India: Varanasi

01.11.2013

• I awoke on the train with city of Varanasi drawing ever closer. I reached for Kevin's November letter and read while still lying down with the wind passing gently overhead. Sigh. He's amazing that one. 
• We arrived in Varanasi and had a rough time getting clear information from an auto driver who was clear about wanting to take us to a different (better, he says) hostel than the one we had booked and paid a deposit on. With two other drivers chiming in on the conversation I had to explain the predicament they put us in before Else and I could decide whether to ride or find another. In the end we had him drive us as far as he could before the streets are blocked to cars and we hoofed it down the street toward our hostel with loose directions motioned from our driver. We were quickly picked out of the crowd by another man eager to show us the way to our chosen destination. Normally this is the type of assistance that I am quick to thank someone for before declining the offer. In the twisting alleys of Varanasi we were happy to take what help we could get. A few twists and turns and a tip to the guide and we were at our destination down a narrow path off another narrow path off another narrow path. We checked into our guest house and discovered a very friendly staff but accommodations that were quite unlike that which we had expected from the online photos and descriptions. We sat on the bed for a moment and freshed up and decided that we needed breakfast before we made any other moves or decisions and so found a nearby restaurant to drown our disappointment in coconut porridge with honey. Two tired, befuddled travelers but with full bellies. 
• We walk through the passageways between buildings and down to the steps to the Ganga - the first arrival at the Ganges River. Its powerful brown waters swept by us as we took in the long view of the city along the shore and the flatlands on the other side. The expected sight of people bathing and washing laundry in the river were to be found, huddled on steps not yet revealed by the water as its levels dropped in the dry season. Looking back to the buildings lofted behind us the water line could be seen where the mighty Ganga reached up when the waters swell with rain and hide all that we stand on now. We were met by a young man who insisted on walking with us along the banks despite our insistence that he not. Friendly enough, he told us about his city and helped us dodge the many cows who huddled along the paths. His un-asked-for tour, of course, ended at his uncle's show where Else obliged trying on saris and shawls. They were very welcoming and low-pressure in spite of the circumstances and happy that we visited in spite of our empty arms upon departure.  
• Still thinking of the conditions of our guesthouse Else and I embarked on a mission to find new lodging. We quickly spied a sign for the Bhadra Kali guest house with an arrow pointing down another twisting street. We followed from one sign to the next around corners and under archways until we arrived at a dead end and the entrance to a living room with reception desk. Three guests sat on the floor chatting and extolled the virtues of the accommodations until the owner/manager, Ravi, could finish a call and greet us with seriousness and hospitality. A brief chat led to a brief tour and somewhere between the clean room and clean bathroom we began to get excited; once we saw the rooftop terrace overlooking the river we were asking how soon we could move in. Hands shook and we immediately made our way to our first guest house to grab our bags, apologize to the staff for our departure, and hightail it back to Bhadra Kali. We settled into the comfortable space with a sense of relief and chatted with our new friends who has first welcomed us earlier. Frank (Italian), Katherine (German living in Holland), and Roland (a good reason for a German girl to live in Holland). Ravi joined us and had tea brought for us all by one of his two, very sweet, seemingly fraternal, assistants. We felt at home already.
• Else and I could hear our stomachs grumble and we left our new pals for street snacks and found a cup of chai and panipuri served in a bowl of dried leaves. It was the perfect dose to hold us over until our new friends were ready to grab dinner at around the corner from home. It was a no frills, local joint where we tried to find a working fan and to ignore our Western standards of sanitation. We ordered dosa and curry and a smattering of desserts, leaving room for our next stop: Blue Lassi, which boasted an impressive menu of creative yogurt drinks with an assortment of fun toppings. It was a popular spot and packed with hungry guests but the vibe was missing some music. Thankfully our server obliged my request by blasting tunes from the smartphone he left on the table for us. 
• After filling up on creamy sweets we trekked toward home past long lines of  long lines of people waiting to enter the temple this first night of Diwali to leave offering and receive blessings. The string of the devout wrapped from temple door nearly back to the main street along hundreds of meters of paved streets where shops sold their wares into the evening, where dogs dodged feet, where people moved around cows, where lights dangled above our heads and flooded out of homes. It was a maze of sensation and excitement with grit and beauty in every glance.  
• Back home we happened upon Ravi playing the tabla, a set of Indian drums, which he beat with furisous speed. The story goes something to the effect of Ravi being a pretty successful tabla drummer in India with news clippings framed in the guest house. His brother, by report, is equally impressive and plays now around his home in Spain. After the impromptu show our whole group retired to the rooftop where we lit candles along the ledge and watched monkeys jump from eave to rooftop. We talked about culture, humility, and family as the water or the Ganga carried our voices into the night as it has done in this place for a thousand years and more. Ravi talked about his vision of building a hospital in Varanasi one day supported by his entrepreneurship - he is already operating a school in a low-income, outlying community of the city. I hope I get to be a part of his social development schemes in the future. Else is already planning a trip back to teach at the school for a while. My first night of Diwali was cast in the glow of candles sitting on a cot on that rooftop wondering how my life comes to resemble a movie I once constructed in my mind.  

