Cremation in Varanasi

Arriving in Varanasi, I completely forgot about the reason why I had wanted to come to this town in the first place. The streets are more chaotic than I've ever experienced before, and I find it hard to remember or concentrate on anything apart from how irritated I am at having to constantly look below me to avoid falling into the huge cow pats, look in front of me to avoid being flattened by motorcycles and look to my left and right for in coming rickshaws or cars.

The reason I wanted to come to Varanasi was because I wanted to see the Hindu cremation ceremonies that are synonymous with the city.

The travellers I'd met had not been to the main cremation area and were not planning to, so I didn't have much advice in that department. After searching for some information online I jumped onto a cycle rickshaw and made my way for the 'Burning ghat' (officially Manikarnika ghat).

On my boat ride in the morning, the boat driver had told me how it costs from 6,000 to 10,000 rupees (around 70-120 GBP) to burn a body, dependent on the quality of wood to be used and the size of the body This is actually quite a considerable sum for the normal Indian so often the bodies are not completed cremated, and what remains is just thrown straight into the river.

The cycle rickshaw stopped on the main road, close to the burning ghat and off I jumped. The alley leading to the ghat was flooded in 10cm of water, so I paced up and down trying to find another entrance. Eventually I realised I either need to get my feet wet, or just go back to the hotel. So I got my feet wet (it wouldn't be so bad if it as just water, but I suspect there was a fair bit of sewage floating around there. Then again, the Ganga comprises of a fair amount of sewage and people seem fine with gargling with it so walking through it isn't going to kill me, is it?).

I walked in the winding alleys for 10 minutes before I reached the Burning ghat. But I couldn't find any burning taking place. Just piles and piles of logs. Just as I was about to give up, I looked above me and saw towers of smoke.

I found the staircase that led my way up to the smoke and went up. When I got to the roof, overlooking the Ganga I found piles of wood in the centre, with Indian men on the periphery. I was the only woman there - Indian and foreign included - but apart from the odd curious stare, the men accommodated me very well.

It took me a while to realise it but to my right was a wrapped corpse lying on the floor. It was lying on a bamboo stretcher and had orange and silver decoration on it. It was surreal.

A few minutes later I looked again at the fire on the far left of the roof, and realised there was actually a body  amongst the flames. Then as my gaze shifted across the roof I saw that there were another three bodies on piles of wood, also burning.

The corpse that was on the far right of the roof was then carried by doms (Hindus from the lowest caste that have 'unclean' jobs like burning the dead) to a pile of wood and placed onto it. I was right next to the pile of wood and for a moment there I thought I would go queazy. The corpse seemed to be jelly-like under the wrappings, and I saw a flash of his right arm. The priests did some chanting, wood was piled onto the body, lighting fluid, and the body was set light to. The heat got unbearable and although I was covering my face with my scarf I couldn't stay there for too long.

I went down to the banks of the river and watched the first part of the cremation ceremony, when the bodies are submerged into the Ganges, to bless them with the holy water.

I couldn't believe how many bodies there were, it was like a conveyor belt of bodies. I later learnt that 300 people are cremated every day in Varanasi and each body takes 3 hours to burn.

An interesting fact: people bitten by snakes are not burnt because they are considered half-alive, half-dead. Instead they are bound tightly around where they were bitten and floated downstream in the hopes that they will be brought back to life. Lepars are also not burnt (just weighed down with large rocks and thrown into the river) because it is believed that leprosy is carried in the smoke.

Children and pregnant women are also not burnt because they are seen as pure and do not need to be cleansed by the fire. Interestingly, the wood used is brought from 300km away because it contains a special oil that prevents the smell of burning hair and skin - something I noticed the absence of as I watched the cremations.

What I did notice was the lack of tears/crying. There were hardly any women around anyway, and I was just thinking if this was Egypt there'd be women slapping their faces, pulling at their hair/hijab and wailing in a truly horrifying way. I later read that this was because the ceremony had to be a happy one if the soul of the deceased was to go to Nirvana and be joined with Brahman (the Supreme Being).

