The consummate skill and constant output of energy needed to survive in a slum such as Kabera in Nairobi is writ large in Varanasi. The scale is pan-urban with a maze of irregularly paved streets, no traffic lights or street signs, many traffic circles, and some rather ineffective traffic cops-- rather than expanded village with irregular dirt streets as one finds in Kabera.
The five-hour Mauritius-Bombay flight landed at 8:30 the following morning, after losing two hours. I had managed to see the movie Gravity on the plane, with its excellent evocation of the horror of an orbiting outer space environment with technological snafus. I must have gotten about three hours of fitful sleep.
Reading the Rough Guide to India as we came in to land at Varanasi International Airport, we noticed there were three options for getting into town: public transportation, taxi, and "auto." This last turned out to be the auto-scooter, or yuk-yuk, essentially a scooter with a cab attached, no doors or windows--and no suspension. Since our luggage had been held up in our stopover in Bombay, we could fit everything into the vehicle, and we saved a few hundred rupees. Barbara was very familiar with them from South America, but it was my first time.
It was like an amusement park ride! The city galloped by on both sides, injecting me with energy. Our guts were the shock absorbers. Seat belts? You've got to be kidding! There's a bar to hold on to; that should be enough. I managed to photograph out the sides as we sped by, using the same technique that I had figured out in Madagascar: high ISO, camera drive on 5 fps, auto-exposure servo (recalculates exposure instantaneously for every shot).
Still, it took an hour of this to get us to our hotel, the Sundra in the fancy Cantonnement district. It was quite comfortable, with pool, reasonably priced restaurant, and a spa, which Barbara made good use of.
As soon as we were settled in, I went out again, in quest of my first sight of the Ganges. Another yuk-yuk driver offered his services. First, though, I had some business to take care of. My Indian visa was only good through the 27th, and we were leaving the 29th for Nepal! Despite my date stipulation on my visa application, the New York consulate had given me exactly six month since I had applied, and that ended the 27th. There could be serious delays if I tried to exit the country with an expired visa. The Indian government is very picky about these things. Its reputation in matters of visas is as bad as that of the U.S.
I found out where the office that dealt with foreigners was, and the auto-rickshaw driver who presented himself outside the hotel knew exactly where that was. He was a wiz through the streets, which were like a wrap-around movie for me. It took us half an hour to get there, during which I worked at capturing the chaotic life of the streets with my camera. This driver turned out to be my favorite. I not only came to trust him to take me to places I would like and hadn't yet heard about, but he had an uncanny abiity to turn up when I needed him. He had intelligence, heart, a sixth sense so it seemed, and consummate skill to negotiate the continuous near-misses that constitute driving in Varanasi. His name is Alam Mamu, heavys-set, and about 45 years old.
Finally there, I made my way past ancient buildings in a government complex, and finally found the sign to the office I was looking for, while a black cow lazed in the lot next to it.
I had to wait about 25 minutes before the officials came, so I photographed the office: dingy, antiquated, with hundreds of bags overflowing with shabby documents piled on a shelf the length of the room on both sides at about seven feet above the floor. Finally, the officials showed up and explained to me that I needed to fill out a beaucratic form on their website and come back with a document from the hotel, photostats of three of my passport pages, and two passport photos. Luckily I had brought a bunch with me in case of this very eventuality.
I rejoined my driver after about 40 minutes, and we headed for the Ganges. It took us another 40 minutes through the sordid pageant that is Varanasi, feeling very much at one with the city, as it thrust itself with the hot wind, at overatimulation speed into my consciousness, in a medley of close calls with cyclists, motor scooters, pedestrians, dogs, carts and cars, while the bumps in the road jarred my bones and added several twists to my small intestines, all to the music of constant beeps. (In a din of beeps could one of them save a life?) And amidst all this traffic are...the cows! They blithely stand in the road in a lane or close to the middle. Many are on the side. They all apparently belong to someone, and of course, they're shitting everywhere.
We finally came to a stop and got out. Then we had to walk about two blocks, passing a neighborhood temple to Ganesh, and some interesting architecture, finally arriving at an open door leading to a dark passageway. I briefly wondered if the driver was going to roll me for my camera, but as quickly banished the thought. There were people sleeping on the left side of the floor.
