Varanasi, Part II

**pics and video added 5/11, post complete**

The German ends up Italian, and he is on his way through China and India and some places in Southeast Asia.

We wait for the boat-wallah, who is an older man, and we are guided down to the ghats.  Ghat means step, and there are these steps that are built of stone that go down to the river.  The ghats are named for the temple or other significant place that they are closest to.  We exit at Jain ghat (Jainism is a religion over here also, which exhibits extreme non-violence.  Extremely strict Jains will sweep the ground in front of them as they walk, so as to move aside any living organism that they might normally step upon).

We get into the boat, and as we are pushing off, two girls get in, and immediately start the hard-sell.  I am frustrated that the boat man didn’t tell them to get out, but it’s just part of the normal operation I guess.  We row farther and farther out, and these girls are trying to sell us the floating candles.  In reality, it is not a candle as it is a little bit of wax with cotton wick in it, which is surrounded by marigold heads, and laid in a leaf “bowl.”  The idea is that you make a wish of some sort, light the candle and place it in the Ganges, as both an offering and a request.  This is a very traditional thing, and I guess in the slightest way, I’m glad they’re here, so that I’ll have the opportunity to have one, though I figure we will probably run into about another dozen people selling them (in reality, there were only about 4-5 more, but considering we never got back on shore, and that the sellers were jumping from boat to boat, that’s kind of impressive).

The girl on the right (it’s one-on-one) is selling to the Italian.  She wants 30 rupees for one.  He tells her 2 for 50, and after some back and forth they agree.  The girl on my side is watching her friend, because she appears to be new at this.  The Italian’s girl starts to try to sell me, and then my girl starts up.  She starts at the same place, 30 for 1.  I say 20 for one.  She repeats the 30 and then says that I need to buy two.  I say only one and 20 is what I’ll pay.  I pull out 20 and say “20?” and she says “30” and I give a shrug and start to put my money back, and she says “ok.”  I give her the 20 and take the “candle” and she says to buy another, and “pleeease” with the little girl eyes and a head tilt.  Man these girls are working every angle.  I say no, and the other girl appears upset with me to get me to buy from her also.  The problem is that they are switching their tactics too quickly, so the ruse is up and it all feels fake, a show, a sham.

The water is fetid and polluted.  It is about a step and half above boating in a flooded landfill.  The closest I’ve come to this was putting out a fire at a trash facility.  We had to use so much water, we were standing in several inches.  Everything from the dumpsters and trash bins around town was there, and much of it was floating past.  Spoiled milk cartons with maggots climbing on the containers like a raft, used female sanitation plugs, rotting meat, etc.  I did not see any of those things in the Ganges probably because if they were here, the dogs or the cows or the pigs would have eaten them already.

Somehow the girls disappear while I’m watching the scenes we’re passing, so we must’ve gotten close enough to shore or another boat of suckers, and they migrated.

There are people naked on the shore.  There are people bathing with their clothes on in the water.  There are people swimming around the boat like it’s a swimming pool.  There are people doing rituals with the water and touching their chakras.  There is man washing his genitals.  There are people burning other people on piles of wood as we pass.  Dogs are rummaging through trash that has washed to the bank.  Downstream someone is finger-brushing their teeth with the water.  I see one man completely covered, head to toe in soap bubbles.  I’m thinking that’s not going to do it.

We pass the water treatment facility.  Varanasi gets it’s water from here.  I just nod my head thinking, I bet it does.

Dusk is falling quickly and I’m glad that I put on some more Odomos (the Indian version of insect repellant cream).  It seems to be working well enough considering the onslaught of mosquitos.  They are landing on me everywhere, but they are not biting.  The Italian has what appears to be an industrial sized spray bottle of something similar.  I covet it.  I do not think they are landing on him, and I’m wondering by what proximity his stuff is effective, and if there’s a suitable radius I can stay within to benefit from his veritable shield.

We get up to the main ghat (Dasaswamedh) where the aarti will be performed.  Boats from everywhere are converging, but we are not staying in the same place because we are in a river and not a pond.  The boat-wallah has to pull on other boats every few minutes to get us back into position.  This makes the other boats come out of position, and they shout at each other.  This repeats over and over, like a soundtrack on repeat.

The aarti starts and it is elaborate.  Bells seem to be ringing continuously and there is a stage and lights and lots of incense and smudge pots, and smoke, and loud music and chanting over loudspeakers, and lots and lots of people.  The ceremony is very ritualized and beautiful.  I enjoy it.  There are 5 pujari/priest type people that do the ceremony all in synch, and it lasts for a long long time maybe 45 minutes or so.  Once they do the flaming parts, which are stunning, I start losing interest.

