Varanasi is a grimy city. But it certainly has no shortage of character. Crazy dreadlocked saddhus (holy people) getting stoned on the ghats (steps) of the Ganges, dressed like shiva in full orange robes accost you. Monkey, cows, and goats run amok in the streets munching trash...although that's pretty much all over India. There are mazes of alleyways and turning corners around which you will never know what you will find. Twenty women sitting on some steps in colorful saris. Two water buffalo, ownerless and nearly the size of a dumptruck each, munching some colorful piece of fabric or a plastic bag filled with filth and slime.
I spent a lot of the time with two guys from Wales and a couple from England. They were all funny people. Wandering the ghats, me and the two Welsh got taken in by some guys who literally started grabbing our hands and giving us ayurvedic massages. After my generous Indian got up to my shoulder, I stopped him and started to walk off amidst his protests of 'no problem' 'nice massage'. The two Welsh boys got caught up farther than I, and one of them was laying down, the nice Indian massaging all the way down to his ass before he stopped him and said he had to go. He gave the man 9 rupees, or less than a quarter.
I met a saddhu for my interview. He asserted that he could change his anatomy, and bury himself under the ground and still see all over the world. This was a far cry from the humility of the Tibetans. I started to doubt him, after the mystical Sufi who didnt say anything really and the Tibetan lamas who don't mention anything of their abilities, but clearly have some powers.
Anyway, on my birthday I decided to swim in the Ganges. Most sensible Westerners wouldn't touch the water -- Hannah, who I traveled with was concerned she might get a disease when a single drop fell on her hand. But I said fuck it, and with one of the Welsh guys I got in. Cholera, AIDs, Ebola, all that shits probably in this water, which has snaked through thousands of kilometers of the dirtiest country I've ever been to, washing cow shit and dirty rotting food out of every city it passes through. Sometimes people see dead bodies floating down. But there I was, swimming, or rather sitting in it, basking in the grimy sludge. Swimming is quite dangerous during monsoon season, people die every day, so I was just sitting on the ghat. Anyway, I took a nice shower when I got back to the guest house. Indians would laugh at me. They brush their teeth, wash their clothes, and even drink that water. But I can't be getting and of those -osis or -itises. Despite my best efforts, I started to feel ill on the train to Agra.
By the time I'm at the Taj, I've had the worst night in history. Beating out Jammu.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Kashmir
Kashmir is the most beautiful place on earth I have decided. Dal lake, the largest lake in India is peppered with 1200 houseboats, where you can lounge and let the little Shikaras (boats) come to you with every conceivable convenience. They bring you fresh flowers, jewelery, chips, cigarettes, bottled water, carved wood, saffron, and even ice cream, straight to your doorstep, or rather, dock.
You can cruise the canals of the lake, surrounded by reeds, water lillies, and a canopy of trees and pass by women in multicolored beautiful saris washing their clothes or little kids laughing and jumping into the lake.
Merchants offer to bring you for free to their workshop, where you can see how they make 100% silk rugs in true Persian style or carve beautiful wood wardrobes and tables and lamps. You see, Kashmir is not really India. That's what all the rock-throwing and civil unrest is all about, and why India dumped thousands of army into Srinagar and the surrounding area. It's 98% muslim, and at all hours you can hear the call to worship echoing across the placid waters 'Allahu akbar' straight to your floating paradise telling you it's time to touch your forehead to the carpet again. Kashmiri is more like Arabic than Hindi, and the people, especially the young ones are very adamant about separating from India. Some want to be part of Pakistan, most want a separate Kashmir.
It's nice really. We didnt want to move...and really, we didnt have to. Meals cooked in the shack behind the houseboat were delivered right to us. We bargained the shit out of our room and board, nearly 25% the normal price. But since the unrest, not so many tourists come, so we could.
Mustafa, the man in charge of the boat was wonderfully accommodating, and helped us out with everything from fresh fry dal and aloo parantha to real 100% Kashmiri saffron and opium honey. He ferried us across to land, where his buddy Kaka, who I called Dosda (friend in Kashmiri) took us around on his motorcycle.
In Kashmir they fry up huge pieces of bread and put this yellow, sweet, wheaty sugary paste inside for a tasty snack that is unbelievable...and unbelievable greasy, but then again it is still close to India, where food isn't food unless its got a litre of oil in it.
All in all, Kashmir was the most peaceful, tranquil, beautiful place I've ever been, and people were dying in the streets every night. It's unbelievable, but when I think about it, I can understand. It's certainly something worth fighting for.
You can cruise the canals of the lake, surrounded by reeds, water lillies, and a canopy of trees and pass by women in multicolored beautiful saris washing their clothes or little kids laughing and jumping into the lake.
Merchants offer to bring you for free to their workshop, where you can see how they make 100% silk rugs in true Persian style or carve beautiful wood wardrobes and tables and lamps. You see, Kashmir is not really India. That's what all the rock-throwing and civil unrest is all about, and why India dumped thousands of army into Srinagar and the surrounding area. It's 98% muslim, and at all hours you can hear the call to worship echoing across the placid waters 'Allahu akbar' straight to your floating paradise telling you it's time to touch your forehead to the carpet again. Kashmiri is more like Arabic than Hindi, and the people, especially the young ones are very adamant about separating from India. Some want to be part of Pakistan, most want a separate Kashmir.
It's nice really. We didnt want to move...and really, we didnt have to. Meals cooked in the shack behind the houseboat were delivered right to us. We bargained the shit out of our room and board, nearly 25% the normal price. But since the unrest, not so many tourists come, so we could.
Mustafa, the man in charge of the boat was wonderfully accommodating, and helped us out with everything from fresh fry dal and aloo parantha to real 100% Kashmiri saffron and opium honey. He ferried us across to land, where his buddy Kaka, who I called Dosda (friend in Kashmiri) took us around on his motorcycle.
In Kashmir they fry up huge pieces of bread and put this yellow, sweet, wheaty sugary paste inside for a tasty snack that is unbelievable...and unbelievable greasy, but then again it is still close to India, where food isn't food unless its got a litre of oil in it.
All in all, Kashmir was the most peaceful, tranquil, beautiful place I've ever been, and people were dying in the streets every night. It's unbelievable, but when I think about it, I can understand. It's certainly something worth fighting for.
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