Varanasi

Smarter than your average guesthouse

Varanasi train station is awake and busy, I'm still sleepy-eyed, stretching and trying to adjust to the morning brightness. We wander outside and meet the waiting throng of rickshaw-drivers and hotel touts. On another day it might seem stressful to have 15 people surrounding you all talking at once trying to persuade you to follow each of them, but somehow it's not, in fact it's almost amusing as I'm disorientated by multiple questions and decide just to smile until there's a chance to speak.

Half asleep I'm barely able to communicate but in the end we negotiate a ride to Yogi Lodge recommended in the guidebooks. It turns out this isn't the same one but 'Old Yogi Lodge', the qualifying prefix not actually denoting precedence merely an embellishment. However, the place is clean, inexpensive and the guy who greets us, Bhai is friendly and welcoming.

Muslim silk district

Our first morning and a glimpse of the monsoon rains. After ditching our bags and a brief rest we set out with Bhai to explore the famed Varanasi silk district. About 10,000 people, predominantly Muslims, form a concentrated 'cottage industry' in Varanasi for the production of silk items. Although famous for the quality of garments and fabrics it is not a network of independent artisan craftsmen. The production process is divided into parts and most workers are involved in repetitive tasks to generate significant quantities of material.

We get a walking tour of the district, passing along the uneven and broken flag-stone paved, narrow streets. Our guide describes how production involves distinct stages and processes, some sequential others parallel. Processing of raw material and extraction involves regular dunking and removing of matted material in large vats of boiling water and chemicals to soften 'threads'. We pass by open doors and windows where foot and hand loom weavers, quite a few appearing to be young, sit hunched at the manual-power machines. Clustered together are tiny workshops for repair and maintenance of machinery and labourers used metal plates and hand chisels to punch holes in boards that will be used to weave elaborate and ornate patterns into fabrics.

At the end of our tour we're brought to a merchants house who offers us tea and displays some of the finished articles. Curious about how many merchants there are I ask about how many people he employs - 600-800 depending on orders and demand. He pays mainly a hour-rate but sometimes this can be topped up by piece-rate for specific work. He explains earnestly how he has done away with monthly wages and instead pays his workers each week so there's less chance they'll run out of money and need to borrow because if they do it will at most be a couple of days before they're paid again, very thoughtful!

Brahmin ceremonies and burning ghats

In the evening we head towards the riverbank to view the performance of a nightly ceremony. Sitting on the concrete steps overlooking a raised platform we're in the company of hundreds of spectators and worshippers, many visitors from other part so India and the world, travellers, as well as local people. Seven priests dressed in striking orange robes perform highly synchronised rituals under a delicate canopy of silk sheets and flags, involving chants, candles and oil lamps, chiming bells, and shaking of incense sticks to produce a thin haze through which you can make out reflections on the Ganges and the silhouettes of boats. A little girl, less than 10 years old, passes through the crowd anointing people with a red tikka on the forehead for good luck, and a few rupees donation.

Afterwards we walk along the twilight riverbank towards one of the main burning ghats, which appears only as a dim glow in the indistinct distance. Here an almost ceaseless process of constructing funeral pyres and cremation takes place, only pausing briefly in the early morning hours to enable bathing. We climb up the step nearby to reach an overlooking building. Here a volunteer from one of the ashrams approaches and offers to explain what is happening.

The Ganges at Varanasi is considered to be source of great power, one of the most important crossing points between this world and the spiritual world, where the devote can transcend the cycle of physical reincarnation. When a person dies the burning ceremony should take place within 24 hours. Even with modern transportation methods this is not possible for many further away regions. So people, elderly or infirm though also some people wanting to simply live out their life in the holy place, make a pilgrimage to Varanasi in order to die. Those with little or no money stay at ashrams where they are cared for by volunteers and via charity donations.

Watching a blackened form glowing as an whit-robed eldest son throws handfuls of sandalwood on the pyre, a heavy-scent burning and musky rises and sort of sticks in my nostrils. Head-hair is shorn from the deceased and gathers in an untidy pile amidst the logs, ash and mud. I'm aware of seeing this as an outsider and as such the experience seems strange. Some people feel reverence witnessing this process and I can sense the religious meaning but as well there is a growing uncomfortable feeling of witnessing something else, raw and real. In the darkness, watching ragged-clothes men sweating to drag logs and construct pyres seemingly oblivious to anything but their physical exertion, the burning bodies, the piles of human-hair, these images of death demand attention and there is something haunting about them which remains after we leave.

Buddha speaks!

In 6th Century BC, Siddharata Gautma, Buddha, uttered his first teachings at Sarnath. Here excavations have uncovered the remains of a monastery, alongside later stupas and temples. The Dharma Chakra Stupa, a cylindrical tower of bricks and carved inscriptions, is claimed to mark the exact spot of the sermon. Nearby the main grounds is a garden with a large statue of Buddha raised on a central podium.

