From Varanasi to Nasik

The more I thought about my crossroads the more roads I discovered. It took a leisurely three days to work it out. A trip to Nepal? A flight south? A venture to the remote North-East or even Bangladesh? A full southerly clockwise route? On day three I concocted a new plan; I decided to head back west and work my way to the South. Depending on whether I would remain ahead or behind of schedule, there would still be plenty of options available for me.

During the thinking period I enjoyed yet more laid back time in Varanasi. This time included me somehow getting up for my second sunset in as many months, this time for a boat ride across the Ganges with Hannah. It was pleasant, but I prefer being in the thick of it in the busy daytime. At one point though, Hannah asked a surprising question. "Is that a body?" she asked, pointing left into the river. Looking left I noticed a head, a couple of hands and a couple of feet floating motionless in the river. Anywhere else you wouldn't flicker an eyelid, but in the Ganges who knows? A couple of seconds later the toes began to wiggle; a local was having an early morning bath. The submerged cow we saw later, however, was not.

For my final day in Varanasi, I bought myself a present; a sitar lesson. I booked it at a music shop near my guesthouse, only realising later that I hadn't even met the tutor. I knew what I wanted though; an old, wise-looking, slightly frail but still nimble sitar master. When I entered the music shop, I wasn't disappointed. Sat down crossed-legs on the floor was Babadi; a seventy year old with thirty-five years of sitar experience, and exactly as I expected. To further boost my expected stereotype, he was half-deaf and had only half of his eyes working to match.

"What is your name?".
"Andy".
"Angy?".
"Andy!".
"Angy?".
"ANDY!".
"Angy?".
" ... ... yes."

It felt like being with one of the grandmas.

The lesson went well. Being a guitarist helps immensely. However, the most surprising thing was the pain; not in my already callused-fingers, but in my left leg! The heavy instrument sits on the foot of the crossed left leg and leans on the upwards-bent right leg. As a beginner, I found my leg going to sleep every ten minutes, causing me to get up and stroll around the tiny music shop. This apparently is normal. It was good though. I'd like to play one again, only this time with the freedom to play around, rather than doing progressively difficult versions of a simple song called 'Papa, Mama'. I'm still not sure if it was English, Hindi, or gobbledygook, but Babadi did a nice job of singing along anyway. Babadi is so cool!

On Wednesday it was finally time to leave Varanasi. After yet another goodbye to Hannah (I've lost count), I boarded the long train back south. This was extra nice because no-one tried to drug me! I got off at Jalgaon and caught a bus to the Ajanta caves. Numerous impressive sculptures and murals have survived the years in a bunch of caves discovered in 1819. The caves are set in really nice scenery, and it was a worthy stop.

I subsequently travelled down to Aurangabad, my base for a couple of nights, and on Thursday I made the day trip to Ellora. Ellora is another set of ancient sculpture filled caves, and was even more impressive than Ajanta. Most impressive of all, however, was cave 16; The Kailash Temple. It may seem confusing for a cave to be classed as a temple, but when you're there it's easy to forget it's a cave at all. The Kailash Temple isn't built from rock, it is built out of the rock. Over a period of one hundred years, a huge whole was dug from the cliff face, and a beautifully carved temple was sculpted. It's all very impressive.

On Friday I travelled west to Nasik. and on Saturday I took a ride to the river and to Ram Kund; a tank made from the river. It's a very holy place for Hindus, and in some ways it was reminiscent of the popular bathing ghat in Varanasi, albeit on a larger scale. The atmosphere was nice as people bathed in the water and just generally seemed happy. I stayed there for a while embracing the mood, and engaging in the occasional lost conversation. Being fairly off the beaten track, friendly locals are more enthusiastic than ever in saying hello to the white face, and one seemed very smug about gabbing away at me for a good five or ten minutes even though it was blatantly obvious I barely picked up a word. As with most of these encounters, the chirpy local offered to pose in a photograph before he said his farewells.

After a while I moved on to Kala Ram Mandir; The Black Rama Temple. This was the setting for a very well known scene in the Hindu book of Ramayana. Again there was a nice atmosphere, and with no further plans for the rest of the day, I sat down amongst the enthusiastic music makers and took it all in. I was there for quite a while, although it seemed like the musicians were happily going to stay all day. I particularly liked it how the microphone was passed around the circle, allowing everyone to have a go as vocalist.

