We arrive in Varanasi train station at 7.30 in the morning. I imagined that the motion of the train would rock me to sleep, leaving me refreshed and ready to go on arrival. Unfortunately, Indian railway sleeper berths are not built for someone my height. This, coupled with the motion of the train, is a little like being gently but firmly in the head all night.
I emerge bleary-eyed into Varanasi station. It is teaming with people, including a horde or taxi and auto drivers who descend upon us. We are rescued by the guy we booked to pick us up. For the first time, I am grateful for being collared in Delhi.
Varanasi is not as vertical as Delhi, and seems to be cooler. It is just as busy though, if not more so, and we are approached or called to every few turns. We make it about ten minutes down the road, stop in a restaurant an a side street, eat some food and retreat back to the hotel for some rest.
In the window of our bathroom, above the shower, there is a squirrels' nest. When I shower in the morning, I can see them curled around each other, asleep. Indian squirrels are lighter than the grey ones in the UK. They move faster and seem to be more agile. They are also awesome. Here is a video of one, taken by somebody else.
The next day, we make it down to the banks of the Ganges. We sit in a rooftop restaurant and it seems quiet and peaceful. Sounds of children playing cricket drift up from below. Looking across to the opposite bank I can see lines of cattle being led across the delta, to and from the banks to drink. Around us, flags flap gently in the breeze.
The walk down to the river was something of a gauntlet. Apparently, at least a quarter of the residents of Varanasi sell scarves. It is not clear to me how this is sustainable. Once you near the banks of the river, the roads are closed to traffic and things quieten down. This is only a brief respite however, as once you descend to the banks there are scores of boatmen who want to take you out onto the river. It seems that there are not enough tourists to go around. There is one man who is absolutely intent on shaving me. He will not take no for a answer and will not let go of me. I have to lift my hands over his head and push them behind him so he has no choice but to let go or fall over. I feel confused and unhappy that this has happened in what is supposed to be a holy place.
We stick around on the banks of the river until sunset. A few people come and talk to us, a couple more boatmen try their luck but they are conversational and everything feels more relaxed. As the sun goes down, the place lights up. Drumming and prayer fill the air. As with Delhi, I decide that I enjoy Varanasi more at night. The place seems to come alive and I feel more anonymous. We watch the lights on the ground and the moon in the sky for a while before walking back. The alleys near the river are lit from above by strings of lanterns that criss-cross overhead.
I emerge bleary-eyed into Varanasi station. It is teaming with people, including a horde or taxi and auto drivers who descend upon us. We are rescued by the guy we booked to pick us up. For the first time, I am grateful for being collared in Delhi.
Varanasi is not as vertical as Delhi, and seems to be cooler. It is just as busy though, if not more so, and we are approached or called to every few turns. We make it about ten minutes down the road, stop in a restaurant an a side street, eat some food and retreat back to the hotel for some rest.
In the window of our bathroom, above the shower, there is a squirrels' nest. When I shower in the morning, I can see them curled around each other, asleep. Indian squirrels are lighter than the grey ones in the UK. They move faster and seem to be more agile. They are also awesome. Here is a video of one, taken by somebody else.
The next day, we make it down to the banks of the Ganges. We sit in a rooftop restaurant and it seems quiet and peaceful. Sounds of children playing cricket drift up from below. Looking across to the opposite bank I can see lines of cattle being led across the delta, to and from the banks to drink. Around us, flags flap gently in the breeze.
The walk down to the river was something of a gauntlet. Apparently, at least a quarter of the residents of Varanasi sell scarves. It is not clear to me how this is sustainable. Once you near the banks of the river, the roads are closed to traffic and things quieten down. This is only a brief respite however, as once you descend to the banks there are scores of boatmen who want to take you out onto the river. It seems that there are not enough tourists to go around. There is one man who is absolutely intent on shaving me. He will not take no for a answer and will not let go of me. I have to lift my hands over his head and push them behind him so he has no choice but to let go or fall over. I feel confused and unhappy that this has happened in what is supposed to be a holy place.
We stick around on the banks of the river until sunset. A few people come and talk to us, a couple more boatmen try their luck but they are conversational and everything feels more relaxed. As the sun goes down, the place lights up. Drumming and prayer fill the air. As with Delhi, I decide that I enjoy Varanasi more at night. The place seems to come alive and I feel more anonymous. We watch the lights on the ground and the moon in the sky for a while before walking back. The alleys near the river are lit from above by strings of lanterns that criss-cross overhead.
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