Back to India- Varanasi

　
Darkness descended as we inched our way through the hectic rush hour traffic in the centre of Gorakpur. We were let out in front of the main train station and thought it would be wise to go and try to organise train tickets for the following morning to Varanasi. Eek, a bit more tricky than we had hoped, signs were all in Hindi, long lines backed up behind every counter and the tourist information booth had closed and didn't open until mid-morning and did we mention it was Sunday? much to Adam's surprise as he hasn't known what day it is for approximately 2 months and is constantly saying that he also does not care! Short of options and unable to pre-book we met an American from Salt Lake City (Blake), a Chinese guy (Huang), and a sassy Austrian girl (Eva) who were trying to do the same. We found ourselves across the street haggling with a vendor who booked us tickets for a premium price, before haggling again at a skanky hotel reception which opened up into the main street; a coagulation of the past years' garbage, mud, open sewer and blatent fecal matter occupied by three large cows. It set the scene perfectly for the 3rd floor hotel rooms. Unconvinced that the bathroom had been cleaned properly since the place had been built, we turned the fan onto 'high' in the hope it would slay at least some of the swarm of mosquitoes. Attempting to sleep with the light on under the whirring squeaking of the fan which sounded like 200 rats in a bathtub, with face and all skin covered seemed futile. At 1am Lana woke up, knowing that the mossies had been feasting hard, wholly expected to rise in a couple of hours looking like the Elephant Man. Grateful, we packed up (no need to dress, having never undressed) and headed out to find Chai from the street below which appeared to have never contemplated bed, before 4am.
We met the others at 5am in the lobby and headed over to the train station. Zig zagging (in our usual style) around sleeping bodies we found our carriage with relative ease as we settled in for our 7 hour ride to Varanasi. Relatively uneventful, we slept and read for the first 4 hours, then at a large station, loads of people got on, with quantities of luggage which occupied most lof the sleeper seats. We were promptly evicted from our seats when it was made clear to us that we were in the right seat numbers but the wrong carriage! Swiftly grabbing our luggage we pushed through the crowds and onto the platform, before legging it about 400m to the other end of the train which was about to leave. Climbing aboard we realised that this end was also jammed - shoving our way apologetically to the centre of the carriage. We found our seats were already occupied by about 15 indians. Adam, using his highly tuned negotiation skills and a couple of Hindi words he has picked up, convinced them all that it was in their best interests to move out of our seats and let us all squeeze in. Varanasi rolled into view, we disembarked and bee-lined past the lurking touts for the pre-paid tuk tuks out in the car park. Thinking we had done well negotiating the drivers to take us to our hotel of choice, we were driven across the city and around the narrow alleyways of the old city to the 'back-entrance'. Two days later we discovered we were staying at the Ganga Yogi Hotel, and not the Ganga Fugi, but it was fine and had a pleasant roof top restaurant, great to chill out and look over the city and onto the River Ganges. Adam took full advantage 'of the serenity' as he put it with a cold beer and the cricket.
Varanasi, despite the mixed reports we had heard from other travellers and reports in the Lousy Planet, was awesome. We ventured out the next day to suss out our surroundings, making mental notes of landmarks along the way so we could find our way back. Past a distinctive house pasted in cow-pats from top to bottom for drying, and thick piles of animal feaces awaiting their turn to be moulded into saucers and adhesed to vacant wall space just around the corner from our hotel, we took a walk down to the Ghats. The Ghats are staircase fronted temples lining the western bank of the Ganges (pronounced Ganga by the locals). Anticipating a filthy river, teaming with garbage and sewerage we were happy to find nothing of the kind. The wide, flat and calm waters rippled with history and soap suds a plenty, and offered an overwhelmingly peaceful atmosphere with one token dead dog wrapped in a t-shirt, bobbing along. The paved, stepped bank of the city side of the river teems with life, and death, day and night. Offering a simple and poignant picture of the life cycle and a blatent insight into possibly the most colourful culture of peoples on this earth. People bathe here in their thousands each day, some on pilgramage to cleanse their life's sins, and some for the same reason but as their daily hygeine routine they come down to the banks to soap up, swim and say prayers whilst waist deep in the murky waters. Despite being officially illegal, laundry is done by the masses each day, in front of the ghats and between the parked up boats. Amongst the herds of cows hanging out on the sandy shores or practically anywhere over the steps and parade along the water front, boat owners scour the faces of passing trade offering river rides, and mobile touts make polite conversation before trying to convince you to visit their silk factories. In the early morning outside one of the ghats is an open session of Yoga, people and children selling postcards and handicrafts are rife, beggars disguised as Holy Men (Sadus with painted faces, dreadlocked hair and orange lungis) approach the sinful looking tourists.