Ganges at sunrise

An early rise at 5am we head to the river to see the sunrise on the Ganges. We're driven in an auto-rickshaw by the brother an older man, maybe late 40s, who seems to be either the owner or main manager of the guesthouse (who has a distinct aroma of alcohol that accompanies his cheery smile). Our boatman paddles gently along the river pointing out various ghats and buildings on the bank (mostly just reading the names written in large painted letters on the walls). Expanding on his list of sights he tells us something about the burning ghats explaining that it requires at last 20 kilos of wood and three hours to properly cremate a body. Based on what the ashram volunteer told us this would be 3000 rupees just for the fuel to perform a funeral. It is not surprising that many poorer families are unable to afford this expense and instead wrap their deceased relatives in cloth and set them in the river. As if to prove the point an anonymous white parcel floats past with an emaciated leg jutting out from a tear in the cloth.

Afterwards we're taken on a tour of the local temples, including: the Rama temple, a single, elegant and quiet building with marble floors, central shrine, and large scale inscriptions from the epic Ramayana on walls; the Durga temple with its brightly painted shrine and bells for worshippers to announce their presence as they bring gifts to the goddess; and the Hanuman 'monkey god' temple, which perhaps unsurprisingly has many monkeys walking about to which Hindu worshippers give gifts of fruits and nuts. In the story of Rama's exile in a forest and searching for his wife Sita who has been kidnapped by the emperor Ravana, Hanuman helps Rama by leaping across a vast ocean to find her. For this, as well as other examples, the monkey god is revered for his strength. This temple is by far the busiest and Bhai later explains that this Saturday 16 June, is a particularly important religious date and maybe 85% of all Hindus in Varanasi and around will attempt to visit the temple during the day. (Unfortunately, though understandably photography is not permitted in these temples)

Classic evening

Triveny Music House is not what was expected. Leaving shoes outside on the street step, we enter a small ground-floor room which has a few cushions lining the walls and at the 'far' (2-3 metres away) end sit a tabla and sitar player. We're part of an audience of 6 people. A synthesiser provides background waves of sound, alternating E and B notes, as the musicians start playing, slowly at first then gradually building the layers of melody and rhythm to a pulsating blur of hands, rapid notes, string bends and beats. They play for almost an hour a medley of songs. Then a woman in the audience sitting closer to the musicians begins to sing, holding the synth notes and then, just like the musicians, adding detail and intricacy. After an hour and half the concert is finished and the sitar player and singer leave to warm applause from his small yet thoroughly impressed audience. The tabla player then invites each of us to join in, providing extra drums and for me a Spanish-guitar. We play for another 45 minutes to an hour, learning rhythms and creating melodies, maybe not quite the same level of skill as before but in my humble opinion not half bad, and immense fun!

Agra - Taj Mahal

The train is waiting at platform 3, Nizammudin railway station, less than half full with 15 minutes before departure. We find our seat quickly and manage to secure baggage space for rucksacks and my guitar on the upper berth. Future experiences of train travel will not be this easy! The carriage is arranged with door-less cubicles on one side with lower, middle, and upper opposing berths, perpendicular to the gangway which has a parallel row of lower / upper berths separated by riveted metal sheet. The faded blue seat-beds (bunks) in cubicles usually have the middle down during the day to from a backrest and enable 5-6 people, sometimes more to share the seat.

During the journey the cabin fills with passengers, mainly men with student travel passes commuting to/from Delhi. The gangway has a steady flow of traffic including non-reservation passengers searching for a spot to sit down and various people selling food, services, or begging. A young boy, maybe 10-12?, squatting down so his haunches almost touching the floor kind of waddles-cum-bounces along carrying a plastic bag offering to shine shoes. In his well-worn polythene bag are two brushes, a tin of dubbin, one of tan-polish and a mouldy looking cardboard box about 10cm long, 5cm wide, and 2.5cm thick, containing a soot-like powder. Stopping for a passenger in our cubicle he sets about his task first using his index finger to mix powder with a blob of dubbin and polish,then taking and rotating the shoe with one hand he swiftly buffs the surface with a rapid, rhythmic motion of the other hand, like a fiddle player, regularly tapping the brush against the floor possibly to remove excess. From start to finish he's done in less than 10 minutes and from across the cabin it looks like a good job, for which he earns 3 rupees (about 4 pence).

The baggage check guard allows me to keep my camera but my journal is not permitted and I have to store it in a free locker outside, random? We enter through the gate and stroll into the courtyard then turn right through the outer-building and get the first unimpeded view of the Taj Mahal. Perhaps wanting to savour the experience, or maybe wanting to avoid the crowds, I wander to the left and casually browse the displays of Indian architecture and photos of important sites. Rather than approach directly down the central hedge lined avenue, walking along the side paths you find fewer other tourists and catching glimpses of the dome framed through the flowers and trees feels a more personal 'discovery'.

