Scam-Bam Thank You Mam!

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Varanasi, the holy Hindu city lying on the banks of the mighty Ganges, is said to be an auspicious place to die.

A curious claim to fame, it has to be said, and in any case not the reason we were going there.

At least we sure as hell hoped not.

To die here means cremation at the sacred burning ghats, said to free one from moksha, the eternal cycle of death and rebirth. I’d always presumed that reincarnation would be something of a bonus, a second chance to experience all the glories of life, and reap the rewards for all that lovely karma you’d been so liberally showering around. Apparently to be reborn in India, though, is something you’d really rather avoid, and having been here almost a month now, I was starting to see they might have a point.

Even so, it’s hard to imagine it being lucky to die anywhere. I certainly can’t think of a western equivalent. In England admittedly, pensioners flock to south coast towns like Eastbourne and Bognor in retirement, but then fail to live up to their end of the bargain by not dieing, instead congregating in ever larger numbers to moan about the weather, drink endless cups of tea, and generally get in peoples’ way.

The problem lies in sussing exactly when to go. Here in India astrologers will pin down any date you care to mention in return for just a few rupees, while back in Blighty you have to rely on the best guess your local GP, who hopefully is keener on keeping you in this life than sending you off to the next.

“What do you think it could be, doc?”

“Well, not sure entirely. Probably stress related. Maybe you could do with a nice holiday.”

“Oh yeah, that sounds like the ticket! Know of anywhere good?”

“Well Bognor and Eastbourne are nice and close, but recently I’ve been hearing really good things about Varanasi!”

“Oooh, that's a fair old hike, though, innit?”

“Yeah, but not so far if you’re only going one way. No need to take too much time off, the weekend would probably do it, so pack light, but do remember a nice suit!”

Why do people get buried in suits, do you think? Are they planning to go to the office in the afterlife? If so they must have a very different idea of heaven from my own. Just for the record I’d like to go out in tropical shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, with a wide-brimmed hat and holding a cocktail glass with a little umbrella. While you’re at it feel free to throw in a full set of scuba gear, or really go the whole hog and bury me with a fully-equipped live-aboard cruiser crewed by a crack team of blonde Swedish masseuses. That should keep the gravediggers busy for a while.

Should the kitty turn out to be not quite so full, Option B would be a simple cremation dressed head-to-toe in Fireman’s garb, so I can claim to have gone out a hero on arrival at the pearly gates.

Fortunately, despite travelling to Varanasi while not feeling entirely well, neither of us were cremated on this particular trip, though we didn’t escape without getting our fingers burnt.

Varanasi has the reputation of being second only to the Taj Mahal for the numbers of swindlers and con-men keen to separate you from your hard-earned. On arrival our train was a cool 6 hours late, thus depositing us at the station in the hours of darkness, something the guidebook specifically warns against. On cue, we were accosted by a ‘friendly local’ who just happened to speak excellent English, know all the best places to stay, and have an auto-rickshaw driver ready and waiting for us outside. How convenient!

This guy might as well have had ‘SCAM’ tattooed on his forehead, which made it all the more puzzling when he immediately agreed to take us to our chosen lodgings for exactly the price quoted in the guidebook. Maybe he’d decided to restock his karma just before bedtime in case death came calling in the night.

Off we pottered through traffic mayhem, zigzagging our way through throbbing streets which grew ever narrower as we approached the old town. Before long the alleyways were too narrow to swing a cat, let alone a cow, and the rickshaw and driver had to be abandoned.

‘Come, come. Not far now. Rest of way we walk.’

This wasn’t wholly unexpected, as we already knew no traffic was allowed in the heart of the city, but even so I was beginning to smell a rat. It didn’t exactly look like tourist central. Still, there was nothing for it now but to haul on our packs and follow him to wherever it was he was taking us. Luckily only 100 yards up the road he came to an abrupt halt.

“So, here we are!”

We looked around in puzzlement, as there was nothing obviously resembling a hotel in sight.

“This is it?”

“Yes, yes!”

“This is Ganga Fuji Home, the No 1 guesthouse in the whole of Varanasi?”

“Yes, yes. Inside please!” and with that he indicated a tiny doorway in the wall to my left I’d somehow previously missed.

