Crasi Varanasi

I stood on the platform at New Delhi train station with, what felt like, a thousand people, most of whom were staring at the white boy with long hair. They were all lined up right against the edge of the platform, looking for the train. I thought it would be insane if I had reserved my carriage with this pushy lot, but resigned myself to the fact that that might be the case.

In fact, it wasn't at all. They were all lining up for the unreserved carriage, trying to get seats in what, must look like, a train packed so heavily, it can only be going to a refugee camp. I had to push through this line to get on my carriage. I was surprised that the others getting on my carriage were pushing and shoving so much, elbows and knees in my face, someone's bag under my rib, surely everyone getting on this carriage has a reservation? There is no personal space in India.

The train was surprisingly comfortable. A platform hanging from the ceiling was to be my bed, in a room of four bunks, curtained off from the carriage hallway. I padlocked my bag to a chain underneath the bottom bunk and hoisted myself up. A friendly japanese guy slept in the bunk under me and an older Indian couple in the adjacent bunks. As tired as I was, I couldn't have slept better: 9 hours with only one toilet break (I tried to descend stealthily in the night, avoiding faces and limbs).

The train was two hours late. Thinking it was meant to arrive at 8:40, I watched out the window attentively, waiting for a station stop. The train would slow down close to a platform and I would think "Is this it? Are we here?" every 5 minutes for two hours.

I eventually arrived in Varanasi, got an autorickshaw to the centre of the Old City and found a hostel. In the afternoon, I wanted to see my first ghat - the steps leading down into the Ganges where people wash themselves, clothes, swim, drink, enjoy a free bowel movement and cremate their dead. And wash their cows too.

This place is filthy. Cows are wondering around everywhere, shitting wherever they please. The smell of urine oscillates between fresh and stale around every corner. On my way back to the hostel last night, while trying to wind my way through the narrow streets of the old city, figuring out where I was going, trying not to get disorientated, I stepped in a big cow pat. Straight in the middle of it. I'm pretty sure I heard it fart as I sank so deep, it release air trapped deep in its pooey cavities. Luckily I could clean it up back at the hostel, thanks to a well positioned tap.

I first went to Dasaswamedh Ghat (which means Ghat where ten horses were sacrificed) to be accosted by every tout in the white man racketeering business. A friendly looking old man held out his hand, I duly shook it, but then he gripped down and wouldn't let go. I started to yell "YOOO DUDEEE! NOOT COOOLL!" and slipped my hand out of his boney grip. Everyone wanted to sell me something or take me on a boat trip...

I found a quiet corner to read my Lonely Planet book, unfortunately, it wasn't that quiet. A few kids came up trying to sell flowers and candles. Eventually a couple of guys came over, reasonably, I was quite suspicious. However, they just wanted to talk. They had never met a white person before and so were really excited to just talk to one...in fact, they told me that they can now go home to tell their friends that they met a white person! We took photos and talked for a while. They had just finished some important engineering exams and had come to Varanasi for good luck.

While I was talking to them, another guy was lurking in the back. Eventually he came closer, when the others left. He started talking and some children he knew came over. A few of them surrounded me, but I didn't feel intimidated, they were only little. However, a third one, curious as to the commotion, ran over, slipped and went teeth first into the third step on the stairs I was sitting on. He hit it so hard that his head sprang back a foot, arching his back as he regained a sense of what was happening. Naturally, I shouted "OHHH GOODD! DUDDE!" He got up immediately to come stand with the others around me. He kept grabbing his front right tooth to see if it was moving....I think it was...a bit of blood was coming out the side...his eyes swelling and arms wrapped around his head as he tried to hold back the tears.

I couldn't take all this, so I politely excused myself and started walking away. The guy who had only just started talking to me, ran after me to shake my hand. I shook it quickly out of politeness, but he then gripped down and wouldn't let me go and started giving me a hand massage. I couldn't have been more freaked out at that point. This place was insane.

A bit further on, I found a quiet spot to sit and read. I slowly walked along to Ganges the rest of the day, much less bothered by all the touts. Monsoon season having just finished, the mud on the banks goes up several metres from the water and in some places covers most of the ghat. Young workers with hoses squated down spraying water at the mud to break it off. In most place it was hard enough to walk on, but I'd rather not imagine what it's composed of.

Eventually I reached Assi Ghat, the most southern of the ghats. It's quite an impressive view of the Ganges from there, but I did feel I had just run a gauntlet of touts. Exhausted, I stopped for a drink before heading back along the streets.

On the way back, several people started talking to me. They were mostly owners of silk emporiums that wanted me to come see how it's made and to attempt to sell me some. I politely refused the first one who seemed to have an obsession with rhyming "No work, no money. No money, no honey. No honey, no funny." and "No water, no shower. Can't have a shower without power. 24 hour." ...OK.

I did however get hoisted into one emporium. The guy who owned it had lived in London for several years, so I felt a little more trust for him than for the rhyming riddler. We peered through barred windows in a dark alley to see several loons (spelling?) being used to make silk scarfs and the like. I was then taken into a shop, where I had to take off my shoes, sit down on a cushioned floor and be told everything about silk...

Among other interesting facts, he told me (though obviously this may not be true) that the fake test for silk is passing it through a ring, while the real test for silk is burning it. The more real it is, the more it smells like burnt hair. He showed me five different types of silk scarves and decorations, all very impressive, but all a little outside my price range. After a while, I broke the news that I might come back tomorrow, but I was sorry that I am only a student.

The rest of the evening was spent resting, well deserved I believe.

So far, I have found India to be a love/hate relationship, where those two feelings are held in a very unstable equilibrium. Amritsar was amazing, but Varanasi, a little too much to handle. I'm going to have to take this trip easy, if I am to survive.