Round the World Journal
by Matt Donath
The jeep ride down to Siliguri is even harder on me than the bus. I get carsick on the switchback roads. The jeep is a bit faster than the bus, but also more compact and probably more dangerous. "Is this okay?" asks a nattily dressed young Indian guy as he squeezes into the seat next to us. "Sure, plenty of room," I reply laughing.
At first I think he's joking, but then I see he doesn't realize that the jeep driver will somehow shoehorn four more people into our seat. Hell, they even jam four bodies on the driver's bench. The driver shifts gears between one unfortunate man's legs.
"I'm a tourist too" says the man next to us. "I'm from Dali." He has alcohol on his breath. He's wearing a 70's maroon polyester suit with a yellow turtleneck underneath. He dons several pieces of bright gold jewelry and a red tikka graces his forehead. I don't know where "Dali" is. Perhaps he means "Delhi," but I thought people there say "Dilli." Sybil thinks he looks like a gangster.
When they shoehorn another person in our row, the Gangster becomes visibly upset. His arms are no longer free to light cigarettes. " I don't like this," he complains. "I'm a tourist too!" He moves to the back seat where he has room to smoke but will get bounced around more. He repeatedly and truly accidentally bangs his elbows against the backs of our heads. When we stop for lunch and I am too carsick to eat, he asks about this concernedly.
The Gangster has a forked right thumb. Two separate thumb tips split off from the joint. Both right thumbnails are painted bright red. Somehow I have the strange impression that he may be the Indian god of travel.
The only reason we are in Siliguri is to book more train tickets. Unfortunately, we arrive after the office has inexplicably closed early for the day. We sleep at the Hotel Venus (not rec.) but follow local tips to the Ranjit Hotel (rec) for dinner. The Ranjit staff waves burning frankincense around to repel the tenacious local mosquitoes.
Five men cart a dead woman's body down the street on a litter, tossing flowers behind. The youthful face of the deceased comically bobs up and down as she is carted. Several flies resist half-hearted efforts to shoo them away from her partially opened mouth.
Oct 26. Our first Indian train ride may not be pleasant, but we do have memorable views out the window. Many villages are involved in a "chhat puja." Large processions of colorfully dressed people carrying baskets of food on their heads march to band music towards rivers or ponds. Here they seem to pray, often while standing in the water.
Rice fields are the most common feature of this landscape but with amazing variation. Sometimes the terrain looks wet and tropical with palm trees, water buffalo, and lotus flowers. Other times it seems almost arid with desert plants, rocky grave markers, and peacocks. I've never seen so many interesting birds from a train before.
While reading a laughably inaccurate Indian history textbook (Ankor Wat is in Java!) Sybil comes across the words to the national anthem. She persuades three young people on the train to sing it - an impressive accomplishment, as they don't speak a word of English!
I've heard several travelers complain that Indians were the rudest, most inconsiderate people on earth. Up until now, we hadn't seen too much to support this, but the behavior of some people on this train might explain this reaction.
Throughout the entire night, people around us play cards, smoke, talk, shine bright flashlights, and bang on the seats and walls as if playing drums. Worst of all, guys literally sit on my feet, as I'm cursed with a lower bunk. I shove them off, only to have someone else either sit on me or try to shove my legs out of the way.
Theoretically, there should be "only" 9 people to an aisle, or 72 people to a car of 8 rows. At least that's how many tickets are sold. Our car has almost twice this number. Many bunks sleep two or three to a bunk that I barely fit on. People sleep in the aisle and sometimes between rows. There's even a guy sleeping in front of the door to the evil smelling restroom.
Now all those people, plus the many station stops with their bright lights, automated announcements, music and blasting horns, create a challenging enough environment for peaceful repose. Add about a dozen obnoxious jerks sitting up all night, and you've got the type of environment that perturbs a traveler.
Oct 27. India looks best in the pre-dawn light. Diffuse light bathes an idyllic countryside in a serenity that contrasts with the clatter of the day. Like a Monet painting, the fuzziness of the view enhances the scene. The sun rises to reveal hundreds of rural people squatting in the fields for their morning defecation. Exhaust-belching trucks all too quickly fill the roads and the air warms into a visible film that distorts the now-chaotic picture.
