INDIA. Varanasi. Cheese factory. ⓒ Julie Mayfeng

I was in a hurry at this time. As soon as I saw him pouring milk into the bowl, I pressed the shutter  unconsciously.

This time it’s out of Africa and into Asia on the around the world tour of public domain photos from the CIA World Factbook.

Note that while my title lists Tibet along with three other nations, it isn’t recognized as such in the Factbook. If you want to download the picture of Namco Lake near Lhasa from the Factbook site, you’ll find it in the collection of photos from China.

Taj Mahal, Agra, India

The Dhamek Stupa, Sarnath, Uttar Pradesh, India, believed to be where the enlightened Buddha first preached

River Ganges, Varanasi, Uttar Pradesh, India

Prayer flags on the Swayambhunath Stupa, Kathmandu, Nepal

Namco Lake, Tibet

Tiger Leaping Gorge, Lijiang, Yunnan, China

Elephant Trunk Hill, Guilin City, Guangxi Zhuang Autonomous Region, China

One morning I take a boat trip in the company of an English couple who are also staying in the lodge. It’s dawn, cool, and activity along the stretch of the Ganges we’re following is only beginning. It’s an opportunity to observe without being self-conscious, particularly at the burning ghats where bodies are immolated atop large wooden pyres and the air fills with a clinging, greasy smoke. The task of cleaning out the remains falls to bald, near naked men who resemble sumo wrestlers sans flab and who are classed as the lowest of the low of castes. Other bodies are floating in the river, occasionally bumping into the boat and releasing a vile stench and clouds of river flies. Elsewhere robed figures wash or swim or drink the stinking water. The English couple have just returned from Kashmir. “It’s very safe and very beautiful,” they assure me, then go and contradict themselves by recounting how they used to lie in their houseboat at night watching the flashes of gunfire in Srinigar’s streets.

Monument-hopping’s a particularly easy pastime here, with all the attractions arrayed one after another. Beside the Dasaswamedh ghat is a disused observatory which provides a good view over the river. It’s overrun by monkeys which clamber and cluster over the stones, baring their teeth at intruders (i.e. me), making viscous swipes at skin and clothing. It a very rapid look over the city. I batter them away with my brolly and run down the steps with an entire troop in pursuit. At the bottom a pack of snarling dogs wait to continue the chase and ensure that I don’t venture near it again. Further along is the Durga temple which is famed for its monkeys, but sods law, it’s entirely deserted, although the red stone building is pleasant enough to wander around. The Tulsi Manas temple alongside is modern and white marbled, set in a lushly green garden. It too has monkeys, but of the mechanical kind, the interior containing scenes from Hindu mythology acted out by animated models, including one particularly tasteful scene showing a lion god ripping the entrails out of its enemy. It’s an attractive building, unusual in this respect, as the modern temples here tend to lack any sort of aesthetic sensibility. There’s a temple devoted to Kali that resembles a terracotta silage tank and from which a butchered goat slides into the water now and again. I give that one a wide berth.

The humidity’s intense here. It springs from the cool of the morning to a miasmic haze, in which even the slightest effort of movement results in a pooling outbreak of sweat. Then in the afternoon, you can feel it about to burst like a boil, the wind rises, and it lashes briefly and intensely with rain, leaving the streets flooded. In the course of the week that I’m there the level of the Ganges rises dramatically. On first arrival it had been possible to walk around the ghats to the Kumiko pension, but by the end boats are sailing over the areas that I had been walking on previously. It’s possible then to navigate through the back alleys, which are narrow and cluttered with people and animals alike, doorways revealing cramped rooms in which people cook or sew or weld, and through which smoke issues from stoves and fires, but this only something I discover after trying to sidle along the ghats, misplacing my footing and sinking to my waist in the unhealthily murky water. A woman’s bloated body floats nearby. Later, talking to a Danish couple they remark, “Did you see it? The body? Wasn’t it horrible? We took photos and everything!” Which just about sums up the contradictions inherent in this amazing, chaotic city.

Varanasi’s one of those places you take an instant liking to. It takes two days by train to get there from Jabalpur so in a fit of extravagance I plump for a first class carriage which isn’t any more comfortable than second class but which allows the luxury of space. There’s an eternity of countryside to pass through, the land level and green, villages in a state of destitution as the huts dissolve in the rain, which is omnipresent, and which reduces visibility at times to a grey slatted density. At the journey’s end I stagger into an hotel and under the shower which isn’t earthed and which blasts me back to the opposite end of the room in a mess of jolting nerves and sparks.

As in most large Indian cities, the air in Varanasi is heavily polluted and at night this settles to a thick smog. Out of this a procession emerges, the celebrants playing music that hovers around the borders of jazz. Battery powered chandeliers balance on their skulls, functioning as impromptu head-dresses. Firecrackers are thrown which explode with a sharp intensity, with scant regard for life or limb. Festivities of this sort are commonplace here, this being the holiest of cities, its spiritual heart being the Ganges which acts as its boundary and to which the Hindu population at least is inexorably drawn.

Leading down to the Ganges are a series of ghats. Each set of steps is fronted or flanked by a temple, most of them silted to a sizeable height, the remnants of the Ganges swelling each monsoon. Pilgrims bathe here in the frankly unclean water, although there’s a paucity of them at this time of year in comparison to the periods when there are major festivals and the crowds number in the tens of thousands. It’s also the refuge for beggars, professional and genuinely needy both. Wedding parties are commonplace, as are funerals, this being the most auspicious place to pass away. Near to the Dasaswamedh ghat is a sign advertising the Madras Hotel. Stay and die , it boasts.

