Point2Point

19-12-2007

It just before midnight when I arrived at Varanasi's train station. It was a cold night, and the whole area was teeming with life. After a great train from Delhi I was hoping for a third time is the charm type of luck. It wasn't to be.

First things first, all the signs were in Hindi. I had no idea where to go. OK so Varanasi train station is not that huge, but even single platform station can difficult if you could not even get in without stepping on a prone body. Just about every conceivable open floor space was taken up by a blanket wearing body, or family.

I headed out on to platform one, listening as I went to faint Hindi / English / garbled announcement over the low volume intercom. Nothing about Gorakphur. I need a chain for my backpack. The old one had gone missing, probably in my bag hidden away and weighing me down even more. Although possible it was still strapped to the Delhi train from last week.

The chain cost a rip off 50 Rupees, it should have been 20. I didn't care, it also paid for the information I wanted. I was on the right platform for the 12.20am to Gorakphur. I thanked the store keeper and turned around. A tall well dressed Indian man was standing there. In India everyone listens to your conversations, and this guy was no exception.

"You are on the right platform,"he said with a slight head waggle.

I nodded and moved forward.

"But," he continued on with a hint of a smirk, "you will not getting on at 12.20."

What else could I do but stop and ask why.

His hair was heavily slicked back with some scented gel. "It is never 12.30."

Great. He was one of those Indians who never gave a straight answer. I tried a head wobble. He smiled. It made be uneasy.

"Why not 12.30?" I said resigned to the conversation.

HE took on an intellectual look. "I must have taken this train for the last ten years." He paused, as if to make dramatic effect. Then looked at me with a smile. "If you are lucky it will arrive at 2am."

So that was it. I nodded and looked around at the throng of people all waiting it seemed for the same train. "Look's like after ten years you are still hoping for a rain not running on Indian time!"

He laughed. It was a lame joke, but need to break the ice. His questions were rudimentary over the next 30 minutes of waiting with him. But it was company considering the option of just standing there in the cold.

I looked over at a group of foreigners waiting further down the platform. Occasionally one or two would pass by. Never a hello, or a nod, or even a glance. Some were obviously looking for an information desk, or a sign. None bothered to ask the lone guy without a worried look on his face. These are the same people that would rather see you miss the train after being told there was an overbooking.

I missed solo border crossings. I had a feeling all these people were heading to Nepalese border. My mind avoided the thought of us all at the border check point. I perched myself on a stairwell, reluctant to sit down due to the betel nut juice splattered everywhere. Both old and freshly spat.

I took amusement at watching a conversation between 5 Indian men. 3 of whom held great jowl fulls of the addictive red juice. One in particular had to hold his head back while he talked to avoid overflow from his mouth. Every 5 minutes he would walk over to a wall and spit out a flurry of the red liquid before rejoining his conversation with his head at a less prone angle.

2.20am. An announcement, the train was arriving. I took full advantage at being on my feet and surge forward first as the train came in. I pushed myself heavily on board with some of the first only to find my upper berth occupied by a sleeping Indian. I prodded him and waved my ticked. He pointed to the lower berth beside me. It suited me better anyway.

I chained in my bag, and settled in quickly. I took some more antibiotics and nose spray for my head as the other tourists walked frantically up and down in search of their beds, only to find an Indian family had taken up residence in their place. I also watched as a fat Indian man lay down in the bunk opposite me, and began to snore loudly almost as soon as his belly stopped wobbling. His wife sat on the other side of the carriage and just stared at me. No sleep tonight then!

20-12-2007

It was 7.30am when I took a quick tour of the train, taking a pit stop along the way. I noticed some of the porters were waking up, and a few passengers were putting on their shoes. I rushed along and grabbed my backpack and made it to a door. I wanted to be first out to avoid the tourist rush. None of them stirred.

The train pulled in and I glanced back as one girl was just pulling back a curtain. I made my way through Gorakphur's train station. I had memorized the LP map, yet my trust in those maps was barely recognizable. I went with compass directions: Out of the door, West to the first junction. Dammit, brick wall!! I looked to the right between two buildings. There was a tell tale sign of the main road. Rickshaws.

I grabbed at a rickshaw driver and told him to take me to the bus station, fast. HE got it straight away and we were off. I turned around to look back. Only a few Indians were making their way out of the station as we crossed the main road.

A chubby man came running out in front of us. The rickshaw driver dodged him and kept going. The man pursued us on foot waving at me.

"Nepal... Sunauli... Jeep..." He shouted.

Hmm. I ignored him at first thinking he was just a tout that would be more trouble than his worth. The the said the magic words.

"Only 100 Rupees, only two hours!"

