Rabbi Hillel, the First Century BCE Jewish sage, famously said "Everything that happens is for the best," a statement that seems to combine a profound optimism with an equally extreme naivete (try telling it to an options trader). Terrible tragedies do occur which people do not recover from, and mass cataclysms occur, both natural and human-caused that result in untold suffering of innocent people. But on a personal, ordinary, everyday, non-lethal level, Hillel seems to be saying what many others have said, including Nietzsche in his formulation, "What doesn't kill me makes me stronger," namely that it's not what happens to us that matters most, but what we do with it.
At my stopover in Mauritius a customs official there noticed that my Indian visa was set to run out two days before my flight out of the country to Nepal. I hadn't noticed, since I was vague about all the dates of our flights in my head, although it would have been a good idea to check. The Indian consulate in New York had given me 6 months from the visa issue date, and that was April 27; we were leaving on the 29th. Arriving in India, the customs official noticed it, too, and said I could easily apply for a visa extension, "No problem, no problem," he added, one of the most used phrases in India when dealing with foreigners.
So once we checked into the marvelous Surya Hotel in the Cantonnement district on the edge of town, I chose an auto-rickshaw to take me to the Foreigners Office, whose address someone in the hotel had written down for me in English and Hindi. We were there in half an hour through the chaotic traffic, where there are no street signs nor traffic lights, but lots of traffic circles, some of which have cops posted who are more there to mediate traffic than to direct it: they sort out jams around their circle.
When I finally found my way in the complex of deteriorated offical buildings to the proper office none of the officials was there. I was assured by a man at a computer that they would be back in "five minutes, maybe ten." It turned out to be 25, so I photographed the office: sacks of documents on a high shelf around every room, dusty filing cabinets, old furniture, some out of date device that had been taken apart. When the officials returned, they explained that I needed a form from my hotel, photostats of three passport pages, and to fill out an online form; then I should return.
The next day, my marathon tourist day, I went back with the documents, plus two passport photos (I had taken six with me), and again I had to wait half an hour. They were all at the Modi rally--the candidate for the Hindu fundamentalist party, the BJP. They accepted the documents and told me to come back later; they would be open until 8 pm (not 5, as I had thought).
So after my wonderful driver had taken me to see the Mother of India Temple, the Durga Temple and two other short stops, and beyond exhausted and famished, I arrived back at the office at 7:45. No one was there. I had visions of waiting another 25 minutes, and I saw my documents on the top of the stack, so I took them and left. That was my mistake.
Five days later as I tried to get on the plane to Kathmandu with Barbara,
the customs official stopped me. What I had presented to him was the application for the visa extension, not a valid exit visa. I would have to return to Varanasi and take a plane to Kathmandu two days later. I pleaded, I offered to "pay something extra." He took me to his supervisor who said his hands were tied, that he couldn't override the computer.
So I recovered my checked bag, and the very kind people at Air India said they would not penalize me for changing my reservations, since there were lots of empty seats on that flight. They even reserved a hotel for me (closer to the center of town, at my request), and got a taxi driver to take me back into town for 500 rs rather than the usual 700.
After I got over the embarrassment and the frustration at missing my first two days in Nepal, for which I had paid $200 per day, I decided to make the best of it and see things in Varanasi that I had missed during our brief visit. Arriving at the Padeep Hotel, I had my taxi driver take me back to the Foreigners Office, where I admitted my mistake and processed the application--which involved a fee of 2480 rs, about $40. He stamped my passport and gave me a document to hand in at the airport, and I was legal.
Back at the hotel I checked in then called Alam, my favorite auto-rickshaw driver, who was there in 15 minutes. It was 3 pm, and he we set out for the Maharajah's Palace across the river and to the south of the city, one of the main attractions of the area.
We crossed the large tressle bridge on the north side of town. Down below about 150 feet I could see a herd of water buffalo being bathed in the river. Alam offered to stop right there on the bridge so I could take some photos. There was no breakdown lane, so we did, blocking that lane for about a minute. No problem.
