My First Corpse. Welcome to Varanasi!

I’m now hovering above 38 hours without sleep. After a four hour bus ride, two flights, and a sleepless overnight in the grossest airport I have ever encountered, I am touching down in Varanasi, City of Light and public cremation. I find out from a Dutch guy on the flight (who spits when he talks and apparently doesn’t notice) that there is a huge festival in Varanasi this week and I am instantly regretting not booking a room in advance. Leaving any train/bus station or airport in India is chaotic enough, but not knowing where I am going, or if there is even a bed waiting for me at the end, is a trial I am not looking forward to. 

Outside the airport is a loud crowd of touters, all eager to earn some commission by hijacking me and taking me to their hotel of choice. I pick the frailest one, my logic being that if he attacks me, at least I have a fighting chance. He pulls me through the crowd, calling me his friend and talking on his cell in a language I don’t even recognize as Hindi, it must be another, even less familiar dialect. Great. He takes me to a rusty car (the jig is up, now I know he’s not a taxi driver), and the largest man I have ever seen emerges from the driver seat and plucks my bag off my shoulder like it’s a flake of dandruff, and throws it in the trunk. Before he slams the lid down I glimpse a long black canvas bag and a length of rope. Fantastic.

We are driving along the highway, a typical rural highway, but this time we are crawling along. The giant behind the wheel is the most careful driver ever, and rarely uses his horn. He doesn’t speak during the drive, but the frail “Kempo” in the passenger seat is still on the phone, obviously having trouble locating a room for me but reassuring me with every hang up: “No problem madam, I find you a room. And if not, you come and stay with me!" *laugh uproariously* Ummmmm....!

Some are waiting for a modeling contract before death... on the Ganges

I’m imagining the various ways these two could kill/rape/rob me when we crawl into a city that looks older than dirt. The sun is setting and a strange calm comes over me. Suddenly I don’t care if I die here, because the city is lighting up, seemingly from within the earth, as if a giant candle is bathing every crumbling building with its glow. I feel at peace.

And apparently if I did die here, I would achieve instant “Moksha” or enlightenment. All of my sins would dissolve and I would emerge in the next life, as clean as my mother’s bathroom. Widows and elderly folk come to this crossing place between devotees and deities to live out their final days. They are literally here, just waiting for death.

Preparing livestock for the festival ;)

Kempo does find me a room, a fantastic room actually. For the commissioned price of 800Rs ($16CAD) I have a large, clean room with a bathroom that has a hot water option, a luxury I have not experienced in India (nor have I needed a hot shower, especially in the South). I’m at PB Ganges View Guesthouse, efficiently run by Arvin, a man with a penchant for “magic” lassis and India’s “So You Want to Be a Millionaire”. He tells me that he initially told the touter no, he had no rooms, because he doesn’t like to support scammers. But something told him to pick up the phone and call Kempo back. Thank Shiva he did!

After so long without sleep, I eat a quick dinner on Arvin’s rooftop restaurant under his interested gaze (I discover over the course of my stay that he is fascinated with watching me eat – I have no clue why). I fall asleep at 7pm to the sound of wailing, singing and a preemptive rooster. When I awake the following morning, my first steps outside the guest house present the shocking experience of my first corpse. An old man has passed away in the night (hence the wailing), and women are gathered in the alley, in between pools of runny cow dung, human urine and dog vomit, washing his body in preparation of his (public) cremation. I tiptoed around him, apologizing (in English) to the weeping women as I did. 

This was my introduction to Varanasi, and three days later, it hasn’t let me down yet. Stay tuned...

A treasure within the maze of tiny alleys of Varanasi

I Gots Biriyani Under My Fingernails!

Eating with your hands is trickier than it sounds. 