We bargained for a while. We went through the confusion of wondering how many people were needed to fill the Jeep. And ten minutes later we were off. As if by fate we drove past the train station. A few white faces were emerging, some being hassled by touts, others looking at maps. I sat back. I do like solo travelling.

The trip to the border was indeed only two hours. And after a silent journey the driver proved his worth and got me a cycle rickshaw that would take me to Indian Immigration and Nepalese for only 40 Rupees.

I needed money exchanged first. And after some haggling managed a good rate. Toilet break was next, and my rickshaw driver took me to a hotel with a dingy but workable toilet. I would have loved a big breakfast too, but the rickshaw driver was getting a little impatient.

Indian Immigration stamped me out with a "I hope you enjoyed your stay?"

The last Army guard asked the same question.

I nodded to him,"Yes, ye I did actually enjoy India."

It was brief. I think that's why I enjoyed it.

Nepalese immigration next. It was as people had said. A breeze. The lady stamped me in with a very warm welcome. My little rickshaw man was still with me when I came out, so was another man. HE asked if I wanted a bus to Kathmandu or Pokhara. I paused, usually these guys are rip off's. But I figured following him would at least get me to the bus station area.

As predicted he took me to a tour operator. Two me by a desk gave me prices 600 rupees. I told them I would walk outside and get a regular bus for 200.

The boss of the two nodded, "No problem. I give you discount, and a luxury air conditioned bus. Do you have a hotel to stay."

I nodded again, and gave him the name of one I had been thinking of.

"Ah," he said in recognition, "is not bad." He came in with a typical touts statement. "But I know a better one, my brother Chubby owns it."

I put my hands up and made the universal sign for money, "I am on a budget my friend. No more than 350 a night for a hotel. So sorry we can't do business."

He waved me to slow down, "OK, I understand. Budget travel. Take the bus for 400 and I give you a room for the same."

"What type of room?"

"Very nice. Big. With bathroom and TV. And... they will pick you up from the bus station"

He had me interested. But
I was having a problem concentrating. My nose was fully blocked again, and the combination of antibiotics with a lack of food was having an effect on me. "If it's 400 for the both, then we got a deal. But I want the name of this place."

A receipt book emerged, as did a leaflet with the hotels name on the front. "It's the Hotel Dharma Inn, I call by brother now and tell him to expect you."

It actually looked fine from the photographs, but I was thinking photoshop.

"So that will be 800 rupees..."

"What? " I interjected, "you want me to pay for the hotel now?"

He nodded. "He's my brother we share everything."

Alarm bells started to sound in my head. Pay upfront for a hotel room 10 hours away?? No way.

I stood up and apologized if I was about to hurt his feelings but doing this was something I hear college kids signing up for.

"I am not paying fora a room upfront with no guarantees." I looked at him straight between the eyes, "It would be stupid of me to do it."

A blank receipt appeared on the desk, "Really sir, it will be fine. I write you a receipt for the hotel. It is my brothers place, and I will call him to confirm. He meet you at the bus stop. You nothing to worry about. Air Conditioned luxury bus, and a very fine hotel."

I was confronted with a strange urge just to say yes. To hell with it. Take a chance. It was only 5Euro and who knows. After all it was still early and if the hotel Dharma Inn did not exist then at least I could find another.

With a nod and a smile I soon had a bus ticket, and a hotel receipt for a place I had never seen.

It was then he added one small clause, "So your bus, it will not be so direct..."

Ah nuts... here we go

He began the head wobble thing, and pointed to a town on a wall map of Nepal, "No need to worry. Everything fine. The bus meets another one here and then you are in Pokhara."

It was too late to change, he had my money. I needed food to think straight. Maybe I would just grab a local bus to Pokhara instead and admit to being burnt by this guy. An early lunch it was so, at least that's what I had hoped. Instead I was bundled into a taxi and driven off. Two goons sat on either side of me and I wondered if I had just done something stupid. They didn't speak English, or so they said and were not smiling much. They were also quite skinny, and I figured if worst came worst I could fight my way out of this one.

We pulled over to the side of the road after about 5 minutes. There was a local bus on the side of another wise not so exciting or 'mugable' road. The two goons were arguing with the bus conductor. Why? I didn't know, maybe the city bus cut them over on the road. Maybe it was one of their brothers. Or maybe it was my luxury Air Conditioned bus to Pokhara. Yes, it was the latter.

As I scrambled on board my over crowed "Luxury Air-conditioned" bus and sat down next to the broken window I know I had been done. This is why I am so down right rude at bus stations, train station and border towns. Trust no one. Why I decided to take the risk of trusting the border tout I don't know. What an idiot, I am.

