I’m on the train from Hyderabad to Varanasi. Crappy sleep, but did get some until 4AM, when the conductor’s overhead light comes on and he spends the next 2 hours yakking to someone. Oh, and the chai/coffee vendors start hawking their wares at 5AM, hard to sleep through that too. I periodically check to make sure my bag stays under the bottom bunk.
After hours sitting, and increasing my confidence that my compartment mates would keep a watchful eye on my belongings, I take a stroll through the train. Most of the cars have open windows, unlike the windows in the AC (air conditioned) cars which cannot be opened. In order to keep people from exiting and entering the non-AC cars, there are bars over the windows. The temperature is pleasant during the time of my travel, but I can imagine that it would be very very hot in the summer.
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| Varanasi |
On my walk, I pass through the pantry car. It is blisteringly hot, with burners heating cauldrons of soup, rice, and oil for deep-frying. In the summer, they must issue asbestos suits to pass through this car. As to the cooks, I can only guess that fresh cooks are rotated in frequently. Perhaps the new cooks sprinkle sugar onto the old ones, who’ve melted by now, and that’s how they make cookies.
Very nice folks in my compartment. I am having great difficulty getting a room in Varanasi and they are strategizing amongst themselves about how to accommodate me in their block of rooms. There are eleven in their party, including a wonderful older couple who are devoted to each other. They live for six months of each year in New Jersey, near two of their children. The man reminds me of Xilinx’s old CFO, Kris Chelham, in looks, speech and facial characteristics. Maybe this is Kris’ Dad?
I manage to book a room in Varanasi using my cell phone, very handy!
One hears so much about luggage theft on Indian trains, and there are placards on the train telling passengers to chain their luggage to special rings under the seats. However, after I know the passengers in my compartment, I feel very comfortable leaving my seat, knowing they will look after my belongings.
On one of my sorties, I find a couple of people in the space between cars, with the door to the outside open, viewing the world go by. I find it exhilarating to brace myself in the door opening and feel the rush of air over my face. After discovering this, I frequently wander and open the exterior doors. Around 4PM, I take my camera to the door and spend over an hour taking shots.
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Feb 15 - Varanasi
Arvind meets me at the station and escorts me back to the hotel in a pedal rickshaw. After showering, I walk down to the river to see the famous Ghats.
As I feel my way toward the river, a clean cut Indian boy about 17 years old approaches. He assures me that he is not trying to hustle me, merely wants to practice his English, (good for me, good for you, he says). He seems like a nice lad and is providing useful info. However, it becomes clear that his apparent friendship is more about making money and hustling, than it is about learning English. This feeling of “Having someone take advantage of me”, re-appears throughout the day. I leave him behind as I make my way up to the Dolphin restaurant, clearly outside his comfort zone (it has a rooftop view of the Ghats and is expensive compared to what the locals would pay).
I continue wandering after lunch and eventually find a post office. I don’t know if Dickens ever described a post office in his writing, but the one at the waterfront in Varanasi would be a perfect template for him. Desks covered with dusty ledgers dating to the ‘60s, old fans that look they were made in the ‘50s, dark, dingy and musty, it’s fun!
On average, I find the people of Varanasi to be less cooperative in having their pictures taken than people in Hyderabad. This is likely a result of the tourist nature of this destination and the fact that locals must feel a bit like they’re on exhibition at a zoo.
Somewhere in this timeframe, a little urchin attaches himself to my side. Same as the first one, “no worry mister, not trying to take your money”. He learns as much about me as he can. Eventually, Urchin and his buddy get me to go with them to their silk factory. I take a few photos, then they introduce me to the boss. I tell him that I’m not interested in buying anything. I’m single, no-one to give to…. He lets me drive the conversation and I ask him about his business, what competitive advantages he has over his competition. This seems a difficult concept for him to grasp and eventually he admits that things come down to relationships. Some customers have been coming back to him for 20 years.
Then he starts to work on me, what colors do I like, surely there is somewhere in your house that you can use one of these bargains. In the end, I spend 1700Rs and buy something. Not even sure what it’s called, although it purports to be hand woven silk. He also pre-sells the idea that he only makes 25% margin at his prices so I don’t press him for discounts. What’s the saying, “A sucker born every second”.
Urchin then asks where I’m headed and when I tell him that I need an internet connection, he books a pedal rickshaw and we head off toward downtown again. I forget who paid the rickshaw but I think it’s me. I’m able to log in, check email and print out some information. For the print, scan and login time, it cost me 90Rs. I know this is high but figure, what the heck, getting some things in order is worth a couple bucks, and if I pay a few cents too much, so what.
