Ganga Management

Four weeks and 5 days had passed since I last experienced the bliss of a full weekend, and now I was to have one again I needed to do something. Preferably not in Delhi.

After a hurried attempt to organise some rafting, climbing and camping went belly up due to lack of numbers I managed to find two willing European volunteers to accompany me to Rishikesh, a town on the River Ganga 180km to the NE of Delhi. With no hope of getting a train as the school holidays meant a one-month waiting list, our only option was to get some bus tickets and brave the 8 hour journey. Obtaining the bus ticket was easy; finding the bus was difficult.

Kashmere Gate bus station at 10pm on a Friday night is a frantically busy place. I guess it would be busy at any time, but when you're ticket doesn't have a bus number you feel royally screwed. Our only hope was to latch on to a family who we knew were getting on the same bus as us, mainly because the guy who sold us the ticket herded us all into one spot. Two Indian lads who were also waiting for the bus came to help, but I know men - especially when there's three hopeless European women looking lost and confused. I was told off for my cynicism - they were only trying to help after all. Funny though that once we managed to force our way onto the correct bus, the Good Samaritans were after one of the lady's digits.

Men, huh! We're all the same.

I mention this, not to blow my own trumpet, but because she was in part right - I am very cynical. I've been in Delhi too long, so anyone asking me where I'm from or wanting to talk to me obviously wants to try and sell me something. A little girl no older than 6 clung onto my leg as I tried to cross the road. She had some flowers with her. Was she genuinely being affectionate or using an aggressive sales tactic? I felt like Bender with the orphans.

Rishikesh was to nourish my faith in the human spirit to some small extent, but it wasn't going to happen immediately.

I managed to get a few winks of sleep on the bus before we pulled into Rishikesh. We shared an Auto with three Indian guys, out of Delhi for the weekend who took us around the place and even helped us find a hotel. My cynicism chip was obviously computing "Three of them; three of you", but I was to be proved wrong.

Rishikesh isn't really a sightseers paradise. There really isn't that much. By late morning I was starting to feel a little disappointed. By the time we found a hotel, I was very disappointed. I'll just say it cost a fiver a night. I would have happily upgraded to an 8 pound a night hotel, but when three girls are alright with it, what's a boy to do. Get the bloody Domestos and Parazone out. Alas, I had neither.

By now, I was feeling a bit on the grumpy side and wondering why the hell I hadn't just stayed in Delhi. British stoicism rarely let the thoughts slip on to my face. The girls were proving very popular with the locals. Initially, they were taking pictures of the people by the river, but soon the tables were turned. Everyone wanted to be photographed with them -from boys to families. I wasn't in so much demand, but my mood wasn't really aligned for being the subject of a holiday snap.

I think the turning point came when the girls went down to river to see or do something or other and a lady offered them some mangos. I was stood on the steps above them, nursing a headache which had been brewing from my travelling sleep position, happy to leave them to it, when the woman beckoned to me. Like some sort of overly-cautious semi-feral animal, I gingerly made my way down the steps to destroy a mango as only a Jungli Sahib can. The mess I made did evoke some laughter, which helped to clear the clouds from my head.

A little later we made our way into what I think was a temple, but I can't be sure. The girls were mobbed as soon as they arrived so I went looking around at the statues depicting important moments in Vishnu's life. It was baking hot by this time and I made my way to a shady spot to nurse my head once again. That's when people started talking to me. First up was an old guy who didn't speak any English. I did the best I could to communicate until I was helped along by a couple of lads who acted as translators.

Next I went to find the girls, who were sitting in a small marble gazebo having their hands and, in one case, leg painted with henna. Around them was a crowd of interested kids and people in general, all of whom were very interested in us and mos of whom wanted to chat. During this time, I got talking to a yoga instructor, a teacher from Rajasthan called JP (I can't remember his full name) and, a group of young girls who wanted my phone number (I think it was the hat) and, most remarkable of all, a soon-to-be 12 yo lad called Ishu. Ishu is possibly the brightest person I've met of his age. His level of English was higher than most people I work with, he was a natural with any technology and a joy to talk to. He became our guide for the next few hours, showing us where to sit for the evening ceremony by the River Ganga, where we needed to put our shoes etc. And he didn't want anything. I think he was a little embarrassed when I bought him and the rest of the kids some sweets. His philosophy is that this is his home and we are strangers - why shouldn't he help us?

The crowds amassed as the ceremony wound up. It was quite a long affair, taking two hours in total. A little girl of about 4 decided to adopt our little group as guardians for the proceedings. We hadn't a clue where the parents were, but she didn't seem to mind, taking a liking to each of our knees, especially Maelle's. After an unsuccessful attempt of switching my spot for one nearer the statue of Lord Shiva you see in the pictures (only unsuccessful in the fact that I wasn't supposed to sit there), I temporarily lost my space but met up with JP. He explained that this ceremony happens every night, but the place was packed because it was one of the major festivals celebrating the birth of the Ganga, formed from a lock of Lord Shiva's hair. He tried to get me a clearer view but it wan't happening. We chatted and I met his family and grandkids, and soon we departed.

After paddling in the Ganga for the third time that day I met up with the girls and Ishu, who had unfortunately lost his shoes. I offered to get him a new pair so he could join us for dinner, but he was having none of it. A shake of the hand and he was gone.

Early the next morning I awoke at 5am to catch a bus with Veronica and the Indian guys back to Delhi. Despite the upturn in the day before I was knackered and fully aware that I hadn't caught up on the sleep I'd lost during the week. The Indian lads had proved me wrong in my assumptions, wanting nothing more than a chat and some company. I conversed with Ganesha (great name) who despite being 7 years younger than me, was able to point out more about his country and the countryside we passed through than I could have done for him back in England.

Admittedly, a weekend in Delhi would have been the most relaxing option, but these are the experiences which change our perceptions and humble our self-important opinions. In that respect what Rishikesh lacked in sights, it made up for in insights.

Tony has observed that men like to hold hands in India. He doesn't see many British Indians doing the same thing. Tony also needs to stop meeting up with Beer Sahib for Sunday drinks, even if the music is excellent!