To make matters worse, as we pulled away, one of the goons suddenly learned to speak English.

"This man," he said pointing at the shaven headed conductor. "He tell you when to change the buses... But he speak no English either OK?

I tried to stand up on the jostling bus as the goon disappeared into the dusty exhaust of the bus, but the potholes forced me down again.

I looked at the shaven headed conductor as he scowled back at me. "I change at..."

Bollox where do I get off at??? I drew a blank.

"Pokhara, I go Pokhara!!" I said with a stupid shrug.

He glared again and then waved me to stay seated. OR more likely to shut up.

Why oh why did my memory fail me know? I took out the LP and started to look for this place the bus changed at. Please goodness may the LP map be good this time. Grah... There was a bloody great white line going right through the centre of Nepal in the LP. The spine of the book broke the map in two. And the town he seemed to have pointed at was in the centre.

I looked at the possibilities. Dumre? Gorka? Mugling? No idea. Bollox again. No one spoke English on the bus. I fact an old man preferred to sit on his rice sacks in the centre aisle than next to me.

I stared out the window as this new country whizzed by in a dusty bumpy fashion. Shop fronts all had signs written in a crylic style script that I could not make sense of. The store could be selling car tires or instant noodles for all I could understand. I put my faith in time, and settled that if the bus was stopping half way, it would mean in about five hours.

I scanned through the LP trying to make sense of where I was going. Sunauli Border..Direct buses to Kathmandu and Pokhara... nope. Junctions... nope. Popular routes ... turn to page 89! Page 89....babble. Kathmandu to Pokhara..that rang a bell. Mugling ...is halfway between Kathmandu and Pokhara and is a popular place for rafting, not for me I am at Sunauli.

It was doing my head in. We stopped and the driver got out for food. I waited for 5 minutes as no one else seemed to be moving. I was starving now. To heck with it I was going out for food too. No I wasn't. As I stood up the driver came back with a orange. I settled in for a read of something other than LP.

After three hours we stopped in a small town. I peered out the window. Was this the change over town? I looked at the conductor and began a session of sign language. The answer was I was should remain seated. And so I did. For a whole hour.

I thought we had broken down. But no one was working on the bus. I figured it might have been like in Nigeria, and the bus driver had gone off to find a part. But no. I looked out the window as I saw the conductor walk over to the driver as he emerge from a building. The driver was puffy eyed and his hair tossed up. There was little doubt the man had been asleep. Yet something about his look also told me the building also offered a lot of long haul drivers some company with their rest too.

We were off again, and I wondered if this one hour break was included in the time it took to get to Pokhara? We pulled over two more times for 30 minute breaks before we reached the next big town. It was late afternoon. I stared out the window as we trundled into the town, and seemed to get stuck in traffic. I took the opportunity to look out at the crylic scripts on store front again. Hoping to find anything that would tell me where I was.

Nothing but the unreadable. We turned a corner, and there as we turned I caught a glimpse of a hotel whose address mentioned 'Mugling!!'

It was 7.30pm, dark and cold before we stopped outside Mugling in what looked like a motor park. I should have been in Pokhara one hour ago. The whole bus seemed to disembark. I stood there as people disappeared of in all directions. I looked up at the conductor. He headed over to a white van and began talking to someone. I was about to head off in search of Pokhara ride when he waved me over.

I saw him exchange money with a driver. Could it be he was actually arranging a change over lift for me?

"100 Rupees more...he wants"

The bugger spoke English too!"Why?" I retorted, "I paid everything already?"

The conductor and the new driver began arguing. The new driver had a knack for waving his hands around a lot, and I think swearing in Nepalese.

"You go Pokhara?"

I turned around to see a woman in a white sari and a skinny male companion looking at me. They had been on the bus, and had said nothing the entire trip.

"Yes, I am trying to."

She nodded, "Then we are going with this man. He charge extra because it is night driving."

I looked at her, then the conductor and finally the red eyed driver. I nodded at them all and took out a 100 note.

My bags loaded up we all huddled into the two rows of seats, a 10 of us. It was now I began to understand why the driver was red eyes. The whole van stank of alcohol. In fact the man seated behind me made a point to breath hard enough before he passed out for me to figure they all had been drinking rum.

Rum makes Nepalese talk as well. The man beside me insisted on questioning my every motive for coming to Nepal. We stopped for 40 minutes as well by a roadside café. One by one people disembarked. I was thinking of doing the same until I looked out the fogging window and saw the café only sold Rum and popcorn.

