On the map, Bikaner sits on the edge of the Great Indian Desert. I’d built an image of a dusty little town with camels roaming the streets. Little to eat and less to do, especially after the sun went down and the cold night set in. This much was true – the temperatures sank to 3C at night. The town was large and sprawling, but the old walled city was crammed with imposing haveli’s that were built between 1880 and 1920. Our first day we spent mostly lost among the haveli’s; part of the fun. We scanned for a restaurant and found one on the street that was cleanish and pure veg.  The boys also spoke enough English to take our order and were entertaining to watch. The food was good though a little spicier than usual.

Without knowing it, we’d arrived a day before the annual Camel Festival. Again, I pictured a camel fair with a bunch of smelly flea-bitten camels rounded up for inspection. The next day, we trudged off to where a camel procession was said to begin.

We could hardly believe our eyes. Girls parading, holding coconuts or brass pots on their heads,

sword-wielding men on camels,

bagpipe players,

stick fighters…all in traditional dress and interspersed with ornately decorated camels. Pictures will do better justice than words.

I’m always trying to capture a picture of a beautiful Indian woman. Here they were in abundance, catching my eye and smiling for me.

The procession ended at a large stadium where a full two-day of activities began – camel decoration judging, beauty pageant, mud wrestling, fire breathing. For us, these held little attraction… our main event was the folk music and dance in the evening. A group from Jaisalmer was featured; their music an interesting blend of ghazal, folk and pop—but not Bollywood.

Traditional dancers, spinning like dervishes, accompanied the band. The mood of the whole day was jubilant.

The second day was a heritage walk. Even though the people of Rajasthan are known for being friendly, we both had a sneaking suspicion the municipal government had told the locals to be especially friendly toward us.

They smiled, threw rose petals over us, handed out food and drink.

One privately owned haveli even opened its doors to us.

It was a great opportunity to be guided through the old town with loads of enthusiastic bystanders wanting their picture taken. There were plenty of tourists but few of them were westerners. Foreign tourism is down 60% according to our guesthouse owner, obviously because of the money exchange problems. The evening program was less compelling than the first; more a Sunday night local variety show.

We were so lucky to catch this Camel Festival. Virtually all other visitors had come specifically for it.

Junagarh Fort was a focal point of the town though not so immediately impressive, in part because it doesn’t sit on a pinnacle like many other forts in Rajasthan.

But its richly decorated interiors are as magnificent as any we’ve seen. Built toward end of 16^th C. the Fort has been progressively extended and embellished by later rulers.

The grandest room, Anup Mahal, was adorned with red and gold filigree painting with a red satin throne framed by an arc of glass and mirrors. Inmates of the local jail made its carpet – a tradition that has only recently ceased.

Overall, Bikaner was a pleasant surprise. The town was unusually clean and the railway station was a beehive of spring-cleaning. Boys were hosing down the platform with soapy water, giving iron fences a fresh coat of paint…they were even painting the railway tracks! Something we’d never witnessed before. When we asked our guesthouse owner if some dignitary like PM Modi was visiting, he said no, the railway had just received its annual maintenance budget.

Last but not least, the hotel we landed in turned out to be probably the nicest place we’ve stayed in India. It was built in 1926 for the last prime minister of Bikaner who was the great grandfather of the thirty-something present owner. He lives there with his wife, parents, and grandmother, all serving us in a Raj-like style.

It’s been twelve years since we first visited Jaipur and it wasn’t one of our favorite destinations. The “Pink” City is famous for its textiles but we’d not been in the mood for shopping and were put off by the noise and chaos of its busy streets. We only managed to visit the Hawa Mahal or Wind Palace. This time, we stopped for a day and a half, primarily to visit the Amber Fort/Palace outside the city. Vinayak Guesthouse, close to the railway station, was comfortable enough with an excellent restaurant on the roof. In the afternoon we decided to brave the clogged streets to visit the City Palace. The grid of the old city lined with pink buildings and shopping arcades, survivors of modernization. Unlike most Indian cities, old Jaipur has not been torn down and rebuilt in concrete.

The City Palace was built in the 1720s, part of which is still occupied today by the family of the once ruling Maharajahs. We could have taken a private tour of their quarters for a mere addition to the entrance fee of 2,500 Rs each. Among the formal rooms open to the public was the Peacock Courtyard with its four painted doorways depicting the four seasons and the Public Hall of Audience, its walls adorned with old photographs of receiving dignitaries, including Lord and Lady Mountbatten.

A textile museum showed elaborate clothing of woven gold and brocaded fabrics from the royal wardrobe.

As Gerard took pictures, I struggled with the manual settings on my new camera. It’s always easier to take automatic but then what’s the point in having a sophisticated digital camera? I could be walking around like everyone else with an iPhone and a ‘selfie’ stick. I imagine them going home with their pictures of Jaipur – each one with a distracting ‘selfie’ in the foreground. Every picture will be of themselves with a slightly altered background.

The next morning we negotiated with the same rickshaw driver to take us 11 km out to the Amber Fort. Sitting high up on a rocky ridge, the Fort is reached by a long winding footpath, swarming with visitors (the more so being Sunday). For those less inclined to walk, the hike could be made precariously balanced on top of elephants. We were both disturbed by the sight of these regal animals, their ears decoratively painted, lumbering up and down all day.

The Fort was amazing. Built in 1727, the architecture is Rajput, although the mirrored mosaics and the Sheesh Mahal private chambers for the Maharajah and Queen are clearly influenced by Mogul ideas.