02.11.2013

• I started the morning with a visit to the rooftop to greet the day with some monkey "friends" before catching up on blog notes in the lobby over a cup of chai. A couple of our new cohort are under the weather today and questions of yesterday's food consumption are taken under consideration. Those of us with stomachs able to take food make our way to breakfast. More dosa and tea and a side of fruit and nuts. Else and I took off for a walk through town stopping to buy her some new digs and, of course, to sip on another chai. 
• Feeling a bit unkempt I pulled Else into a barber shop to get my hair cut and have my spouted beard trimmed. The cut was accompanied by a terrific head massage which drifted down to become a neck, face, shoulder, and chest massage, often aided by a wildly vibrating machine strapped to the back of my barber's hand. I walked away feeling smooth, clean, and jostled into relaxation. Calculating the difference in cost between my bill and the same level of attention at a salon back home I tipped a solid 100% and was promptly invited back for another haircut tomorrow. We laughed, I finished the chai they had offered me, and Else and I stepped out of this little sanctuary back onto the bustling streets of Varanasi. 
• We walked back to the river and watched boys fly kites over the water running along the steps and terraced landings. We passed shines built into the walls of buildings and neighborhood temples. We stopped for drinks on a rooftop terrace above the city, lost down some alley, and watched the sun move. We eventually found ourselves near Manikarnika Ghat (ghats are steps leading down to the river) famous for the cremations that take place there and where the eternal fire of Lord Shiva burns and helps to set the newly departed on their journey beyond the incarnation into this body. Men gathered around the bodies of loved ones - women being seen as too emotional to attend the cremations and to remove the risk they will throw themselves on the pyre with their lost loved one (as has happened). A man near us explained the history of the ghat and pointed to the hospice building overlooking the ghat where Hindus come from all over the world to live their final days that they may be cremated in this holy place. He also told us of the type of bodies that cannot be burned at the ghat and how the parts of bodies that do not burn completely are sent into the Ganga. The history and ritual are filled with meaning and I reflect on the very public display of death and mourning in relation to the quiet and often hidden experience of human loss back in the United States and my position in culture as a traveler, a hospice professional, a social worker, a person. The air around us was smokey as we stood looking across the steps and the river. The moment was broken as Else flew forward down a few steps onto the stone terrace as if by possession. Shocked and confused I looked to her for understanding and reassurance that she was not hurt and then followed her gaze to the space next to me, where she had stood, where now stood the heffer that had rammed her from behind and knocked her down the stairs. After ensuring safety and recovering from the shock we considered the karmic implications and tried to laugh away the awkwardness of being assaulted by an exalted animal. 
• The streets had darkened by the time we walked home. We stopped to get Else a henna tattoo (stained image from a plant dye) of the Lord Ganesha which was the first image Else had seen of India when she was a teenager and which began her long journey to finally visiting the country. We stopped for panipuri and samosa and chai before reaching the house and took some time to rest after a busy, stimulus filled day. We met our housemate, Arial, who left his home in Israel many months ago to travel in India. He has been in Varanasi for week and is learning to play the tabla drums with Ravi and leaves us to attend his next lesson on the roof. I open my laptop and stream the cricket match between India and Australia for some important world title I have never heard of but for which the boys running the guest house were deeply invested. We were able to get enough bandwidth to see India succeed in their efforts and to witness the eruption of cheers from the guys as the celebrated. Around the world it is amazing to see the energy that victory and loss of a game can bring. 
• Next stop: dinner. Our group walked up the street and loaded into proper rickshaws in pairs and headed toward the restaurant under Ravi's direction. Our drivers raced one another and we jeered at each other in the overtakings. We arrived at Baati Chokha and settled in around a large table. The introduction to the menu was interrupted by a quarrel between other patrons and I realized that a restaurant argument plays out in very similar ways in different parts of the world as we sat agawk. Rowdy patrons expelled and the atmosphere calmed Ravi ordered for the table and the dishes began arriving. The restaurant is named for its trademark dish, the baati, which is essentially a ball of dough filled with various ingredients and then fire roasted, here in the traditional method over dried cow dung which burns hot and a bit smoky. We stuff ourselves with them as they arrive with side dishes of eggplant, rice, dal, chapati, papad, and raita. Between bites we discussed the things that different cultural groups celebrate and publicize and the things that it rejects or hides away. We talked of the attachments our own cultural groups have to certain ideal and how we find ourselve attached or trying to untangle ourselves. Conversation dimmed only slightly as our bellies filled. The table joked about starting our own restaurant fight but didn't expect Else and I to actually pick one with each other, quickly escalating to a slamming down of hands and some choice cursing in German before storming out the door. Our friends tried to play along and hide their laughter. Ravi embraced us and let his laughter break. Sometimes an act can transgress cultural appropriateness in any society. Humour can also be found in any society. 
• We collected another set of rickshaws and Else talked her way into taking over the bike for a while as her driver sat in the coach laughing at the redhead who insisted on life experience. The carts dodged people and cars amid the explosions of firecrackers, one of which was large and near enough to leave us shell shocked and momentarily deaf. We welcomed the security that home offered and retired again to our rooftop to usher in midnight and welcome the central day of the Diwali holiday. Else and I curled up for a cap nap and prepared for a long day ahead. 