3 hours later and we were all still alive. It was bitterly cold outside, and inside most of the people had passed out. I looked out into the darkness. An occasional house light passed by. But that was it. Everything else was pitch black. I was glad the two van headlights were strong. There was a strange glow in the night sky to my right. As if a cloud was lit up by a dull moon. I stared at it for a while. And then clicked. It wasn't a cloud in the sky. I could see a black triangle like shadow beneath. IT was a huge snow capped mountain.

I smiled. It must have been the Annapurna range, the Himalyan mountains. Ten minutes later and we pulled over. There was a crowd outside and they were all touts calling out names of hotels. But as touts they quickly got discouraged to see only locals get out. Finally one peered into the van and saw me. The furore started again as I battled my way out.

Outside I swung around looking for my bad and wondering where the heck I was, when I heard a voice behind me.

"Hello Mr. My brother sent me to pick you."

I looked at the slicked haired man with a big grin. He was holding a piece of paper with my name on it. I smiled at him.

I got on the back of 'Chubby's' motorbike, backpacks and all. It was freezing cold and it seemed like Chubby was in a worse condition as apparently he had been waiting for 2 hours. We drove for about 10 minutes and I felt the icy breath of high altitude pierce my light clothing.

At the hotel reception I was greeted by friendly waves and smiling faces. I was then shown upstairs to my 400 rupee room, completed with huge double bed, an en suite bigger than most singles, and a large TV.

"Would you be needing dinner first or a hot shower?" Asked the very young looking man carrying my bags.

I choose a steak and a beer.

I pushed over the nicely arranged folded towels on my bed and stretched back with the TV on. What a room, for only 4.80 Euro. I tried running the shower, very hot.

10 minutes later there was a frantic knocking on my door.

It was the young man looking like someone had been shot, "Oh sir, wait! Its coming, your dinner sir. Wait."

I looked at him with a laugh as he rushed off. What a panic over my dinner.

"Sir I am coming!" I heard him call from down the balcony.

Then then the flickering shadows of fire appeared on the floor in front of me just before the young man appear with a flaming steak.

"It's on fire sir," he squealed stamping his feet as another young man appeared behind him holding my beer.

I let them both in as they quickly set my dinner down on the table just as the flames went out. They both laughed in glee and wished me goodnight.

I sat back to a flaming hot pepper steak and an ice cold Himalayan beer before having a steaming hot shower and falling quickly asleep in the crisp sheets of the soft double bed.

19-12-07

Bob had headed off the night before, and the Italians were off on another boat trip. I had my train tickets delivered to the hotel and had a morning with Waseem showing me how much better his bike is than Raja's. Indeed his was all of a 180cc, but had the added benefit of having a red faring in the style of a 400cc speedster. I also have to say Waseem was a better driver. And he did take me to some good photogenic places.

I knew it was going to be a long day, my train was at 12.30am tonight. And after spending the morning zipping along Varanasi's streets with Waseem I wanted to chill out. There was no better place than a river side seat on the Ganges.

It was after lunch, and the river was quiet. Even in the afternoons harsh light, the river had a certain golden glow to it. A cute young girl of about 8 years was selling flowers came up to me. I brushed her away like all the others young kids around the area. But she did have a good face for a photograph. She had clever eyes, something I caught on to very quickly.

"10 Rupees for flowers" She said showing me her basket of little orange flowers arranged into little candle boats. The flowers were in bundles of 5 all surrounding a short little white candle set on a brown leaf of some type that was shaped into that of circle so that it could float like so many others on the river.

I shook my head, "Shouldn't you be in school?"

She smiled, "I was, This morning. See, learn English there."

Whether she was smart, or good at extracting tourists money, it didn't matter. She made me laugh. I handed her 20. She smiled again. We talked for a while, and indeed her English was quite good. Then she ran down the steps towards the shore and tried to sell the candle boats to a tourist. But each time she would come back.

"I give you 20 rupees for the fifty in your pocket!"

Damn, she had seen my change when I had paid for the flowers. Smart girl.

Shaking my head I smiled, "Why should I give you my fifty?"

She shrugged, "Because I asked for it!"

I laughed again. And yes I did give her the fifty. It was worth it for the conversation, and the fact that she kept the other street children away from me. She didn't stay much more. But our parting conversation would effect the rest of my evening.

She asked my name as she looked at the little vessel of flowers I had bought from her. "You should put that in the river for your family, and light it."

Her eyes were innocent, yet wise, she paused while looking between the flowers and me, "or, for your friends."

I thanked her again and watched as she walked away. Something about all that made me think if indeed India had that spiritual essence people talk of.

Waseem was gracious enough to allow me to stay in my room that evening for half price. It gave me a chance to pack and relax. For dinner it was just me and the Italians, which was nice. I began to tell them of the girl at by the Ganges. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the little candle boat I had bought. I had never sent it to the river.