I’ve taken up residence in the Kumiko pension. It’s run by a fat and good-humoured Indian man and his equally fat and good-humoured Japanese wife who dote on their pekes and cats which survey their surroundings with the haughty disdain of the truly pampered. Most of the guests here are Japanese, this pension being a minor legend in Japan, apparently. Each morning the shout goes up the stairs Ohayo gozaimasu! Asagohan! at which point everyone troops down the stairs to assist with the process of dealing out the dishes. The food here is, as one guest puts it, “Almost but-not-quite Japanese”, which means that it’s a rough translation via Indian cuisine., and noodles come served with everything. It’s a rather eccentric place, and that precisely what makes it appealing. On the walls are lists of rules warning about the dangers present in the city – tourists drugged and tipped overboard on boat trips; tourists ripped off by rival hotels; tourists who wander out and take guides or disappear with touts and then never reappear… But! Take one of the guides/boats recommended the Kumiko and this will never happen. Or so the owner solemnly informs me, while a Japanese girl giggles behind his back at the preposterousness of it all.

The BBC’s Chris Morris travels to the main source of the holy city of Varanasi in India to find out why the Ganges river is so polluted…. From BBC News. Full story

This site may contain information about: international flights. For a different topic see here. The blog is also related to: vegas trips.

The BBC’s Chris Morris travels to the main source of the holy city of Varanasi in India to find out why the Ganges river is so polluted…. From BBC News. Full story

This site may contain information about: urban city. For a different topic see least busy time to go to disney world. The blog is also related to: city names.

It’s my final night in Varanasi. In Benares. In a City of Light with so many names and a million more loves.

Her passions spill out onto the street, they form the ripe rainbow of red and pink paans spat with amazing grace from murmured Hindu mouths, brown to grey to orange to yellow of the cow to buffalow to goat to human shit, red (a blood red but deeper, bolder of course) and purple and white and orange of the scattered petals gifted into the daily temple puja that delivers redemption and hope and possibility for tomorrow. And then there are the saris and the shawls and the colour combinations that polarize, strain yet somehow soften (desensitize?) the eye at exactly the same time.

It’s quite a sight.

There are moments when the only solution is to close my eyes, insert headphones and find stillness. This is my nature though, I am ‘videshi’, foreigner. Foreign. I may end up being a reincarnated Krisna for all we know but my current body is definitely feeling the Indian sword…right through my belly. I’ve spent almost four days in the fevered wasteland of dysentery (again) and it hasn’t completely finished yet. I’ve lost everything I’ve ever eaten or thought about eating and the fevers hit me with savage chills or 40 degrees burns. Vedeshi tummy meets Benares deshi bacteria and it’s a no contest pillage. I’ve been here for just under a month and I’ve lost about 5kg I think…maybe more! Not complaining about that bit though! It’s my after-fight-sex! Is it weird though that my tummy makes strange, gurgling sounds when I lay down? I told the Dr but he kinda just chuckled.

I’ve been here for just under a month? Ok. What has this lost cub learned? These are not judgements but are subjectively experienced observations.

- the Internet is shitful from the south to the north.

- Hindi is extremely difficult to learn. I am not fluent but I can comfortably ask for directions, request a chai/menu/glass of water/insert any other object, pretend I can speak more than I infact can (I understand bits and pieces so therefore can waggle my head and say yes or no to great effect!) and get my way around without too much of a headache…

Oooh digression — EXCEPT:

- When engaging with the young woman who cleans my room. Poorna steadfastly refuses to believe I don’t speak Hindi and is extremely troubled and exasperated when it’s clear I would have a better chance of understanding God during a conversation in tongues then I would her. We therefore speak in a kind of ape (me), sign language, head wobbled (and slapped), book referenced way that has the option of extreme irritation or rolling on the floor type laughter depending on the day.

Cont’d – Learns etc Benares 1 month etc…caught up? Good:

- The Indian way of selling shit to you that you don’t and never will need is this;
– if you ignore me or provide a polite/friendly/flustered/annoyed/over-heated/possibly fevered but simple ‘No’ then my Stage 2 selling technique is to shove the shit you don’t and never will need much closer to your face and if possible make it do noise bits or whirling jobs to try to seal the deal. I’ll also learn some valuable English to help such as ‘Helllllllllllo’, ‘you buy!!’, ‘you want’ etc etc…buddy, you really lost me at Helllllllllllo!

- Foreigners, in general, always ignore eachother in public…I had to learn this custom. Perhaps it helps with the blending in? Unless, of course, you are in the two westerner cafes with their fancy free wifi Internet bliss and foodstuffs washed in filtered water. And much bitching about all things India of course!

- The sound of midnight gang warfare is actually a wedding… ‘the Teliban isn’t in Benares yet Teddy, it’s a wedding’ was the response I recieved to my pansy ‘gunfire kaha hai?’, where is the gunfire? text message one night. Oh it’s wedding season! Of course you cannon fireworks at the wedding party in celebration!