Four beefy military guys carrying comically large rifles squeeze through the overcrowded car, poking at baggage. Middle berths are flipped up and the subtle battle for space on the lower bunks begins. Ants swarm about the piles of trash on the floor. A boy crawls through the garbage, seeming almost to swim through it, but he's sweeping some of it towards the ends of the cars. Passengers bark directions at him, pointing out trash for him to remove. When the boy comes around later to beg for money for his services he sometimes receives a few coins.
Eighteen hours after departing, we arrive in Moghul Serai--about four hours late. An auto-rickshaw driver smoothly tries to convince us that the best option available to us is to come with him into Varanasi for 50rs. We've heard from other travelers that they paid 150rs for this ride and this guy seems so thoroughly and completely honest that I'm tempted to abort our usual checking around. While standing in line for a train into town, the rickshaw driver calmly tells us that the train costs 17rs a ticket and that with the additional cost of a rickshaw from the central train station into the Old City, his offer is no more expensive and far more expeditious.
"Of course you should check the price yourself," he croons. "You'll see." He's so relaxed with his mendacity! We wait in line and we do see. It's only 5rs to take the train. The liar slips away when we reach the front of the line.
On the train into town, two local guys want to talk politics (Clinton's sex scandal, Indians vote according to caste and religion), travel (they recommend we skip Pakistan) and society values (America and Singapore are corrupted by materialism). From them we learn that a rickshaw into the Old City costs 10rs.
Naturally, the weasels at the train station won't take us for 10rs, so we have to walk down the road a bit before getting the local rate. The Varanasi streets are even more insanely chaotic than others we've seen. We're just wandering in amazement, trying to get our bearings, when a guy asks: "Looking for the Yogi Lodge? This is the real one." Umm, no, but maybe. We'd heard that there were a bunch of Yogi Lodges here but had no idea that there was a "real one."
Turns out this Yogi Lodge (rec. 392-588) opened over 20 years ago and its success spawned many imitators. The current crop includes: "New Yogi Lodge," "Old Yogi Lodge," "Gold Yogi Lodge" (copying the imitation?), "Yogi Guesthouse," and my favorite - "Real - The Yogi Lodge." Not only has the Yogi Lodge survived the hijacking of their name, they have managed to overcome the most deadly curse known to budget accommodation -- a Lonely Planet recommendation. The rooms are clean and the showers are hot, but the food portions are not good value. We follow a tip from Darjeeling to the Ankita Restaurant (rec) to eat.
We hang around the ghats watching people washing clothes, bathing, and drinking (yuk!) the holy Ganges water. A woman tosses in a plastic bag containing cremation ashes. A doby ghaut vigorously beats a soapy shirt. A tourist boat drifts by, a safe distance off but close enough for pictures.
Sitting here, I think about those mystically ancient Varanasi ghats I remember from television documentaries. The modern traveler carries so many impressions of places before he visits them! Sybil teases me sometimes: "Why do you bother to go places you already know so much about?" Fortunately, the real experience is always different from pre-visit imaginations that are often more romantically mysterious than the vivid truth. The loss of exotic mystery is more than offset by the actual memory of life along this wonderful river that manages to retain its romance despite pollution, tourism, and modernity.
Oct 28. Up before dawn, I watch the birds and monkeys on the rooftops. One large monkey acrobatically leaps across the street onto the Yogi Lodge roof.
Sybil isn't feeling well so I have to tend to her most of the day. We do get out briefly to see the Golden Temple. Since non-Hindus are not allowed inside, you must find a nearby rooftop or upper-story windows for the view. After dropping my droopy wife back at the Yogi, I head down to the ghats for more observations of life. I lunch at a local place, full of flies and mice but with good turnover and tasty cheap food.
Everyone seems to be glued to the television, watching the "World Cup of Cricket" tournament in Bangladesh. At night the city explodes with firecrackers. The kids on the street below our room appear to be ready for a career in demolition. India has just won its cricket match.
