Well, now...
After the bullshit with the taxi and bus at Heathrow, I'm amazed that I'm writing this from anywhere outside Britain at all, much less from Varanasi. From Delhi airport, we took a taxi to the train station - handy tip; if you're deliberately driving the wrong way up a one way street, just put on your hazards and lights at full beam - and got our tickets with no fuss at all. When I asked the semi comatose ticket seller where we could sit, he said we could sit anywhere. Okay... With three hours to kill, we sat in a twenty four hour cafe, drinking tea and getting stared at. The place was full of young people, seemingly with no destination in mind, just hanging out. Must be the in place...
On the train to Agra, we had no fucking seats, so sitting anywhere at all wasn't an option. We stood for three very uncomfortable hours and by the time we arrived, all I wanted to do was sit down. Straight into another taxi and away from the grabbing, pleading hands. Once ensconced in the Hotel Sanjay, we went out to look for somewhere to cash some cheques. Nowhere near by. We took a rickshaw to a money changers and next door was a travel agency. We asked them if it would be possible to book an overnight train to Varanasi with them. It wasn't. They showed us the website pages and all trains were fully booked. We tried to get one to Allahabad so we could get here by hook or by crook, but that also wasn't happening. As it goes, after cashing a hundred quid each, and me telling Danny that it would last until Varanasi, it lasted about an hour. We were obliged to book a car to bring us here and that cost, with a night in a hotel, over a hundred nicker. Combined with the Taj tour, that was us wiped out. Ah, this country...
After we'd spent all our fucking cash, the rickshaw driver showed us around, took us to markets and whatnot and, best of all, to the bank of the Yamuna River opposite the Taj Mahal - the Taj is closed on Fridays, so this is the best one'll get. Even from there, it's a beautiful, breathtaking building. Once we'd feasted our eyes on it for a while, the driver asked us if he could take us to a marble shop. Knowing the basic set up - he'll get a backhander if we buy anything - we agreed but knew that we wouldn't be spending any money. Through the sphincter troubling traffic again, then. It's all fumes, dust, noise, noise, noise. The beeping of horns is incessant, but not quite enough to become white noise. The rickshaw was shaking like it was ready to fall apart and after we got out, I felt the same.
At the marble shop, we were obliged to smile inanely as the owner showed us his work. I appreciated the craftsmanship, believe me, but I still didn't want to buy any of it. We could feel his malevolent stare on our backs as we left... When the driver dropped us off, I gave him a 500 Rupee note and waited for my change. To my astonishment, Danny gave the cunt another one! I tried to stop him, but once the driver had hold of it, there was no way it was coming back... I felt so woozy that I bought some cans of Kingfisher and we went on to the roof to drink them. The traffic's much nicer when you're above it. You see it moving like blood through veins, bikes and rickshaws weaving in and out, moving to God knows where. It becomes hypnotic and strangely beautiful. Or it could have been the beer, I dunno...
The next day, we took the tour and headed off to Fatephur Sikri, a town about twenty or so miles outside of Agra. The driver, Babu, told us that you need three things to drive in India - good brakes, good horn and good luck. I found the last part very unsettling. Babu warned us of all the local scams and, duly armed with this knowledge, proceeded to tell anyone who approached us to bugger right off. Nice. We were endlessly harassed by "guides" who wanted to show us around. Yeah, mate. It's a fort, I think I can make my way around it, ta. The mosque and the palace were just stunning. They really built things to last in the old days.
Back to Agra and its traffic. My eyes felt hot and too big for their sockets, sore and full of shite I still don't want to contemplate. The whole city is after your money and its hands are in your face, demanding, twenty four hours a day. Still, the Taj Mahal didn't disappoint. It's awe inspiring. No matter how many photos you've seen of it, none of them come close to capturing its majesty. It's a perfect thing, it really is. It's surrounding areas and attendant touts and scam artists are, however, somewhat less than perfect. After refusing camel rides, knives, snow globes, postcards and fuck knows what all else, we made our way to the Red Fort. After running another gauntlet of tat, we got in and could see the Taj in the setting sun, looking, of course, beautiful and serene. It was almost impossible to remember the clatter and mayhem outside it. Almost... Back at the Sanjay, more beers on the roof and a stilted and uncomfortable conversation with a couple of lads from Calcutta.
