Varanasi

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For a holy city Varanasi is full of shit.

The hordes of cows and buffalo roaming the winding alleys of the old town deposit great steaming piles of it to add to the general detritus of litter, terracotta pots, blood-red paan spit and mulching vegetables that oozes along the narrow pathways. These lanes are barely wide enough for the mangy bulks of bovine flesh that plod through them, indifferent to the motorcycles, pedestrians and wheeled market carts also competing for room to maneuvre. The poo just adds to the fun. Opposite the Ganga Paying Guesthouse, which has been my home for the last few weeks, there is a big field of buffalo and and big field of shit. It is the workplace of a dozen of so women in faded saris and faded smiles, who squat amongst the mounds of shit all day, shaping small round poo cakes with their hands, which dry in the sun to be used for fuel. The women earn 1 rupee for 4 saucer-sized pats. Their colleagues stream in and out of the field all day, like technicolor worker ants, carrying heavy baskets of fresh shit on their heads from the buffalo field and further. It is humbling to watch.

Behind the poo fields the Great Mother Ganges winds her way interminably towards the sea. One of the holiest rivers in the world, the Ganges is also full of shit. Quite literally, too; the particles of fecal matter in the Ganges at Varanasi is at more than 3,000 times the amount which is safe for human beings. And yet, all day everyday, the ghats along the river see thousands of bathers and swimmers, teeth-brushers and clothes-washers. All aspects of life, and death, take place in the water or on the banks, as people flock to take advantage of the holy water for religious pujas, mundane cleaning and the disposal of the dead. The main cremation ghat burns all day and night, filling the air with eye-stinging smoke and the smell of barbecuing human flesh. The dead are carried to the ghats in noisy processions through the town within 24 hours of their final breath; watching the ghats one day, I saw the head of a white-shrouded body lolling around as a family member tried to support it with a log, proving how recently death had taken place. With surprisingly little discernible ceremony the funeral pyre is set alight. Once reduced to ashes, the dark-faced doms who slave at the cremation ghats brush the remnants into the Ganga to make way for the next body. Hindus believe that if their ashes wind up in the sacred river after their death they will escape the continuous cycle of re-birth and achieve eternal life through unity with the divine. Which is nice. Certain people aren't allowed to be cremated, however; pregnant women, babies & children under 14, sadhus (holy men) and those bitten by cobras, so instead their bodies are thrown whole into the river to float along with the litter, marigold garlands and blind Gangetic dolphins. The Ganges and her banks are also used as a vast, convenient public toilet, in one of those incredulous contradictions that make India so unique. Men and children of all ages can be seen squatting for their morning dump on the ghats, looking out over the expanse of grey water and the sandy, flat flood plains beyond.

So apart from having to literally wade through the stuff on any stroll around Varanasi, the visitor is also constantly trying not to get stuck in a whole load of mental shit, too. One morning, before I had even had breakfast, I had seen a dead body (notable only because, but for a swarming veil of flies, it was uncovered), a cow licking out it's own bum hole (who'd have thought they were so dextrous?) and two dogs stuck together after mating (you have to have seen this to appreciate how truly disturbing it is). It seems that, in Varanasi, amongst the usual India recipe of the poor, wretched, dying and diseased, are sprinkled in a few additional ingredients just to make it even more of a head-fuck (sorry Nan).

After reading that you'd be forgiven for thinking I didn't like Varanasi, but strangely, I really did. After a few days of wandering round with my eye balls popping out my head and my fingers squeezing shut my nose, I did start to adjust to the grinding, too-much-life/too-much-death of the place. This was due in large part to the safe haven of the Ganga Paying Guesthouse, which was run by a charming Indian family and also inhabited by members of an organisation called Performance Without Borders, who were doing a circus project with underpriveliged children in the area. We were also joined by a fantastic Israeli lady who was 62 and mad as a hatter, and Charly, a fellow Brit studying tabla. This colourful cast of characters lightened up the often grim outside world by juggling, hooping, hand-standing and Californ-i-fu-ing their way through the day, and allowed me to accompany them on a myriad of adventures, expeditions and treasure hunts.