We first stopped at a temple with exceptional stone carvings, which he knew I'd like, and he was right. It was the Durga Temple in Ramnagar. The exquisite carvings were in squares, covering the bottom 20 feet or so of the exterior. The intersior was locked. The carvings depicted elephants, divine figures, and story tableaux from Hindu mythology. The low position of the 4 pm sun shed dramatic sidelight on some of them. All of a sudden I heard what I thought were the high voices of children singing. When I went around to the front I discovered about six gaily clad women singing devotional songs together in front of the locked entrance. I was continually amazed in India at the high level of piety in evidence and the very active use of extremely old temples. Temples of archaeological significance did not lose their numinosity; I only wished I was wearing shoes that were easier to take off and put on.
We continued on to the Maharajah's Palace and got there a little before 5. It would close at six, but Alam assured me that they wouldn't throw anyone out at that moment. I paid my 150 rs foreigners' entry fee and went in. No photography was allowed. I first passed a row of old cars, a Cadillac from the 1930s, a Plymouth from the 50s. They were all covered with a thick layer of dust. Next came the palanquins, the ceremonial chairs the Maharajah and his intimates would ride in that were borne by two or four walking bearers. I managed to sneak a photo of the most magnificent one. Also on display were decorative items from the Maharajah's living quarters, evidencing a rather conventional taste for finery, and then his weapons collection, the real prize of the museum. Swords, daggers and bayonets of all types and sizes were in the first cases, followed by the pinnacles of 19th Century riflecraft. Included were short barreled, expanding bore blunderbusses, as well as six-foot long elaboratedly decorated elephant guns. Then came a case of the results of the hunt: a stuffed boar and a tiger rug, which I did manage to photograph.
The whole palace is a three-story rectangular complex with an inner courtyard with oval lawn and fountain. At various points you could come out onto a balcony and view the whole thing. Then you went down some stairs and out into the courtyard. At this point for me an Indian family approached me, and with no language in common, asked me to photograph them, which I did. We cxchanged emails (one of the sons understood the word)
, then it was on to the parapets overlooking the river and the two temples there.
It was a glorious view, the kind you see on tourist posters for India: a series of façades facing the river in the late afternoon sun. Below were stone platforms on which men washed clothes and fished; in the distance was the pontoon bridge, over which the new bridge construction loomed; and beyond that the city and the soon to be setting sun.
I was invited into a Shiva Lingam temple by the swarthy, dark haired, stern looking, barefoot, bare-chested, 30-something priest. Inside I was instructed to sit close to the Lingam, place my hand on it and repeat a prayer in Hindi, with a space for my name. After that I received the tikka on my forehead (I'm a Hindoo, too.2). It was such an elaborate ritual (with no restrictions on photography) that I contributed 100 rs and evinced my first smile from the guy. Then his assistant took me over to a corner shrine to Ganesh, and asked for an additional contribution, but I had given my limit for the place and already received my initiation.
A few steps higher was another temple, this one open on two sides, with an old man sitting in the opening facing the river. This turned out to be the father of the young priest, who had me go through the same motions with his Lingam shrine--Hindi prayer with my name inserted. I gave him 50 rs, then his father asked for a contribution, but I figured the 50 was enough.
I found my way down, then out, picked up my driver, and we were off to do battle with the pontoon bridge. First, however, I had him let me out so I could photograph the magnificent scene. The sun was now setting behind the bridge construction above, and the defile of bicycles, rickshaws of various kinds and pedestrians were all silhouetted on the pontoon bridge. Directly in front of me was a recumbant cow, also in silhouette, with a long boat passing by on the river. Visual compositions were making and unmaking themselves as I watched and snapped away, thinking that this scene was worth the whole visa mixup, delay and extra expense.