03.11.2013

• Happy Diwali! Today marks the Festival of Lights in the Hindu faith signifying the victory of light over darkness and various religious associations to stories of the Hindu gods. One theme I have noticed in the realm of the religious is that most faith traditions have many holy days but often have one or so for which people travel great distances to be home with families. Christmas for many Christians; Passover for many Jews; Diwali for many Hindus. I am grateful for two Indian-American students with whom I served on the Student Programming Committee at Whatcom Community College who led the production of a wonderful Diwali celebration on campus when I was attending now some 14 years ago (... wow). Now I have the chance to take that wonderful memory and add to it the experience of celebrating the holiday with new friends in Varanasi. 
• The morning starts at a very early 5am - too early given our bedtime the night before. We bumbled down the stairs and waited at the back gate to be greeted by a boat driver who would be taking us for a sunrise row on the Ganga. We navigated the stairs to the ghat in the dark alley behind our hostel and saw that many locals had clearly been up much longer than we had and were busy washing and bathing and chanting along and in the river. We purchased two small leaf-made bowls set with flower pettles and votive candles and climbed aboard a long boat and we took off down through the murky waters. It was a gentle ride, slow enough to take in the bustle of the morning rituals at the banks. We ended up at another ghat where cremations are performed for non-Hindus and another impromptu tour guide told us more about the practice and rituals, for a small donation to another hospice. We rowed out the the center of the river where we had a clear view of the candy red-orange sun as it lifted itself into the haze of a new November day. Else and I lit the wicks of our votives and let them on the the current with our hopes and prayers. The same current carried our boat without effort back to Munshi ghat, the steps from the river to home, and we thanked our guide as we fell back into the flow of people moving about the banks. We bought chai from a woman perched with her kettle on a high step and found an outcropping where we joined a group of Indian teens to watch the movement of activity around us. We talked with one young person for a while, a college student come home from Delhi. We could see in his face and hear in his voice the excitment building as the festival day began to wake and warm. We thanked him for the chat, returned our chai glasses, and ascended back to the still sleepy Bhanda Kali Guest House. 
• Unable to sleep again, I took to Skype dates with family back home while relaxing in the lobby with another cup of chai. Conversation was cut short to show respect for a boy in his early teens who came, as he did many mornings I discovered, to bless the home. He changed and lit incense and listed from one foot to another, catching looks with me and offering smiles, all chanting words he could surely recite in his sleep. He finished his task and exchanging Happy Diwalis with us as he left.  
• I went for breakfast with Ariel. Else meant to join but was fetched for an in-room massage we had booked the day before and nearly forgotten. Ariel and I continued to find deep and pressing things to talk about and agree that they were not so deep or pressing, in the end. I ordered the vegetarian nargisi kofta, a boiled egg covered in mashed potato then fried, this version drowned in curry. It shall henceforth be considered on the list of favourite breakfast foods and those of which I must learn to make for myself and others once home. 