Years of being barraged by your parents into respectable table manners does not allow for an easy transition to eating rice and curry from a banana leaf with your hand. I am lucky though. I'm on an island in the backwaters of Kerala, surrounded by 6 very hungry Indian men. I imagine I look pretty ridiculous, picking up a few grains of soupy rice with my hand and nervously looking around the room before popping it in my mouth as quick as I can. Jackson, a man I believe named himself just this minute, laughed at my attempt to copy him with a twinkle and a half-sad shake of his head. “No, no, you lean into your food, like you are smelling it”. I didn’t realise I was sitting, bolted upright, tring to let my shaky hand do the work. 

“It’s like this Christian (I go by a lot of names here) Step 1: use your right hand, fingertips only (the left hand is reserved for other, less hygienic activities and the palm is considered holy) Step 2: moisten your food with curry or sanbar or biriyani to make it easier to pick up a chunk of it, rather than a few morsels Step 3: Lean into it! Make the distance from plate to mouth as short as possible Step 4, Just 'go for it', don’t try to be polite. And if you have to burp, do it really loudly. That is a sign that the food is good."

Of course I am adding a few connecting words here, but you get the gist, and so did I. I finished my meal before they did, and received way too many extra helpings, to the point of near nausea. Fifty rupees well spent but my mother is going to KILL me this Christmas dinner! I am still probably the world’s worst eater here but am thankful for Jackson`s tutorial.

There is also an after-meal wash up routine that I had to learn quickly. My fingers and especially under my nails, were saturated with Keralean deliciousness by meals end. Near the table was a bucket of water, and a curious jug that pops up everywhere here. With your left hand, you pick up the jug and fill it with fresh water, take a few steps to whichever is the nearest puddle/sewage drain/grass/tree/plant and rinse your right hand beneath the water. If someone is behind you, you hand the jug directly to them and rub your hands on your clothes or sari once you’re done. And beware, if you’re a female in the company of men and you are wearing a sari, a friend may use your sari to dry his hands off as well, usually without any warning. It is a sign of intimacy apparently. Again, going back to my neat freak tendencies, I would hope that anyone who knew me at all would never consider this move.

I`m still learning the many highly intriguing cultural differences over here but I feel secure that at least eating won`t draw as many stares as it did this day ìn Kerala.

Eventually, the Glow Wears Off: A Rant

After 24 hours in Mamallapuram, on the east coast of India on the Bay of Bengal, the best thing I can say about it is that I’m leaving. 

I’m sure this is quite a pretty and interesting town… when it’s not raining every minute of every day and when tourism is more kind as to put the aggressively pushy touters at ease. My Roughguide suggested that the RamaKrishna Hotel would be a safe bet: “clean, well-appointed rooms with well-scrubbed ensuite bathrooms, some with sea views”. Well I don’t know who paid this writer off, but I saw rooms on every floor, from every angle, and it is a dump. Easily the worst place I have stayed since coming to India. The management was unfriendly, the charge was ridiculous (500Rs), the bathrooms grimy and so questionable I didn’t even shower. I assumed slime, or worse, would pour from the walls. 

Mosquito "cancer" coils: a must have in Southern India

I had a clean sheet on my bed, I’ll give them that. One white sheet to cover a stained and lumpy mattress. The walls were covered in the bloody corpses of mosquitoes which I initially reacted in horror to, but quickly understood once darkness descended and the little fuckers came out in battalions. I quickly added more than a dozen corpses to the wall, each one exploding with some poor bastard’s blood in them. I lit one of my trusty mosquito coils and the air became so thick with noxious fumes that I worried that I would suffocate in my sleep. The saving grace was a small 13 inch TV in the corner, which screeched from somewhere deep within it, prompting me to turn the volume to ungodly levels to drown the screech out. I fell asleep to a sappy John Cusack movie about love & rejection, wrapped up like a mummy and trying to forget where I was.

