Varanasi, India
With my first chai in hand, I walked under the "Welcome to India" sign early on the 8th, and had a long day of travelling to go to get from Nepal to Varanasi. India is wild - people everywhere, cows everywhere, garbage everywhere. Right at the border, we got a lesson in how things work in India, when, upon asking if there was a garbage bin at the customs office, the man smirked and pointed to the street.
Cows stand defiantly in the middle of the road, unafraid, as tuk tuks swerve around and bikes crash into each other to avoid it. Dogs, cows, and people scavenge in the garbage piles on the roadsides. Walking along, you pass enticing scents of cumin, sweet chili, warm naan, and masala, between less welcome scents and the smog of dust and exhaust. Heat ripples up from the street, but it is deliciously cool in the shade. Fine clothing and lavish jewelery fill the shops and it's hard to resist the bold colours.
We took a long and winding walk through the narrow back streets of Varanasi, full to bursting with people pushing their way along to overtake, even in a tiny two way alley, with a scooter stalling and a cow strolling by in the other direction.
We stopped for lassi - a yogurt snack. I had mine with mango and pomegranate, and it was sweet and filling. We then stopped in at a silk shop, taking off our shoes and sitting down on the mattress-covered floor in a room lined with shelves stacked floor to ceiling with scarves, blankets, and clothes. The engaging shop owner offered us all chai and told us to make ourselves comfortable as he taught us all about silks, cashmere, and pashmina. He showed us how to test for a fake silk, and a lighter to a loose thread on my own Cambodian scarf quickly proved that the "100% silk" tag was a lie. He and his shop assistants pulled out stacks of thick blankets, and in the cozy room with the air turned on high, they opened them up one by one and covered us with them. It was heavenly, lying there, belly full of chai, being layered with blankets, followed by tablecloths, scarves, and shawls.
In the evening, we took 5 tuk tuks down to the river, motoring along in a line, overpassing each other, wildly honking. Earlier in the day, we had gone down to the cremation platforms to watch the ceremonies, and as we ate our lassies, groups of men chanting and shouldering bodies wrapped in yellow and orange clothes with gold and flower decorations would pass by the tiny alleyway on the route down to the water. For sunset, we took a boat out into the Ganges to observe the rituals on the steps - people bathing, chanting, doing yoga, flames from the cremations, the distant, echoing call to prayer from nearby mosques. When the sun dropped behind the city, prayer candles were lit up on board. Thinking for my family and friends half a world away, I let mine go in the holy river.
We returned the next morning for a sunrise boat trip as well. Sitting quietly waiting for the sun to emerge over the undeveloped eastern bank of the shore, we listened to the morning rituals and prayers beginning behind us.
We took a long and winding walk through the narrow back streets of Varanasi, full to bursting with people pushing their way along to overtake, even in a tiny two way alley, with a scooter stalling and a cow strolling by in the other direction.
We stopped for lassi - a yogurt snack. I had mine with mango and pomegranate, and it was sweet and filling. We then stopped in at a silk shop, taking off our shoes and sitting down on the mattress-covered floor in a room lined with shelves stacked floor to ceiling with scarves, blankets, and clothes. The engaging shop owner offered us all chai and told us to make ourselves comfortable as he taught us all about silks, cashmere, and pashmina. He showed us how to test for a fake silk, and a lighter to a loose thread on my own Cambodian scarf quickly proved that the "100% silk" tag was a lie. He and his shop assistants pulled out stacks of thick blankets, and in the cozy room with the air turned on high, they opened them up one by one and covered us with them. It was heavenly, lying there, belly full of chai, being layered with blankets, followed by tablecloths, scarves, and shawls.
In the evening, we took 5 tuk tuks down to the river, motoring along in a line, overpassing each other, wildly honking. Earlier in the day, we had gone down to the cremation platforms to watch the ceremonies, and as we ate our lassies, groups of men chanting and shouldering bodies wrapped in yellow and orange clothes with gold and flower decorations would pass by the tiny alleyway on the route down to the water. For sunset, we took a boat out into the Ganges to observe the rituals on the steps - people bathing, chanting, doing yoga, flames from the cremations, the distant, echoing call to prayer from nearby mosques. When the sun dropped behind the city, prayer candles were lit up on board. Thinking for my family and friends half a world away, I let mine go in the holy river.
Our boat travelled further along the water to where hundreds of boats were being tied together in front of the evening prayer ceremonies. Men walked from boat to boat selling chai, and watching the flame twirling and chanting on shore was mesmerizing.
We returned the next morning for a sunrise boat trip as well. Sitting quietly waiting for the sun to emerge over the undeveloped eastern bank of the shore, we listened to the morning rituals and prayers beginning behind us.
With some free time in the afternoon, Eliz, Stephanie and I took a tuk tuk to the markets to search for the lassi place again. They recognized us and were pleased that we enjoyed it enough to track it down through the labyrinth of backstreets. I made friends with an Indian Francophone, and told him we were looking for the best masala chai around. He called over his friend to take us a few streets over to what must have been a family member's shop. We were sat down in the small store and brought cup after clay cup of chai, into which he sprinkled a touch of masala spices. He also showed us the ointments they had for sale, dabbing Ariti Dhara at our temples (which lingered soothingly all day), and covering our hands in a patchwork of scents. In the evening, our train left Varanasi for Agra - a 12 hour journey. I reiterate my love for night trains. This one was all open, with 6 bunk berths faced by two bunks facing lengthwise. Stephanie and I were in a compartment with some locals, and made a friend with a business man, teaching him how to play the card game "President". After our long day and early morning, I crawled into my top bunk early, ready to wake up in Agra, home of the Taj Mahal.
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