Gillian looked at me with a blue eyed gaze and out of nowhere said she would do it for me tomorrow. I scowled. What was it about the little candle boat?

The hotel chef and resident conversation starter interrupted. He suggested I should go to the roof and stand in silence for 5 minutes, and that would do instead. It was a damn flower boat, yet everyone was concerned I had not set it away.

As I bid the Italians goodbye, Waseem and his family presented me with a garnet of orange flowers. They then gave me the Hindu symbol of good luck and placed a red dot on my forehead along with a big round of applause. Was this my birthday in Hindu? Such a fuss. I wondered if Waseem thought I worked for a guide book company. But it was moving to have a mini send off like that.

Back in my room I had everything ready. It was 11pm. And the candle boat was doing my head in. I had to do it. Heading downstairs I woke Raja up to open the door and told him I had to go to the Ganges to do something.

"No problems, you go." he stretched wearily.

I walked quickly through the dark alley's. There was nobody around. I wondered if the crumbling little candle boat would even float.

I reached the shoreline and lit the candle. Being careful not to touch the water myself and wondering if it would float I gently placed the little candle boat into the Ganges river. It did float. The flowers headed off north with the rivers gentle current. The candles little light twinkling in the waters reflection. It felt good. As if it was meant to happen, and did.

Raja opened the doors to the hotel, "Did you get to the Ganges?"

I replied with successful nod.

"Good,"he nodded thoughtfully in return. Though it could equally have been a sleepy nod.

Was I missing something here? It didn't matter. It felt good to have accomplished it.

Now all I needed was an Auto Rickshaw to the Train station.

17-12-2007

It was 5.30am when Bob, a fairly big Canadian guy arrived at reception. I was waiting for the Italians to appear before our dawn river boat trip on the Ganges. We struck up a conversation. He was attempting a round the world by surface trip, taking boats and all manner of overland transport, so we had something in common.

The Italians appeared, and although tired from his overnight trip down from Nepal big young Bob decided to join us too. For 150 rps we were in for a good show. For the first time in forever I was not apprehensive about getting into a boat, or floating along in the water. Indeed our little row boat and rower were quite nice, both quiet and genteel.

We rowed in near silence, only the gentle lapping of water against the paddles broke into the darkness. There were no burning ghats this morning. Bob, a photojournalist by trade began shooting away with his Canon EOS. The boat. The rower. The shore. I tried the same. I got masses of blurry images.

Dawn approached in a magnificent golden hew. The river came to an incandescent life. The shores were lined with people starting out their day. There were no gory sight. Instead people washed clothes, bathed and prayed as the new sun seemed to raise them up into a dreamlike state. The colours of this dawn were fantastic. Was it the river? The area? The day? I did not know. But it effected us all.

We paddled along. With the new golden rays my camera at last began to take good photographs. Other boats started to pass by in the opposite direction. Some, our boatman told us, were called 'floating shops'. From bracelets and other touristy items to bags of salt and fish; smiling gapped toothed floating shop salesmen waved to us. Tourists sailed by, cameras clicking as people pointed to the shoreline of temples and life. Locals sailed by, no cameras or pointed fingers, just silent gazes at life on the Ganges.

We headed back as the golden dawn took on a more colourful and average look along the river. We settled in on a huge breakfast before cramming ourselves into Waseem's little white car and headed off to see some temples. All still included in the price. The Italian guy declined to come, he was too sick with the flu. It was now I felt my own itchy sore throat. The temples were all good, made better by a good combination of travellers.

The night boat trip departed at 17.30, it was just bob, me, and a silent Bulgarian guy. Somehow the evening trip did not hold the magic of its dawn counterpart. There were more boats in the river, and the burning ghats were in full smoulder. We paddled up a little along the shore, looking on as a boat of tourists began pointing their cameras at the funeral piers. While no one seemed to mind, I would have to side on those that see it as disrespectful. People were in mourning, their relatives and friends in a state of entry into the most holy of rivers.

Up ahead were were surprised by the bright neon celebratory lights beside a large temple. Accompanying this smoky light display was the sounds of traditional drums, sting instruments and horns. When Waseem had told us of the nightly celebrations that take place every evening I was not imagining such a festival to be taking place.

Above a harbour like area there were 5 20 foot poles spaced evenly along a platform, all adorned with lights. At the bottom of each pole there was either a man or woman dresses in traditional looking orange robed outfits. In choreographed unison they went through a routine of playing symbolized music while in the back ground and scattered around were several musicians that accompanied them.