Tomorrow I catch the train to Hyderabad, but I also hope to squeeze in a day trip to Trimbak beforehand.

Varanasi

Last year I was in Sela bar in Leeds city centre. I remember a conversation I had with a friend. We were talking about travelling, and he was telling me about his experience of Varanasi. He did not like it. He informed me of the role that the river Ganges played in Varanasi's relationship with death, but the strongest memory I have of this conversation was his talk of the poverty. My friend informed me of a screaming limbless beggar he witnessed on the street, and he advised me not to go there; it would disturb me. I informed my friend that if this kind of life is going on in the world, I don't wish to turn a blind eye to it. I want to witness and understand it for myself, even if it is disturbing. Varanasi was lodged in my head.

It's now about eighteen months later, and since arriving here on Tuesday night, I have my own Varanasi experience to talk about. I am staying at Vishnu Rest House overlooking the river. The Ganges is littered with numerous ghats along it's nearside bank; steps leading down to the waters. Upon these steps, Indians gather amongst the holy waters. On Wednesday I began to explore. I decided to stroll south along the river. Kids play with kites as families bath in the dirty waters, believing the holy water brings purity to the living. Lines of people slap their clothes against the steps and use the waters for their washing. Lines of laundry dry in the midday sun.

However, there is little doubt at what the most interesting, fascinating, bewildering and shocking part of the Varanasi ghats is. Pockets of fire and smoke burn from the base of the Harishchandra Ghat. I knew what to expect before I arrived. By the rivers edge, deceased bodies are surrounded by logs and cremated. Relatives watch. The body I had witnessed being carried through the streets the previous day was, I presume, going to the river. Hindus believe that dying in Varanasi attains you enlightenment, and widows and the elderly therefore come to the city to live out their final days. Bodies are cremated by the river's edge; the Ganges is thought to bring salvation to the dead as well as salvation to the living.

As I sat on an upper step looking down, I was conscious and unsure of how I should act. Photography, I knew, would be treated with fierce objection, but what about mere intrigue and observation? I was comforted slightly by the number of locals watching the preceding, but were they all friends and family? Was the ceremony as public as it seemed?

I was soon approached by a man. As in all places visited by many tourists, the incentive of an approaching, confident and English speaking man is likely to be to make money from me, but nevertheless I attempted to get answers to my questions. I asked him if it was okay to observe, and he said it was fine. As we talked, a new body was brought to the river. I also asked the man about the emotions that the friends and family of the deceased were likely to be feeling; the lack of emotion on display surprised me. Obviously sadness would surely be a part of it, but was there a flip side to it? They had died in Varanasi and were being cremated in the Ganges river; This was a good thing, and they were very lucky.

Unfortunately the man failed to understand my question, but he did point out to me a nearby man dressed in white. He had shaved all the hair on his head, indicating he was a close family member in mourning. Strangely, the shaved man didn't always have his eyes fixed firmly on the cremation, and it soon became apparent that despite the emotion he must have been feeling, he was still fully alert; A cricket ball came racing towards him at lightning speed, and the man grasped it out of the air with ease. He calmly passed it back to a waiting boy. Just yards away from the burning bodies, some locals were enjoying a friendly game of India's number one sport.

After failing to get more answers from a man who just wanted to sell me cannabis, I soon moved to the next ghat. I witnessed how the jolly cricketers found nothing strange about batting their cricket ball far into the Ganges rivers by the cremations, and how they asked a possible mourner near the shore if he could swim over and retrieve the ball. I witnessed yet more bathers and washers using the water, and behind them a dog chewing a bone. It looked like a jaw bone to me. I wonder. A nearby woman soon shooed the dog away once she noticed it.

After strolling down the river, taking a rest, and being startled by a creeping-up goat, I ate some food and went looking for The Monkey Temple. I failed to find it, but when I paid a bicycle rickshaw to take me there, I realised it hadn't been worth the search. I returned to the river and strolled back north. I witnessed more cremations, more cricket and more fun kite flying. Life side by side with death.

On my second day in Varanasi I strolled north along the river. A sole man attempted to fish by the river's edge; not a catch I fancy eating. I also reached Dashaswamedh Ghat, the busiest ghat for bathers. As I walked further up the river I suddenly stopped in my tracks. For the first time I witnessed Manikarnika Ghat, a larger and more crowded funeral ghat than I saw yesterday. Huge numbers of burning wood piles littered the ground amongst the mourners. The absence of gawping tourists, however, baffled me.