• Back home I found Else still in her massage in our room. I gladly filled the time waiting for her by joining Ravi and the boys in decorating the guest house with strings of yellow and orange flowers and holiday lights. The familiar joys of decorating for a holiday brought such a warm feeling in my heart and I felt such a sense of honor to be sharing in the casual intimacy of such a tender tradition. 
• Else's massage finished and my therapist arrived to provide mine (a man, of course, for me unlike Else's female therapist). I will not linger on the fact that it was easily the worst massage of my life - worse even than the beating I received by a large Hungarian man in Budapest. I will simply hold my Licensed Massage Practitioner tongue and be glad there was no lasting trauma. At this point in the day I was certainly ready to rest. Sleep...
• After waking and relaxing a while in the lobby, Else, Frankie, and I made our way for dinner. It was a tasty meal with another order of masala papad (or papadam), a lentil flour crisp topped with a spiced salsa, and one of my favourite foods. A couple from China wandered into the restaurant and joined us to dine. We walked home along the river where community members gathered. A small family lit sparklers. Vendors sold specialty items for puja (the ritual portion of Hindu religious festivities). A small pack of teenage boys descended on Else and I repeated a now-familiar round of Where are you from and can we take our photo with you? We obliged and taught them the officially Moo face and Moo hand sign which I expect to be trending in photos across the Asian subcontinent quite soon.
• We arrived home in time for the puja. This would be Ravi's third of the evening but the first he would be leading as this was his space. I do not speak Hindi nor do I profess to be anything of an expert on Hindu culture so I will not stick my foot any deeper in my mouth that this blog has already shoved it to attempt a deep description of the event. I will say that a religious leader arrived at the home to help lead the puja, promting certain tasks to be completed and words to be spoken at the appropriate times. Symbolic items are placed around figures of the Lord Ganesha and the Goddess Lakshmi before they replace older idols from last year's Diwali puja. Finally, blessings are given to those of us in attendance with a yellow and red string tied around our wrist and then a sweet ghee treat offered to us. Puja completed we commenced the consumption of all remaining ghee treats. No ghee treats were offered to the baboons who came down and sat in the open windows watching the puja unfold as if participant spectators who sat outside the area of a sports game. Really, they were attracted by all the food being used for the ceremony and one threw quite the tantrum when he realized there was no food to be offered in sacrifice to him whereupon he shrieked, grabbed and munched a handful of decorative flowers, and stormed off onto another building. Really, how rude!  
• Our Diwali celebration moved to the next logical place: the rooftop where one was afforded a spectacular view of the fireworks being set off all over the city. We continued to eat sweets while twirling sparklers of our own and popping off Roman candles and other questionably safe explosives. The colors spread across the whole length of the city sky in crackling golds, bursting reds, and booming greens. Children on the neighboring rooftops lit things that flared from their hands or spun on the ground or showered high fountains of light. Like perpetual children we scanned the horizon waiting for the next Bang, Fizzle. We talked well into the night and the sparkles never ceased. Eventually we resigned ourselves to sleep and wished each other one more Happy Diwali and other sentiments as we dragged ourselves to bed. The bittersweet moment of a holiday thoroughly enjoyed that must, as all things, come to an end. 