The men and women interchanged their display with brass candle sticks held high. Little flames flickered as they were swung in unison. We climbed out of our boat and unto the dock area for a better view. It was now we could see that seated in front of this theatrical display were about 200 local people. The usual amount of 20 or so tourists. And some flower sellers. To think that every night there was a celebration like this is quite impressive. Even more impressive is the thought that it's not profit oriented towards tourism.

Back at the hotel after a nice chicken Manchurian I realised I had all the signs of a bad sinus infection, just what I needed before a trip up to the snow bound plateaus of Nepal.

18-12-2007

Yes I was sick. In fact it was coming in hard. We bundled into Waseem's little white car yet again, this time for a trip to Saranath, a small Buddhist Temple type town 30 minutes away. I can't say I have ever been in a town with so many temples from around the world. Japanese, Thai, Indian and Tibetan temples all seemed to have embassy like qualities about them here. Waseem was not permitted to join us as we ventured inside, guides were not allowed. This took away from the history a bit, not that Waseem was that forthcoming anyway. But they were still enjoyable.

Again in each temple I was confronted with this blasted thing of removing shoes. More so than that at the first temple all electronic items were not allowed in, including batteries. The Japanese temple offered up a monk beating a drum and chanting over and over. While the Tibetans wanted us to stay and chat for a while. The Thai was somewhat dull so we managed to sneak into a garden ground behind it which livened things up a bit.

Our Indian temple visit was highlighted by a monk tying a piece of red string around my wrist for good luck. Then he wanted money for it... boy does that annoy me. Thankfully Waseem interjected in time and paid off the monk 10rps before I had time to rip the red string off. I made up for it by buying a set of wooden Hindu God's from a charming street seller with a smart mouth outside. And while I still have to work out, who's who. It's still nice.

My throat was better by the time we got back to the hotel, unfortunately my sinus were blocked. I went in search of antibiotics. The streets were a bit more crowded than usual, but still not nearly as bad as people had made out. I found some antibiotics, and checked them over. It took three stores before I found something resembling real.

Waseem's father, the actual hotel owner was also a silk wholesaler. So goes the story. The Italians , Bob and myself settled into an afternoon of having all manner of silk goods displayed to us. Scarf's, sari's, wall hangings and sheets were all laid out before us. The Italians held firm and bought nothing. I met Waseem's father a little of the way and bought a wall hanging and a scarf. Bob on the other hand went all out and bought two sets of sheets, a couple scarf's, and had a couple of shirts made too. While the silk was beautiful, and cheap. I think Bob's postal charge will outweighthe rest.

I needed some ATM cash, so feeling like there would be more purchases on the way Waseem's father asked Raja to take me on this bike. I should have guessed this was one of Raja's first attempts at riding a bike. We fell before we even moved. Raja played vigorously with the bike. Trying his utmost to straighten the little 125 machine before I came close to getting on again.

We purred, or rather we spluttered most of the way. Toppling over at least at every stop. The most entertaining ones' were the ones in the middle of intersections. Raja was not able to handle the weight of the bike once I was added to it. Varanasi now seemed small. We weaved through alleys, zoomed by children playing marbles on the street, we stumbled to a near fall once more. It was a a crowded city, but manageable. Except on the back of a bike with Raja. Time to head back.

Over dinner I discovered that I would have to move fast if I was to make it to Nepal. I had wanted to take the direct bus to the border, it would have saved me some time. But there was no bus for another two days, while the train left every day. Only it left at 11.30 and 12.30 at night. I night train would mean I would be in Gorakhpur early in the morning, and would make the border a little later in the morning. It was painful as Pokhara was 8 hours from the border. I could get there during daylight hours, just about. If everything went my way...

16-11-2007

I left the train and bid Garima farewell as she met her uncle on the platform. The station was not nearly as overcrowded as the LP had stated. And only a few people came up to me offering hotels and cheap rides. No sign of my hotel guy though. I tried giving the hotel a quick call before heading out just as Roberto and Gillian, the Italian's, showed up. This coincided with a short shaven headed man called Raja introducing himself to me, he was indeed from my hotel, the Sai Kripa.

We all bundled into Raja's little white car and drove the short distance to the Sai Kripa Hotel. The hotel was simple, friendly and quiet nice. At only 300 Rupees per night we were all quite happy to stay there. I had a shower and joined the Italians on the roof for breakfast.

The view was at first a little disappointing. There is the distance was hazy inkling of what might have been the Sacred Ganges River. It turned out it was a good thing the river was not so close by. Raja offered to take me on a free tour of the river. Free was the word I liked there.

I was a little sceptical over this free tour, it seemed a bit to good to be true. But once we headed down towards the river I was impressed with Raja's knowledge of the Ganges. The streets were surprisingly quiet, and I was beginning to wonder if the LP writer had been here at all.