My guide book informed me of what happens to the tourists who do come here; they are soon snapped up by 'wood touts' who provide lots of fascinating information about the funeral, including the apparently very high wood costs required to burn a body, and finally, how much money I would like to donate to the cause. I felt that my book was ambiguous about how genuine these people were. This happened to me instantly. I was ushered to a balcony above the funerals (he told me that only relatives are allowed to be there; information contrary to what I was told the previous day). He then told me lots of fascinating information and answered my questions:

Women can not come to the ceremony because, in the past, any woman who was at the burning of her husband would have to jump onto the fire alive.
Some deceased people, such as children and pregnant women, cannot be burned; they are taken to the centre of the river, attached to stone, and sunk.
After a body has been burning for two hours, a close family member smashes open the softened skull; releasing the soul.
Crying is forbidden at the cremations, half answering my question the previous day of why there was not as much sadness as I would have expected.

Unfortunately, the quality of the information I received was matched by the man's anger when I refused to hand him money, and I had no choice but to leave. I now understood why tourists were thin on the ground.

The rest of the day was spent strolling around more of Varanasi, but now I have other things on my mind. I once again find myself at a crossroads. I could go to Nepal, but apparently it's getting cold in the higher regions. Furthermore, I don't want to eat into too much of the time I have left to spend in South India.

Today I have been taking things easy and have been doing more research on where to go next. However, I am taking my time. I have not found Varanasi to be as bad as my friend implied. I have had no significant problems with beggars compared to other Indian places, and I have found the activity by the riverside to be nothing short of intriguing. Surprisingly, I feel very comfortable and relaxed here, and the travellers around me seem to feel the same way. Our guesthouse overlooks the riverside, but it is not a morbid scene; I see bathers, washers and many playing children. The scene is tranquil; the billowing smoke in the background becomes part of the scenery. I feel no rush.

From Jodhpur to Varanasi

After just a few hours in Jodhpur we moved on to our real intended destination; Jaisalmer. Coincidentally, this meant re-meeting yet again with Hannah, who had been hanging out in Jaisalmer for a good while. I said my goodbyes to Jen and Becky, and on the second day joined Hannah and a couple of Americans to visit a school for unprivileged children. Over recent days Hannah had become close to the owner of our guesthouse, Dhanna. Dhanna played a big part in the running of the school, and so I agreed to come along and witness the good work, a concept lost on so many privileged Indians. However, whilst seeing the school was interesting, the woman currently in charge was very pushy, and only wanted our money. We had hoped to offer some time helping the kids learn English, but that had not been possible at the time we arrived. We left the school in appreciation of what was trying to be done, but disappointed in the attitude towards visitors.

The following day the Americans, three Germans and myself embarked on a camel trek recommended by Hannah and run by Dhanna's guesthouse. Jaisalmer is the most famous place for camel trekking in India, and it certainly felt a lot more professional than the ad-hoc trek we had done in Pushkar. Right from the start it felt a lot more safe; falling off didn't feel too likely. Everybody had their our own personal camel, and the food was of a very high standard considering we were out in the desert. The trek was much more secluded too, we were clearly a long way away from civilization.

The atmosphere in the camp that night was not as good as on my Pushkar trek, but the actual trekking was a much better experience. However, as soon as I climbed onto Papoo the camel on my second day, I realised that there was a challenge ahead of me. Riding a camel is painful, and my bottom was already weary from the previous day. Of course, I wasn't the only one feeling the pain, but our group fought on.

With a days experience behind us, our guides felt that we were ready to push our camel skills a little further; our camels began to run. We had done a little running on day one, but this time the sprints were much more lengthy. This was bittersweet. It was certainly fun, especially at the higher speeds, but the faster Papoo ran, the more my pain increased. My soar thighs rubbed against Papoo, and my back felt very tired and stiff. Every one of Papoo's strides hurled me in the air, crashing my bum back down again in preparation for the next imminent flight. Riding a running camel is an experience I glad I have, and an experience I'm glad is behind me.

Towards the end of the second day my group prepared for one last sprint. I was exhausted, and along with Manuel from Germany, we kept our camels at walking pace. However, as the group began to mingle in with the trees in the distance I had a change of heart; I wanted to run with Papoo one last time. Making Papoo run, however, had been a challenge; You are suppose to whip camels with the reigns to make them pick up speed, but in the past I had failed to make an impact on Papoo's pace. This time, though, I was successful. With just a few light whips Papoo picked up speed, and Manuel was left behind.