- Cows are sacred and must not be killed ever. Let’s leave them to eat plastic bags and die instead. I tried to save a sitting big bull from eating a knotted plastic bag full of (probably not) cow treats by yanking it from it’s mouth and trying to open it but the beast jumped up and charged at me! In my haste to escape I dropped the bag…’as well as spluttering ‘What is bag!!!’ in Hindi to a nearby small boy who just stared at the circus in silence. Then a few hours later I saw a dead calf and the guilt was like a cement block around my neck.

- The Indian in Benares has the biggest heart on earth. There is such feeling and domestic fervour here. So much love and Om Shanti and noone seems remarkably fazed by the chaos around them. Perhaps the entire population is desensitized or perhaps the Great Mother Ganges flows through every single person who calls this place home…for 4 days or 4 decades! It’s vitalising and revitalising!

How can pain and poverty live in the same house as laughter and spirit and generous goodwill? It’s called India.

And now I turn my feet to Delhi, to the start of a whirlwind 37 day tour with a golden BumbleBee waiting for me at the end in Chennai. I leave a part of my heart here though. Benares has captured me and will hold me tight for a long time to come.

“Smile at each other, smile at your wife, smile at your husband, smile at your children, smile at each other — it doesn’t matter who it is — and that will help you to grow up in greater love for each other.”
(Mother Teresa of Calcutta, Albanian born Indian Missionary and Founder of the Order of the Missionaries of Charity. Nobel Prize for Peace in 1979. 1910-1997)

This is another portrait that I have shot last Sunday as I was walking near Lal ghat along the Ganges in Varanasi (Benaras).
Then I met several kids and young men bathing in the holy waters and listening to the lectures of a priest sitting under a big umbrella.
When they saw me each asked for a picture and of course I was happy to make a few portraits that I promised to print and to deliver at the same place today.

“Soul receives from soul that knowledge,
therefore not by book nor from tongue.
If knowledge of mysteries come after
emptiness of mind, that is illumination of heart.”
(A poem by alal ad-Din Muhammad Balkhi, known as Jelaluddin Rumi – 1207–1273)

Last Sunday I was walking near Lal ghat along the Ganges in Varanasi (Benaras) and I met several kids and young men who were bathing and listening to the lectures of a priest sitting under a big umbrella.
When they saw me each asked for a picture and of course I was happy to make a few portraits that I promised to print and to deliver at the same place tomorrow morning…

“All day I think about it, then at night I say it.
Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?
I have no idea.
My soul is from elsewhere, I’m sure of that,
and I intend to end up there.
This drunkenness began in some other tavern.
When I get back around to that place,
I’ll be completely sober. Meanwhile,
I’m like a bird from another continent, sitting in this aviary.
The day is coming when I fly off,
but who is it now in my ear who hears my voice?
Who says words with my mouth?
Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul? 
I cannot stop asking.
If I could taste one sip of an answer,
I could break out of this prison for drunks.
I didn’t come here of my own accord, and I can’t leave that way.
Whoever brought me here, will have to take me home.
This poetry. I never know what I’m going to say.
I don’t plan it.
When I’m outside the saying of it,
I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.”
(“Whoever Brought Me Here” a poem by Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Balkhi, known as Jelaluddin Rumi – 1207–1273)

This picture was shot a few days ago along the Ganges in Varanasi (Benaras).

This picture was shot a few days ago at Prayag ghat along the Ganges in Varanasi (Benaras).
I was watching this lady and I thought that whatever the sari can be it always gives a kind of radiance and a touch of dignity to women.
It is amazing that it is done by only a single straight length of cloth and yet it offers so much of variety provided by the fabrics, designs and colours.

Nai Sadak market is an amazing market in the center of Varanasi (Benaras) where most of the Muslims shopkeepers sell any kind of fabrics.
I always enjoy going there not only for some inspiration that I find for my work but also because this place allows my mind to travel with its fantastic touch of Orientalism.
It is a timeless bazaar where most of the people wear traditional garments, where so many colours, music and scents are mixing. 
This picture was shot there, those ladies who must belong to the same family were happy to find what they were looking for.
Their happiness attracted my camera.
Nai Sadak means “New Road”.

“Je veux une vie en forme d’arête (I want a fish bone shaped life)
Sur une assiette bleue (Lying on a blue plate)
Je veux une vie en forme de chose (I want a thingamajig shaped life)
Au fond d’un machin tout seul (In the deep bottom of a contraption)
Je veux une vie en forme de sable dans des mains (A hands-filled-with-sand shaped life)
En forme de pain vert ou de cruche (In form of green loaf or jug)
En forme de savate molle (In form of slabby slipper)
En forme de faridondaine (In form of faridondaine)
De ramoneur ou de lilas (Of chimney sweep or lilac)
De terre pleine de cailloux (Of ground filled with stones)
De coiffeur sauvage ou d’édredon fou (Of wild hairdresser Or besotted eiderdown)
Je veux une vie en forme de toi (I want a life in form of you)
Et je l’ai, mais ça ne me suffit pas encore (And I’ve got it, but it is still not enough)
Je ne suis jamais content (I’m never happy.)”
(“Je veux une vie en forme d’arrête” by Boris Vian, French writer, poet and musician,1920–1959)

Last afternoon I was walking along the Ganges in Varanasi (Benaras) as I wanted to cross the city.
On the way I took a few pictures, I can’t really explain why this poem by Boris Vian came to my mind, I guess I made an analogy with all those lines and colors or maybe there was something which unconsciously connected me to the surrealistic process by which the poet reformed existing patterns…

“Is it your face
that adorns the garden?
Is it your fragrance
that intoxicates this garden?
Is it your spirit
that has made this brook
a river of wine?