The Ganges itself was much as I had expected, large, meandering and quite brown looking. A steady haze held the distant shoreline captive as I began to take distant photographs. It was with Raja's insistence that I take closer pictures of the people along the shoreline as they washed clothes and bathed in the murky brown river. We walked further along the river and Raja took delight in explaining to me the names of the different temples we past by. Up ahead my mind was distracted by the tell tale plumes of dark wispy smoke appearing.

We approached the burning Ghats and walked up some steps to a small tower that overlooked the incredible scenes of life and death below. There were currently two piers burning with another 3 being prepared. Raja explained the whole process to me.

"People, they are coming here to die," he said staring at me intently. "From all over the country they come here. It is very important to them that they are placed in the sacred waters of the mother Ganges. This is so they are not reincarnated."

I looked at him inquisitively, not sure if I head him correctly. "Not, to be reincarnated?"

"Yes," he continued prudently, "If they be having a good life, it is better not to come back after such good times. And if they are being bad people, then surely they do not want to be coming back to life as something so bad as like a... rat."

He did have a point. His second point also made sense. "This is especially true of the Kings in the past. They be worried what they did might not make them come back so nice."

He explained that the poor today could have a modern style electric cremation for only 500rps. While the richer, or those that could get the money together could pay upwards of 25rps per kilo of wood. And an average body takes about 2-3 hours to burn.

During this process the family would circle the body 7 times, on each occasion touching the dead's lips with sacred fire from a nearby temple. After the body has been cremated, it's ashes are pushed and thrown out into the river. A member of the persons family would then shave their head and dresses in white to show respect to the dead. During this period the family would also through a celebratory feast.

I looked on as more piers were being built. It was behind one pier that I saw a deceased man floating gently in the water. He was wrapped in white cloth and a gold tinsel like material with only his grey bearded face exposed. His relations would occasionally come up to him and pour some of the rivers water onto his lips. While all this spirituality was taking place great bulky cows roamed freely in amongst the mourners and dead. Eating the many orange and white flowers that adorned many of the dead as local dogs scoured for something else.

A great waft of black thick smoke came out way from the piers. Perhaps I did not like the smell because it was so strong. Or maybe because the thick sweet smell reminded me of Argentinian Beef on a barbecue. Either way it was not good.

A rigid body was hoisted up from the rivers edge and placed on a pier before being covered over by wood. Specialised cremator s appeared and began lighting the pier from the bottom.

Raja gave a further insight into life on the Ganges. "All these cremators, they are all working in this area for on man. 'The King'. He runs this area. It is his. And anything they find here is his. This is meaning that all the jewellery and rings and things that do not burn are his after the cremation."

I looked at him with pictures of people sifting through buckets of hideous mud. "Fillings from teeth?"

"Oh yes, plenty" replied Raja.

I looked in the other direction as a group of men appeared. The largest of the group, a heavy set man in a black leather jacket was carrying a small bundle. It was a child of about 2 years, dead. They carefully unwrapped the child from its blankets and placed the small body in a clean white sheet.

"They are going to cremate the child?" I asked.

Raja shook his head, "No, never a child. They will be taking a boat out to the river and placing the body there."

I looked as the large man who I presumed to be the father struggled to keep himself composed. "Where is the mother?"

"No women are allowed to attend the service." Replied Raja.

"That's rough Raja, even the child's own mother cannot attend. It's gotta be hard."

Raja wobbled his head a little, "And, you cannot cry tears here either. If you do, then the dead will forever be sad."

They headed out on the little boat to the centre of the river. Slowly the little white bundle was lowered into the brown river until it dipped out of sight.

I thought about the amount of bodies, both whole and in the form of ash that must go into the river everyday. And then to see the bathing, the clothes washing, the body washing, the teeth brushing and the cows and the dogs all making use of the holy river. It was intense.

The freshly lit pier was now smoking heavily as several other extinguished piers had their remains brushed into the river. A scrawny dog zig zaged in between the piers as a cow picked up a garnet of orange flowers and chewed on them. The dog paddled into the rivers shores and dipped its snout into the brown water before pulling back with a blackened heart shaped object in its jaws. The dog crunched down on the remains a few times before jerking its head back and swallowing the remains.

The cow lurched forward and sent the dog running from its territory. But the dog persisted and quickly returned. Once again the dog tipped its head into the waters, this time returning with a the charred remains of what looked like kidneys and a long rib. A few locals waved the dog off. Not so much as scared rather than anxious the dog scampered a little before returning for another mouthful. It took a few more attempts before the dog eventually took flight.

