Along the banks of the holy Ganges

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We had heard varying reports about Rishikesh, a town of 80,000 on the Ganges. It is a holy city and is famous for ashrams, yoga schools and a visit by the Beatles in the 60’s. They stayed at an ashram for a spell, learning the ways of the yogis from the Maharishi Mahesh. Ringo got bored quickly and left by the others stayed on for a few months with their wives/girlfriends. Later they grew disillusioned with the Maharishi due to his interest in acquiring fancy sports cars and wooing as many young ladies as possible. Gurus may have a sullied reputation in general but there are good teachers at some ashrams.
It is a pleasant place, not overrun by tourists as we’d been led to expect. It is a town for Indian pilgrims, with tourists playing a minor role in the drama. Temples are dotted along the river, many are unsightly concrete things with gaudy statues of Shiva, Krishna and others placed all around. Two long “pedestrian” suspension bridges link the opposing banks of the river, but reckless motorbikes plough through, ceding to nothing. Begging sadhus congregate in their hundreds around the bridges, and seem to expect tourists to be more generous than locals. This is usually a false dream as most westerners view them as stoned old hippies. The tradition of giving alms to sadhus is thousands of years old and it is considered good karma to assist a sadhu by offering food, shelter or money. Sadhus are holy men who have renounced their worldly possessions to follow the spiritual path, wandering wherever the spirit takes them and surviving by subsistence begging. The majority of them are in middle-age or older and consider themselves to have fulfilled their duties as a father, husband and provider, and have left their families behind. In holy cities there are boarding houses for sadhus and many ashrams provide free meals. The majority of sadhus are no doubt on a genuine spiritual quest, but there are certainly a great many of them who have probably become tired of being nagged at by their wives, and find the prospect of a life free from the responsibilities of working, wearing clothes and being sober-minded appealing.
There are lovely plants all around Rishikesh. The lush foliage feels semi-tropical and old banyan trees are venerated and decorated with shrines. The street food is varied and good; fresh squeezed juices, chickpea curry with chapatti, roasted sweetcorn, freshly baked cookies, poppadoms all available for a low price as you stroll up and down the streets. We spent five days like this, absorbing the atmosphere. We stayed at Mountain Valley Mama Cottage on the quiet High Bank, a little far from the main town but a good spot. Mama affectionately addresses everyone as “son” or “daughter” and serves up her “famous” thalis each night. They are delicious and all-you-can-eat. Dahl, pumpkin curry and potato curry are usually served. Mama likes her guests to eat her thalis. A sweet little lady with a warm smile, she is also a shrewd businesswoman. She asked us constantly if we would be having thali that evening as soon as we emerged from our room in the morning, “Thali eating tonight?” She did not appear pleased if we were uncertain or refused. Secretly we also enjoyed the thalis at the nearby Tiptop restaurant (slogan: “Let us serve you once”). Mama’s was good, but the same every night, so we took to sneaking out early in the morning to avoid her thali interrogations. She also offered breakfast, chai and mineral water at every opportunity. Mama is a sweet talker but you get the impression you don’t want to be on the wrong side of her.
We went to early morning yoga classes at the Sri Ved Niketan ashram. It was really challenging for us, our bodies struggled but seemed grateful for it. We felt stiff and awkward in the class which was comprised mostly of amazingly supple Japanese and Koreans. The teacher was a calm, deadpan young man who spoke in a low whisper. You couldn’t hear a word but it was easy to follow his movements or those of the person in front. We decided that yoga is the best form of exercise for the body and mind ever developed. We were later surprised to see our soft spoken yoga teacher down the road a ways, operating a small snack stall.
Days passed easily in Rishikesh, some rainy, some dry, all too hot. We were there for Krishna’s birthday and were lucky to see a lovely ceremony at the river to celebrate it. The devotional music was truly beautiful and the crowd was calm, polite and reverential. Small bowls of colourful flowers were placed with candles into the river, and holy smoke was wafted onto foreheads from special silver receptacles. The tourists present were made welcome and we all enjoyed the peaceful nature of the evening.