The group in the distance had gone quite far now, but as the pain began to increase I slowed Papoo down. The group were nowhere to be seen, and looking behind me I saw no sign of Manuel. Me and Papoo strolled through the desert alone, but it felt great. Beforehand, Papoo had just followed the camel in front, but with just me and my camel in the gaping sands, I had a reason to steer, hopefully re-finding our friends somewhere over the hill. However, it was unclear where our group was. After a short while a group of camels were could be seen to our right, but I was unsure whether it was my group; my group had originally ridden much further left. I was still wondering which way to go when my decision was made for me; Papoo steered right. It was only after a little while, and after the distant camels had disappeared over the hill, that I realised that I was lost in the desert and had just left the decision of which way to go solely on the will of a camel.

Luckily for me, Papoo was correct. Over the hill my group were resting under a tree. Although Papoo seemed to prefer munching on the local shrubbery rather than joining his mates, we eventually rejoined our friends. Manuel was a few minutes behind. It was here that I climbed off Papoo for the last time, and here that I retire my camel riding days.

Occasionally on my travels I find myself at a crossroads; a point in time when I have little or no idea where to go next. After a little research I decided that it was time to head east to Varanasi. I also am now strongly considering a trip into Nepal. I therefore booked my train east, and by coincidence again, Hannah was booked onto the same train, albeit in a higher class. The train started in Jodphur though, and so on Sunday we caught the five hour bus east. It was actually a shame that we had just one night in Jodphur. The market place had a really great atmosphere at night time, and it would have been nice to explore the city in the daytime too. Nevertheless, my ticket was booked, and on Monday morning we headed to the station. At 9:30, the proposed 25 hour journey to Varanasi began.

When I first arrived in my carriage, there was a man sat there who spoke English. After just a few minutes a beggar crawled in and began to tap my leg. Beggars are very common in India, but this one was very persistent; he stayed with me for five or ten minutes, despite me paying him no attention. I began asking the man about his opinions on beggars and what the moral thing is to do. He backed up what I already thought was the case. This boy could walk perfectly fine (although of course, some beggars are genuinely disabled). The boy crawls into the carriage just for affect. It is mostly foreigners who hand out money because the locals know better. The man next to me estimated that the boy would earn about 250 rupees a day, quite a nice sum, much better than many genuine working Indians earn. He was not so poor, but he was also not making a positive contribution to society. The boy also seemed interested in my bag of fruit I had bought from the seller outside the train. However, the man confirmed to me that he was not hungry; any fruit I gave him would be sold right back to the seller. After giving the boy very little attention, he eventually crawled on. Minutes later a second boy crawled in, this time only lasting about 30 seconds before giving up. Not long later I was also pestered by eunuchs (men cruelly castrated at birth and destined for a life of begging), and some drummers (who at least were entertaining people with music to earn their rupees).

The man next to me disembarked when the train set off; he was only saying goodbye to his non-English speaking relative. For most of my journey I was surrounded by non-English speaking locals, except for when I payed Hannah the occasional visit many carriages further up the train. I spent most of my time listening to my IPod, drinking chai (lovely Indian tea), and hopping off the train at every stop to buy some local snacks. I quite enjoyed the ride, but after we passed Jaipur my mood briefly sobered. A local pointed out to me the derailed train besides the tracks. A good few people had died just days early in a train accident; not an uncommon event in India.

The rest of the daytime went smoothly; I met Hannah for a bit, and lent a local my IPod for a short while. However, he seemed disappointed at the lack of Hindi music in my collection. In the evening another local with good English took an interest in me. The usual rigmarole began; a series of questions, including the occasional bemusing one ("What are your strengths?"). We were suddenly interrupted by a man in the adjacent set of beds, up on the top bunk. He asked if he could have some water, because he was thirsty. This bemused me; water could be bought regularly, and he could not be a poor man if he was riding the train. With a spare bottle in hand, I handed him my open bottle and kept alert. He leaned to the side out of sight, and I noticed he had a friend hiding next to him. They clearly were doing something with the bottle, but whatever it was they were not drinking. After just five or ten seconds they handed me my bottle back. From now on I was on-guard. After pausing for a while to analyse the situation, I openly and clearly poured the contents of the bottle out of the window. Druggings are rare but not unheard of in India, and thievery on trains is equally a problem. A white person is a prime target, and a journey to a popular backpacker destination such as Varanasi is prime territory for thieves. I was not scared; violent attacks are very rare indeed, but I did not feel like losing any belongings - or for that matter, taking an extra long sleep on my train.