Hundreds have looked for you
and died searching
in this garden
where you hide behind the scenes.

But this pain is not for those
who come as lovers.
You are easy to find here.
You are in the breeze
and in this river of wine.”

(Behind the Scenes, a Persian poem by Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Balkhi, known as Jelaluddin Rumi – 1207–1273)

I took this picture of my friend Juliette Sushila last Sunday as we were walking on the ghats along the Ganges in Varanasi (Benaras).
It was one of the last summer days even though it was November.
That day she left for Paris and a kind of winter monsoon came.

Among several things my friend is running charity business with an hospital in the Indian state of Karnataka where she needs support.
www.donnonslavie.org/

        Marzeniem każdego bogobojnego Hindusa jest zostać spalonym w Varanasi, aby prochy zostały rozsypane w Gangesie. Kończy to podobno raz na zawsze cykl reinkarnacji. Niestety nie wszystkich stać na odpowiednią ilość drewna. Dodatkowo kobiety w ciąży oraz małe dzieci nie kwalifikują się do palenia i są wrzucane do rzeki w całości.

        Wbrew wcześniejszym obawom, pływając po rzece tylko raz natknelismy sie na ludzkie zwłoki. Naszczęście były owiniete w worek i nawet kształtem zwłok nie przypominały. Gdyby nie usłuzny komentarz naszego wioslarza, możnaby pomysleć, ze to śmieci albo coś innego.

August 13 cont.

Dasaswamedh Ghat, Varanasi

Our lively bicycle rickshaw ride came to an end at the Dasaswamedh Ghat, the grandest steps down to the Ganges; “Ganga” as it’s called in India. The ghat was occupied by sadhus (holy men) in various stages of undress, body paint and emaciation; little girls charming visitors into purchasing their little hand-formed butter candles adorned with bright orange marigolds; freshly-shaved pilgrims; sellers of Hindu religious trinkets; cows and tourists.  Lots and lots of tourists.  To paraphrase a quote from the October 2008 Departures Magazine, Varanasi swarms with tourists more than it does with actual pilgrims and citizens.

Our guide, Devesh, pointed out the water line demarcating the extent to which the Ganga normally swells during the monsoon.  In a normal season we should have been standing under water; businesses along the river are used to moving out while the Ganges moves in for a few weeks. But given that the Ganga records human fecal counts 3000 times the safe limit not to mention harbours countless other unsanitary nasties, I was quite happy to be on dry land.

Devesh explained to Josh, Aaron and me that people travel from all over India to Varanasi for yatra, a Ganges pilgrimage. These pilgrims believe that the river is the incarnation of the Goddes Ganga who flows down from its Himalayan source on the strands of Shiva’s hair. By bathing in the Ganga, or Ganges (the “eez” comes from a suffix given in Hindu as a sign of respect – Devesh hence forward became “Devesh-ji”), Hindus believe they are cleansed of Karma – the measurement of deeds of previous and present lives – and prepared for death.  This in turn leads to rebirth and hopefully a better life.

I asked Devesh-ji if he had bathed in the Ganga.  “Once,” he said, “and I got sick.” I didn’t probe the nature of his ailments, but I sensed he was unhappy by it and perhaps a bit envious of those who ingested and bathed in its waters with impunity… if you disregard the infinite parasites and other ills they no doubt suffer on a constant basis, Ganges or not.

There are many old people in Varanasi who carefully navigate the steep and treacherously slippery back alleyways barefoot. They believe that anyone who dies on the banks of the Ganga achieves moksha, deliverance from the cycle of reincarnation.  This explains why dead bodies receive one final dip before cremation.

I asked Devesh when Hinduism began.  He answers that no one really knows.

We each bought a butter candle from a girl who flirted persistently with Josh and Aaron and walked down to our boat. Our boatman’s oars peacefully swept through the obliging river as we glided slowly toward the Manikarnika cremation ghat. Devesh-ji asked us to lower our cameras, out of respect for the mourners.

The orange flames of the pyres stood out starkly from the concrete steps. The heat of the crematorium pressed against my face, but I was amazed that there was no noticeable smell. Stacks of wood towered over the throngs of workers, mourners, cows and dogs who moved deliberately among blackened ashes strewn with the tattered yellow and orange remains of discarded shrouds. On the steps bodies wrapped in saffron patiently waited for family members to carry them down to the river for one final immersion.  Devesh pointed out an older man with a shaved head who had a white scarf wrapped around his privates – the eldest son of the deceased. He explained that the two main crematoria run 24 hours a day, every day of the year, and that the caste who manages this operation has become quite wealthy selling wood, sandalwood dusts, shrouds and other cremation accoutrements. We sat in quiet contemplation as the sky turned indigo with dusk.

On our return to the main ghat we lit our marigold butter candles and released them into the Ganga. Aaron’s fell apart as soon as it hit the water, a sign that he should stick to Buddhism.