I take a few pictures of the Italian at his request and with his camera, but the occasion seems too sacred for me to have him return the favor.  Having a picture of me smiling with the aarti going on in the background, I might as well have a cheesy grin and thumbs up.  It just didn’t feel right.  That’s not to say that I didn’t get pics and some video of the aarti, I did.  But I didn’t have to have a photo proving me there if that makes sense.

We head back closer to shore, and I see the smaller burning ghat up close.  This is one of two burning (aka cremation) ghats in Varanasi.  From the aarti, I could see the big one, Manikarnika, and I didn’t want to get any closer.  It had multiple fires on multiple levels and I had no desire to see it up close.  Manikarnika is a place where the same family has been keeping the burning fires going continuously for thousands of years.  They know exactly how many pounds of logs it takes to make a human into ash, and offer various kinds of wood (Sandalwood is apparently the best and most expensive), depending on budget and effect.  It seems like buying a casket.  Do you want the basic or the deluxe.  How much money do you want to spend to prove to the dead person (or others) that you loved them or in another case, how much do you want to spend to honor them.

The smaller burning ghat was enough for me.  It had 3 or 4 people getting consumed both times we passed.  On the return ride, some people were splashing water on one of the fires.  Maybe the body was gone, and they needed that spot for the next fire.

We land and the boat-wallah guides us back up the twisting maze to the gates, past huge shadows on the ground, one time he says “bull” and I’m not interested in spooking the beast sleeping in my way.  I get past and successfully (I think) dodge the piles.  There are small trash fires burning every so often here, and the scene looks hell-ish, though it doesn’t necessarily feel that way, but not comfortable either.

I get inside my room, the power is back on, the AC is starting to make some progress, and I head down for some dinner.  It’s too hot out for much appetite and the low-grade diarrhea is back.  It seems to be on and off, but I don’t have a fever or usually much cramping at all.  I eat a vegetable stuffed naan (another Indian flatbread, there are probably half a dozen or more major ones).  I see Maruti and co. and we talk briefly and both eat something.  The girl is chatty and a bit giggly, and the eyes are a bit dry and red if you know what I mean.  She orders several items, and I’m wondering if this is what the Indian munchies looks like.

We part ways, and I head to back to the room and do a pre-pack, and some laundry in the bucket.  I string my paracord across the room and I silently admire the knots I’ve made.  I wring out my laundry and hang it up.  The fan and the AC are both on, and I’m thinking that this was probably not the best time to do the laundry (the night before leaving early), but it works out fine in the end as everything is totally dry.

Since the morning of the day before, I have been unable to use the phone.  I have no data and I have no regular calling.  I turn the phone off and back on again, and it appears to connect for a brief second, as I might get an email or something, but I cannot communicate out.  I have probably spent two hours cumulative on this, and I just can’t get it working.  My wife has no idea that I’ve decided to leave Varanasi and head to a different part of the country, and I’m sure she is worried because I haven’t checked in a while.

Before the connection died, I found that there were no trains leaving Varanasi that had room, and no discernable or easily findable bus.  I resolved to find a flight, and the stuff I saw made the flight about 80 dollars US, which shaves about 13 or more hours off travel time.

I get up early the next morning to check out and get going because even though the flight I saw was around 11:30, it could take hours to get it accomplished.  I check out of the hotel (the night manager makes me find the prices for what I ordered in the menu, because he can’t read them), and I settle up the bill.  I call Shankar for a ride, but someone else now has his phone, who says they are Shankar but are not.  I end up getting one arranged by the hotel, and the daytime manager (now) sends a boy to run over to the driver’s house to wake him up.  About 10 minutes later the rickshaw-wallah is outside and I find it’s 500 to the airport ($10).  No haggle and we head on the way.  He says what time is your flight, I say I don’t have one yet.  He is incredulous.

The day manager said the same thing.  Don’t you have a ticket?  No.  You can’t go to the airport without a ticket.  I say “you can’t buy a ticket at the airport?!” and he shrugs his shoulders with a bewildered look on his face.  I’m wondering if it’s an Indian thing, and you really can’t buy a ticket at the airport.  I hope I’m wrong, but I’m going to find out.

The auto takes me to within 500 yards of the airport, but wants another 20 to take me closer.  I think the airport charges them if they get on the property.  I give him the go ahead as I’m sure I have a long day ahead of me and don’t want to use up calories in lieu of $.40.  He drives me within 50 yards, though I was expecting he would just pull up to the curb.

I get out to much staring, and find there are indeed ticket windows, and I mean windows, on the outside of the airport.  No one is in any of them except one.  I ask if I can buy a ticket to Delhi and he says the window doesn’t open until 9:30a.  It’s like 8:45a.  So I have a seat on the curb next to a 2 y/o boy running naked except for a dirty shirt.