04.11.2013

• British invasion! A hip Brit couple checked in this morning. We went for breakfast and I got the rundown on their months of world travel picking up new food tastes and techniques to incorporate into the restaurant they plan to open on the English coast. We chatted and ate at the now go-to morning restaurant. Ariel was joined by a friend, also from Israel, who had made some sort of delicious cake-like concoction which she shared generously and which I ate generous amounts of. After breakfast it was home for tea in the living area. The day has that relaxed, sometimes sad "after-holiday" feeling though the sound of fireworks outside has not subsided for longer than 10 minutes since last night. 
• I am excited to have a job today! Nearly five months after leaving my job and the country it was nice to have a task to complete and someone relying on me. Ravi was supposed to have a guest picked up from the train station but was busy himself and without someone to call upon. Now confident with the route and general scheme of transportation I offered myself for the gig. I even made a sign with the guest's name, TALIA, so that she could find me - I was going to be one of those people at a transit station with a name sign! I took a rickshaw to the station. I waited. The train arrived. I waited. People passed me with strange looks and asked if I needed help. I paced. I called Ravi to see if Talia had contacted him. I checked the tourist office, the information office, the taxi stand, the curbs, my watch. I called Ravi again; Talia walked through the door of the guest house while I was on the phone with him. My first job in months and I failed. I crossed the street and grabbed another rickshaw home, my head starting to feel a bit funny. 
• Back home Else and I moved rooms to help accommodate the full house. I became suddenly very tired. I became a bit cold as well. I curled up in the living room and slept for a while. I woke again and went to bed in our new room. My tummy grumbled. A long night began. 

05.11.2013

• Sometimes the joys of staying in hostels and making new friends and sharing your lives and journeys with one another is balanced by the sharing of diseases, in this case the 24 hour flu. It has knocked down most of us like dominos and I the one dot over three dots now lying on my back in a guest house in Varanasi, India. We blame a woman from Spain who had been our neighbor and quite seriously ill when we arrived but move beyond blame remembering that the poor woman spent more than a day in a hospital and I was still in a large room with a balcony overlooking the Ganga. Else was a wonderful nurse and errand girl. She brought me food on trays from a restaurant that told her to take all the dinnerware with her and return it later. I felt better through the day. Weak from an active night. Friends stopped in to check on me. I felt so loved in this place so far from home. 
• I was coaxed to the roof for some fresh air. I made it up first and sat on the cot with my blanket. A troop of rhesus macaques (the proper plural term for these beautiful, kinda scary monkeys) walked around the corner. I found myself surrounded by baboons. They looked at me and my eyes widened toward them which I thought indicated fear but they may have perceived as a threat. Baby macaques crawled under the cot, crawled up onto the cot. Part of me thinks at this moment: they are so cute and I can't believe I am this close to them without a cage between us. The rest of me thinks: I am going to die by monkey. I stand up and wade through a circle of macaques just feet from me who are agitated by this action and who signal this with wild looks that display their teeth. Ariel arrives and finds a long bamboo pole which, when swung near the group, causes them to abandon our rooftop for another less occupied by sick and terrified United Statesians and bamboo wielding Israelis. We enjoyed the view in peace, I cuddled beneath my blanket and the comforting protection of Ariel. 
• Still not feeling great I did make it down for dinner. The Brits had cooked up a pumpkin curry with papad and turmeric potatoes. I ate what I could knowing that my stomach needed something to work on and not wanting to miss out on a homemade meal - especially one that took hours to make after the gas ran out. Poor cooks. The food was amazing and it was nice to have some social contact. After dinner Ariel set up a projection system and we watched a film off of his computer called, Life in a Day. It was a touching and elucidating look at different lives and cultures and places and ideas from around the world all recorded by amateur videographers shooting footage on the same day and compiled by the editorial filmmakers. Consider it recommended. I was tired again by the end of the film and happy to take my feeble body to bed. Else, again, taking such great care of me. I am so grateful for these people, my friends. 