I got back into the auto-rickshaw and we proceeded down the pathway of thick sand to the beginning of the pontoon bridge. Sand? This was a thoroughfare? Maybe it was to discourage cars. We made it through the sand and onto the roadway of the bridge, which consiseted of a series of metal plates laid lenghwise over wooden planks that sat on the pontoons. It was one long series of bumps, with cycles, auto-rickshaws and pedestrians coming at us from the other direction.
The sun was now behind the horizon. Alam proceeded to take me to one of his favorite restaurants, a vegetarian one, and I invited him for dinner. The food was magnificent, the meals for the to of us cost me a total of 500 rs. with tax and tip. I could be a big guy.
Then Alam dropped me off at the hotel, and we agreed to meet the next morning. That night I set up my camera on the rooftop to capture another in my series of night-and-day photos. One of the hotel staff led me up there, and I set up the tripod on the uppermost ballustrade, with one leg supported by a small wooden and iron table mounted on one of their iron lawn chairs. I was apprehnsive about leaving my camera so exposed all night long, but (1) there was absolutely no wind, and (2) no one came up there. I found a place to turn off the lights. It was a quite pleasant rooftop, with facilities for a reception.
I got up before dawn, around 4:20 am, and went up and snapped a few more, then did so every twenty minutes for an hour, during which the sun came up from the other side. Once the street lamps were turned off I returned to bed, then got up at 9, took a few more, and folded up the rig. Then I noticed the langur monkeys on the other side of the roof. Good thing they weren't curious about my camera! This was my first really urban night-and-day series.
Alam came by at 10:15, and we proceeded into our day, as described in my blogpost entitled "Varanasi: The Ghat Walk."
The following day everything went smoothly. I passed through customs with my new documents, got a seat on the plane, and arrived in Kathmandu in the rain at 1:40 pm (it's 15 minutes ahead of India). I paid $25 for my visa with my debit card at the airport (so civilized), and soon made contact with my ride, who was carrying a sign with "Joel Sinesin," which was close enough. It was 3 pm by the time we left, and with a stop for lunch along the way we made it to Pakora by 9 pm through windy mountain roads. I found Barbara in bed at the Crystal Palace Hotel, admitted I had done a stupid thing, to which she readily agreed, and kept to myself my joy at the way things had worked out. Then she told me I had missed nothing since it had been raining since she had arrived, and I wondered if Hillel hadn't been more literally right than I had given him credit for.
At my stopover in Mauritius a customs official there noticed that my Indian visa was set to run out two days before my flight out of the country to Nepal. I hadn't noticed, since I was vague about all the dates of our flights in my head, although it would have been a good idea to check. The Indian consulate in New York had given me 6 months from the visa issue date, and that was April 27; we were leaving on the 29th. Arriving in India, the customs official noticed it, too, and said I could easily apply for a visa extension, "No problem, no problem," he added, one of the most used phrases in India when dealing with foreigners.
So once we checked into the marvelous Surya Hotel in the Cantonnement district on the edge of town, I chose an auto-rickshaw to take me to the Foreigners Office, whose address someone in the hotel had written down for me in English and Hindi. We were there in half an hour through the chaotic traffic, where there are no street signs nor traffic lights, but lots of traffic circles, some of which have cops posted who are more there to mediate traffic than to direct it: they sort out jams around their circle.
When I finally found my way in the complex of deteriorated offical buildings to the proper office none of the officials was there. I was assured by a man at a computer that they would be back in "five minutes, maybe ten." It turned out to be 25, so I photographed the office: sacks of documents on a high shelf around every room, dusty filing cabinets, old furniture, some out of date device that had been taken apart. When the officials returned, they explained that I needed a form from my hotel, photostats of three passport pages, and to fill out an online form; then I should return.
The next day, my marathon tourist day, I went back with the documents, plus two passport photos (I had taken six with me), and again I had to wait half an hour. They were all at the Modi rally--the candidate for the Hindu fundamentalist party, the BJP. They accepted the documents and told me to come back later; they would be open until 8 pm (not 5, as I had thought).