Admidst this haven of everyday Indian life in its full technicolour splendour, are two important ghats which hold Cremation ceremonies. One of these operates 24 hours a day. The more prestigious of the two only permits Hindu cremations, and can cater for up to about 6 at any one time. The body of the dead is carried through the streets by family members on a bamboo mat stretcher, wrapped in white cloth and adorned in bright yellow or orange embroidered silk, and fresh flowers. Sometimes this is accompanied by a procession of music and drums, in celebration and inauguration of the person's life. Celebrations can be particularly large affairs if the deceased was especially well renouned in life or impressively old. Only the male family members attend the ceremony as the women are considered too 'emotional'. The eldest son, or son-in-law lights the funeral pyre, and the closest relatives of the dead have their heads shaved. The quantity of wood required is calculated and weighed out and the body positioned on the pyre in full view of the river and crowds, taking around 3 hours to burn (dependent on quality of wood and density of body). Once complete, the remaining wood, ashes and other debris are swept into the river, to finally allow all elements to return to where they belong in the earth; the spirit having already vacated and made its way to the heavens. The oldest son will often then go down to the riverside and take an urn of water from where the ashes have been spilt, and walk away without turning back; and this provides the closure. There is not a sombre atmosphere around these areas but a rather comforting acceptance of the aspect of death as part of life. A completely different approach to the Western view of death, in that there is no denial, no prolonged painful grief focused around the 'loss', and no covering it up, hiding the body from view.
We wound our way back to the hotel through the narrow cow s*** strewn alleyways lined with silk scarf and shoe shops, cafes, restaurants, tea stalls and the occasional temple tucked away around a dark bend, to escape the heat of the human barbeques, and to prepare for our evening's entertainment. Escorted by a young lad from the Hotel and two Hungarian girls we arrived at a small concert hall tucked away in the dark alleyways of the old city to indulge in some Indian Classical Music. The packed rectangular room required us to sit on the floor with the other foreigners in front of a small stage at the far end. Musical instruments and drums adorned the plain walls all the way around and a soft yellow light made for very chilled out surroundings. The first trio comprised of one man playing jembe drum, a sitar player (like a squeaky sounding guitar) and a long clarinet like instrument which squawked out the melody. They played 3 songs each lasting about 10-15 minutes, with gently increasing tempo, and smooth dynamics. The next act on the stage was a talented Japanese artist who played what resembled, to the untrained eye at least, as a metal bodied slide guitar, accompanied by a fantastic percussionist, who was bending the beats on the skin of the drum with the palm of his hand with lightening speed fingers. After 3 lengthy songs, and increasingly numb bottoms, a mature and prestigious Sitar player took the stage, and twanged away for a further 40 minutes, performing each track with rapidly increasing tempos that the drummer maintained with equal vigour and skill. Glad we had gone along, but also weary after 3 hours, we left the show despite the fact there may have been a further performance to come, and negotiated our way back to the hotel through the dark, buzzing streets.
We had arranged for the morning boat ride on the Ganges the following morning, and found ourselves and 5 other guests from the hotel, being led blind, through the near pitch black, slippery alleyways of the old town down to the river. Dawn was near breaking when we boarded the blue wooden row boat, with our elderly thin boatman, who pulled leisurely out into the water. After dropping off a boy who had boarded to sell us candles to float down the river, we sailed slowly into the current south east along the river which was already busy with other boats cruising before the sunrise, our boatman stating the names of the Ghats as we passed each one. We turned after quite some time and headed back upstream, where we passed a couple of 'floating shops' selling packets of bindis, postcards and other knick-knacks nobody wanted to buy. The sun was glowing, a burnt orange disc against the hazy blue-grey sky of the morning above the opposite wide sandy bank of the river. Something swollen and buoyant floated by us in the current, wrapped in cloth. Dog or goat we hoped, but we weren't close enough to determine and no one was game enough to poke at it. Being overtaken by other boats some of the annoying guides on board obviously thought it would be fun to throw bags of corn or breadcrumbs into the river to attract a swarm of pesky seagulls. Cawing and swooping, we sat helpless, being paddled slowly through the thick flock, like sitting ducks waiting to be crapped upon. Thankfully the breadcrumbs ran out, and we got to enjoy the rest of our cruise up to the 'Burning Ghat' which was already roasting away, just beyond where a intricately carved temple held its ruined form at an angle out of the waters edge. We returned to where we had got on and our frail chauffeur took us back through the streets to the hotel.
The following day Adam went to look at a Royal Enfield Bullet motorcycle that was for sale at a mechanics yard. Lana hopped in a tuk-tuk with a German couple, Blake, Eva and Denis, a French man staying at the hotel, and headed out to Sarnath. The german couple had been on internships in Delhi for the past 3 months to get to grips with Indian Politics...although it was hard to tell that they had been in India for that long. They tried their first 'Indian street food' when we arrived in Sarnath from a stall which sold crushed samosas with masala sauce and spiced lentils added...what had they been doing for the past 3 months?
Sarnath is situated about 10KM outside of Varanasi and is famous for being the place where Buddha gave his first sermon to 5 'disciples' after attaining Enlightenment and leaving Bodhgaya (south of Patna). We visited first the thick, rusty brown brick bulbous stupa (Dhamekh Stupa), which marks the spot of this 'first sermon'. The original floral carvings can been seen on the outside and it's impressive solely for how well its been preserved from 600 AD. Monks in their maroon robes sat and meditated on the grass in front of it, and incense burned on a shelf contructed for offerings. After viewing this through a gate and walking around the temple in the grounds which was closed for an extended lunch, we found the main entrance to the complex which houses the ancient brick ruins of the British archeological excavation in the 1800's. This led to an amazing discovery, unearthing the old Ashoka era monastery structures and original carvings dating back as far as 200 BC. The beautifully kept gardens around the whole site make for a very peaceful place for contemplation. Lana lost the others somewhere amongst the ruins and headed for the archeological museum across the street, which was small, but had a nice collection of carvings of Buddha and the Hindu Gods, Shiva and Vishnu, again some being close to 2000 years old.