To reach the raised level of the mausoleum and the two mosques that flank either side you must first remove your shoes or cover them with a gauze. Walking barefoot on the warming marble floor, with its geometric patterns, may not be the most hygienic option, but is certainly a vivid tactile experience that adds to the visual splendour. Inside the chapel natural light breaks through diaphanous covers over lattice-stone windows, and a low-output orange glow emits from a light bulb within the sole chandelier suspended centrally above the tomb, which may at one time have burnt oil. The shape of the interior produces unusual acoustics from reverberating whisper-voices; overlapping, rising and falling in volume, indistinct sounds that feel like a distant rumbling thunderstorm.

We started at 8am and by midday the sun is scorching the stones and light dazzling off the facades if the Taj. We return to the backpackers guesthouse to escape the intensity of the heat for a few hours before a lengthy overnight journey from Tundla to Varanasi.

Delhi Daze

We touch-down at Indira Ghandi International Airport at 5am. Stepping off the plane it feels more like midday than early morning, but it's only a brief taste of things to come as the terminal is air-conditioned. Having spent an hour queuing to clear immigration and customs and collecting my backpack I'm stood looking puzzled trying to work out where the ATM is, conscious that just beyond the desks waits an avenue lined with taxi touts signalling. Fortunately I meet a fellow traveller, Aubrey from California, and she has a guidebook so we can find the main backpacker area.

Aubrey has a reservation at a hotel in the Parahganj district but our taxi driver says he doesn't know it but he can find out where by stopping at a official tourist office, which is actually a private operator. (This is a scam listed in the guidebook which we avoid, sort of, by luck). After some discussion he drops us at a metro station and we get another ride in a rickshaw to the main bazaar where the guesthouses and hotels are located.

First impressions, the main bazaar is a constant flow of traffic, pedal or motor rickshaws, mopeds and motorbikes slaloming to avoid stray dogs, cows and water buffalo, accompanied by the sound of a bell or horn, stealthily approaching then announcing an impending collision with a ear-drum piercing siren. Some of the motorbikes have an altogether different-sounding horn which is employed almost constantly, which could provide a clue to the sound that is like a duck which has smoked too many cigarettes, an evil emphysemic quack.

However, very quickly you become accustomed to the noise, and side-stepping fresh-pats. Walking along the bazaar towards New Delhi station the road is lined shops selling cheap cotton shirts, sandals, breakable souvenirs and ephemera, street-carts sell fresh lime juice. The place smells, a mix of dust and exhaust fumes, methaney dung, sweet mangoes and occasionally a potent hit of chilli and spices from a roadside takeaway kitchen. Overhead, a mass of wires bend and loop between buildings forming Gordian knot intersections. It's possible to escape the excitement and heat of the streets to one of the numerous roof-top restaurants attached to guesthouses and hotels. As with other places it seems a tourist can confirm their inflated economic status by retreating to higher ground, the poor literally remaining to the gutters.

'Ninja Budgies' (a.k.a. auto-rickshaw)

Getting around to the further away places usually requires transport. On hand at all times are the fleet of motor rickshaws. These green and yellow carriages fly around the main roads and back-streets of New Delhi at improbable speeds, their stuntman drivers accelerating and breaking sharply in turn, deftly dodging pedestrians with consummate skill (luck), like souped-up canaries, displaying contortionist ability to dart between other vehicles, with cars and buses blaring horns indignantly to try and assert their superior size but unable to match the agility of these ninja budgies, flying in a bee-line to your destination.

Lal Qila - the red fort

Lal Qila, the red fort, is about an hours walk from the Main Bazaar (at least if you're not sure of the directions) passing through the old city. The contrast with the tourist-oriented areas becomes apparent as English signs disappear and the shops selling cheap-made cotton clothes and trinkets are instead selling cooking ingredients, vast piles of spices and cylindrical wads of ghee, kitchenware pots pans and knives, the streets densely packed with people and snack vendors selling bhajis and pakoras, and shop-keepers watching you walk past with a smile or a look of curiosity, or possibly indifference, rather than trying to attract you to purchase something.

At the booth we buy our tickets and a smiling woman stood next to the barrier beckons and pins a mini-India flag to our tops, which is done so smoothly as if to be part of the official entry process only to be asked for a donation to the 'Delhi High School' she represents. It may be genuine but definitely a slick routine to generate small contributions.