Oct 29. Wandering around the narrow streets of the Old City, we occasionally check out guesthouses. After looking at the Vishnu (popular, decent food, but higher priced) and the Yogini (good views), we chat with the owner of the Aditya (clean, more good views). He tells us about an Internet place called Fontac Computer. He says that while this place is just a short walk away by twisting walkways, it would be far too difficult for us to find the way. He recommends a longer route along larger paths.
Sybil and I both like a challenge, even at the expense of common sense, so we opt for the shortcut. When we come to our first fork in the road, I say: "Let's follow that guy, he seems like he's going somewhere." Indeed, here is a man walking with purpose. I'm reminded of the ancient "Monkey Island" computer game where you must follow a pirate out of a maze. If you don't know where you are going, follow someone who looks like he does.
Well, we follow our "pirate" through an unbelievable maze of twisty, winding little footpaths. Sometimes we come across larger paths that tempt us to abandon our theory, but we stubbornly follow through. Looking at each other after each turn, we can only laugh at our absurdity. Will we follow this guy into his house on some obscure side street?
Then, suddenly, we come out onto a main street - right in front of Fontac Computer! Amazing! Turns out their Internet rates are far too high for us at 18rs per minute. Varanasi in general is too expensive for Internet as they must dial into Allahabad for an ISP. For comparison, Bangkok was 1.5 baht per min (with the baht about the same as an Indian rupee) and Kathmandu was 7rs per min (1.6 Nepal rs to 1 Indian rs).
We have a fantastic time getting lost in these Old City streets, eventually making our way back down to the ghats. Sitting near some old men, we listen to an unseen musician playing music that sounds vaguely Venetian. A herd of water buffaloes climbs out of the river onto the ghats. Long bamboo (fishing?) poles with attached baskets hang along the shore.
Strolling past the ghats of Bhonsale, Ganesh, Mehta, Ram, Balaji, and Raja Gwalio, we climb up and over to Manikarnika - the primary cremation ghat. Stacks of wood are weighed on scales to determine the cost of a cremation. A platform overlooks a grisly scene of burning bodies.
The annoying touts force us to seek refuge at the rooftop restaurant of the Shanti Guesthouse. The smell of charred human flesh rising from the cremations doesn't help our appetites, but the views here are some of the best in town.
Oct 30. What a difference a day makes! Yesterday was so enjoyably uplifting, while this day is one of the worst in my existence. I'm suddenly stricken with terrible, gut-wrenching diarrhea, to the point where horrible cramps regularly reduce me to staggering, on the verge of passing out, into the toilet where I wring watery volumes of bright-yellow mucus from my tortured innards. I'm coughing, my nose runs like a faucet and I have a high fever. The fever chills me to a wraith-touched uncontrollable shiver. An hour later I'm sweating profusely. After another hour, the cycle repeats.
A paper here recently reported an epidemic of diarrhea that killed thousands of people in a nearby province. I remember Sybil asking me how so many people could die of diarrhea and I replied that dehydration must have been the cause of death. I now have a far better appreciation as to how this could happen. Sybil leaves me well supplied with 2 liters of water and another of oral re-hydration solution. I'm well aware of the need to stay hydrated and need only reach out from the bed to grab a drink. Still, this is often too difficult for me to accomplish. I can only lie looking with delirious longing at the bottles in a state of supreme weakness and lethargy. Only when the intense pain of my stomach cramps lurches me back to the toilet am I able to snap out of my stupor and drink.
Oct 31. Although still wretchedly ill on this genuinely frightening Halloween day, we are able to reduce my fever to a less alarming level. Sybil humorously bullies me into drinking more. At night, I've recovered enough to wobble downstairs to eat some boiled peas and carrots. I'm certain they only have this completely flavorless dish on the menu for sickies like me. "Got the runs?" asks a Yogi manager. "Have to be careful of what you eat in Varanasi." Good advice!
