I’m on a low forested hill. Scattered all around me are large stone jars, roughly cylindrical in shape, differing in size but generally a bit bigger than a person. Most are standing straight but some are canted over and few lying flat on the ground. They were carved by some ancient people, supposedly for burying their dead, and have been left here for thousands of years. The jars show their age, they are covered by moss and lichen and many of them have been cracked or broken. I get an Indiana Jones kind of feeling about this place, but then there are the tourists; a whole bus load of middle aged Europeans snapping away with their smartphones. I am a tourist too, there’s no way I can deceive myself to believe otherwise, but it kind of ruins the feeling with so many other people here.