistan. A sharp reminder of where we are.

Over lunch I was served by a young guy with very good English who said he was from a desert village. He couldn't read or write in English, or much Hindi. He said that there wasn't a school at home when he was a child. He'd certainly never come across the job title of 'book publisher' and I think he went away thinking I was a writer.

It seems that in Jaisalmer a number of buildings and businesses are owned by Brahmins, while cooks, drivers, camel safari drivers etc come from the often Muslim desert people who live around the city. This was the case for the young guy I met in the restaurant and for the drivers of the camel safari we did last night.

I asked my waiter if he had a wife and he said no (and I think he blushed), but added that he was on a waiting list. He also described weddings in his village. There was a lot of description of ritual that I didn't get because his English got a bit cloudy in long descriptions, but it seems that 50,000 to 60,000 rupees is a standard dowry around here and the groom doesn't see the bride's face until they are married. Only when all the proceedings are finished may he lift the veil.

I asked if it was too late to change his mind at this point and he said, mournfully, 'yes, too late,' and then, 'I am praying my wife will be beautiful!'

To me he seemed far too guileless for any of the things he said ('I would like to meet a nice girl like you') to seem at all like pick-up lines, but he seemed to enjoy talking to a woman without any expectations or taboos around it. I hope that when he gets married he likes his wife, and she likes him!!

The tourist to Jaisalmer is just about obliged to go on camel safari. There are hundreds of operators and most hotels run them as well. In some ways it's touristy as all hell (it's not like yu are going anywhere useful on your camel), but as a way to get a view of the Thar desert and see what life is like out there for human, camel, dung beetle and desert mouse alike, it is worthwhile.

On the way to our camels we stopped at the deserted city of Kuldhara which the inhabitants walked away from one night in 1815. Locals, like our jeep driver, say it was because a powerful man wanted to marry a woman from a different cast. Hisotirans cite rising taxes from the ruler of Jaisalmer and drying up water. You might expect a few sleepy stone ruins but he place was huge. For more information read this: http://www.indianexpress.com/news/a-forgotten-city/638864

The thing that most surprised me about the Thar is how full of life it is. You think desert and you think dunes and heat and nothing. In reality the place is as full and fascinating as a forest.

Local people graze goats amongst the bizarre scrubby plants, 'desert mice' (what our guide called them, though they look like a small, dusty meercats) have complicated burrow networks, birds sing from most trees, and hoards of huge black scarab beetles scuttle across the sand.

The local villages are well inhabited too. Traditional houses are made of sand and dung with small windows and this makes them warm in winter and cool in summer. When we stopped at one village the children followed us around, trying every trick they knew to get pens, rupees, NZ money before we bumped off on our camels again.

Camel riding is fun but none too comfortable, though the view of the desert is wonderful up there. If you do one lean back when the camel gets up of goes down hills and you'll feel much more controlled if you keep your heels down - like riding a horse.

The main reson to do a camel safari though, is the stars and the people who show you the desert. We booked our safari from our hotel, Mystic Jaisalmer, and were beautifully looked after. Best of all was the Rajasthani singing which on this occasion was performed to the beat of water-flask and chappati plate drums. Our guide also told us the story of why there are no tigers in the desert (in brief, a raja tricked a tiger out of all his money to the ashamed beast left never to return) and a love story where another raja abandons his lover because he sees her with her sister who is dressed as a man to hide her identity and thinks the worst. In response I told the stories of how Maui slowed the sun and the fish of Maui and sang a black American folk song. L sings better so sang more. Those reading at home are not to expect a repeat performance from me please!

The stars are simply sublime. For someone from the southern hemishpere it's a completely different set of constellations, although Orion is the right way up and so is a fierce warrior with a sword and not a 'pot'.

Go for the stars if nothing else.