Varanasi sunrise

Last night I was planing on having a nice, long lie-in. I read travel accounts of people getting up at sunrise to see people bathing themselves in the Ganga (Ganges) but I thought to myself I'd rather sleep-in because I didn't know how much sleep I'd get on the train on the way back to Delhi. Lo and behold what time should I wake up but 15 minutes before sunrise. I contemplated trying to sleep a bit longer but then said, what the heck, it's not every day that I'll be in Varanasi.

It took me 10 minutes to get ready and head for the door. Unbeknownst to me all the doors of the hotel were locked, and the caretaker was asleep. I paced up and down trying to find an exit and even entertained the idea of trying to squeeze myself through the metal grates of the window. Luckily I went to the caretaker's door and found some keys hanging beside it. I chose one and tried my luck with the lock and voila, I was out.

The hotel is literally on the river bank, so it took 30 seconds to get to the river. In Varanasi there are stairs that go from the city down to the river and these are called ghats. I went down one of the ghats and saw dozens of people in the river, washing themselves with the holy water. I read yesterday that there is more than 100 times the safe level of a bacteria known as fetal coliform in the Ganga - it's one of the five most polluted rivers in the World. This fact didn't seem to deter the Hindus in the water who were gargling, ducking and diving in the water in front of me.

I saw a bunch of tourists board a boat so I went along to ask how much it would cost. Technically its illegal for boats to be out on the river because it's monsoon season and the water level is very high and fast flowing.

I went to ask the boat man how much it'd cost me and he told me 150 rupees. Although I thought it was reasonable I decided to be irritating and get the price a little lower. The next few minutes were a bit of a confused blur for me.

A man behind me was trying to tell me something. The boat man who had told me 150 rupees heard what this older man had said and lunged off the boat towards the man's throat. A 5-minute fist fight ensued  which was mainly the younger man pummeling the older man. I can't imagine what the older man had said to get the other one so angry.

I resumed my seat on the steps where I had been watching the Hindu bathers, a bit resentful that I was not on the boat and wishing I hadn't been so damn un-cooperative. A Hindu holy man (Sadhu) was sat just behind me. He kept saying 'photo, photo' to his friends. He was very sweet. When I eventually stood up to leave he seemed generally upset, as if our silent exchange, just sitting next to each other in front of the holy river Ganga was enough for us to consider each other friends.

I made my way up the ghat towards the Main Ghat, but I was stopped half way. A man was loading a boat with people and I was dragged along (willingly) with them.

The boat ride was pleasant enough. As we sailed along the bank we saw many colourful old palaces that have now become hotels. We made a stop at one of the principle ghats and the Hindu families that were aboard the boat with us got out and had a dip. Meanwhile the boat man gave me some very sweet Darjeeling tea, and now I think whenever I drink Darjeeling tea I will always remember that sunrise boat trip along the Ganga in Varanasi.

Varanasi, part 3

After my delicious lunch and talk with the interesting woman I headed out into the town. I made my way to the main temple (also known as the Golden Temple) and was once more overwhelmed by the smells, sights and noises.

I saw two foreigners sitting ear the temple and asked them how to get to the entrance. They pointed the way to me but told me cameras/cell phones etc. were not allowed in. They offered to hold onto my bag because they had two friends who were in the temple already and they were holding their bags. One guy was British, the other German and they were installing some radiotherapy equipment in South Delhi, and had just come to Varanasi for the weekend - like me.

'When you come out there may be two different guys holding your bag. They're not as good-looking as us though',. the older one quipped. I burst out laughing. Then I realised it has been so long that I've laughed like that - since being in Egypt.

After all of the kerfuffle I still didn't manage to get into the temple. They wanted my passport but I hadn't been given it back since I handed it in to the hotel. I started swearing at the police who wouldn't let me in (in Arabic of course and in a sing songy fashion that no one would have ever suspected my aggressive intentions).

I continued my walk through the narrow alleys and came to a stop at a sweet lassi shop. The reason I stopped was because there were so many Koreans there I thought it must be some good lassi! My stomach was still not 100% so I decided against getting some for myself. Lassi is a yoghurt-based drink which can be salty or sweet. I watched the man as he peeled an apple then crushed it into  large pot. he then added the yoghurt and a lot of sugar before serving it in a clay flower pot.