Tentatively I poked my head inside, reassured to find myself not in a mugger’s lair, but in something which did indeed resemble some kind of a guesthouse. Phew!

“Excuse me, what hotel is this?” I enquired of the doorman, who was idling by a non-descript desk.

“What hotel did you want, sir?”

“Well you tell me what hotel this is, and I’ll tell you if that’s the one that I want!”

The reception, just like the exterior of the building, was completely devoid of signage. Unfortunately by now, I’d been joined by our guide.

“Here we are! Ganga Fuji Home!”

“Ah yes, Ganga Fuji Home, that is us!” piped up the doorman, trying not to look too surprised.

“Okay...so you’ll be able to show me the ‘excellent rooftop restaurant’ with ‘stunning Ganges views’ then?”

“Yes, yes sir. Please, come this way!”

Up on the rooftop, as promised, there really was some kind of a restaurant, though I’d struggle to call it excellent.

“And there are your river views, Sir.” reassured the doorman with a dramatic sweep of his arm. I peered out into the dark night, but for all I knew could have been staring directly at the centre of a black hole. “Very Lovely, are they not?”

Two Swedes were tucking into a ‘delicious meal’ in the corner.

“Hi guys! Sorry to bother you but what hotel is this?”

They looked up, a little non-plussed. “It’s the Aarti.”

“Not Ganga Fuji Home, then.”

“No, no. This is the Aarti.”

I fixed the doorman with my best ‘You’re Busted!’ stare, but he didn’t miss a beat. “Yes, sir. Ganga Aarti Home!” and with this he pulled out a business card to prove his point.

This, apparently, was news to the Swedes.”So, is this the Aarti or not? We’re meant to be meeting people!”

The Aarti, it turned out, was the second-best guesthouse in Varanasi, very close to Ganga Fuji Home, but by now everyone involved was beginning to twig that we all knew this wasn’t either of them. I’m quite sure the doorman’s pockets contained business cards featuring any combination of all six of Lonely Planet's listings.

Quite suddenly he promoted himself to owner, and regaled us with the sad tale of how he had previously owned the two best guesthouses in town, but after gaining the first two spots in Lonely Planet, they’d become far too busy for him, so he’d chosen to combine the two and move them to this far less favourable location in order to keep the numbers down.

“All that is left is for my new signs to be ready. I have many free rooms now! Come, I will show you!”

What really amazed me was the Swedes had been here two days already without ever realising they were not only in the wrong hotel, but in a completely different neighbourhood. In fairness they appeared to be far from the only ones.

Needless to say, by the time we got back down to reception our ‘guide’ was long-gone, along with the rickshaw and driver, leaving us with absolutely no way to get where we wanted to go.

The Doorman’s sympathetic smile screamed “YOU’VE BEEN SCAMMED!”, and clearly showed that he knew that I knew that he knew there was nothing we could do about it. And so, with one last twist of the knife, he promptly put the prices up.

Unfortunately, in his ‘How To Cook The Books’ recipe manual, he’d never previously come across the dish ‘Pissed Off Scotsman’.

...’Take one resident of Northern Britain, and marinate for 18 years in dismal crappy weather to infuse latent anger. Allow to stand for 20 or so years in balmier climes, before putting on a high-heat in third-world hellhole. Add prolonged sickness and constant hassle to taste, deprive of sleep for 24 hours and allow to simmer for just a little bit longer than you ever really should have. Just before he completely boils over pour cold water all over his plans while smiling inanely at your genius. At this point the chef should take care to note that while the dish now appears ready to serve up on a plate, the addition of just one drop of hot Tabasco price-rise sauce may result in an enormous explosion, leaving you with egg all over your face and the dish flying out of the door in a colossal huff, never to be seen again...’

A couple of hours trudging through dark foreboding streets later we finally arrived at the real Ganga Fuji Home, only to find that he too had put the prices up. Fortunately, by way of massive consolation, he actually had beer available, in no way certain in such a holy city, and it goes without saying that we promptly availed ourselves of a bottle or two.

By dawn our tribulations were forgotten, and we set out to explore our new surroundings. Varanasi’s main attractions are two-fold, and both revolve around the mighty Ganges.