By now the Dasaswamedh Ghat was buzzing with people preparing for the daily aarti ritual where Hindu priests pay homage to the Ganga in an elaborately-choreographed ceremony [Mariellen Ward wrote an excellent article on the Varanasi experience.] Devesh ensconced us on stairs above a raised platform next to a cow pen. We were soon surrounded by a group of chattering young Japanese ladies who jockeyed with us for precious bum space. I drank in the scene of hundreds of people and many cows milling about, extended families wedging themselves into narrow seated groups, the loudspeakers broadcasting tabla drums and monotone singing.  The tension and emotion palpably mounted as boats filled with tourists and pilgrims crowded into each other at the base of the landing, forming a nautical chain 12 boats deep in places. At the centre of the crowd were seven priest stands – one for each day of the week – and while the organizer fretted with the priests’ diyas (large brass candlesticks), tourists peppered the night with camera flashes. The sense of festivity and anticipation increased as more people streamed into the crowd, Westerners in their sober tech-wear colours amidst the rainbow of Indian saris. The slight breeze did nothing to stem the sweat trickling down my brow.

The priests ascended their posts.  The air filled with the sounds of accordion, tabla and chanting. The priests were quite young and a couple of them, with their short hair, glasses and seeming uncertainty with the lyrics, looked like they were better suited for a university campus than leading a Hindu service. I was captivated by one priest with long hair and incredible bone structure and watched intently as he swung his diya with purpose, spelling “Om” with his arms and chanting the prayers majestically. I decided to get closer.

Josh and I descended in the crowd and sat amongst the pilgrims.  The older gentleman next to me was very friendly and encouraged us to take lots of photos.  I was surprised at the ceremony’s informality – it was perfectly acceptable to move around, chat with your neighbour, take photos – and how little the congregation was directly involved in the ritual. Suddenly, the crowd burst into a flury of hand flourishes. They clapped, namaste’ed and raised their arms.  For a fleeting moment it was pure electricity. The priests gathered at the central platform to sing the Broadway finale, then distributed blessed flowers to their devotees like celebrities dispensing autographs.

We ascended the steps – tourists, locals and pilgrims criss-crossing each others’ paths. I was surprised to discover that our bicycle rickshaw drivers had been waiting patiently for us.  We had a marvelous ride back to the Surya hotel.  The crowd was happy and energized. Because of a power outage, many of the shops were lit by candles, making the experience dream-like.  Figures glided in and out of the shadows in a cacophony of bells, horns, motors, voices and rattling metal. An auto rickshaw behind us honked passionately. I looked over my shoulder and gave him a “what can we do?” smile.  He shrugged and smiled: honking is in the Indian’s DNA. We passed the ox. Given that it was after 8 pm, he was now outside the shop.

When we arrive at the Surya hotel, Josh and I decide to give the rickshaw drivers 200 rupees instead of the negotiated 150.  We pay Josh and Aaron’s driver first, and just as we’re sorting out the second driver’s payment by some perplexing motive Aaron runs over and gives the first driver another 100. Josh and I stare dumbfounded and the driver solemnly holds the money to his head in an extreme gesture of danyavad. The other driver waited expectantly. So we gave him 300 rupees too.  More head pressing.  Felt good to be generous.

We bid Devesh goodnight, arranging a 4:45 am pick up. To our surprise the Surya at night looked like a wedding reception, with candlelit tables distributed across a perfectly-manicured lawn. Because all the tables were full we tried to persuade the waiter to let us site on the grass, picnic style, to which he disdainfully replied, “No. We treat our guests with respect.” We eventually crashed a table with two very blond English gals from Bath who extolled the virtues of Indian goat and mutton meat but who couldn’t wrap their heads around “cheese curry” (paneer).  Listening to carnivore culinary stories challenged Josh and Aaron’s commitment to their vegetarian diet, notwithstanding Aaron’s dreadful spring roll experience in Rajasthan. To drink I ordered a “sahlab”, described as “warm, thick milk with cinnamon, coconut and raisins”. The table made fun of my selection until they tried it – hot, creamy, sweet and textured (thanks to cashews), it was like pudding in a glass.

At midnight we closed down the joint. I went to bed and Josh and Aaron tried to walk back to their hotel. As Josh told me the next morning, they were stalked by a persistent bicycle rickshaw who wouldn’t go away.  They got lost and ended up on the main road. Who should find them but their bicycle rickshaw walla from earlier in the evening, pissed out of his mind.  Whether it was alcohol or drugs wasn’t clear, but he was speaking Hindi to them in dramatic, unbalanced sweeping arm gestures.  Yet again Aaron showed wacky judgement and hopped on the rickshaw before Josh could stop him.  A terrifying 50 rupee ride later (during which said walla careened blindly into oncoming traffic), they made it home.

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• Will Varanasi and Sarnath join the World Heritage list? (gadling.com)
• The world’s oldest cities (telegraph.co.uk)
• India plans £2bn cleanup of the Ganges (telegraph.co.uk)

        Nastąpił moment kryzysu. Już nie umiem być miły dla ludzi, którzy na każdym kroku chcą mnie obrąbać:( Najpierw samolot spóźniony trzy godziny – grzebanie w obu bagażach, konfiskata zapalniczek. Dzwoniłem z Khajuraho do hotelu w Varansi, że lot mamy opóźniony, że z najnowszych informacji wynika, że będziemy 15.10. Podałem numer lotu, żeby panowie mogli sobie sprawdzić, kiedy wreszcie wyląduje. Na lotnisku oczywiście nikogo nie było. Kolejny telefon – Yes Sir I was tere at 15.10  but you were not tere, you tell me 15.10. Now i dont go. Take a pre paid taxi (kolejny mistrzowski wynalazek pieczątkarski). W pre paid taxi poinformowali mnie, że pod Hotel nie mogą podjeżdżać samochody, ze mogą podjechać kilometr dalej, a potem mogę wziąć rikszę.

