India -

f camels are the ships of the desert, then I must be on the Titanic. There's rolling, lurching and pitching – not to mention belching and farting. I could do with an iceberg though: it is already far too hot a couple of hours after breakfast, and it's only going to get hotter. I can't even address the camel by name; we were introduced at the start of the safari, but its name sounded much like the noises it has been making ever since and I forgot it immediately. Three more days of this seems a long, long time.

I am in the great Thar Desert of Rajasthan that stretches all the way to Pakistan. This morning I left the town of Jaisalmer on a three day camel safari with Mr Desert, a local celebrity and the most Rajasthani looking Rajasthani I have ever met. A great bear of a man with a bushy beard and mischievous pale grey eyes, I have known him for years, but never got round to taking one of his safaris before.

Jaisalmer is one of those fairytale places. A massive fort set on a hill in the middle of the desert, its warren of tiny alleys cries out for mystery and romance. In places they are so narrow that the ornate stone balconies of opposing buildings nearly touch, and if you meet one of the many sacred cows that claim the place as their own, it will be you who has to give way.

There is only one way into the fort, up a steep and twisting road that leads through a number of huge gates, complete with spikes set at the right height to stop elephants from pushing them down. The fort is 850 years old, built at a time when the Rajasthan city-states were always at war.

The City Palace, overlooking the town square, is an ornate, seven-storey structure, once the home of the Maharaja of Jaisalmer and now a museum. Standing on its roof and looking out to the desert beyond the fort walls it is easy to imagine how the Maharaja might have felt surveying his domain.

The first stop on our camel safari is the Royal Chatris that overlook the town. These are the sites of the cremations of the Maharajahs of Jaisalmer and have a commanding view. They are the best place to watch the sunset turning the walls of Jaisalmer a rich yellow, a sight which in the hyperbole of travel has given the town the name Golden City.

During the day we pass through a series of tiny villages, and in each one a gaggle of laughing children follow us, while women peer at us from behind impromptu veils made by holding their red saris over their faces.

That night we camp in the sand dunes. These are smaller than the more famous Sam Dunes, but that means we have them all to ourselves. We sit around the campfire looking up at the bewildering canopy of stars arching over us. Now the cold desert night comes in handy, as the beers we leave a few metres away from the fire are soon chilled to perfection.

Mr Desert tells me about how he got started in the tourist industry. He used to be a long distance lorry driver, until he won the Jaisalmer Desert Festival Mr Desert contest five years in a row and had the title awarded to him for life. A friend suggested he get into the tourist business, and after teaching himself English he did just that. His business has grown, and he has even done advertisements for Coca Cola and Jaisalmer brand cigarettes. His face can be seen on postcards all around the town.

The next day we start early and around lunchtime reach Amar Sagar, an ancient water tank that is dry for most of the year but fills quickly if the monsoon is strong enough. Next to the tank is a new Jain Temple, decked with ornate carvings and statues. I take my time exploring, delaying the moment when I have to get back on my anonymous camel.

Sticking out of the wall of the tank, just like at Gadi Sagar next to Jaisalmer, there are carved stone animals at different heights. These represent different depths of water, so people might refer to a particular year as an elephant year.

It is a long, hot day, but by now I have got into the rhythm of my camel's gait and don't feel as much discomfort. In spite of myself, I am beginning to enjoy the riding as much as the scenery. I have always loved deserts and the character of the people who live in them, the harshness of the environment scored into their faces as deeply as it is scored into the landscape.

In the heaviest heat of the day we come across an old shepherd with his flock. He isn't going anywhere, just standing there holding a lamb in his arms. He has a bright orange turban and a thick beard and watches the arrival of our motley caravan as if it's a common sight. His face breaks into a wide smile as we greet him. I look back five minutes later; he is still watching us.

Later that afternoon we finally arrive at the deserted town of Kuldhara. Rumour has it that one day a local chieftain turned up and demanded the Headman's daughter in marriage. Rather than agree to this, the whole village disappeared into the desert during the night. Looking at the arid traces of the river that once ran past the village, more likely it was drought that drove the villagers out. Over the years the houses have gradually fallen into disrepair, making it a ghostly place to walk, especially as the setting sun casts long shadows among the ruins.

Tomorrow we are going to be picked up by jeep from Jaisalmer, but I still haven't had enough of camel riding and suggest that we go for a gallop. Mr Desert grins and agrees, and so we have impromptu camel races up and down the dry riverbed, screaming like madmen, until the sun goes down and it is too dark to see.