So after my wonderful driver had taken me to see the Mother of India Temple, the Durga Temple and two other short stops, and beyond exhausted and famished, I arrived back at the office at 7:45. No one was there. I had visions of waiting another 25 minutes, and I saw my documents on the top of the stack, so I took them and left. That was my mistake.
Five days later as I tried to get on the plane to Kathmandu with Barbara,
the customs official stopped me. What I had presented to him was the application for the visa extension, not a valid exit visa. I would have to return to Varanasi and take a plane to Kathmandu two days later. I pleaded, I offered to "pay something extra." He took me to his supervisor who said his hands were tied, that he couldn't override the computer.
So I recovered my checked bag, and the very kind people at Air India said they would not penalize me for changing my reservations, since there were lots of empty seats on that flight. They even reserved a hotel for me (closer to the center of town, at my request), and got a taxi driver to take me back into town for 500 rs rather than the usual 700.
After I got over the embarrassment and the frustration at missing my first two days in Nepal, for which I had paid $200 per day, I decided to make the best of it and see things in Varanasi that I had missed during our brief visit. Arriving at the Padeep Hotel, I had my taxi driver take me back to the Foreigners Office, where I admitted my mistake and processed the application--which involved a fee of 2480 rs, about $40. He stamped my passport and gave me a document to hand in at the airport, and I was legal.
Back at the hotel I checked in then called Alam, my favorite auto-rickshaw driver, who was there in 15 minutes. It was 3 pm, and he we set out for the Maharajah's Palace across the river and to the south of the city, one of the main attractions of the area.
We crossed the large tressle bridge on the north side of town. Down below about 150 feet I could see a herd of water buffalo being bathed in the river. Alam offered to stop right there on the bridge so I could take some photos. There was no breakdown lane, so we did, blocking that lane for about a minute. No problem.
We first stopped at a temple with exceptional stone carvings, which he knew I'd like, and he was right. It was the Durga Temple in Ramnagar. The exquisite carvings were in squares, covering the bottom 20 feet or so of the exterior. The intersior was locked. The carvings depicted elephants, divine figures, and story tableaux from Hindu mythology. The low position of the 4 pm sun shed dramatic sidelight on some of them. All of a sudden I heard what I thought were the high voices of children singing. When I went around to the front I discovered about six gaily clad women singing devotional songs together in front of the locked entrance. I was continually amazed in India at the high level of piety in evidence and the very active use of extremely old temples. Temples of archaeological significance did not lose their numinosity; I only wished I was wearing shoes that were easier to take off and put on.
We continued on to the Maharajah's Palace and got there a little before 5. It would close at six, but Alam assured me that they wouldn't throw anyone out at that moment. I paid my 150 rs foreigners' entry fee and went in. No photography was allowed. I first passed a row of old cars, a Cadillac from the 1930s, a Plymouth from the 50s. They were all covered with a thick layer of dust. Next came the palanquins, the ceremonial chairs the Maharajah and his intimates would ride in that were borne by two or four walking bearers. I managed to sneak a photo of the most magnificent one. Also on display were decorative items from the Maharajah's living quarters, evidencing a rather conventional taste for finery, and then his weapons collection, the real prize of the museum. Swords, daggers and bayonets of all types and sizes were in the first cases, followed by the pinnacles of 19th Century riflecraft. Included were short barreled, expanding bore blunderbusses, as well as six-foot long elaboratedly decorated elephant guns. Then came a case of the results of the hunt: a stuffed boar and a tiger rug, which I did manage to photograph.
The whole palace is a three-story rectangular complex with an inner courtyard with oval lawn and fountain. At various points you could come out onto a balcony and view the whole thing. Then you went down some stairs and out into the courtyard. At this point for me an Indian family approached me, and with no language in common, asked me to photograph them, which I did. We cxchanged emails (one of the sons understood the word)
It was a glorious view, the kind you see on tourist posters for India: a series of façades facing the river in the late afternoon sun. Below were stone platforms on which men washed clothes and fished; in the distance was the pontoon bridge, over which the new bridge construction loomed; and beyond that the city and the soon to be setting sun.