My next port of call is the adjacent shop, where I hear a sewing machine. I want to get my brown shirt patched, it sprang a couple holes. I manage to communicate my intention to a worker who drops what he’s doing and starts work on my small project. Before he’s half done, his supervisor (perhaps shop owner) comes by, asks what’s going on, and then proceeds to kick the worker off the machine. The owner works the treadle at high speed and the sewing machine really sings (must be a Singer). He finishes in no time, charging me 50Rs for the repair. I know it’s only worth 10 or 15, but again figure, what the heck.
It’s around this time that Urchin shows up again. He still sees me as a walking pot of gold, and wants to milk me as long as possible. His cohort asks me what the internet guy charged me so that he can go claim his commission for bringing me here.
I’m getting pissed at this kid trying to extract every cent he can and I make it clear to Urchin that there’s no more money for them on this tree.
I’m surprised at how few pilgrims take part in the various ceremonies. In the evening at the main Ghat, there are six stations, each about ten feet up from the water, and each having some ceremonial foods, spices and potions set up in a predetermined arrangement. Between three and ten pilgrims gather at each station and eventually they make their way to the water’s edge and perform a ceremony which involves pouring Ganges water on themselves. (I hope they soon take a shower and use a good disinfectant.)
When I finally give up trying to find my way home, I engage a pedal rickshaw. I also determine NOT to take the one with the loudest and most aggressive owner. Perhaps as a result, the person I select does not speak any English, and in addition, he does not recognize the location of my hotel. He asks around and we set off. I’m glad that the last thing Arvind did as he saw me off in the morning was to thrust one of his cards into my hand. I give this to the driver several times on our way back to the hotel. The ride back is punctuated at one point with an unscheduled stop. The driver pulls over to the side of the road, gets off, making some sort of apologetic exit, walks to the other side of the ride, drops trow and proceeds to empty his bladder. He then saunters over to a roadside shop to buy a cigarette and chat up the shop owner to get closer to our final destination.
After getting back, I ask if the hotel’s restaurant has beer. Arvind is around and in his cheerful way, “You want beer?” He goes out and buys a couple of KingFisher beers for me. I’m drinking one when a parade happens by, with terrific booms and lots of drums and horns. It turns out it’s a northern Indian Hindu wedding. Raj and Melissa had the southern version. The northern version has the groom riding around on a horse. A loud band is marching and stops every 10 feet or so, when a firework of some sort is placed on the ground and ignited. They vary from simple M80 firecrackers, to roman candles to large industrial size fireworks like the ones used for Memorial Day in the US. So the parade lurches forward, only to stop a few feet further on, whence the main body of the parade, composed of people configured as light posts (look at the picture, too hard to describe) start prancing around. It’s loud and fun (although I’m really tired and go to bed).
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Feb 16
I hear the “old lady tour” at 5AM making quite a racket. My alarm wakes me at 5:30AM, I’m at the front desk by 6AM but all is quiet and I’m worried that I missed my tour. I try to explain to the desk hand but he does not understand me and calls Arvind, who assures me that no problem, “he help me”. He gets a pedal rickshaw driver (I‘ll call him Ricky, someone that Arvind deals with). Ricky takes me to the river and finds a boat.
I find pilgrim viewing at the Ghats to be more circus than serious religious event. For example, there are far more “observers” than participants. The pilgrims I do see are women clad in saris bathing on the Ghats, and men washing themselves in the river, pouring water on their heads from a small pot. I also see men washing clothes, first lathering up the item to be washed, then repeatedly whirling it over their heads and bringing it crashing down onto a flat rock. At some point they start rinsing and move on to the next item. Bed sheets are spread out along a sloped section of the shore and are left to dry next to patties of drying cow dung. The juxtaposition of pristine white sheets next to drying shit is like so many other stark contrasts here in India.
Protecting your home from monkeys is a big deal in this area. I can see troops of them scaling the buildings along the shore. Occasionally a guard beats a stick on the side of his building to scare the monkeys away. This works for about ten seconds, after which it looks to me like the monkeys are baiting the watchmen.
I tip the boatman, 10Rs, I’m sure he’s not happy but it’s all I have easily accessible and it’s probably generous by local standards (although in truth, I can’t imagine a local taking a boat tour like this!)
Ricky meets me when I return from the water and takes me to a temple in the south of the city. Six months ago, there was a bomb attack so today they don’t let you take anything into the temples, no cameras, cell phones, bags. It must all be placed in lockers outside the temple before entering. I try to put my stuff in a locker but the tripod won’t fit. I choose not to fight the system and instead wander down the street. Realizing how hungry I am, (no breakfast before the early boat tour), I look for the ubiquitous food vendors on the street. They tend to cluster around tourist attractions, where they know there will be lots of traffic. I select one out of five vendor stalls and place my order and then realize that Ricky is already eating at this particular stand. It must be good! It is!
Next comes another temple. This one does not have lockers, only a table with someone to guard your belongings, most commonly shoes (can’t wear them in Muslim or Hindu temples). I find it incredibly ironic that I pay this person five rupees (twelve US cents), to guard my bag containing thousands of dollars worth of camera and computer gear.