I continued walking. I bought a bell (for my Study India speech on Monday). a glue stick and a black marker pen. The chaotic Varanasi roads had now come to a complete standstill and a fruit cart, ten rickshaws and hoards of people tried to pass by the same point, at the same time.

Eventually I couldn't take anymore. I was scratching and sniffing continuously (I think there's some sort of powder that I'm allergic to in the air) and I was convinced that I was about to contract some deadly disease because the alleys were so narrow and everyone was spitting, coughing and scratching as well. happily though, there'd one major hygienic difference between Varanasi and Delhi. And that's in Varanasi me pee in designated areas, not like Delhi where peeing in new and innovative places is seen as something to aspire to.

I ducked into an internet cafe and did some research about Varanasi and what the hell I should be doing in this crazy town. Happily, I found that what I had been doing - randomly walking around - is exactly what the internet recommended me to do.'This is a town', I read, 'that is about seeing and experiencing life more than it is about visiting places'. Suits me fine, I thought, I love walking in new cities.

I also read online that every night at 7pm there is a religious ceremony on the main ghat in the River Ganges. I read somewhere that it is the oldest continuously-performed ceremony in the World, but a cafe owner told me that it was a hotel-chain ploy to bring in more tourists.

At 6.30 I made my way to the ghat (which is conveniently only 5 minutes away from the hotel). I sat near the front when a woman came up to me and offered me a flower garland with a candle in the centre that I was to light and put into the river (and make a wish/blessing for my family). I decided to do that if she'd take a picture of me. She unfortunately had ever handled a camera before, so her picture featured more of my feet than anything else. Luckily a younger man came to the rescue and gave me the photo I desired.

I then resumed sitting down on the step but once more I was interrupted. The holy man who was conducting the ceremony started shouting at me for sitting so close to the front. Up I got, and scuttled back. I noticed that throughout the ceremony, he was being very grumpy indeed and shouting at people left, right and centre. 'Not very religious and peace-loving' I thought to myself. May be the cafe owner had a point.

The final interruption cam from a very cute young girl. She opened up a box and started printing my arm in various patterns and colours. The girl was so sweet a nd beautiful that after she finished the print I was willing to give her 50 rupees just for it. Instead she was selling the entire box of colours for 100 rupees, and I agreed to buy them straight away. She let out a sweet 'Oh thank God' when I agreed.

'You're very pretty' she said to me. 'You're very pretty I said to her', meaning every word. She was also very intelligent and talented (at sales and art from the few minutes I spent with her). I was shocked by her reply. 'No I'm not pretty, my skin is black'.

Throughout the rest of the ceremony I was looking for that girl. I wanted to take her into a corner and tell her she was the most beautiful person in the World and that people all of the World would kill to look like her. But, I never saw her again.

The ceremony featured five strapping young men (did I just say strapping?) in orange garb. Three of them had shoulder-length hair, the other two short cut hair. They washed themselves in the Ganges before the ritual (I'm contemplating trying it too before I leave but the dead bodies in the river are a slight deterrence, what with all the diseases I may contract from them) then took their places behind five separate shrines. A half hour display of fire and incense twirling then followed. My favorite part was when all five of them blew loudly on conches, in honour of the mighty Ganges.

I started getting paranoid about things biting me about halfway though the ceremony when I noticed some black marks on my skin that hadn't been there before (not to my knowledge anyway). I began to pinch and scratch at my skin after I decided that it must be a tick lodged inside. Nothing came out but I was left with red mark all over my arm and strange stares from those around me.

Varanasi, part two

I was safely in the rickshaw and out of the scorching heat. Varanasi is everything I thought India would be - many times noisier, busier and chaotic than the commercial Delhi. I felt like Varanasi was assaulting my senses. 

The rickshaw driver stopped at the main road, because I think motorized vehicles are not allowed within a certain distance of the Ganges, and advised me to take a cycle rickshaw the rest of the way. I didn't disagree, the heat was really unbearable. 