06.11.2013

• I do love waking up hungry. It is a good sign. I packed up my belongings and hung around downstairs to drink a final cup of chai in the living room with Ravi et al. We went for breakfast and I devoured a bowl of oatmeal and could feel the calories reaching out to my fingertips and toes and into my brain. We returned dishes and trays and thanked the restaurateurs. 
• I came home for a round of goodbyes. Amazing how quickly some people can feel like old friends. Else, she is another story. She became a quick friend and then stuck around long enough to become a close, dear friend. In a month of constant shared space, shared meals, shared conversations, shared experiences, shared souls, two people can grow to share a big love. And, she made sure I would tear up with her little going-away gift pack with licorice seed, sweets, extra toilet paper, and a copy of the movie, Rajanna, which we watched on the bus to Dharamshala. That cheeky girl. I walked away as we sang to each other, her wild red hair and wild, loving eyes leaving me with a great image to hold until I see her again.
• I grabbed an auto to the airport. The driver played great Indian pop music. I asked him to turn up the volume and watched the final scenes of roadside India pass me by. After only a month I am certainly not a part of this country but it has certainly made itself a bit of space in me. I realize looking around me that Seattle will simply not offer the type of stimulus that India has and part of me will long for a return to the rich food, history, cultures, people of this place with more than a billion people and just as many different Indias to know.  
• I grabbed a quick flight to Delhi where I enjoyed one more dosa on a layover. I bought snacks and ordered a cup of tea and crashed on a couch until my gate opened. I enjoyed a short flight to Nepal next to a super cute, 18 year old French boy and a professor from South Africa on his way to a conference who I might see back in his homeland. We toasted a beer together which was delivered by airline stewards as water might be on other flights. 
• I arrived in Kathmandu with no cash. Unfortunately the credit card machines were down and I had no cash to purchase my entry visa. Also unfortunate was the lack of working ATMs in the airport. After some consideration it was decided that I should hand over my passport as collateral and exit the airport with directions to another ATM they hoped would work to fetch cash and return to buy my visa, navigating through throngs of passengers collecting their bags and slightly confused customs agents. It is a good feeling to find the humour in these moments. Today held many tests of my zen, practicing the process of noticing my feelings, honoring them, choosing to make peace with them, and letting them go as I can. Sometimes laughing is the best way to save your own humanity in the midst of stressful moments that really have very little impact on the world or the long-term experience of my life. Besides, its good cocktail party fodder. 
• I got a taxi to my hotel. The streets were empty after midnight. The attendant behind the counter of the Potala Guest House fumbled to make sure I was supposed to be given a key to the room of a woman named Gwen who had already checked in. A phone call to the room confirmed me and I made my way upstairs to find a note on the door welcoming me. Gwen is a friend of a friend I met once before I left home but the familiar tone rang of home and I stepped through the door with open arms. Gwen and I will be joining said friend and said friend's boyfriend for our next adventure: a three week trek on the Annapurna Circuit through the Himalayas of Nepal and over Thorang La pass at nearly 18,000 feet. Gwen and I will be getting to know each other real well, real fast. I took a very long, hot shower and turned in for the night. At some point in the night I awoke suddenly and had the strongest feeling and image of Kevin on my heart. I searched the room to discover the flight had taken me further into Asia and not to Kevin's bed.  I sighed slowly. I closed my eyes again.