An eerie silence enveloped the forest, despite the roar of a waterfall gushing down the steep slope on which I sat feeling both exhilarated and anxious, as any good adventure will make you feel. It was the calm before the storm. Soon after we were plunged into the darkness of a forest so thick that seeing an ounce of open sky would’ve been the greatest joy. Regardless, we hiked on, as our machete-wielding lungi-wearing guide cleared a path through the thicket. He burst crackers often, to scare away elephants yet there was nothing to be done about the leeches sucking blood from our legs. Night fell swiftly, we were still lost in the jungle, trying to climb up a mountain so steep that you wouldn’t be wrong in imagining it is trying to shake you off the slope. That night we collapsed under tarpaulins, barely held up under pouring rain, in a small clearing within the otherwise impenetrable forest, on wet mud imprinted with hoof marks of several Indian Gaur who had scoped out the place before us. The next morning, the race to finish continued in the wilderness with many many thrills and it ended with beef parotta in the small village at the edge of the mountain in northern Kerala. We were hiking up to a mountain called Vellarimala in 2010, it was the first of my many adventures in Kerala.

In the years that followed, I hiked with my cousins to a gorgeous heart shaped lake in Wayanad. I soaked up the monsoon fury and elegance of Munnar. I took a trip to the ancient past in Marayoor’s dolmens. I cycled over 150 exhausting kilometres through tea gardens of Chinnar to the forests of Thekkady. In short, I had made countless memories in God’s own Country but Kerala was wilderness to me. Kerala was pristine beauty. Kerala was glorious mountains, teeming with wildlife, enveloped in lush green forests. Kerala was a riveting adventure.

Hiking in Nelliampathy Hills in Palakkad

And then four years ago from today, I remember walking on a muddy foot trail cutting through endless fields of paddy coloured in a fluorescent green brought on by monsoon in Thasarak. Old ladies with toothy grin, wearing colourful plastic wrapped as shields were harvesting the produce under a stormy grey sky ready to burst anytime. That morning we went in search of the famous idlis of Ramassery, where I walked on clean village roads lined with pretty houses and village ponds with near perfect coconut tree reflections. Later we stopped at a nice little Toddy shop in Kinassery, drinking the famous palm sap out of colourful mugs. There I was traipsing in unknown villages, far away from the tourist hubs meeting people of Kerala, after years of chasing its wilderness. How would the experiment go?

Lamp lighting ceremony at Sree Randu Moorthy Temple, Thiruvalathur

I remember having heated debates with a friend in my early “traveller” years, where I insisted with the confidence of a clairvoyant that my interest in humans would never measure up to my fondness of empty landscapes. But life is nothing if not unpredictable and humans are nothing if not changeable. It was during this major shift that I happened to visit Kerala yet again, this time tracing the path and cultural influence of River Nila with The Blue Yonder across three northern districts of Thrissur, Palakkad and Malappuram (See the journey video here).

I’m sitting inside my room situated over the fort rampart and I can see a live cannon to the right from my window. Below the fort, I see a patchwork of sandstone slabs and mud-roofed houses spread in front of me, beyond which an endless expanse of a flat, parched land specked with nominal green shrubbery extends till the eye can see. From my bathroom window, I’ve got a surprising view. The windows opens to the view of curved bulges of the fort on my left, the ochre houses that coalesce into the barren desert earth on the right, a road that snakes between these two and a gorgeous, red ball of fire rising in the centre. I had a front row seat to the sunrise from my loo! There’s a sort of winter haze I can see in the distance, a small glimpse of the season that’s few weeks away. The night however, is balmy with a tinge of that winter chill. The lights of the town below are faint and not blinding. I can see few stars shining in the sky, while the fort walls glow in a golden hue. I’m now sitting on the stone block that supports the cannon, pouring my heart out to a friend over phone late into the night while the world’s largest living fort sleeps after a day of frenzied activity.

I am in Jaisalmer, in a rather touristy part of the town, and I’m struck by how much I’m charmed by this setting. Apparently, even the most touristy parts of Rajasthan still retain the ability to surprise you. Even after several visits, several thousands of articles and promotions seen in the media, and several decades of being the cynosure of travellers from around the world, that Rajasthan can still manage to draw me in is a testament to how endowed the state is when it comes to offering something new to the traveller every single time.

On the very same trip, I find myself in a deserted strip of pristine, untrampled dunes near the outer fringes of Desert National Park. The narrow band of endless curves and pointed sand peaks spread undisturbed in between two parallel running wire fences evokes a strong sense of deja vu. I finish my shoot and ask the guide the name of the place. The word he says next confirms my hunch. I had been here before. Eight years ago in fact. I had first stumbled upon these sand dunes on a unique weeklong hike with YHAI across the Thar Desert in 2010.

After crossing the monstrosity that is Sam sand dunes, I was delighted to have arrived at this place where desert magic was alive and unmarred by unchecked commercialisation. Apart from my friend and me, there was no one else on the dunes. We walked carefully, anxious that we’d disturb those untouched patterns on the sand. But we eventually killed our hesitation and trampled on those untouched dunes with much glee, adding human footprints to the already existing collection of deer, birds, insects and other inhabitants of the desert. Two days ago, exactly eight years since my first rendezvous with these gorgeous dunes, I was back in the same place. And in those eight years, only a handful of tourists have made their way to this secret corner, which holds a special place in my heart. Frankly, I had locked this place up in my mind and never divulged it out on the interwebs for the fear that my excitement to share it with others would possibly ruin it for good. So I jealously guarded the secret till date. But Rajasthan surprises me once again by managing to keep our secret safe for so long, despite being overrun by mass commercialisation, mindless tourists and overenthusiastic tour operators.