Returning to the hotel that afternoon, Adam came back covered in oil and grease, wearing a huge smile, and holding a gift for Lana. It was a comprehensive Indian Road Map...we were now proud owners of a 1981 Vintage 350cc Royal Enfield Bullet, and would be cruising through India in style from now on!! Adam had arranged with Satish, the owner of the workshop to allow Adam to work with him and his boys in the shop, learning about the Enfield bikes and to get ours ready for the road. With carrier frames to be fabricated, adjustments to be made on the bike, paperwork, legalities, formalities, spare parts and tools still to be collected, we were against the clock as christmas was fast approaching.
Widowed now that Adam had to go to 'work', swinging spanners, drinking tea and feeding his escalating smoking habit uninhibited, there was plenty of chill-out time for Lana as she discovered a little fly-ridden cafe in the alleyways selling good chai, ran by an Indian guy with an Afro that would rival Hendrix. Speaking of which, strangely the cafe had 2 striking portrait pictures on the back wall which certainly made him look something like a famous rock star! Nosing around the shops, walking by the river and generally taking in the atmosphere of Varanasi consumed the next couple of days. One lazy afternoon Lana came a cropper down some steps amongst the alleys, sliding along the gunk as she put her hands out to break the fall ended up with the foul mess of the lanes all over her hands and pants. A kind man on an Indian sweets stall offered some water to wash off the worst. A bath full of bleach however would have struggled to make her feel clean again after that!
By this point you are probably thinking that all we write about is s***, but seriously, s*** is everywhere in India and out in the open too, as we inadvertantly discovered on a photograph taken of a huge boar feasting in a rubbish dump in the street, with a child openly 'toileting' amongst the rotting garbage. On a long walk along the river to reach the Fort at the far end on the other side of the bank, Lana found herself trudging through a bank littered with human fecal matter, passing men along the way in the process of adding to the 'collection', and open sewers running down from the abodes above into the river, guts of steel would find this difficult to tolerate...OK, so maybe the Ganges are as filthy as its reputation potrays it!
Despite the disgusting experience which is becoming more familiar, and the shocking sight of Varanasi's population's useage of the garbage filled waterway and sewerage systems, Lana made it to the Fort, glad she had opted for hiking boots and not flip flops that morning. Having crossed a shonky bridge, built out of splintering wooden beams bolted together over floating tanks, and covered with steel plates to conceal gaps in the timber, making it possible for traffic (cars, auto-rikshaws, and motorbikes) to reach the Fort, she finally arrived relieved that the tout tension had drastically reduced. The Fort itself had looked rather impressive from the opposite river bank in the distance, however upon arrival it was initially dissapointing. Plain and dilapidated inside, the paint-peeling closed-up colonial buildings in the courtyard provided the reception, and through an arch was where the museum was situated. The usual 'no change' saga occured at the ticket desk, and after being rudely fobbed off like an annoying fly by the teller, Lana threw in the towel and took a walk through the markets instead of the uninviting museum. Avoiding the harrowing walk back along the riverside, an autorikshaw seemed to be an easier option.

In amongst sorting out the techinalities of getting us road bound, Adam made a visit to a couple of silk factories which Varanasi is most famous for beside the Ganges. With his new Indian friend Montou from the hotel he came back with a beautiful pure silk patterned quilt cover and pillow set, with intricate patterns in blocks of every colour, and a gorgeous deep turquoise green embroidered scarf for Lana. He also managed to befriend a man who helped him out when he ran out of fuel. The man was involved in an organisation which provides funding for projects for women and children to gain computing skills and education .....He found himself in a pressured and kind of strange situation, being interviewed and photographed for the next edition of the charity's monthly gazette in which his on the spot, 'please just come up with something special' inspiring words will be published for all of Varanasi to ponder! Should make for some interesting reading we think!
We had arranged to leave Sunday morning for the first time on the bike, with the pretext of reaching Agra by Christmas Eve now with only four days travel time. At Ganga Yogi Lodge we met another biker, Christian, a 37 year old bachelor who had ambitiously rode his 650cc Honda beast of a dirt bike all the way from his home in Augsburg, Germany. Travelleing through Europe, Iran, Pakistan and Nepal so far, and also on a world tour, said he would be happy to join us and has made for pleasant company as he always has a laid back approach to travelling and a good sense of humour. (Really important to anyone contemplating India by road!) We got together over a hot cup of Chai and made plans for the route to Agra, then zig zagging onto Delhi. It was good to have somebody with us who was well experienced on the Indian roads, and after a run about town to find half decent helmets and a test run of loading our packs onto the newly welded frames we hit the road!