At the end of the passageway, a doorway opened onto the steps of a Ghat, in fact it was one of the more famous ones. I photographed the scene and the architecture, and soon a man appeared and offered me a one-hour boat-ride. I said I would be going at dawn the next morning, but he said that most of the body-burning goes on in the afternoon, and although photography of it is forbidden on land, from a boat...no problem. He wanted 800 rupees ($13.80, at 58 rupees, rs., to the dollar) for it, but my Rough Guide said it should cost around 400-600. This, however, was with several people in a boat, and I was getting a private paddle. I accepted for 650 rs.
He led me down to the water, where I got into a boat to be rowed by an old snaggle-toothed man, who turned to have a great deal to say about the Ghats. Unfortunately, I could only understand about 5% of it between his shaky English, his accent, his speech impediment, and my less than 100% hearing.
The sun was setting behind the Ghats, so the light was filtered and somewhat obscured the scene. It was not the ideal time to see the Ghats. Still, the scene was fantastic, with its melange of traditional and commercial architecture, a few people bathing in the river water, the dogs and goats on shore, the "sunken" temple, which was the top of a standard temple at water level, leaning about 15 degrees, two thick pink pillars, many other boats, and finally, the "burning" Ghat, a behive of activity, with at least six or seven fires going, huge piles of up to two-inch thick logs for tinder, crowds of people milling about, cows, dogs and goats. The people on shore seemed quite indifferent to the tourists floating by, snapping away.
On the way back I spotted this boy swimming naked in the river.
After this we turned around and headed back, disembarking exactly an hour after we had left. I asked the boatman if I should pay him, and he said no, so I paid the man who had sold me the trip--800 rs.
My driver was waiting for me, and now told me the people sleeping in the hallway were "waiting to die"--at this holy place.###On the way back we bought a toothbrush and toothpaste at a hole-in-the wall dispensary, both for 40 rs. I hadn't brushed my teeth or shaved since the previous morning in Tana. We decided to treat ourselves to a fancy dinner at the Taj, a nearby hotel, which our driver took us to, and which a friend of Barbara's had recommended to her. The food there was fabulous, and the service--as it has been most of the time in India--was fawning. It left us both a little uncomfortable, egalitarians that we are. Of course, we overate: it was just too good, and there were too many choices. We got back to our hotel around ten. I needed to get up the next morning at 4:40 to meet my driver at 5 am to get down to the Ganges for a sunrise paddle, So I knew Iwouldn't catch up on my sleep for another 18 hours.
The five-hour Mauritius-Bombay flight landed at 8:30 the following morning, after losing two hours. I had managed to see the movie Gravity on the plane, with its excellent evocation of the horror of an orbiting outer space environment with technological snafus. I must have gotten about three hours of fitful sleep.
Reading the Rough Guide to India as we came in to land at Varanasi International Airport, we noticed there were three options for getting into town: public transportation, taxi, and "auto." This last turned out to be the auto-scooter, or yuk-yuk, essentially a scooter with a cab attached, no doors or windows--and no suspension. Since our luggage had been held up in our stopover in Bombay, we could fit everything into the vehicle, and we saved a few hundred rupees. Barbara was very familiar with them from South America, but it was my first time.
It was like an amusement park ride! The city galloped by on both sides, injecting me with energy. Our guts were the shock absorbers. Seat belts? You've got to be kidding! There's a bar to hold on to; that should be enough. I managed to photograph out the sides as we sped by, using the same technique that I had figured out in Madagascar: high ISO, camera drive on 5 fps, auto-exposure servo (recalculates exposure instantaneously for every shot).
Still, it took an hour of this to get us to our hotel, the Sundra in the fancy Cantonnement district. It was quite comfortable, with pool, reasonably priced restaurant, and a spa, which Barbara made good use of.
As soon as we were settled in, I went out again, in quest of my first sight of the Ganges. Another yuk-yuk driver offered his services. First, though, I had some business to take care of. My Indian visa was only good through the 27th, and we were leaving the 29th for Nepal! Despite my date stipulation on my visa application, the New York consulate had given me exactly six month since I had applied, and that ended the 27th. There could be serious delays if I tried to exit the country with an expired visa. The Indian government is very picky about these things. Its reputation in matters of visas is as bad as that of the U.S.
I found out where the office that dealt with foreigners was, and the auto-rickshaw driver who presented himself outside the hotel knew exactly where that was. He was a wiz through the streets, which were like a wrap-around movie for me. It took us half an hour to get there, during which I worked at capturing the chaotic life of the streets with my camera. This driver turned out to be my favorite. I not only came to trust him to take me to places I would like and hadn't yet heard about, but he had an uncanny abiity to turn up when I needed him. He had intelligence, heart, a sixth sense so it seemed, and consummate skill to negotiate the continuous near-misses that constitute driving in Varanasi. His name is Alam Mamu, heavys-set, and about 45 years old.