       Wsiedlismy do taksówki a tu jakiś kolejny gostek podsuwa mi pod nos jakiś świstek na którym jest napisane 25 rupii, pytamy kierowcę o co chodzi a ten obraca nasz „voucher” na taksówkę, a z tyłu napisane, ze pasażer ponosi wszystkie dodatkowe koszty w tym parking. Po  drodze kierowca się zatrzymał i przejął nas nowy kierowca, który wysadził nas In the Middle of nowhere (Chodziło oczywiście o to, żeby znajomy riksiarz zarobił, a żeby zarobił więcej wysadził nas dużo wcześniej niż powinien). Byliśmy już tak wkurzeni, ze postanowiliśmy iść na piechotę (nie wiedzieliśmy jeszcze, ze wcale nie jesteśmy kilometr od celu). Pytając nielicznych policjantów posuwaliśmy się do przodu. Jednak trwało to długo, było ciemno i jak tylko udało nam się znaleźć charakterystyczny punkt ( a łatwo nie było, bo ulica była jednym wielkim bazarem) dogadaliśmy się, że ktoś z hotelu nas odbierze.

              Na miejscu okazało się, że pod ten hotel nie da się podjechać nawet rikszą, może więc dobrze, ze żadnej nie braliśmy. I kiedy już nam humory się poprawiły, restauracja na dachu hotelu, z widokiem na Ganges, dobre jedzenie i świeży sok z papai robią swoje. Przelała się czara goryczy. Nie dostaliśmy zamówionej coli, mimo dwukrotnego przypominania – która jednak znalazła się na rachunku. I zrezygnowani poszliśmy do pokoju. Uświadomiliśmy sobie, ze zapomnieliśmy zabrać ze stolika butelkę wody, która kupiliśmy na noc. Wracam i mowie, że zostawiliśmy wodę. Pan spokojnie podał mi ją z lodówki mówiąc: „forget – 20 rupiees”. Przestaje zostawiać napiwki!

I include this article written by freelancer Mariellen Ward because she does an excellent job of capturing nightfall in Varanasi through the eyes of a visitor.

Cremation fires burn day and night on the ghats in India’s holy city of Varanasi, powerful symbols of the cycle of death and life
Mariellen Ward.  Toronto Star.  Toronto, Ont.:Aug 29, 2009.  p. T.1

The veil between life and death seems very thin here, and aboat ride on the river can become a journey to the other side.

It was just before twilight when I stepped onto the creaky planking of a small wood boat. The old knotty boatman pushed us away from the muddy shore and rowed. With each pull of the oars we crept along the surface of India’s most sacred river, the Ganges, past the scythe-like curve of ghats (steps) that line the western shore, toward Dasaswamedh Ghat, the main ghat, and the aarti (ceremony). The aarti is performed each evening at dusk to honour Ganga Ma, the Ganges River. Behind the ghats, and a wall of soaring stone palaces and pavilions, pulses the holy city of Varanasi.

As the sky darkened, the moist air filled with swarms of mosquitoes, huge flying insects and the damp, putrid smell of the river.

The riverfront darkness was broken at Dasaswamedh Ghat as crowds gathered for the aarti, performed by Hindu priests in flowing robes brandishing huge burning diyas (brass candles).

Loud music and chanting accompanied the choreographed ritual. I watched from my boat, tethered to many other boats jostling their cargoes of Indian pilgrims and tourists.

When the aarti ended, we untethered and continued to glide slowly north, the hypnotic current of the Ganga leading us along as we crossed the weakly lit ghats. Out of the darkness, a white shape appeared, wedged in the black water. Instinctively, I knew what it was and I froze. I prayed the boatman would not notice, would not point. I wanted to observe the blunt presence of death, wrapped tightly in a white shroud and floating in the Ganga, in my own quiet contemplation.

On we went, the boatman didn’t notice, and I breathed again.

Varanasi is the city of Shiva, Hindu god of destruction, and his energy is intensely present. I thought about the figure in the river and felt shaken as some of my own fears were confronted and destroyed. I wondered if this figure was recently one of the many dhoti- or sari-wearing pilgrims I saw descending the ghats for ritual immersion in the sacred river that they consider Shiva’s divine essence.

Was he or she one of the unending stream of believers who have made pilgrimages to Varanasi for 3,000 years, to seek salvation, to be absolved of sin, to become a jivan mukta, one who is liberated while still alive, or to die and cross over?

Crossing is a spiritual practise here in one of India’s holiest tirthas (crossing places). The souls of faithful Hindus are believed to cross to the other side in Varanasi, the most visited pilgrimage destination in India.

To die and be cremated here helps to achieve moksha, a release from the continuous cycle of life-death-rebirth. Those who cannot afford a full cremation are released into the river as partially cremated corpses.

It takes a long time to cross the six kilometres of Varanasi ghats in a small boat.

Finally, we reached Manikarnika Ghat, the main cremation ghat, one of the oldest and most sacred ghats in Varanasi. It is said that Vishnu, the preserver, dug a well here at the time of creation and Shiva was also present. This ghat symbolizes the cycle of creation and destruction.