Up and out of Agra at half six on Sunday morning, Babu again at the wheel. The road was in pretty good condition and although we saw plenty of crashes - or, rather, the aftermath of crashes - and dead dogs, we made it in about ten hours. The fields were full of people taking their morning shits and I tried to focus on the road. We stopped for lunch and beer on the way, of course. I didn't need the lunch, but the beer was essential. The hotel in Varanasi was okay, but way too overpriced. Still, we lobbed our bags down and headed for the river. A rickshaw driver agreed to take us there and back for 300 rupees, but when he dropped us off, he wouldn't take any money from us, saying he'd get it when we came back. Whoops... The walk to the river took us through crushing crowds. God, the heat, the smells, the claustrophobia. We eventually got to the ghat we wanted so that we could watch the ganga aarti ceremony on the bank of the Ganges. Five lads stand on dais', ringing bells and waving small cauldrons contain incense and then fire. They're ringing bells and some bloke bangs a gong, there's music and chanting playing. It's a wonderfully theatrical event, a melange of sight and sound and the steps of the ghats are filled with people.
After the crowds has - mostly - dispersed and people were putting their lights in the water to flow downstream, we were accosted by the man with a "Shit Shop." who I bumped into eight years ago. He told us, "if you want good things, go elsewhere, I have only shit things." What a sweet man. Still, I didn't tell him to shit off, as I did eight years previously. The traffic in Varanasi is even worse than Agra's and Vagator's relative tranquility can't come quickly enough. We got lost in it on foot and once we eventually made our way back to where the rickshaw driver dropped us, he'd fucked off. We didn't know where the hotel was, so the driver we flagged down had to keep asking people where it was. It didn't help matters that we didn't know the hotel's full name. Ah, well - we made it back and only gibbering lightly, too.
In the morning, we got across the hotel we previously booked. It's right on the river and the restaurant area overlooks the water. It's a great place to just sit and watch the world go by below you. Before we checked in, we saw a man punch a monkey. Not a light slap, mind you, but a full blown hook to the monkey's rump. I can now say that I've seen an Indian man spank the monkey. I thank you.
Varanasi's full of what Danny has taken to calling "Hideous Kinkies," Westerners who are trying too hard and dressing in Indian clothes and whatnot. They affect a self righteous sense of beatific enlightenment and look down their fucking noses at everyone else. We went to Sarnath yesterday, a town of Buddhist temples and they were everywhere, affecting inner peace and all that shit. Sarnath itself was beautiful and the temples and architecture were, as ever, staggering. After the chaos of Varanasi, or the roads, anyway, the peace and quite was extremely welcome. The rickshaw driver who brought us back to this Indian Bedlam couldn't speak any English, but it didn't stop him speaking. Well, when he wasn't gobbing betel nut juice on to the road, that is. He dropped us off and told us that we were ten minutes walk from the river, the lying cunt. We ended up walking through very narrow alleyways, filled with shops, dogs and people and, incredibly, speeding fucking motorbikes trying to whizz past. Any kinds of business you care to imagine, from electronic shops to barbers can be found in these alleys. Madness, utter madness. When not trying to avoid a collision with a bike, we were trying to avoid even more collisions with cow shit. It's fucking everywhere here; of course it is - there are fucking cows everywhere here.
We were obliged to sit outside in the restaurant last night due to a contingent of Kinkies booking all the tables inside. This had us worried because the monkeys are all over the roof and we were concerned that they'd have our food. A waiter gave us a pole and told us to hit anything that came near us. There's also a dog at the restaurant, patrolling for monkey trouble, so were weren't bothered. We had a few beers with Denise and Emma, an aunt and niece from Sheffield and got a little wobbly. All in all, a pleasant evening, Kinkies or not, although the \y don't even acknowledge you as they pass you on the stairs.
Those fucking people. One was in the restaurant this morning, chanting and meditating. Why couldn't he do it in his fucking room? I don't see any of them getting in the river to bathe, do I? He'll be back in his office next month, sanctimoniously telling his colleagues that their chakras need realigning or some such bullshit. As Tyler Durden noted, sticking feathers up your butt doesn't make you a chicken. Meditate on THAT, you wanker.
We walked along the river this morning and saw the burning ghats. Bodies wait to be burned and huge piles of wood are stacked up, ready to be lit. No photography is allowed there, but the heat is incredible. It's not as though it's not hot enough... Endless offers of hash and boat rides were refused and when not being bothered, the river side is very quiet, very calming.
That'll do for now - my hands hurt. Freak of the day; either the woman who face looked like Baron Harkonnen from David Lynch's "Dune" or the lad with only one ear.
Oh, and I've been smoking, but given the pollution in this city, I don't see that it makes a fucking iota of difference. Now, where's a beer?