I tipped the cycle rickshaw an extra 10 rupees because he was so old and cycled a fair bit in the horrendous heat (have I emphasized just how hot it was yet?).

My fist mission was to find the place I'd be staying. I chose a 'hotel' that self-identifies as 'not a hotel but a family home'. I was drawn to it because they said they were an NGO and they helped local projects in education and women's empowerment. It also had a library and seemed like a nice, relaxing, spiritual place.

To get there I had to go through winding alley after winding alley. Cows obstructed the entire alley, so I had to walk up onto the ledge of the adjacent shops. I found it interesting how cows are respected more than humans. A motorcycle passing by the side of the cow came to a complete stop and practically lifted his bike up over a few hairs of the cow's tail. When he had safely passed the cow he came full speed at me, and I had to jump off to the side to avoid being flattened.

I went through some alleys that stunk of ghee - my least favourite smell in the World. Then there was the incessant honking of horns, each one as if the motorcycle was inside my ear as it blasted out. Then of course the people and cows and dogs. It was at that point that the phrase formulated in my head that 'India assaults the senses'. Or may be abuses them? It's interesting how some Hindu philosophy teaches against succumbing to the senses, teaching that as humans we should rise up away from the animal-like sense- dependant world. Only in India, I thought, could this philosophy have been created.

As I was walking through these alleys my nausea from the previous day returned. I started visualizing the clean, spacious hotel room that I was to hopefully find myself in any moment now. Up and down the narrow alleys I plodded, sweat soaking my entire T-shirt. After half an hour of crossing and re-crossing myself I finally found it.

As soon as I stepped in I was seriously considering running away and finding somewhere else, anywhere else. It was completely dark, there wasn't a soul in sight. I found a staircase and wet up then found another level with a faded wall painting that read 'Office'. Inside, there was no one, until I looked behind the door and found a girl sat on the floor. I was restraining myself with much effort from running away. It's not like this was a cheap place or anything, it was actually pretty pricey because I had to become a 'member' before I could stay there. But since something in the place had attracted me online I decided to give it a go.

The girl showed me to my room and the first thing I noticed was the lack of privacy. Instead of doors there were curtains. The windows looked out on a construction site where Indian men in loin cloths toiled in the sun.The light was barely strong enough for me to see my own hands. All in all, not a great start.

I took an awkward shower (the washing lady was also using the shower to fill her bucket) then lied down on my bed, trying to get rid of my nausea. I couldn't open any windows because of the noise and the fact that the entire alley would be able to see me so I just sat in the dark, regretting my decision.

After an hour I wet upstairs to the dining area. Apparently breakfast and lunch were included in the price, so I went up to see if the lunch would be as disappointing as the room. Fortunately it was actually pretty damn yummy.

I met a Portuguese guest eating from a huge baking tray and she pointed me in the direction on the remaining trays to get my own. I ate rice cooked with cinnamon and tofu?, chickpeas and paneer (a type of Indian cheese that I LOVE!), an aubergine/tomato/onion combination that reminded me of my gran's Egyptian mesa'ah (A-M-A-Z-I-N-G!) and chapatti and poori (types of fried bread).

Across from me sat a beautiful woman with curly hair. I asked her how long she'd been in Varanasi, knowing full well that she wasn't a guest. She told me that she owned the house. She was a very interesting woman, She told us that she worked for Oxfam in Afghanistan, Lebanon and Africa, reaching the level of country director for them. She spoke Hindi, Urdu, French, Italian (her husband is Italian) and English. She told us that she didn't come to Varanasi often but decided to bring her son back because she felt he was losing his Hindi. 

It was funny because as she went through the countries she lived in I was convinced that she was a national of each one of them. For example she'd say Lebanon and I'd think 'Oh, she'd Lebanese', Italy and I'd say 'She's Italian'. It was complete insanity because she had told us she was from Kashmir but my mind could not understand that she was not also a pure bred Lebanese or Italian. She had one to those versatile faces that could be from any country in the World. How I envied her!