There were good things about this town, of course. I ate at Santana restaurant on the beach and had really tasty prawn pasta for $2. I had pants tailored, costing me $3 and then instantly destroyed them in the first of many downpours. Mamallpuram is famous for its stone carvings and they are glorious! I visited temples carved 1300 years ago, and in that time the rain has softened the delicate artwork somewhat but they are still a sight to behold. I went up to a viewing point and met the lighthouse manager. He walked around the park with me, telling me about the Hinduism and the various gods and goddesses he worships. I told him I really dug Saraswati (namesake of this blog and also the goddess of knowledge, education & music), and he quickly offered me back to his family home to see his father’s marble carvings of the deities. Of course he also wished me to buy something but he was asking 2800Rs ($56CAD) for a Saraswati figure that was beautiful but not four inches tall. Eventually I did leave with it, at the “bargain friend” rate of 1000Rs which I still assume to be overpriced. 

Carved marble deit

His wife made me a lovely black tea while he showed me all the figures and explained what each hand placement, animal and prop meant. It was money well spent, especially when I got up to leave empty handed and his docile expression turned dark and desperate. Once again, I was reminded that I was alone, in someone’s home in a foreign country, and no one knew where I was. His wife seemed to be the boss when it came to the sell, authorizing the 1800Rs discount with a curt nod and a prayer motion. I learned a lot but I was glad to leave.She also demanded my pen; I would have handed over a kidney if it meant leaving sooner.

The best part by far was randomly meeting Mukesh, a young and serene fisherman turned surf instructor. His English was amazing and his grin was wide, if he were to come to Canada every girl on Team Hetero would go crazy. We walked a little on the beach and then he directed me to a café he just so happened to also wok at (every Indian, no matter how handsome, has an agenda) where he served me a yummy masala omelette and coconut pancake with coffee. If you're ever in Mamallpuram and wish to ride some waves, head to Mumu surf shop, a hidden shop off the beach.

My two taxi rides to and from Mamallpuram have given me the impression that drivers here are even more reckless than in Kerala. The first spent 15 minutes talking to his friend… who was on a motorcycle beside us! Oncoming trucks, buses, cars, goats, motorcycles or bulls didn’t faze them as they laughed and swerved while going 80km/hour. Right now, I am in my second taxi, this driver with the enticing name of “Vino”. He has apparently decided that 80km is too slow and is whizzing past everything and everyone, never braking, just relying on his horn to warn the people ahead of death. Constantly passing on the inside and outside, we play chicken with a bigger vehicle at least once every minute, and each time the bigger vehicle has bowed down, as if they all know how Crazy Vino doesn’t give a shit and will just keep on going. My  mother would have died within the first 3 minutes. My father would have clubbed Vino on the head and taken the wheel. But not me. I am shoving my head inside this laptop, like an ostrich, trying to avoid looking up. The only words I have spoken have been “Vino, I would feel a lot better if you put your seatbelt on”. He did, begrudgingly like a teenager, slinging his arm through the strap but not actually buckling it. I think that he hates Mamallpuram too and wants to move on to his next life. I just *really* hope I’m not in this car when he does.

The bright side to the very real possibility of my untimely death is that I suddenly feel inspired to write.Another bonus is that his insane driving will get me to Pondicherry sooner. I cursed a lot as I got ready to leave Mamallpuram “Fuck this room. Fuck you mosquitoes. Fuck you shop touter. Fuck this taxi and the outrageous price I paid just to get out of the town faster.” I apologize to those reading this who have sensitive ears. But sometimes a girl has got to curse. Cursing. has been the one thing that has made me feel normal here. However, I have avoided telling harassing tuktuk drivers to “Fuck OFF”, not because I think that they would be shocked but because I feel like I am representing Canada here. I don’t want India to think that all Canadians are potty mouths, but my ability to censor myself is dissipating quickly in this ever-stressful environment.