We made plans to travel from Haridwar to Varanasi, and spent the day in Haridwar awaiting the 8:30pm train. It started out fine but we ended up somewhat tired and frazzled. It is impossible to find a public toilet in Haridwar, or indeed a private one. The streets are busy and chaotic, rickshaw drivers accosted us viciously. We ate bad food. It poured rain and was wretchedly hot.
The train station was like a refugee camp, hordes of people laid out on plastic mats cooking food, spitting, waiting. Begging children worked the crowds, becoming excited to see white faces. The train arrived on time but a frantic and nightmarish episode followed. In true Indian style, the carriages weren’t labelled or in numerical order. On the platform a confused mass of people pushed eachother around, trying to find their carriages. Fearful that the train would leave any second, we ran up and down the dark platform in the pouring rain, calling in at each coach, “Is this S1?” None of them were. We visited every coach two or three times, it all became a surreal haze of panic, people pointing us in opposing directions, laughing at our distress. We were helpless, scurrying fools, degraded to the point of wild panic and confusion. This is what India can do, and often does. It can be an educational, humbling, infuriating and reducing experience. You have no control and must accept what comes, even though it seems utterly absurd, insane and unacceptable. We had almost given up on finding our car (the carriages were not interconnected by walkways and are very busy so you need to find the right one), the few railway employees we found knew or cared no more than the passengers we asked. I was dejected at the thought of spending more time in Haridwar, with only a wasted train ticket to show for the suffering of the long day spent there. We asked urgently, calling out to passers-by, into the windows of the train. Some people tried to help, some snickered, many wobbled their heads, nobody knew. Suddenly a man in a brown uniform responded to our pleas, and very nonchalantly explained that the coach we wanted was not on the train yet, but would be attached in a few minutes. We expressed doubt, given that in India you get a hundred different answers for the simplest of questions, but he reassured us that he was the conductor and he definitely seemed to know what he was talking about. We waited and he was right. We took our hard, institutional beds in an old carriage that had seen better days but had character. The night was long and terribly hot, I awoke sweating several times every hour. The train was regularly filled with foul smells strong enough to draw me from my restless sleep.
The morning was nice, sitting quietly watching the pretty scenery of the swampy plains. Most of the passengers had emptied out leaving us plenty room. The train was slow, stopping at every small post for long periods. Then the vendors would come, it was fun trying the local snacks and drinking chai after chai. Most of the snacks are deep-fried, the worst of which being “bread pakora”; a tasteless piece of shitty white bread battered and deep-fried. People seem to like it and it is a wonder it hasn’t caught on in Scotland. Soon we were visited by the first of many groups of men who stared at us for some time before beginning a long series of questions. Usually they were young students, eager to practise English, sometimes just guys who liked to stare. We felt guilty as we sometimes grew impatient of being asked the same things over and over by the innocent and naïve lads. What are our ages, jobs, are we married, why no children, how much money do we make, what are our observations of India, etc. People are very patriotic and commonly tell us that India is a great country, waiting in vain for our enthusiastic agreement and flowery words of praise. Then we would be asked to write our names and nationalities in their notebooks at the bottom of a list of other foreign names. As one group finished with us another arrived. A railway employee also befriended us, a mustachioed man with a ghee-belly who told us he was the intelligence agent of the train, watching for Pakistani terrorists. In light of the recent bombings in Bangalore and Ahmenabad we were relieved to have this man on board, who spent most of his time sleeping, popping savoury snacks into his mouth and reading the newspaper over Scott's shoulder. He told us that the train would be 3 hours late and revealed that the train we were riding was in fact “very poor”.
We arrived in Varanasi 3 hours late indeed, having spent 22 hours on the train. It was evening and we didn’t want to mess around, having heard the worst about the touts, conmen and drugged-up thieves of Varanasi. As in most places, the rickshaw drivers of Varanasi represent the lowest form of scum and villainy. They crowded around us as we stepped off the train, forcing us to follow their lead to the pre-paid booth. We had no choice but to hire their services. As the driver sped off into the night the city appeared as hectic and deranged as we’d anticipated. Many streets were completely flooded due to the heavy monsoon rains recently. He tried to talk us into going to some other hotel, as expected also. He went on and on but we were firm, and to our amazement he actually took us to where we wanted to go. But he was sullen and angry about this and followed us to the door of the hotel we’d booked the day before.