I was invited into a Shiva Lingam temple by the swarthy, dark haired, stern looking, barefoot, bare-chested, 30-something priest. Inside I was instructed to sit close to the Lingam, place my hand on it and repeat a prayer in Hindi, with a space for my name. After that I received the tikka on my forehead (I'm a Hindoo, too.2). It was such an elaborate ritual (with no restrictions on photography) that I contributed 100 rs and evinced my first smile from the guy. Then his assistant took me over to a corner shrine to Ganesh, and asked for an additional contribution, but I had given my limit for the place and already received my initiation.
A few steps higher was another temple, this one open on two sides, with an old man sitting in the opening facing the river. This turned out to be the father of the young priest, who had me go through the same motions with his Lingam shrine--Hindi prayer with my name inserted. I gave him 50 rs, then his father asked for a contribution, but I figured the 50 was enough.
I found my way down, then out, picked up my driver, and we were off to do battle with the pontoon bridge. First, however, I had him let me out so I could photograph the magnificent scene. The sun was now setting behind the bridge construction above, and the defile of bicycles, rickshaws of various kinds and pedestrians were all silhouetted on the pontoon bridge. Directly in front of me was a recumbant cow, also in silhouette, with a long boat passing by on the river. Visual compositions were making and unmaking themselves as I watched and snapped away, thinking that this scene was worth the whole visa mixup, delay and extra expense.
I got back into the auto-rickshaw and we proceeded down the pathway of thick sand to the beginning of the pontoon bridge. Sand? This was a thoroughfare? Maybe it was to discourage cars. We made it through the sand and onto the roadway of the bridge, which consiseted of a series of metal plates laid lenghwise over wooden planks that sat on the pontoons. It was one long series of bumps, with cycles, auto-rickshaws and pedestrians coming at us from the other direction.
The sun was now behind the horizon. Alam proceeded to take me to one of his favorite restaurants, a vegetarian one, and I invited him for dinner. The food was magnificent, the meals for the to of us cost me a total of 500 rs. with tax and tip. I could be a big guy.
Then Alam dropped me off at the hotel, and we agreed to meet the next morning. That night I set up my camera on the rooftop to capture another in my series of night-and-day photos. One of the hotel staff led me up there, and I set up the tripod on the uppermost ballustrade, with one leg supported by a small wooden and iron table mounted on one of their iron lawn chairs. I was apprehnsive about leaving my camera so exposed all night long, but (1) there was absolutely no wind, and (2) no one came up there. I found a place to turn off the lights. It was a quite pleasant rooftop, with facilities for a reception.
I got up before dawn, around 4:20 am, and went up and snapped a few more, then did so every twenty minutes for an hour, during which the sun came up from the other side. Once the street lamps were turned off I returned to bed, then got up at 9, took a few more, and folded up the rig. Then I noticed the langur monkeys on the other side of the roof. Good thing they weren't curious about my camera! This was my first really urban night-and-day series.
Alam came by at 10:15, and we proceeded into our day, as described in my blogpost entitled "Varanasi: The Ghat Walk."
The following day everything went smoothly. I passed through customs with my new documents, got a seat on the plane, and arrived in Kathmandu in the rain at 1:40 pm (it's 15 minutes ahead of India). I paid $25 for my visa with my debit card at the airport (so civilized), and soon made contact with my ride, who was carrying a sign with "Joel Sinesin," which was close enough. It was 3 pm by the time we left, and with a stop for lunch along the way we made it to Pakora by 9 pm through windy mountain roads. I found Barbara in bed at the Crystal Palace Hotel, admitted I had done a stupid thing, to which she readily agreed, and kept to myself my joy at the way things had worked out. Then she told me I had missed nothing since it had been raining since she had arrived, and I wondered if Hillel hadn't been more literally right than I had given him credit for.
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