Hindus come to Varanasi to die. Many old or sick take up a place in one of the famous ‘death hotels’, and wait for their time to go. They believe dying in this city, and having your body burnt on the banks of the Ganges, will release you from the unending cycle of rebirth and death, and allow you to gain salvation. Some locals tell me Lord Shiva created Varanasi; the oldest and most holy city in India. Coronavirus will never come here, they say; Shiva will protect us.

“You have come here before,” smiles the elderly gentleman behind the guesthouse reception as soon as I walk in. “So much has changed. Then we were not able to speak freely. Now we are!” Mr Soe has the longest eyebrows I have seen, extending upwards from his forehead. They are pure white.

The last time I visited Hpa-an in the Kayin State of Myanmar was 2012. The dominant rebel political group in the area, the Karen National Union (KNU), had just signed a ceasefire with the Burmese military, ushering in a long spell of relative peace to the area. A few hours from Thailand, the town’s disproportionate number of SUVs indicated the region was financially advantaged by its proximity to the border. It was the only place in Myanmar I saw real Coco-cola; everywhere else served the indigenous Star Cola, which to be honest tasted just as good.

“Are you religious sis?” asks Nazareth. We had just stopped the car for a prayer before we set off on the road. Westlife ballads are emitting from the stereo. I distractedly admit I’m not. I am busy wondering if the prayers are necessary because the roads are that bad. We are on the way to Chinland, a mountainous, inaccessible state in the west of Myanmar. One of the poorest and least developed in the country, it is home to the ethnic Chins, who are predominately Christians.

We are hunched on low wicker stools, drinking chai, at the edge of the road. The afternoon sun is hitting me face on, I am squinting, and it is a second or two before I realised Tulsi is crying. “He opened his shoes to buy vegetables.” She demonstrates by putting her feet on top of her sandals. This is a reference to the custom of untouchables taking off their shoes in front of a person from a higher caste.

Tulsi Pariyar is a local government representative in Ward 10 of Lalitpur, the neighbouring city to Kathmandu. She is also of the Pariyar caste group, a former untouchable, or Dalit, and a vegetable seller in the afternoons. She had been describing her work for local government when the conversation moved to discrimination. The tears came while recounting a recent incident of a higher-caste person coming to her stall to buy vegetables. “I felt very, very upset… we are all humans.” What would you like this achieve in politics I ask her. “Abolishing caste”, she replies.

Hundreds of curvaceous nymphs adorn the outside of the temple, jewelled necklaces conceal little of their breasts. Between scenes of elephants and soldiers, flute-players and dragons, fleshy, ornamented couples, are depictions of groups of men and women engaging in acrobatic sexual positions. One shows a man in a head-stand penetrating a female who is being held upright by two voluptuous nymphs. Inside the inner sanctum of the temple, a Brahmin priest is chanting in front of a Shiva lingum, the phallic symbol of the Hindu God Shiva.

Inaccessible mountain landscapes tend to preserve ancient traditions and cultures. The Indian state of Himachal Pradesh, famous as the sanctuary of the Dalai Lama, is a state tangled with jagged mountain ridges, gorge-like valleys, thunderous rivers and icy lakes. It is the home of many ancient tribal groups, and moving just a few kilometres over a mountain pass can reveal a complete change in language, dress and culture. One of the most fascinating of these groups is the colourful, transhumant Gaddis.