Firstly, and best taken at dawn, are boat rides down the river itself, watching the city come alive as the sun rises before you. It’s over-hyped to the extreme, but not such a bad way to blow the cobwebs away. The real problem is managing to take just one trip, as half the town’s population have sussed there’s easy money to be made, and descend en-masse hunting for fresh meat.

A massive flotilla of predatory shysters scour the shores from dawn to dusk awaiting their next prey, swooping from all sides the minute your toe leaves the door. There really is no escape from these press-gangs, our pursuers reminding me powerfully of the gulls from Finding Nemo, unstinting in their relentless chase, but able to utter but a single word: “Mine!”

In this case, though, the word was “Boat!” a chorus of which sprang up from all sides whenever tasty tourist-flesh appeared.

“BOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHT,BOOOAAAHT,BOAHT, BOHT,BOHT,BOT,BOT!”

“BOOOOAAAHHT,BOAHT,BOT!”

“BOT!”

“BOT!”

Even when you were in the very act of stepping out of a boat, the song would strike up afresh, as if the entire city were populated by a hoard of noisy man-size chickens with oars for tail-feathers. We eventually gave in just the once to our charming boat-boy Ani, who proved the old adage that the early bird catches the worm, particularly if he has the brains to keep his trap shut.

Varanasi’s second draw are the ghats on the river banks, past which we now serenely paddled. Really they’re just a series of terraces before temples, where a kaleidescope of colourful characters come of a morning to mingle, bathe, launder, worship, and occasionally, burn one-another.

These venerable cremation ghats are the most famous of all, and provide a surreal macabre spectacle pretty much all day, every day.

The dearly departed are first paraded through the streets draped head-to-toe in cloth in a cacophony of noise and colour. On reaching the ghats all that changes, and they are promptly despatched with surprisingly little ceremony in front of just a handful of friends and family, usually on a remarkably small pile of wood.

Sandalwood is chiefly used, huge stacks of it lining the shores, awaiting the next conflagration. Its powerful scent ensures none are left salivating at the human barbie, something I’ve been party to before as one of the less-hyped features of laser dentistry. Trouble is, sandalwood’s not cheap, so most are sent off on the bare minimum of fuel. While commendable in itself in these carbon-conscious days, it’s enough to ensure the ceremonies are seldom short.

It’s just as well that Suti, the ancient custom of the widow sacrificing herself on her husband’s burning remains, has long-since been outlawed. I’d always envisaged tragic scenes of women needlessly immolating themselves in seconds on a funeral pyre like something out of Joan of Arc, the flames licking the sky a hundred feet in the air. With fuel prices these days, she’d have to be very careful judging her leap to avoid bouncing clean out of the other side.

“Nice try, Mum, but we’re not going home till the job’s done!”

Even should she perfect her technique on the balance beam, I imagine she might need a blanket or two to keep her toes warm first thing in the morning, and maybe a cup of tea to wile away the time before things start hotting up.

“You couldn’t just pop off and get us a nice packet of Hob-Nobs, could you love? I‘m starting to get a bit peckish, me! I do hope we’ll be done by 5.30, or I’ll be missing Deal or No-Deal.”

Should you show any interest whatsoever while passing the burning ghats, you’ll be asked to donate for more wood to speed things along, one of the more bizarre Varanasi scams, and one more reason we latterly chose to join the many who experience the city solely from the safety of the rooftop restaurants, before vacating as swiftly as possible.

I don’t mean to knock the place. It fully lives up to its billing, a fascinating spectacle of religion and humanity at its most intense. It’s just that when East meets West in such spectacularly differing styles you sometimes find very little common ground at the crossroads, leaving little choice but to escape to North or South.

We chose North, as only a day’s trip away lay Nepal, the chief reason we’d come to these parts in the first place. While Varanasi might be an auspicious place to die, we felt lucky enough to have seen what it had to offer and survived to die another day. We were yet to find out that the next few weeks would provide several prime opportunities for an unexpectedly swift return.

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Photos

Nice Guys Finish Last....
...but get their photos in blogs!

Our Charming Boat-Boy Ani
A Pearl Amongst Swine!

Comments

[deleted_49612]

Great blog and photos and it inspired the following forum thread. :) http://www.travelblog.org/Topics/20229-1.html