On the way back we stopped at the Kanak Vindravahan garden, a welcome oasis of peace and quiet after the noisy mob scene at the Fort.

Further along, was an esplanade with a grand view of a Lake Palace, alive with a fun fair atmosphere. We watched three little boys clowning around while half-heartedly making dough balls for feeding to the fish, a favorite lakeside activity.

We returned to the guesthouse for an excellent thali and then walked back to the railway station to catch the afternoon train to Kuchaman. An extended family crammed into our compartment, making it seem like general seating rather than reserved 3AC. We were initially annoyed at all these people pushing their way in with no regard for reserved seating. But like many times in India, things turned themselves around.

A young saried woman slid in opposite us dragging a boy who was obviously mentally disabled. She kept one arm constantly across to hold him back. The other side of her was a slightly younger boy absorbed in his iPhone. She spoke good English and introduced her two brothers accompanied by their wives and children. The woman explained they were from Bikaner and had all been visiting her husband who lived in Jaipur. Her nine-year-old son (his size made him seem much older) was born with cerebral palsy. “He is 99% disabled,” she said. “This is why I don’t live with my husband in Jaipur. Back in Bikaner, I have my parents and my in-laws to help take care of my son. I cannot leave him for a moment.” I noticed a large burn on the boy’s hand. I tried to contemplate that kind of constant care. And she’d been doing it for nine years, not to mention caring for her other son, only one year younger. Within a short time, we were all friends and she insisted that we visit her home in Bikaner where we were headed after Kuchaman.

Just when we thought we would have a quiet last day in the mountains, a marriage ceremony was taking place just below our guesthouse.

Being a small and compact town, and Indian weddings such a big affair, we were anxious to see how this would take place.  The groom and his procession were led by horns and drums with a colorful array of dancing young men and women down the narrow lanes.

A langar was set up with huge brass cauldrons serving food throughout the day to the 200 odd guests – and many other gate-crashers like ourselves.

On another empty terrace, the marriage puja took place under a canopy complete with heart shaped balloons.

We enjoyed watching the music and dancing continue until we noticed threatening storm clouds blowing off the mountains.Retreating back to our guesthouse, just before the rain set in. All afternoon we waited for a break, noticing condensation on the windows as the room got colder.  By late afternoon the rain finally stopped and we went out on the balcony to see the mountain tops covered by fresh snow.

Even though the temperature was around 35F, and no heat in our room or restaurant, this was forgotten as we watched the clouds lifting off the mountain side.

We pulled into Naggar in style. The four of us rented a car and driver to make the five-hour journey further into the mountains. Gerard and I were here four years ago and anxious to return; our enthusiasm obviously spread to Varun and Megan. Himachal Pradesh is such a beautiful state. We had just enjoyed a week and a half in a hilly countryside setting and now we’re up here – snow-capped mountains to the north, east and west of us. Being lowlanders we’re fascinated by how the mountains are constantly changing depending on the light. The Kullu Valley below twinkles at night, as do the stars overhead; the air is so clear.

The town itself is small and attracts mostly day-trippers from Manali. But in the evening when the sun goes down, it becomes very quiet. Only the occasional barking dog in the distance.

I wake early while it’s still dark, anxiously awaiting first light. A single bird sings while others join in as the sun hits the snow on the mountains directly out our windows.

One of the big draws for Gerard is the indigenous architecture, the wooden balconied houses with stone roofs. Even though there are fewer of these homes than there were four years ago, there’s still plenty to see walking through the twisting and winding paths of the village. There are signs of restoration on some of the older buildings up to 500 years old, but as a man on the street explained to us, sadly there is no new construction in the old style because it costs twice as much as concrete. And as we know, with any old building there’s continual maintenance.

Another draw is the numerous walks through apple orchards and dense forest within minutes of the town. Varun and Megan go foraging for fiddleheads and stinging nettles that the friendly cook at our very basic restaurant happily cooks up for us. One day walking through the village we find the house where four years ago we were invited into the courtyard and given tea and biscuits.

The woman of this wonderful old house claimed to remember and again invited us in.

We were so surprised to learn that her husband is the cook who, with the help of his two sweet daughters ,prepares and serves our food three times a day!

The subject of the mountain top temple, Bijli Mahadev, had come up a number of times. So again the four of us decided to rent a car and driver (there’s no other way to get there). Driving back down the valley to Kullu, then turning north and climbing 15 kms through wonderfully picturesque mountainside, we finally came to the end of the road and had to continue on foot for another 3 km. Now 3 km may not sound much of a hike, but considering that where the car stopped it was already 6500 feet high, the additional 1500 to the mountaintop was all that Gerard could do. But it was so worth the effort.

Sitting in a meadow with a 360 degrees view, it really was enough to take away whatever breath you had left.

And there was even a shack that served light refreshments before we started the arduous knee-straining descent.

On the trip back up the valley we watched the sun set on the snowy mountain peaks to the north just like a Roerich painting. (Nicolai Roerich was a famous Russian explorer/artist who lived in Naggar from 1928 till his death in 1948. We both love his paintings).

Two days later, we made another excursion across the valley to a Buddhist monastery, the only one that supposedly houses both men and women.

Built on a steep incline it offered yet new views of the surrounding mountains in an incredibly peaceful setting of apple orchards and kitchen gardens. On the way back we stopped off at a sulfur hot spring. Not sure what the temperature was but it was HOT. Quite a treat to sit in the spring in the bright sunshine and look out over the Himalayas.