In most Indian cities, the cremation grounds are well-removed and hidden from view. But Varanasi is Mahashamshana, the great cremation ground, and death is ever present. At any time of the day or night, Manikarnika Ghat is busy. As we passed slowly we were on our way back and travelling against the current several cremation fires burned and I saw the bearded face of one man being consumed by flames.

Varanasi is a cauldron of Hindu beliefs made manifest. The careful avoidance of death often practised in the West is burned away and the knife-like demarcation between this world and the next dissolves in an instant.

It’s strong medicine and the effect can be shocking. And beguiling. Along with mourners, pilgrims, tourists, citizens and students, Varanasi seethes with wayward foreigners who wear layers of dishevelled clothes and far-away expressions on their sunburnt faces.

I spent a week in Varanasi and often felt bombarded with intense energy and surreal disorientation. But on my last night, I took a boat across the Ganga to the flat, wide sandbank on the other side to watch the sunset over the city and the ghats.

Some time after the sun disappeared behind the ancient buildings, the pink sky faded, leaving a pale glow that made the entire scene soft and indelibly beautiful.

I began to understand why this spot is considered so very sacred.

Lights appeared and shimmered gently on the crystal surface of the sacred river and soon after the aarti began way down the river at the main ghat. But I could hear the powerful chants and see the huge flames of the diyas from where I was seated on the sand, across from Assi Ghat. I felt in that moment in harmony with the rhythm of Varanasi. It is so peaceful on the sand bank, yet very few living souls cross over to this other side.

I lit two diyas that I had purchased on the ghats, spoke the prayer to the mother of India, Jai Ganga Mata, and set the candles afloat on the river in the twilight as the boatman rowed me back to shore.

Mariellen Ward is a Toronto-based freelance writer.

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Update for 19 Nov 2009

Peter (name changed to protect identity) had arrived into Varanasi the previous night. The long and arduous train journey from Delhi was an experience he will never forget all his life – which at that moment did not mean much to Peter. He walked out of the 2 storey building that was his lodge for the night with his khaki rucksack on his back, wearing little more than the whitish T-shirt that he travelled with and cotton baggy pyjamas that he had bought at a stall in Daryaganj near the Delhi railway station. He was not particularly attractive, but his deep-set blue eyes could arrest anyone who happened to see them, and since Peter did not blink so often, the gaze had a mesmerizing effect, of sorts. His shaggy mane fell on his shoulders, unkempt, but not very untidy and his sunken pink cheeks and athletic body build indicated that he had seen better times. Peter walked through the by-lanes of Varanasi, with a purpose and although he was unfamiliar with the surroundings, he intuitively followed the paths that started getting more crowded and from which emerged men, women, at times children who had wet slick hair, and draped the red gamchha (a red multipurpose towel) either around the waist or their shoulders and their dripping damp (or wet) clothes had already soiled the lane behind them. Peter was heading to the river from where the sea of humanity was emerging, whilst he was part of another sea of humanity heading there. He ignored the urchins and demi-priests who were attracting his attention and as the streets narrowed and the stalls alongside almost spilled over onto him and the other pedestrians, his eyes got sharper and moved furtively, as though seeking out something or someone. And then he saw the bearded mendicant wearing ochre robes and the brown bead necklace around his neck. His red vermilion mark on the forehead only accentuated his piercing eyes. He waved his right hand at Peter and beckoned him. Peter took quick paces towards him, and pulled out a container from his rucksack. Holding it with both hands, he followed the mendicant and walked down the wet and slippery steps to the river. No words were exchanged between them, as they stepped into the water and stood waist deep – the mendicant then mumbled a few prayers, and motioned Peter to empty the contents of the container into the flowing waters. Peter was emotional, but in control of himself and closed his eyes for a moment before submerging himself into the water and then stood up, turned back, pulled out a few notes from his pocket and dropped it into the mendicant’s wooden basket. He saluted him with folded hands and climbed up the stairs to join the sea of humanity moving away from the river, as his dripping wet clothes soiled the road as he moved on.

The mood on D Street was solemn today, as the markets opened in the red. The D Boyz were not in a mood to celebrate, and so let the SENSEX stay red for the entire session. Joint ventures were forged in steel, while strong winds were hinting towards some better weather in Pune, sugar was not sweet as politicians felt that the cane farmers were overpaid, and the cricketers were still out in the Ahmedabad sun. None of these fazed the Boyz, who seemed to have a sombre tale to tell, but remained silent and applied the red vermilion on their foreheads and took the SENSEX on a path below the surface. In fact at culmination of trading hours, it sank to its depths of over 230 points, but ended at 16785, 213 points down. The 1.25% drop almost symbolized the Hindu tradition of the Rs 1.25 token thanksgiving offered for wishes or prayers.

Peter quietly walked back along the path he took to the river, and veered off at the junction of the small Siva Temple. He walked across to the vermilion powder vendor and quietly sat down with her. No words were exchanged here, but when the next customer walked across and asked for a spoonful of the red powder, he quietly spooned it into a newspaper cone, wrapped it and handed it over to the plump matronly vendor. She had got her assistant, and after collecting her money, she moved a little to let Peter sit comfortably.

Cheers….

