Busy days

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I have had a very busy day, what with photoshoots and booking train tickets. The former has become a regular feature of my life and requires that I am available at all times to pose with my adoring fans. Photoshoots usually come about if I am stationary for any period of time and are generally preceded by sly glances, pointing, and the production of a camera. The 'plese, plese, photoe photoe" refrain signals to me it is time once again to don my photo position. A number of snaps are then taken with various shuffling of positions to ensure all family members get a photo with me.

I assumed that being here would mean endless days of relaxing and perhaps boredom, with ample time to fill in my travel blog. I was wrong. The simplest of tasks turns out to be a mamooth undertaking. Two days ago I went to book tickets from Delhi to Varanasi, the first stop when Mick comes out. I had read that you can now book tickets over the Internet and thought this would be the simplest way. As is becoming habitual here, I was utterly wrong. Not only did the attempt span two days of wrestling with the computer it ultimately invovled total surrender on my part. Capitulating, I approached the local tour operator, a small operation occupying a cubby hole beside an Internet station. Thus commenced a further, complicated, tortured period where I had to communicate what I was looking for. I have now handed over my money for the tickets and I await with anticipation the latest instalment in this part of my soap opera. Who knows perhaps I may even get the tickets!

This morning, after two hours of yoga, I took the little shuttle boat across the Ganges to do one or two things. As I was making my way down the gangway an older man started smiling at me. I wasn't sure if he was the man from the local telephone shop, so not wanting to be rude I smiled back. The moment I got on the boat I knew it was a mistake. He wasn't the man from the shop, but instead he had a grin on his face that said "Here comes the tourist bait". Two girls from my yoga class were on the boat so I exchaged pleaantries with them but as we awaited our departure it became clear that the inevitable could no longer be delayed. His opening gambit was that he was once an adviser to Indira Gandhri (I decided not to point out to him that he obviously wasn't a very good one) and that he was now opening a retirement home, some miles up the river. "Very good", I replied (I'm getting into the Indian-English lingo now). I turned away, exchanging further pleasantries with the yoga women. At the next available opening he was back telling me he read palms. "How interesting", I observed, "so do I, and if you would like me to read yours, I would be happy to do so for 10 ruppees". I could see his buddy laughing at this unexpected turn of events. He himself grinned at me as if to say 'fair cop', but undeterred he continued with his sales pitch. If I told him my date of birth he would be able to do a numerology reading. I told him I knew that already - the numbers added up to number 9. "Ah , he said you have had remarkably good health". When I explained to him that wasn't the case he turned away and threw his arms up in exasperation as if to say "I give up". Maybe the last part was my imagination as at this point we had reached the other side of the river.

The boat ride itself is only a two-minute journey. Not far from embankment there is a long, narrow pedestrian bridge connecting the two banks of the Ganges but I prefer to take the boat. Looking down on the bridge is not to be recommended because, at certain points, the sparkling blue river can be seen too clearly and at other times it looks like someone slapped a little putty on a gaping hole. Aswell as that, the name pedestrian bridge is a slight misnomer because motorbikes are allowed to go across it. As appears to generally be the case in India mechanically propelled vehicles have an absolute right of way and precedence is determined by size. When I do take the bridge I have to resist the urge to raise my middle finger as yet another motorbike rider beeps furiously at any passenger who may be on the bridge.

The yoga classes are going well. They are taught by Swiss woman who came to India 30 years ago. Before coming I read that she had had two serious accidents in the last five or six years. The first involved a bus smashing her two legs to pieces and the second, equally serious, was a collision. When I read that I was sorry for her and felt how unfortunate she had been to have two such serious accidents. Having been here a couple of days and having seen the traffic I now think how fortunate she has been to have only had two such incidents. She is incredibly tough and the two hours of class in the morning involve her incessantly barking orders at us. Sometimes, here I would also like to raise my middle finger but fear generally protects me. The course lasts six days and every second evening there is a further two hours of yoga. Alternate evenings involve a breathing class and two lectures. We have a lecture this evening and I thought great, I can relax, until she said to bring a notebook for notes and that there would be questions afterwards. I am not sure if she meant anyone who wanted to ask questions could do so then or whether she would be interrogating us. For safetys sake I will precede on the latter basis and pay attention.

For now, I had better return to my adoring public.

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