In fact, my first trip to Rajasthan eight years ago had been quite a revelation. The only reason I even considered travelling in touristy Rajasthan was because when I signed up for the YHAI desert trek, I knew I had to spend few extra days there to explore some more. But I avoided exploring the usual Udaipur, Jodhpur, Jaipur and Jaisalmer circuit, since I have a certain disdain for ostentatious displays of wealth and feudal power and I rarely find glorious palaces and royal residences of much interest. But I would recommend considering a guided Rajasthan Tour Package if heritage palaces & wildlife sanctuaries interest you. And I love finding stories of common people and their lives. By spending days on the unusual trek and some more days in the fascinating Shekhawati region, I found a side of Rajasthan that I hadn’t considered before - one that was hidden, engaging and novel.

Even in Shekhawati, already made popular by some guidebook as the world’s largest open air fresco gallery, I skipped the famous towns of Nawalgarh and Mandawa and spent days wandering through obscure villages with gigantic, broken, crumbling, abandoned and colorful mansions. I couldn’t believe it that in Rajasthan, a state overrun by tourists, I didn’t encounter any during my wanderings in remote Shekhawati.

Before arriving up north for the trek and to see the havelis, I had quite an interesting encounter in the southern part of Rajasthan, where I had spent my days wandering around the countryside, basing us in Udaipur. One evening while returning from Kumbhalgarh Fort, I saw a leopard cross our path in the night near a village where men were casually walking on the road ahead of us. Two things surprised me about that encounter. One, that southern Rajasthan was forested and big predators such as leopards lived here. Two, that leopards live and move so closely among humans. Over the next few years I learnt much more on how leopards have always lived in the fringes of our communities and contrary to what I had imagined, they wouldn’t attack humans until cornered. But that stray incident in Rajasthan was the catalyst to reading up more and recognizing the misunderstood animal’s plight across the country. I truly didn’t expect Rajasthan of all places to teach me a lesson on wildlife.

Few years later I found myself gaping in awe at a narrow band of dark condensation in the cloudy sky, it was raining in the desert! On that trip, I also made my way to an oasis nearby where the greenery and a rippling water body felt so uncharacteristic that it would’ve been easier to believe it was a made up movie set than a real life scene. I spent two monsoons in Rajasthan since and I must say seeing it rain in the desert is right up there in the list of my most cherished monsoon chases across the country. Who would’ve thought monsoons actually make their presence felt in the Thar Desert of all places!

On that very same trip, I also was privy to a rare sighting of an endangered species that almost became the national bird of our country but lost that coveted title out to peacock due to semantics. Story goes that Great Indian Bustard, an impressive and one of the heaviest flying birds on our planet, found only in Indian subcontinent was also in the running for the title of India’s national bird but was rejected on grounds that its name could easily be bastardised to Great Indian “Bastard” whether in jest or all seriousness. However, that loss became the last nail in the coffin for the already declining Bustard population in India. Once spread all over India abundantly, by 1970s only 1300 remained due to extensive habitat loss and hunting, which further plummeted to a devastating 150-odd extant population from where there is little hope of species propagation. Desert National Park in the outskirts of Jaisalmer is the last remaining primary habitat for breeding of Bustards. There, I stumbled upon a majestic Great Indian Bustard flying in the distance, by pure happenstance. Once again, I was left to pick up my jaw from the ground in Rajasthan.

Read: The Great Indian Bustard’s last sigh [Livemint]

Finally, after all these incidents, I was sure Rajasthan couldn’t surprise me anymore. Then Rajasthan Tourism released a campaign that featured a stunning Chambal river with a horseshoe bend, bound by a forested cliff full of waterfalls and my jaw drops to the floor once again.

Table of contents:

1. Where exactly is Raja Ampat?
2. Why should you visit Raja Ampat?
3. How to get to Raja Ampat Islands?
4. Visa and other permits
5. Where can you stay in Raja Ampat?
• Homestays
• Dive Resorts
• Liveaboards
6. What’s the best time to visit Raja Ampat?
7. What about transportation between the islands?
8. What’s are the things to do in Raja Ampat Islands?
• Dive, obviously
• Snorkel, there’s a lot happening just below the water surface!
• Look for Birds of Paradise
• Enjoy the iconic views of Karst Landscapes
• Meet the people of Raja Ampat and support Community-based Tourism
• Trekking in the rainforests
• Island hopping, Kayaking and Beach Bumming
9. How do I plan my trip to Raja Ampat?
10. Other tips

So here's a photo story on snorkeling in Raja Ampat to begin with!

A bad habit I picked up of late has been paying off greatly in a surprising turn of events. I’ve had a case of bad travel fatigue over the past two years and unlike before, I’ve stopped researching about wherever I’m travelling to. Given I’ve mostly been travelling on assignment or with friends who are exceptional travel planners, I can afford to not do my research and still not get into any trouble. The happy side effect of this indolence is that I’m now often blessed with the gift of surprise. Imagine that, arriving at a place without any expectations and experiencing wonder! That’s exactly what happened during my hugely rewarding trip to east Indonesia few weeks ago. I was travelling on assignment and all I knew was that we were going to a remote village within mountains, only accessible by boat in Makassar province.