After the bullshit with the taxi and bus at Heathrow, I'm amazed that I'm writing this from anywhere outside Britain at all, much less from Varanasi. From Delhi airport, we took a taxi to the train station - handy tip; if you're deliberately driving the wrong way up a one way street, just put on your hazards and lights at full beam - and got our tickets with no fuss at all. When I asked the semi comatose ticket seller where we could sit, he said we could sit anywhere. Okay... With three hours to kill, we sat in a twenty four hour cafe, drinking tea and getting stared at. The place was full of young people, seemingly with no destination in mind, just hanging out. Must be the in place...
On the train to Agra, we had no fucking seats, so sitting anywhere at all wasn't an option. We stood for three very uncomfortable hours and by the time we arrived, all I wanted to do was sit down. Straight into another taxi and away from the grabbing, pleading hands. Once ensconced in the Hotel Sanjay, we went out to look for somewhere to cash some cheques. Nowhere near by. We took a rickshaw to a money changers and next door was a travel agency. We asked them if it would be possible to book an overnight train to Varanasi with them. It wasn't. They showed us the website pages and all trains were fully booked. We tried to get one to Allahabad so we could get here by hook or by crook, but that also wasn't happening. As it goes, after cashing a hundred quid each, and me telling Danny that it would last until Varanasi, it lasted about an hour. We were obliged to book a car to bring us here and that cost, with a night in a hotel, over a hundred nicker. Combined with the Taj tour, that was us wiped out. Ah, this country...
After we'd spent all our fucking cash, the rickshaw driver showed us around, took us to markets and whatnot and, best of all, to the bank of the Yamuna River opposite the Taj Mahal - the Taj is closed on Fridays, so this is the best one'll get. Even from there, it's a beautiful, breathtaking building. Once we'd feasted our eyes on it for a while, the driver asked us if he could take us to a marble shop. Knowing the basic set up - he'll get a backhander if we buy anything - we agreed but knew that we wouldn't be spending any money. Through the sphincter troubling traffic again, then. It's all fumes, dust, noise, noise, noise. The beeping of horns is incessant, but not quite enough to become white noise. The rickshaw was shaking like it was ready to fall apart and after we got out, I felt the same.
At the marble shop, we were obliged to smile inanely as the owner showed us his work. I appreciated the craftsmanship, believe me, but I still didn't want to buy any of it. We could feel his malevolent stare on our backs as we left... When the driver dropped us off, I gave him a 500 Rupee note and waited for my change. To my astonishment, Danny gave the cunt another one! I tried to stop him, but once the driver had hold of it, there was no way it was coming back... I felt so woozy that I bought some cans of Kingfisher and we went on to the roof to drink them. The traffic's much nicer when you're above it. You see it moving like blood through veins, bikes and rickshaws weaving in and out, moving to God knows where. It becomes hypnotic and strangely beautiful. Or it could have been the beer, I dunno...
The next day, we took the tour and headed off to Fatephur Sikri, a town about twenty or so miles outside of Agra. The driver, Babu, told us that you need three things to drive in India - good brakes, good horn and good luck. I found the last part very unsettling. Babu warned us of all the local scams and, duly armed with this knowledge, proceeded to tell anyone who approached us to bugger right off. Nice. We were endlessly harassed by "guides" who wanted to show us around. Yeah, mate. It's a fort, I think I can make my way around it, ta. The mosque and the palace were just stunning. They really built things to last in the old days.
Back to Agra and its traffic. My eyes felt hot and too big for their sockets, sore and full of shite I still don't want to contemplate. The whole city is after your money and its hands are in your face, demanding, twenty four hours a day. Still, the Taj Mahal didn't disappoint. It's awe inspiring. No matter how many photos you've seen of it, none of them come close to capturing its majesty. It's a perfect thing, it really is. It's surrounding areas and attendant touts and scam artists are, however, somewhat less than perfect. After refusing camel rides, knives, snow globes, postcards and fuck knows what all else, we made our way to the Red Fort. After running another gauntlet of tat, we got in and could see the Taj in the setting sun, looking, of course, beautiful and serene. It was almost impossible to remember the clatter and mayhem outside it. Almost... Back at the Sanjay, more beers on the roof and a stilted and uncomfortable conversation with a couple of lads from Calcutta.
Up and out of Agra at half six on Sunday morning, Babu again at the wheel. The road was in pretty good condition and although we saw plenty of crashes - or, rather, the aftermath of crashes - and dead dogs, we made it in about ten hours. The fields were full of people taking their morning shits and I tried to focus on the road. We stopped for lunch and beer on the way, of course. I didn't need the lunch, but the beer was essential. The hotel in Varanasi was okay, but way too overpriced. Still, we lobbed our bags down and headed for the river. A rickshaw driver agreed to take us there and back for 300 rupees, but when he dropped us off, he wouldn't take any money from us, saying he'd get it when we came back. Whoops... The walk to the river took us through crushing crowds. God, the heat, the smells, the claustrophobia. We eventually got to the ghat we wanted so that we could watch the ganga aarti ceremony on the bank of the Ganges. Five lads stand on dais', ringing bells and waving small cauldrons contain incense and then fire. They're ringing bells and some bloke bangs a gong, there's music and chanting playing. It's a wonderfully theatrical event, a melange of sight and sound and the steps of the ghats are filled with people.