India has been plagued recently by a series of sudden, drastic price rises of staple products such as onions, potatoes, and even salt. The price hikes are almost certainly due to artificial shortages caused by unscrupulous speculators. Official cars drive through the streets of Varanasi announcing by loudspeaker that there is no real shortage of salt. Despite this, salt sold in the markets at almost ten times its price per kilogram. Twenty-five people are arrested in Varanasi today for salt speculating.
Nov 1. Four days ago we made arrangements to have some business cards printed. In Singapore or Hong Kong the card printer would first calculate the time required for the job. He would tack this time onto the end of his work queue and inform the customer when the cards will be ready.
Here in India, things are different. The card printer must first determine the maximum amount of time he can delay starting the job:
"When will the cards be ready?"
"Next Monday."
"Oh, we have to leave on Monday."
"Saturday night at 7pm."
"OK, that sounds great."
"Actually - Sunday morning at 11am."
"Umm, OK," making a quick exit before the time expands back to Monday.
I believe the reason the Varanasi card printer must do this because he can make no realistic estimates on his next available free time. In fact, he can make no guarantees about anything because absolutely anything could happen to delay him. The many mice that scurry around his shop could eat the paper he needs. A monkey could raid his shop and confuse his records. The power could go out for hours. Speculators could artificially drive up the price of his supplies. A sacred cow could block the road leading to the printing press. His best employee could suddenly decide to quit work to become a sadyu. Literally, anything could happen.
So, today at about 11:15, we drop by the card printer's shop. The iron gate is down and pad-locked. We wait a bit. Sybil is concerned that a misunderstanding has been made but I figure that when the printer said "11am," he really meant "sometime in the indefinite future after 11am." In other words - "Indian time." We eat a second breakfast and return to find the printer in his shop. After leaving us standing around for several minutes while he pretends to work on something, the card printer admits he hasn't done the job. He promises the cards will be ready in one hour though.
Sybil starts plaintively explaining that we were here earlier and that our guesthouse is far away, etc. These things would probably provoke sympathy and possibly some recompense on the part of a Western card printer. She receives neither. However, when she returns several (lesson learned) hours later, the cards are there!
Varanasi is the filthiest, most chaotic city I've ever seen. Senses besieged, a foreign visitor steps into the mad whirlwind outside his guesthouse and is immediately harassed by predatory beggars, touts, rickshaw drivers, and fake sadhus. A sadhu is an ascetic who renounces worldly possessions and undertakes a spiritual quest. While it is common for sadhus to accept money for their basic needs, some of the Varanasi "sadhus" pester you for money and cigarettes! The sick, the lame, and the moribund make up many of the needy beggars. I think many moved here because of a misguided belief in the curative power of the polluted Ganges or because they think Varanasi is an auspicious place to die. The touts will yell, grab you, or try anything they think they can get away with in order to get your money.
Yet despite this, and despite the fact that this most unsanitary of all cities has robbed me of my precious health, I still find the place absolutely fascinating. I seem to catch something intensely interesting with every glance. Any semblance of order in this absurd chaos becomes an absorbing study. The filth is at such an obscenely grand level that it becomes at first humorously and then perversely decorative. A large tree grows out of the side of a functioning shop. A dog with a ghastly gash on the top of his head bites at the many flies buzzing around him. A bulldozer pushes around a mountain of trash at the end of a block. A billboard advertises pants that are "thankfully not made in America." A motorbike rider repeatedly blasts an amplified horn behind an old woman blocking his way along a narrow path. She ignores him. Piles of cow shit on the sidewalks have delicate circles of red-colored tikka powder blessing them. Kids play cricket on side streets or fly kites from rooftops. Other kids weave silk saris for endless hours in small, dimly lit slave shops. A cow stands at the top of a flight of stairs, placidly munching on a cardboard box. A sick man squats down and squirts watery shit into the Ganges by the burning ghat. Dead bodies burn into smoke behind him.
Goodbye City of Shiva! Let Benares watch over the banks of the Ganges for a few thousand more years. I don't think I'll have a chance to see you again in this lifetime. I probably wouldn't survive another meeting.