According to Raja they did not frown upon the dog eating the human remains. In fact it was very good for the dog. For eating the human remains meant that the dog could be reincarnated as a human in his next life.

I felt like I had seen enough. The piers smoke was penetrating deep into my clothes and my throat had the taste of it all. We walked a little further with Raja continuing to explain the names and types of temples along the river bank. We visited the sacred temple that help the fire for the cremations. But really all I want was to return to the hotel and think over everything I had just seen and witnessed.

I ate a late lunch and spent most of the day on the hotel roof. It was there that I met Waseem the hotel owners son and arranged a river boat trip for the next day. The Italian's came back from their walk and we settled in for a beautiful sunset, spoiled only by the wafts of charred smelling smoke. Thank goodness there was a hot shower in the hotel.

15-11-2007

My bags were packed and stored away in the hotel. It was to be a day of Internet and planning. Varanasi, according to the LP, had a bad train station and was to be avoided if possible. I picked up my phone and for the first time took advantage of a hotel offering a free pick-up.

My other big problem was what to do for Christmas. I was starting to dislike he idea of heading to Kathmandu and spending Christmas there alone. Chitwan the Nepalese national park did not look that inviting either. So the idea of doing a trek was getting closer to the forefront.

I packed up two pizzas for the overnight journey, and just as I was leaving bumped into a nice English girl who just changed hotels. Typical as one is just leaving.

New Delhi railway station was as crazy as ever, but I ignored all and fought forward to the correct lane. At least everything was marked clearly, including my name on a list outside the carriage. Finally a train with sense!

The carriage was packed with tourists. It was a AC 2nd class, meaning 3 tiers of sleeper seats opposing each other and an open corridor. Luckily there seemed to be a nice Italian couple, Roberto and Gillian in the same compartment as me. I chained up my bag and sat down with them. They were on the way to Variance's too, and it was good to see they liked photography too.

After about an hour the ticket inspector came through. He examined my ticket and then promptly shook his head. Bollox, what the hell now? Were all these Indian trains a screw up!

I pointed to my name on his list. He waggled his head, "You must be to be going to 1st class!"

I looked around a little confused. "But my ticket is for here?"

He smiled and nodded, "Yes but now you can be going 1st."

Apparently I had just won the train lottery. When ever they had vacant 1st class seats they would take a lottery and boost people up, thereby making more room for 2nd and 3rd class seats which they could sell more tickets of. I looked at my two new train friends and said that if the 1st class compartment was not so good I would be back. But in truth as a little baggage man appeared to carry my bags for me I was revelling in the idea.

After a little knocking, the door open to my new accommodation. A solitary young Indian girl stood in the two bed compartment with a worried look in he eye. No I would not be going back to 2nd class tonight.

Her name was Garima, and she barely said a word. In fact the only thing she did say was that she wanted the top bunk. I searched for conversation openers, and they all failed. She was not budging.

Finally an idea crossed my mind and I opened up my bag. I had the ultimate female conversation tool. I reached in and pulled out my freshly read 'Mayada, Daughter of Iraq: One Woman's Survival Under Saddam Hussein', a good book about a woman imprisoned during the days of Saddam. Garima immediately opened up to conversation.

For once and actually the only time I was talking to an Indian who was not trying to get at my money one way or another. Garima was a lawyer from Variance's but studying a masters in Delhi. She was what most would pass by as a modernist Indian lady. She was dressed in a feminine western suit, but still had an orange sari at hand. She was well educated yet quite reserved. Intelligent enough to have a conversation on just about any subject, and smart enough to ask questions behind a closed door.

The little baggage handler was apparently assigned to take care of all the needs on the first class passengers. My need was a sprite as Garima was making me horse with all her questions. She had discovered my journey. And found it fascinating to meet someone wanting to see the world. What's more to her, I had been to Pakistan. Above anything else she had questions about Pakistan, the people, the places and ultimately was it better than India. This was after all quite a taboo subject in India.

Garima even managed to sit through 1000 + unedited photographs I had taken there. More over, she actually enjoyed them. Like we all know, there is usually only so much one can take of travel photographs belonging to someone else. Unless of course you have an interest in photography, or in going to one of those places. And even then there was a limit.

Garima, it seemed, was the exception to the rule. She took hold of the camera on each new photograph and inspected everything about the photograph. The people, the landscape, the food cooking in the stall. It was all questioned. Later we fell into a deeper conversation about the differences between the two nations, and her views on Islam and Hinduism. It was never too heavy, but always with reason.

We talked until quite late. She had her information. And still held onto her belief's. The light stayed on for the whole night, not so good when you are sleeping on the top bunk right next to it.