Ater i Indien – imorse anlande vi till Varansi efter ett ytterst handelserikt dygn. Atta timmar buss fran Pokhara till gransen Sounali gick bra och det kandes lite sorgligt att aka dar uppe i bergen med vy over Himalaya en sista gang (for denna resan i alla fal). Man vanjer sig snabbt vid ett land och jag hade som sagt kunnat stanna i Nepal valdigt lange till. Men Indien vantade och jag tror vi var lite mer forberedda pa kaoset denna gangen. Aven om gransstaden var nastan lika galen som Raxaul (om an lite mindre dammig) sa kandes det lite kaosigt sa fort vi kommit in i Indien igen. Och da vi hittat fram till lokalbussen som skulle ta oss till Ghorkapur dar taget skulle ga ifran hittade aven nagon slags lurendrejare oss som promt skulle konfirmera vara tagbiljetter. Icke sa vi men efter hot om att ringa polisen och efter att Gabbe redan lagt upp en summa pengar blev det som det blev. Inte mer an hundra kronor var men det kandes inte kul for det. I en fullsatt buss akte vi sedan i tre timmar till var tagstation. Jag satt bredvid en fat lady som tryckte i sig godsaker samtidigt som hon halvt tryckte av mig fran satet – men jag lyckades halvsitta hela den resan i alla fall. Val framme kakade vi och jag fick i mig min forsta akta indiska tikka masala (den ar val bara akta i Indien antar jag). Sedan vantade fyra timmar i vantsal tills vart tag skulle ga.

Efter att ha hittat ratt vagn och lyckats traffa pa de tre svenska tjejerna som vi traffade under var trekking samt fatt boendetips i Varanasi sa vi hejda och placerade oss i var kupe. Eftersom vi sover i andra klass sleeper ar det oppna kupeer och sakert sextio manniskor i varje vagn. Nar vi precis fatt undan vara stora vaskor upptacker Gabbe att hans lilla vaska som han la pa sin brits langst upp ar borta. En tur ut pa perrongen dar ingen manniska sags till kunde vi bara konstatera att den var snodd i en mycket snabb sekund nar vi alla tre tittade bort. Lyckligtvis bodde vi en med en enormt hjalpsam familj och val framme i Varanasi hjalpte mannen oss att fa en billig motordriven cykeltaxi (tuk tuk i Thailand) for att ta oss till en annan station dar vi gick till turistpolisen. Hur turistigt det var vet jag inte da mannen knappt sa ett ord och vi fick forsta sjalva att de ringt efter nagon som kunde hjalpa Gabbe. Samtidigt hade de fem arresterade man pa golvet som satt fastkedjade och som de slog vi ett par tillfallen. Inte alls behagligt. Jag hade under natten fatt ett myggbett pa ogonlocket och idag ser jag ut som om Rocky Balboa har knockat mig. Ingen vacker syn och ungefar det enda jag orkade koncentrera mig pa hos polisen. Det gick bra i ala fall och den snalla polismannen hjalpte oss sedan af en annan taxi till hostelet vi blivit tipsade om. Sa nu har vi gatt en promenad till Ganges tva minuter bort och Lala agaren verkar helt fantastiskt gastvanlig och ska ta med oss pa nagon slags ritual nere vid floden lite senare. Men forst nu ska Gabs ringa svenska ambassaden och fixa grejer. Forhoppningsvis kan vi ta ett stopp i Agra innan vi aker till New Dehli och ambassaden pa mandag – savida de inte tycker att han ska komma imorgon. Det blir som det blir – det viktiga ar att ett nytt pass och visum utfardas. Ca tvatusen bilder av mina och Gabbes ar helt borta pa den externa harddisken. Men vi lever och vi mar bra (forutom mitt igenbommade oga) och Indien ska sakerligen kunna bli precis sa fantastiskt som alla sager att det ar!

“I know you even under the skin”.
(Persius, Roman poet – Volterra, 34-62)

It was last Sunday at Lal ghat in Varanasi (Benaras), this young man took a bath in the holy waters of the Ganges and washed himself.
After that he treated several parts of his body with pressure, mostly his joints.
He used Ayurveda which is a natural health care system that incorporates massage.

“Rise up nimbly and go on your strange journey to the ocean of meanings.”
(Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Balkhi, known as Jelaluddin Rumi – Persian poet, jurist, theologian, and mystic, 1207–1273)

This was shot last Sunday at Prayag ghat along the Ganges in Varanasi (Benaras).
I believe that it was the last very hot day of the year here and many people came to river in order to find a way to feel fresh.
This woman was pouring the holy water on her, I took several pictures as the colours were coming so well.

“The drum of the realization of the promise is beating, 
we are sweeping the road to the sky. 
Your joy is here today, what remains for tomorrow? 
The armies of the day have chased the army of the night, 
Heaven and earth are filled with purity and light. 
Oh! joy for he who has escaped from this world of perfumes and color! 
For beyond these colors and these perfumes, these are other colors in the heart and the soul. 
Oh! joy for this soul and this heart who have escaped the earth of water and clay, 
Although this water and this clay contain the hearth of the philosophical stone.”
(“Mystic Odes” by Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Balkhi, known as Jelaluddin Rumi – Persian poet, jurist, theologian, and mystic, 1207–1273)

This was shot near Gai Ghat along the Ganges in Varanasi (Benaras) where this man has been washing his laundry.
He was streching his clothes under the sun.
It was two days ago, I thought that it was uncommon to have such an heat in November.