This Hindu temple has Sanskrit writings around the inside of the building, telling some of the tales about Shiva and the other deities. The chandeliers are swaddled in wrap. Perhaps this is like the chandeliers in Mecca Majlis (the main mosque in Hyderabad), which are wrapped in bags to preserve them. They unwrap them for one day each year during Ramadan.
The thing that holds most interest for me is a life sized figure of a religious man reading from some religious text. It is automated using mechanical technology and the figure turns it’s head as its hand moves to turn the page. The hand touches the pages and pushes them up slightly but does not actually turn them. You could see that the pages are frayed where the hand touches them. The whole thing creaks, is covered with cobwebs and generally looks like it’s on its last legs. It belongs in a museum for pre-video entertainment.
Then off to the silk merchants. Ricky takes me to one in particular (I’ll call him Silky), and he shows me the looms they use (I’m already familiar from my silk tour yesterday), he also shows me the grotty room in which silk is dyed. Finally he takes me (as I know he must), to his chamber with all the silk saris, scarves, bed covers and wall hangings. I make it clear that I do not want to purchase anything (no different than yesterday!) but he insists that I take off my pack, sit down and he proceeds to unfold numerous silk articles, starting from the most expensive. I’m sure I was ripped off yesterday, all the more reason not to buy anything else here. Silky is trying all the standard tricks, trying to get me to set aside articles in which I have some interest, working the girlfriend, child, gift angle, finally moving to the inexpensive pieces for 250 Rs and when all else fails, appealing to the fact that 250Rs is nothing for me and it is good luck for him on his first sale of the day. I’ve heard all of these reasons before in India, Morocco, Nepal, Niger and any country in which crafts are sold by the locals. They are expert sales people and it is only by being really determined at the outset that I WILL NOT buy anything that I have been able to resist their sales techniques.
After thirty minutes, Silky finally realizes that I’m not going to purchase anything, he frowns, says we are done, and stalks out of the room in a huff.
I must check out of the hotel by noon, but they let me stay in their small restaurant (chairs for about 20 people) and I have vegetable chow mien (spicy and tasty). Some of the “old lady group” are present. The one who asked me last night to email pics to her came by to chat. She explains that a famous Japanese guru died in the last few days and a group of ladies from around the world have gathered to pay their last respects to him. This group had never met before in the flesh and they are having a ball sharing their common interests with each other.
Upon arrival at the train station, I am, of course, immediately accosted by several porters asking to carry my bags. I hate porters. I’m not sure why but it is deeply ingrained. Perhaps it’s because I’m not really sure how much to pay them. Perhaps its because I don’t trust having my bags with all my expensive gear out of my sight. The bottom line is that I have not let porters carry my bags while I’ve been in India.
I find a corner of the station containing a tourist booth and this proves to be a demilitarized zone, within which non-tourists are shooed away. Beggars come close, like mosquitoes, then the tourist police show their presence and the beggars high tail it away. I look for info on my train, but the ticker sign which should contain train info is broken. Instead, everyone is listening to a pair of blown speakers blare all the train info, first in unintelligible Hindi, then in unintelligible English. It is possible if you listen very carefully to pull out the important info from the booming echoes around the hall. Fortunately, our tourist policeman checks with all of us (about twenty while I’m here, the rest of the waiting room contains about 300 locals) to find out which trains we are waiting for and then makes sure we catch them.
My train (#3010) is an hour late. I learn later from Kennedy, that this particular train is frequently 4 to 6 hours late.
I find my seat, which is one of the singles on the side of the train opposite the compartments. Two seats fold together to create a berth. It’s more private than I had on the Hyderabad-Varanasi leg, where I shared the compartment with 5 others. Four of the compartments across from me are occupied by a group of Chinese tourists from Fulan University in Shanghai. They are extremely noisy, but friendly and interested to practice their English with me. I speak to them for a while but eventually tire of it and pull out my ipod.
I watch out the window for a couple hours, until the light fades entirely. It takes us about 30 minutes to leave the urban area around Varanasi, after which it is rural until one hour outside Calcutta, when the rail lines start multiplying and suddenly the landscape becomes a concrete jungle.
The Chinese group leaves at Gaya and Kennedy comes on the train. He was born in 1965, just after JFK was shot. He tells me there are thousands of people his age with the name Kennedy, since JFK was so popular in India.
He is the PR manager for a South Indian religious NGO that does work in India and Afghanistan. We had a far ranging discussion about religion (he is disappointed when I tell him my only religion is nature, especially the mountains - he responds by saying he will pray for me and that many religions have their origins in mountains and that I might find mine there), politics (he describes how Raj Gandhi ushered in the modern era in India by removing many of the Indian obstacles to doing business. Kennedy lamented Raj’s assassination as he felt the reforms slowed after his death); and general living conditions.
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