We pass through the Lahore Gate and along the main chowk with expensive souvenir shops to reach the interior grounds. The War Museum has a ground-level passage through to the gardens before the Diwan-i-Am, 'Hall of Public Audience', where an emperor would meet common people. The impressive scalloped arches are repeated along the pavilion passages, resembling clouds or the way kids (and some adults still) draw thought bubbles in cartoons. Inside is an intricately sculpted marble seat which is a popular draw for crowds of visitors wanting photos. Around the gardens trees occasionally provide shade and a chance to spot some of the wildlife, including chipmunk-like squirrels and well camouflaged green parrots that suddenly swoop from a tree if they spy a stray morsel left over by picnickers.

Fan-assisted oven (adjust sleeping [cooking] time accordingly)

The day-time temperature is reaching45 degrees and at night it's only marginally cooler. It turns out that getting a room with fan only is false economy. Loud-whirring blades rotating and precariously hanging from a decaying wire that only serve to circulate the heat feels like I'm being slow roasted whilst trying to sleep. After maybe 3-4 hours broken and restless sleep, getting up at dawn and opening the door to the balcony is like stepping out of an oven, quite a neat trick for winter months but in summer unbearable! During the afternoon and evening the guesthouse experienced power-cuts, which it turns out happened all over the city due to record energy consumption in the heat-wave.

Purana Qila

We catch a rickshaw in the late afternoon heading towards the Nizammudin area, which has a number of monuments, but we've no specific plan. Along the way we pass an interesting looking collection of buildings and stop the driver to go an check them out. The compound is the Jam-at Khana Masjid. We climb through a knee-high door within a fortress door and find ourselves in an old mosque grounds with two old men sat apart praying at the farside.

Across the main road there are signs for the national zoo and Purana Qila. We had intended to find the Humayen Tomb and gardens as described in the guidebook, however this fort looks interesting. Inside there are buildings dotted about large garden, including towers and a centuries old hamman building.

Ticket to ride

Travel Philosophy Musings - recurrent question: is it better to plan or to go with the flow (so to speak)? Getting a train ticket to Agra could (should?) have been a simple process but turned out to be something else....

PART ONE - MORNING

There are plenty of adjectives and phrases that could be used to try and describe New Delhi Railway Station - fascinating, crowded, confusing, major travel hub, over-burdened infrastructure, bastion of resilient administration, meso-cosm of Indian life? Our experience was maybe these and more. Despite arriving at 7.45am to buy tickets (the listed opening time is 8am) we find that there are already hundreds of people inside queuing. We join the 'enquiries line' and find out possible train numbers and where to get a necessary form to fill in, from the cloakroom outside (obviously!). The young woman helping us is patient but looks flustered, it's only 8.15am, gonnna be a long work day! Because Aubrey's here she can join the women only queue which is smaller and moving somewhat quicker. It is a curious phenomenon to watch as women sit on benches perpendicular to the counter waiting their turn and men sit opposite, husbands or male relatives presumably. Whenever a woman reaches the counter a man jumps up and issues instructions, which seems to result in a rapid threeway exchange as information is passed: male relative - female queuer - female counter clerk - female queuer - male relative. Sometimes the women-only rule is transgressed and the man tries to deal directly with the female counter clerk only to receive a rebuke from one of the wandering officials walking up and down behind the clerks. It takes 45 minutes but eventually we have tickets for travel this afternoon.

PART TWO- AFTERNOON

Back at the station loaded with back-pack, ruck sack and guitar, we're scanning the boards or clues as to which platform our train departs. Though we're there in good time before the minutes count down and it's not looking good. Something is bugging me, I think I read in the guidebook, sure enough when I check the ticket it confirms my concern, trains to Agra depart from Nizamuddin station not New Delhi... our train leaves in 10 minutes and the station is 40 minutes by rickshaw crosstown... bugger! There is a 'reservations and cancellations' office outside the main station building. It's smaller than the office we booked the tickets from and feels like a sauna inside. Trying to salvage something if we can we join a queue and spend half an hour edging forwarding, trying to keep guard to prevent various attempts to muscle ahead by all kinds of characters amidst noise and general pandemonium of people anxious for tickets. About two people from the counter a young guy finally gives in to what has, it seems, been vexing him for a while queuing behind us and says "you know, there's a foreigners office with air-conditioning where you can get your ticket inside". We're unsure, it seems a risk to give up our place now we're so close so we stay only to be told exactly the same. Upstairs on the first floor of the station building is the foreign nationals ticket office. It is heavily air-conditioned and for the first time since arriving in India I feel something close to being cooled. A very helpful clerk immediately understands our request to cancel and rebook for tomorrow and is a bit puzzled why we didn't just come here first. We're also able to book onward tickets to Varanasi from Tundla (near Agra) so the next destination is also covered. Two hours after we should have left we return to the guesthouse to dump our bags and go to Golden Cafe for food and a much needed, under-the-counter beer. Try again tomorrow....