The biggest treasure hunt of all proved to be the remarkable city we were in, Varanasi herself, who unfolded her secrets somewhat reluctantly; being part of such a large group, however, allowed us to share our findings. The quirky Italian restaurant which served real fresh pasta, the organic food store selling homemade peanut butter and carrot cake, the astrologer who promised me health, wealth and fortune, the winding bazarr filled with beautiful clothes, the ridiculously twee Aum Cafe which was a slice of Brighton in India, the pizzeria selling apple-pie and ice-cream, even the stall which sold the best pomegranates, so ripe their insides exploded like confetti of rubies; all this seeming somehow even more wonderful when set against the backdrop of, well, shit. But they are all a part of this great and mysterious city too, along with the art exhibitions, dance classes, discussion groups, Hindi lessons and music concerts which, once you noticed them, were almost as ubiquitous as the cows. I wanted to leave Varanasi the moment I arrived - I stayed, however, and nearly 3 weeks later I didn't want to leave at all.

One memorable day the circus geeks, Zaharva, Charly and I left the city for a day in the countryside. We drove for over an hour then started an intrepid trek, clambouring over craggy boulders, stepping stones worn smooth by monsoon high water, ducking under thorny bushes, avoiding over-excited school children, until we we rewarded with the sight of our destination - a huge misty pool edged by an immense rock face from which two waterfalls cascaded. We swam, ate, juggled and basked in the sun and nature's most beautiful, dramatic surroundings.

Charly and I decided to take a mini-break from Varanasi to visit Bodhgaya, but I'll put that in a different blog. (I understand my last entry was too long for SOME people...)

Returning to Varanasi two days later, it felt comfortable and familiar, worlds away from my first arrival there just two weeks previously. The group of us at our guesthouse had been invited to the wedding of a family member, and an excited saree shopping frenzy had ensued, so when the big night came around we were all very excited. I felt like an Indian princess in my saree, it was so beautiful, a rich dark wine red colour with antique gold handwork in beautiful swirls of flowers and sequins. We squished into rickshaws for the ride to the outskirts of town to the wedding venue, the house of Shambhunath (or Grandaddy as we called him, a funny old character usually found sweeping the floors of our guesthouse in a loincloth). The set up was very extravagant, a huge garden space laid with green mats and curtained with fancy crepe drapes, long buffet tables groaning under the weight of enormous vats of curry and sweets, a kitsch 70s light up disco dancefloor and a DJ who had all of 5 songs (his favourite proved to be Aqua's Boom Boom, you remember it), rows of chairs facing the focal point, a raised platform gaily decked with strings of ribbons and flowers. On the platform were two thrones for the Bride and groom, who were seated there in all their finery for most of the evening. It wasn't that different to an English wedding really; bad music, too much food, leery old men and bouncy kids hogging the dance floor. The only thing missing was a free bar, or any bar for that matter.

It was a bizarre evening. There was some sort of ceremony for the bride and groom but no-one seemed to be paying too much attention. The other guests mostly ignored what was going on on stage and danced, ate or gawped at the Westerners, clamouring to take pictures on their mobile phones. We were shoved around from pillar to post, showed off, stroked, fed, pulled here and there to shake hands with hordes of beaming guests. We acquired a gaggle of enthusiastic kids who alternatly pawed at us and brought us gulab jamoons. At one point, my buddy Gems and I were manhandled to the cleared dancefloor and literally made to perform while a 4 deep crowd of men and kids craned their necks looking at the spectacle of two white girls in sarees jiving to Aqua. The crowd may have well been shouting DANCE MONKEY DANCE!

After the dancing it was our turn to stand on stage and present our gift to the newly married couple, and we duly posed for photographs with the pleased-as-punch groom and demure, verging-on-tears bride (apparently it's traditional for the bride to look sad that she's leaving her father's house... She was scarily realistic). More 'pass the westerner' followed, with vigorous handshakes, a million pictures and the odd marriage proposal, and we were a weary bunch by the time we set off home. Now I know how the Royal family feel.

It was the perfect crazy end to a crazy stay in a crazy city. But I think Varanasi will hold a special place in my heart; as for every pile of shit there seemed to be a garland of marigolds.

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