She told me a lot about working in NGOs and I really think that may be where my future is. I want to learn languages so that I can speak with people from that country in their language. Teaching English limits me to speaking English and not really interacting with people the way I want to, so it seems like NGOs are the way to go. She said that because I speak Arabic it'll be really easy for me to get my foot in the door in an Egyptian NGO. So maybe choosing this place was not so bad since I met a interesting woman (made a useful contact) and got some good advice.

Varanasi, India Part 1

So this is my first blog entry since being in India for three weeks. And the reason for that is because we have been very sheltered these last three weeks, going round the capital city in a huge group of 80 something British students, so not much eventful things actually happen. But today is different, today I'm in Varanasi, the oldest continuously inhabited city in India.

I woke up yesterday with a horrible headache and stomach problems (I won't elaborate). I took the day off to stay in bed, so I missed the last day of my internship at an educational NGO called STIR education.

The way the railway system in India works, is that if you buy a ticket online you will probably go onto a waiting list. You therefore do not know whether you will actually travel or not until a dozen emails later as your seat status is continuously changed.

So an hour before the train was to depart, I checked my emails and, lo and behold, I've got a seat. Now I was secretly hoping to not have a seat because that meant I could stay in bed the whole weekend and get better. Strangely, I'm becoming lazier with this travelling melarchy, and I seem to want to stay in one place rather than see as much as I can.

So, I packed my bags quickly and my room mate gave me way too much of this herbal remedy - concentrated thyme oil. So, we all thought that I would die because my body started going red and blotchy, but luckily all was well.

I took a rickshaw to the train station, still not feeling great. The train arrived as soon as I got to the platform, and I found my seat. It was the first time for me to travel in a sleeper carriage, and it was surprisingly easy to sleep.

I was, regrettably, surrounded by men who made no effort to conceal their stares. So I did the only thing I know how to do in those situations - I started speaking Arabic in whispers, as if casting some spell, with the general intention that they'd think I was crazy - and it worked!

I had to go to the toilet countless times but in general I was able to sleep very well. In the morning the man in the bunk under me started talking on his phone. He must have made at least 40 phone calls. And he loved the sound of his voice. 'Alooooooooo' he would begin, really drawing out the 'o'. Then there was the man walking up and down the corridor screaming 'chai, chai, chai, chai'. Then we had 'Mr. I can't eat without sounding like I'm vomiting' eating right next to my ear. I was so angry the only thought in my head was to buy some bloody chai and pour it on both of their bald heads. BREATHE.

I needed to get out of the claustrophobic confine I was in so I decided to visit the toilet again. A man was blocking the door of the carriage because he was making the strangest noises over the sink. Another man was standing outside and snarling at me, chewing ferociously at a stick. I turned to go to the other toilet and found another man with his T-shirt rolled up to expose his huge belly, and he too was leering at me. I panicked, didn't know what to do, so I just ran back to my bed and hid under the covers.

Finally, two hours later than the ticket said, I arrived at Varanasi. And it was HOT! Much hotter than Delhi. Countless rickshaw drivers pounced on me, and I was still feeling a bit nauseous from the day before. For some reason, the first thought I said to myself on leaving the station was 'If you want to catch a disease, this is where you come!'. So many ill looking people were sprawled on the floor.

Varanasi is one of the holiest city in Hinduism and the city where Buddhism was founded. Hindus believe that if they die here they will be liberated from samsara (the continuous cycle of birth, life, death and re-birth) and attain moksha (liberation). So it's a city with a lot of sick people! And I haven't stopped scratching since I arrived!

Egyptian home remedy for growing your very own face mole!

Ever wanted a mole on your face? Now you can have one with my grandmother's home remedy!

Step One: Take a needle and heat the end with a lighter
Step Two: Prick your face numerous times with said needle until your face bleeds
Step Three: Dab milk onto the self-inflicted wound
Step Four: Draw your desired mole onto this milk-stained wound, with an eyebrow pencil
Step Five: Leave your face alone for an entire day then when you wake up voila! You have your very own face mole to love and cherish as long as you both may live.