The man from the upper bunk clearly took an interest in me, and he soon moved down to sit opposite me. He liked to stare at me too. After a while he engaged himself in conversation with the man I had been talking to, and despite not understanding Hindi, it was totally clear who they were talking about. The man next to me informed the suspicious man of the places I had been to and was going to, and he even mentioned 'Software Engineer'. At this point I also began to arouse suspicion with the man I was talking to; he had been asking me which bunk I was in and whether I was sleepy. I began to fear a long night of having to stay wide awake, but luckily things changed. The very suspicious man left his bunk, walked up and down the train once, and never came back. I wondered if he was looking for another westerner. I slept on my belongings, and gradually gained more trust in the man sleeping near me. I now think that he was harmless, but without wanting to sound paranoid, I remain extremely skeptical about the intentions of the man who asked for my water. In the morning though, both me and my belongings were fine.

The 25 hour journey continued in Indian time. By this, I mean that it arrived after 29 hours had elapsed; my longest journey of the year. Me and Hannah are now in Varanasi; a very old, holy, and fascinating town. As we sat in a cafe just moments ago, a chanting crowd could be heard from outside. They sounded celebratory, but my interpretation was surely wayward. The crowd soon bounced past the window. With them, they carried the deceased body of a woman. This is Varanasi. I'm sure I will have much more to say on this in my next blog entry.

From Pushkar to Mandvi

The timing had not been great; whilst my group of five would be on our camel trek, we would be missing a potentially hilarious event at the Pushkar fair. Hannah, on the second time of asking, had agreed to be involved in the ceremony which involves dressing up hapless Western tourists in traditional Indian wedding garb, and then letting a bunch of judges choose the best.

Hannah's event soon left our minds though. I was soon climbing behind Denny on the back of a crouching camel. Moments later, and with a couple of bumps, the camel was on it's feet, and we were totally aware of the very unsafe feeling that you get whilst riding a camel with nothing to hold on to. As the camel walks it pushes from side to side, and the only way to hold on appears to be to push your thighs into the beast; a pursuit that soon grows tiresome.

A minute into the journey I was inquisitive. I asked Denny if he had been told what the camel was called. He didn't know, but he informed me that the man walking in front of the camel was Roger. "Roger!" I called. Roger didn't flinch. "Roger!" I called again, but to no avail. "Roger?!" I asked one more time. After a slight pause, the man turned around. "What's our camel called?" I asked. "Raju!", replied the man I had mistakenly been calling Roger.

The ride was fun, but got increasingly tiresome on the legs. Gladly, it didn't take long for us to arrive at the camp. We had a nice evening sleeping under the stars and picking small spiky sand things off our Velcro-like clothes. A local man joined us and seem to enjoy playing the one and only song he knew on his instrument over and over, but it sounded good and atmospheric. Meanwhile our camels lazed around us, except Ernst's beloved camel, Johnny, who seemingly strayed away for hours by himself in the desert.

The following morning we rode our camels back to town, and before long the five of us were having a farewell meal in a restaurant. Hannah was there as well. "So did you win?", I jokingly asked. There was a slight pause before she answered; I clearly had spoiled the surprise. She embarrassingly uncovered a misspelled trophy before informing us all of her victory. The restaurant owner later brought out one of many different national newspapers from that day, open on page fourteen sporting bizarre pictures of the winning Western girl in Indian dress. It was a shame we missed it, she looked so horrible!

After saying an emotional goodbye to Hannah and Denny (possibly for the last time I think, especially where Denny is concerned) Jen, Becky and myself found ourselves on a bus to Udaipur. Unfortunately I got ill in Udaipur, probably from too much sun, and I spent a good few days trying to regain my energy and enthusiasm. After an uninspiring time in Udaipur, we moved on to Bhuj, and soon after that, Mandvi. I feel like little has happened of interest lately, but maybe things will pick up soon. Tonight we take an overnight train back into the state of Rajasthan. We arrive in Jodhpur in the morning.