After the crowds has - mostly - dispersed and people were putting their lights in the water to flow downstream, we were accosted by the man with a "Shit Shop." who I bumped into eight years ago. He told us, "if you want good things, go elsewhere, I have only shit things." What a sweet man. Still, I didn't tell him to shit off, as I did eight years previously. The traffic in Varanasi is even worse than Agra's and Vagator's relative tranquility can't come quickly enough. We got lost in it on foot and once we eventually made our way back to where the rickshaw driver dropped us, he'd fucked off. We didn't know where the hotel was, so the driver we flagged down had to keep asking people where it was. It didn't help matters that we didn't know the hotel's full name. Ah, well - we made it back and only gibbering lightly, too.
In the morning, we got across the hotel we previously booked. It's right on the river and the restaurant area overlooks the water. It's a great place to just sit and watch the world go by below you. Before we checked in, we saw a man punch a monkey. Not a light slap, mind you, but a full blown hook to the monkey's rump. I can now say that I've seen an Indian man spank the monkey. I thank you.
Varanasi's full of what Danny has taken to calling "Hideous Kinkies," Westerners who are trying too hard and dressing in Indian clothes and whatnot. They affect a self righteous sense of beatific enlightenment and look down their fucking noses at everyone else. We went to Sarnath yesterday, a town of Buddhist temples and they were everywhere, affecting inner peace and all that shit. Sarnath itself was beautiful and the temples and architecture were, as ever, staggering. After the chaos of Varanasi, or the roads, anyway, the peace and quite was extremely welcome. The rickshaw driver who brought us back to this Indian Bedlam couldn't speak any English, but it didn't stop him speaking. Well, when he wasn't gobbing betel nut juice on to the road, that is. He dropped us off and told us that we were ten minutes walk from the river, the lying cunt. We ended up walking through very narrow alleyways, filled with shops, dogs and people and, incredibly, speeding fucking motorbikes trying to whizz past. Any kinds of business you care to imagine, from electronic shops to barbers can be found in these alleys. Madness, utter madness. When not trying to avoid a collision with a bike, we were trying to avoid even more collisions with cow shit. It's fucking everywhere here; of course it is - there are fucking cows everywhere here.
We were obliged to sit outside in the restaurant last night due to a contingent of Kinkies booking all the tables inside. This had us worried because the monkeys are all over the roof and we were concerned that they'd have our food. A waiter gave us a pole and told us to hit anything that came near us. There's also a dog at the restaurant, patrolling for monkey trouble, so were weren't bothered. We had a few beers with Denise and Emma, an aunt and niece from Sheffield and got a little wobbly. All in all, a pleasant evening, Kinkies or not, although the \y don't even acknowledge you as they pass you on the stairs.
Those fucking people. One was in the restaurant this morning, chanting and meditating. Why couldn't he do it in his fucking room? I don't see any of them getting in the river to bathe, do I? He'll be back in his office next month, sanctimoniously telling his colleagues that their chakras need realigning or some such bullshit. As Tyler Durden noted, sticking feathers up your butt doesn't make you a chicken. Meditate on THAT, you wanker.
We walked along the river this morning and saw the burning ghats. Bodies wait to be burned and huge piles of wood are stacked up, ready to be lit. No photography is allowed there, but the heat is incredible. It's not as though it's not hot enough... Endless offers of hash and boat rides were refused and when not being bothered, the river side is very quiet, very calming.
That'll do for now - my hands hurt. Freak of the day; either the woman who face looked like Baron Harkonnen from David Lynch's "Dune" or the lad with only one ear.
Oh, and I've been smoking, but given the pollution in this city, I don't see that it makes a fucking iota of difference. Now, where's a beer?
"The traffic's much nicer when you're above it. You see it moving like blood through veins, bikes and rickshaws weaving in and out, moving to God knows where. It becomes hypnotic and strangely beautiful."
ReplyDeleteReminded me of when Kim and I had dinner on a hotel rooftop in New Dehli...didn't think I'd ever miss Dehli. And I think you probably went to the same marble shop we got dragged into. Word of advice: When they offer you a drink say no! Saying yes means you're going to buy something....that's how I ended up with a tat shit Christmas card...