Varanasi is a fascinating place, a place you will not forget and cannot waltz idly through. The city's history reaches back over 3500 years and it is one of India's most sacred sites. Every year millions of pilgrims come to bathe in the mother Ganges and it is the preferred place for cremations. Hindus believe that if you die in Varanasi, your soul is emancipated from the cycle of death and rebirth. Understandably then the city has a sizeable geriatric population. Cremations are performed at specific ghats along the river, out in full public view. Afterwards the ashes are cast into the river. The cremations are carried out by members of the untouchable caste called "doms". It is said that by performing the cremation they are taking on the sins of the dead. A few of these doms have become substantially rich from their profession but perhaps at a very high price.
The old city is a dazzling maze of narrow alleys and passages. Tiny cupboard-like shops sell everything from stickers to world famed varanasi silk. The atmosphere is alive and colourful, tiny shrines and temples are hidden every few steps. Walking through the alleyways is a fun but harrowing experience, as speeding motorbikes, reckless cyclists and overgrown water buffalo charge through, pushing you to the side and crushing your feet if you aren't quick enough. We were both "runover" several times by various types of vehicle and animal. Walking through the alleyways you are persistently hassled by touts, rarely given more than 20 seconds of peace between propositions, "Where are you going? Hello, hello! Hello!! Yes sir! Yes please Madam! What are you looking for? Good hashish, opium? Burning ghat is this way, Golden temple that way, boat trip, room, rickshaw, silk, you like marijuana?" They are incessant and deeply irritating. Often they would cut me off, taking stride beside Scott, pushing themselves close and rapidly firing away their list of services, broadcasting directly into his ear. They will not leave until shouted at forcefully. I can't understand why they insist on bringing every interaction to this unpleasant climax.
Varanasi must be one of the world's most intense but interesting cities. It is exhausting and tries your patience, sanity and resolve. I couldn't handle more than a few hours on the streets each day, and by 9am the heat was unbearable. But there are treasures here. We ate at wonderful little south Indian food stalls, enjoying cheap dosa, idli and uttapam. We saw an excellent Indian classical music concert, tabla and sitar players playing to an audience of only six in a tiny music school. We had a great little guesthouse, although electricity was a problem. It would be misleading to say that Varanasi suffers from frequent and prolonged powercuts, but more accurate to say that occaisionally there is a supply of electricity. With no working fan in our room we were often driven to sleep on the hard floor of the courtyard.
As often happens in India, things swing from one extreme to another quickly. Having spent a tiring day warding off touts and drug pushers we were sick off it all. Cursing Varanasi and all of its trickery, we retired to our hot room wondering if there was an honest person in the whole city. After brushing our teeth, a couple of long-haired Israelis at our guesthouse somehow persuaded us to go with them to an all-night concert at the Durga temple. Apparently the music had been playing uninterrupted for the last 3 days and all of India's top musicians were there. The annual festival was devoted to the goddess Durga and the music was scheduled to end some time after sunrise. We were scared to venture out into the dark streets of Varanasi, our guidebook having instilled fear in us. But the event sounded too incredible and soon we were being whisked down the dark, busy streets in a cycle-rickshaw, following the lead of the fearless Israelis. Reaching the temple we knew we had not made a mistake. It was a gorgeous structure covered in strings of flashing red, pink and green lights and surrounded by a dark moat. It was a scene of festivity unlike any I'd ever seen. Outside the temple was abuzz with food and chai vendors, rickshaws and hundreds of people milling around. We could hear powerful music being eminated from the PA. A strange psychadelic fantasy world awaited inside. It was decorated majestically, every pillar wrapped with elaborate garlands of flowers and sparkling silk cloths. Fruits were bunched into delicate arrangements and dangled overhead. Arches of vines and leaves had been constructed under which the crowds moved. Many were beautifully dressed, and filed past the statue of Durga, which formed the centre-piece of the semi open air temple, praying and making offerings. The clean marble floors had been covered with rose petals and the lovely scent permeated the entry way. The atmosphere was charged with excitement. The musicians sat on a central platform in front of the Durga image, facing the statue. As many audience members as could fit were allowed to sit right with them on the platform. We spent most of the night on the roof, from where we had good views and were occaisionally refreshed by a light breeze.
