I keep getting older

Pushkar is sublime. Just outside of Sunset Cafe, I sit on a set of steps that lead directly into the bathing ghats and glistening waters of Pushkar Lake. The sun is just about to set, and a handful of onlookers have gathered to watch. Temple bells clang in the distance as the faithful offer up prayers and blessings to their Hindu gods. A drummer begins to play somewhere behind me. Maracas pick up the beat. Chanting resonates in the distant background. Music. The soundtrack of Pushkar.

What a pleasant change of scenery from the madness of Agra. (I actually hated Agra, apart from the breathtaking Taj Mahal visit and then doing some great damage in a jewelry shop.)

Pushkar, on the other hand, is lovely. This is a small, tranquil town centered on a perfectly round lake of holy green water. The main street is one long bazaar, riddled with shops full of unique and fun items. Shopping is a delightful experience, usually involving removing one’s shoes, entering the open shop with bare feet, and sitting on the floor with the shopkeeper, searching through the endless stock of pashmina wraps, embroidered pillow cases, paintings, and hand-stitched children’s clothing, chatting with these shopkeepers and getting to know them, learning a bit about their family and lives in the desert. I pass by later in the day to say hello once again. Some remember my name.

A breeze blows through as the sun begins to set. I wish I could spend more time in this desert region of Rajasthan. I feel at peace, calm. There is no chaos here, but rather a certain harmony and rhythm to the day-to-day life. By comparison I notice a general thoughtfulness for the environment, for cleanliness, for the well-being of animals. Dogs actually seem fed here in Pushkar, unlike anywhere else I have been thus far. Poverty is rampant, of course, but it seems to weave itself into the daily fabric of Rajhastani life in a less, well, horrifying way. Children beg as they do everywhere, and they are good at it. They attach themselves to my hip and walk along beside me, telling a woeful tale of dead fathers and hungry babies at home, moms needing to buy flour and milk, until finally I give in and hand over some rupees. But for whatever reason, these types of interactions feel less painful and oppressive and desperate than similar experiences I had in Agra. I can't explain it.

I spent the day on the back of a motorbike, searching for temples among the vast empty desert plains surrounding Pushkar, with two guys I met in Agra. (I was denied the opportunity to rent my own bike simply because I am female!) Traveling with these two - one Brit and one Dutch guy - has been fun, and they certainly keep me laughing and look after me to an extent. But the more I travel and meet people like them, the more I notice that I just keep getting older, and these backpackers stay the same age.

In Pushkar I feel free to be me. People stare in a less frightening and more curious manner. Bare shoulders are tolerated even though this is a holy city. Foreign tastes, tourists and expats seem to blend easily into local life, and are invited to offer prayers in the temples and join the natives’ bathing rituals in the ghats that line the lake. The city is purely vegetarian and alcohol free, dotted with yoga centers, fresh juice bars, and foreigners stoned on bhang. I could stay forever.

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