This was a genuine home-remedy during my grandmother's twenties and thirties. My mother's mole is in fact a product of this.

Getting conned in Khan el Khalili

I am almost going to swear to myself that I will NEVER go to any touristy areas in Egypt again - Luxor, Aswan, Khan el Khalili - all places that drive me crazy! I think I'll stick to Shubra from now on.

Yesterday I went with my sister and cousin to Sidna el Hussein/Khan el Khalili/El Mosky. I wanted to show my cousin a famous cafe called El Fishawi, but I had a feeling we wouldn't be enjoying our time there.

I swear not a single sentence was exchanged between the three of us during our entire time at the cafe. Instead we were shooing and heshing the salespeople and beggars that came at us from every angle. Not 5 seconds (no exaggeration!) went by without someone approaching us.

I took to keeping my head down, as if in some sort of hallucinatory trance. My little sister, was still not used to assertively telling the salespeople and beggars to 'TAKE A HIKE!!!' Instead, she gave them her beautiful smile and said in the kindest voice she could possible muster, 'La, shukran' (no, thank you).

I felt it was safe to lift my head out of my trance for a little while, just to survey the situation, when I found my sister looking at a set of 'genuine silver bracelets and earrings'.

'It's genuine, it's genuine', the salesperson (who looked like he'd just recently been released from jail) assured us. 'Look...', he then took it upon himself to set fire to the jewellery with his lighter, in an attempt to show us that the colour didn't disappear. He then kindly wrapped the bracelet around my sister's wrist, causing her much discomfort from the burning heat, radiating from the bracelet.

The starting price was 80LE. It then went down to 50LE. We said we didn't want it. Then, things turned nasty.

'Where are the earrings?' he said.
'They're in your hands', we replied.
'No, no the other pair'.

We proceeded to search under the tables and chairs for the missing earrings. Something told me that he was setting us up but I went along with the act anyway.

When we didn't find the earrings he tried even harder to sell Yvonne the bracelet, blaming her for losing his precious merchandise. I couldn't take it any longer so I screamed at Yvonne, 'YVONNE SAY NO!!!!!!!!!!'

This got the entire cafe staff to crowd round us. The salesman was shouting that he wanted to take us to the police station. I didn't quite understand what was happening, but I knew we had to leave. The cafe staff were crowding round the salesman, and we slipped out from another entrance.

After buying a few souvenirs and gifts in the bazaars, it was time to go home. Our legs were as heavy as lead, and we could hardly bare to stay on our feet a moment longer. Unfortunately for us, not a single minibus had an empty seat.

After 10 minutes we heard a fight in one minibus, between the driver and a female passenger.

'Get out then!' the driver yelled.

'Yes, this is our chance!' I thought to myself. But we were too slow. A man jumped into one of the two vacated seats. But I didn't give up.

I jumped onto the minibus and sat on the only vacated seat. My sister jumped on after me and sat on my lap. Then my cousin sat on my sister's lap. Not a single one of us could be classed as 'child-sized', so this was quite a feat.

Three of us were sitting on a seat meant for one person. We couldn't even shut the minibus door, so as we sped over the bridge that connects El Hussein with the nearest metro station, the door was still open, and we were just waiting for a sharp turn to send us flying out onto the bridge.

Thankfully we made it all in one piece. One woman sitting behind us smiled at me and said, 'They should erect a statue in your honour'. I didn't understand what she meant exactly, but I think it was because I was carrying two almost fully-grown women on my lap, or maybe because I was crazy enough to even attempt such a ridiculous travel arrangement.

Drivers and motorcyclists that drove beside us pointed and laughed at the tower of bodies squashed into the minibus. I think what really shocked them - since this in a common occurrence in Egypt - was that two of the girls looked almost certainly as if they were tourists. Tourists in Egypt never ride minibuses, let alone form human towers in them. I couldn't stop laughing the entire way.

The lack of enforced rules in Egypt completely contrasts with England's strict regulations. But although the lack of enforced rules in Egypt may cause much chaos and confusion, it gives life plenty of flavour.