Sometimes, this guide be verrrry wrong

Pondicherry is supposed to be nice (of course, my travel guide raved about Mamallpuram too so I take this with a grain of salt). But friends I made on my trip to Munnar raved about it and the place I am *hoping* to stay (if they are booked, I may cry). All I want is a cleanish bathroom and a break from the rain, even for just a half an hour. If this place is even half as nice as Javi & Silvia say it is, I may just set up camp for a week! I trust their judgement. Silvia, a teacher, radiates kindness. My favourite memory of her is at a roadside café, crinkling her eyes like Santa Claus at gawking Indian children. Javi, speaks with authority and the delightful arrogance I have come to associate with Spanish men. He knows what he’s talking about, his demeanor is one of competence and dismissive elegance. My favourite quote from him was “Once you have seen one temple, you have seen them all” said with a sniff and a dismissive wave of his hand. I laughed  because yes, from our perspective they are all very much the same, but only a Spaniard would say that out loud. I liked them both very much and was happy to run into them again in Kochi as I was waiting for the airport bus. I hope that they discover “The Real India” as Javi would say, before they fly home to work and Life. As for me, I could happily avoid "Real India" for a few days, locked up in an ashram and meditating.

The Best Laid Plans

Tembo paddled without break for 8 hou

Everything happens for a reason and even the best laid travel plans need some leeway. Case in point: I meant to leave Fort Cochin after two nights. In that time I explored the amazing backwaters on a bamboo houseboat, escaped the heat for a weekend to the cool, lush green hills of tea heaven, Munnar, and made friends with the local boys at Salt n Pepper bar, a weird little hideaway full of incense smoke and bad lighting. But I’m ready to leave the state of Kerala behind, with its beautiful beaches and too many tourist enclaves. I am hugely looking forward to the slightly more chill state of Tamil Nadu, known more for its holy temples than its tourist packages. But alas! Flights to Tamil Nadu’s capital are fully booked and I have to wait another two days before I can go. What to do, what to do...

I’ve been tucked under the protective wing here in Cochin by Pius and his lovely wife and sister, who run both Adam’s Old Inn (the budget backpacker place I originally stayed at) and the El Kapitan Inn (a more upscale home stay they moved me to, free of extra charge). Pius is always ready for a discussion, mostly about the difference between western and Indian values. He speaks, not with a tone of judgement, but from the perspective of a backpacker innkeeper who has seen/heard/smelled some pretty crazy stuff. He told me things that had happened in my room that I really didn’t want to know, but he seems to want my opinion on pretty much everything from Indian marriage traditions to sexual deviance. I’ve taken the very un-Kirsten approach to the latter question and didn’t voice an opinion at all. Biting my tongue is one of the many trials India has put before me.

Where all of Fort Cochin traveler washing is done. Impressive!

So with really no plans other than a looming exam and bucket-loads of school-related research to do, I set forth in Cochin to find… something. It turns out that I found many rickshaw drivers who were eager to harass the early rising tourist. The constant barrage of touts made my ears ring until one stood out from the rest. Fiser (I assume I am spelling his name wrong, it could be like “Phizer” as in the pharmaceuticals company) was hanging back from the crowd, smiling peacefully next to the most pimped out tuk-tuk I have ever seen. Flashing lights, an upholstered ceiling, leather bench seat for passengers, this ride was pretty fly for a brown guy. Of course I hopped in and had the most randomly fun afternoon careening through the streets of Kochi, dodging goats and visiting laundry ghats (to some this would seem boring but to a neat-freak it was AMAZING!!!!!), a fisherman’s hideout where they obviously don’t see many tourists judging by the unabashed stares and a rug/jewels/pashmina/everything shop where the guy, once he realised I was not going to buy, instead offered me some marijuana and the proposal to “hanga out” that evening. I declined, but I’m glad I had to stay in Cochin another couple of days. I would have missed out on a new friend and a thirst for Indian rugs.

These hills were alive... with the smell of delicious tea

Now, it is once again raining. The afternoon brought forth a mighty thunder clap, some white lightening and monsoon rains that have kept this traveler beneath a leaky tin roof, cloaked in mosquitoes happy to have found a Canadian to snack on during the rain. Tomorrow I leave for Chennai, and plan to quickly escape from there for Malamapuram (ok, I am definitely spelling that one wrong but my travel book is inside and I am too lazy to get up and get it). Once there, I have promised myself that I will focus on my studies… unless another Fiser happens upon me, of course.