Finally there, I made my way past ancient buildings in a government complex, and finally found the sign to the office I was looking for, while a black cow lazed in the lot next to it.
I had to wait about 25 minutes before the officials came, so I photographed the office: dingy, antiquated, with hundreds of bags overflowing with shabby documents piled on a shelf the length of the room on both sides at about seven feet above the floor. Finally, the officials showed up and explained to me that I needed to fill out a beaucratic form on their website and come back with a document from the hotel, photostats of three of my passport pages, and two passport photos. Luckily I had brought a bunch with me in case of this very eventuality.
I rejoined my driver after about 40 minutes, and we headed for the Ganges. It took us another 40 minutes through the sordid pageant that is Varanasi, feeling very much at one with the city, as it thrust itself with the hot wind, at overatimulation speed into my consciousness, in a medley of close calls with cyclists, motor scooters, pedestrians, dogs, carts and cars, while the bumps in the road jarred my bones and added several twists to my small intestines, all to the music of constant beeps. (In a din of beeps could one of them save a life?) And amidst all this traffic are...the cows! They blithely stand in the road in a lane or close to the middle. Many are on the side. They all apparently belong to someone, and of course, they're shitting everywhere.
We finally came to a stop and got out. Then we had to walk about two blocks, passing a neighborhood temple to Ganesh, and some interesting architecture, finally arriving at an open door leading to a dark passageway. I briefly wondered if the driver was going to roll me for my camera, but as quickly banished the thought. There were people sleeping on the left side of the floor.
At the end of the passageway, a doorway opened onto the steps of a Ghat, in fact it was one of the more famous ones. I photographed the scene and the architecture, and soon a man appeared and offered me a one-hour boat-ride. I said I would be going at dawn the next morning, but he said that most of the body-burning goes on in the afternoon, and although photography of it is forbidden on land, from a boat...no problem. He wanted 800 rupees ($13.80, at 58 rupees, rs., to the dollar) for it, but my Rough Guide said it should cost around 400-600. This, however, was with several people in a boat, and I was getting a private paddle. I accepted for 650 rs.
The architecture of the Ghat, facing the water, atop a long, broad flight of stairs.
He led me down to the water, where I got into a boat to be rowed by an old snaggle-toothed man, who turned to have a great deal to say about the Ghats. Unfortunately, I could only understand about 5% of it between his shaky English, his accent, his speech impediment, and my less than 100% hearing.
The sun was setting behind the Ghats, so the light was filtered and somewhat obscured the scene. It was not the ideal time to see the Ghats. Still, the scene was fantastic, with its melange of traditional and commercial architecture, a few people bathing in the river water, the dogs and goats on shore, the "sunken" temple, which was the top of a standard temple at water level, leaning about 15 degrees, two thick pink pillars, many other boats, and finally, the "burning" Ghat, a behive of activity, with at least six or seven fires going, huge piles of up to two-inch thick logs for tinder, crowds of people milling about, cows, dogs and goats. The people on shore seemed quite indifferent to the tourists floating by, snapping away.
On the way back I spotted this boy swimming naked in the river.
After this we turned around and headed back, disembarking exactly an hour after we had left. I asked the boatman if I should pay him, and he said no, so I paid the man who had sold me the trip--800 rs.
My driver was waiting for me, and now told me the people sleeping in the hallway were "waiting to die"--at this holy place.###On the way back we bought a toothbrush and toothpaste at a hole-in-the wall dispensary, both for 40 rs. I hadn't brushed my teeth or shaved since the previous morning in Tana. We decided to treat ourselves to a fancy dinner at the Taj, a nearby hotel, which our driver took us to, and which a friend of Barbara's had recommended to her. The food there was fabulous, and the service--as it has been most of the time in India--was fawning. It left us both a little uncomfortable, egalitarians that we are. Of course, we overate: it was just too good, and there were too many choices. We got back to our hotel around ten. I needed to get up the next morning at 4:40 to meet my driver at 5 am to get down to the Ganges for a sunrise paddle, So I knew Iwouldn't catch up on my sleep for another 18 hours.
No comments:
Post a Comment