This was possibly the best live music we have ever witnessed, both in quality and in atmosphere. Indeed many of India's top musicians were present and we were shocked to recognise the first act we saw, an unbelievable tabla player whose CD we have back in Eugene. The tabla is really an incredible sounding instrument, much more than just a couple of drums. It has a complex tuning system and fulfills the roles played by both percussion and bass in most musical styles. It seems to be equally capable of providing rhythm and melody. This man was an erratic, fast, intense player whose performance surpassed any I'd ever seen. His expressions were joyful, transmitting energy and demanding response from the audience around him. Throughout the whole evening the musicians constantly communicated with eachother and the audience members on the stage, sharing strangely synchronised head wobbles, hand gestures and exclamations. It was not clear what orchestrated these communal gestures and we wondered what sort of magic was at work. The master played into a frenzy for an hour and a half. His wild vocalisations at the end reached a peak of intensity that left us feeling exhilarated and overwhelmed. It was like some sort of insane hyper-chanting, reminiscent of the speaking in tongues of those overcome by the spirit.
As rumours that Ravi Shankar was to make an appearance began circulating (later proven to be just rumours), two young male dancers took to the stage and began a fast and dizzying performance akin to tapdancing. However these dancers were barefoot, the bells on their ankles providing the percussion. As they whirled and jumped the musicians challenged them to keep up with their musical commands. It was like a test of skill and endurance. Their heavily made-up girlish faces showed joyous unmoving smiles, all part of the performance.
We saw three more ensembles, two wonderful vocalists accompanied by tabla, harmonium, sitar and sarangi (a violin-like instrument played upright). These musicians sat cross legged in front of Durga for over 3 hours, never pausing from their hypnotic, psychadelic music even to stretch their legs. The last set included two wonderful flutists. The night passed by quickly listening to such beautiful music. Reluctantly we left at 5am as we had arranged a dawn boat trip on the Ganges.
After the night of blissful music, being in such an otherworldly, colourful setting, the Ganges at dawn appeared wonderful. The boat drifted along peacefully up and down the ghats. We watched the morning bathers plunging into the deep, murky waters of the immense river, which is now very high being the end of the monsoon season. Prayer ceremonies were taking place at various ghats, singing, chanting and the chiming of bells floated throught the air. Varanasi appeared peaceful and serene from the river. It was difficult to imagine the chaos that we knew dwelled in the alleyways behind the ghats. Our boatman provided a satisfactory commentary throughout the first half of the trip, although he was a little difficult to comprehend as he continually stuffed more and more "pan" into his mouth. Pan is a mixture of betelnut, tobacco and various other spices and is a popular mild narcotic amongst Indian men. The pan chewer is easy to spot by their dilated pupils, pink teeth and their constant need to release a jet of pink discharge from their mouths. Talking to them is not dissimilar to talking to someone with a mouth full of toothpaste, they tilt back their heads and protrude their lower jaw so as not to lose any of the precious juice. During the second half of the trip the commentary transformed into regular petitions for "baksheesh". The word originally meant alms for the poor but now also encompasses tips and bribes. Baksheesh is what fuels India, from the poorest beggars to the highest levels of government. Initially we ignored his hints but when he became more direct we outright refused. He was a little angry about this but people in Varanasi often are.
After all this we were more than ready for a dosa breakfast at our favourite south Indian restaurant, a nameless joint known to us as "the hairy ears", due to the uncanny coincidence that all the staff their boast this attribute.

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Photos

Floods
It's been a bad year in northern India, particularly Bihar and Uttar Pradesh.