Highs & Lows in India

Sitting on the steps in Varanassi a shrouded beggar selling postcards approaches me moaning pitifully in Hindi. I look up to face a woman who is not that old, maybe only about fifty, but she looks like a wiseled old woman. Her face and neck resemble a mass of brown melted candle wax and her bottom lip is swollen like a leech full of blood and ready to explode. I catch my breath, horrified, I have come face to face with my first sighting of a dowry burn victim. This is the horrific practice where a woman is set alight in an 'accident' because her husband or his family want more dowry money and will attempt to kill her in order to get it. If the bride dies then the husband can remarry and collect another dowry, if she survives she is shunned by the community and forced to leave the home as damaged goods and like this woman left to survive by begging or peddling goods on the street.

I feel so angry, frustrated and helpless looking at her, disgusted by such a seemingly backward and primitive society that can allow such violations of human rights to occur and go unpunished. While outlawed in India crimes like this still happen, especially in more rural communities and will often go unpunished with the victim herself left to take the blame. I find it extremely sad and upsetting. India can be a bloody harsh country, especially for women. There are days like this one when I feel that I just can't take anymore of it. I've had all I can handle of the heat, the poverty, the dust, the begging, the repulsive sleazy men, the rotting rubbish, the filth, the grime, the rip-offs, the mosquitoes, the shit, the spitting, the touts, the traffic, the cold showers, the power-cuts, the pollution, the pissing, the noise, the staring, the dress codes, the ants, the flies, the squat toilets and overpowering smells. Through tears of frustration I cry hating India and wanting to leave on the next available flight.

Then in a heart-beat, just when I have resolved never to return again, everything is turned on its head and I come to understand this diverse country just a little bit more. On the very same steps, in the same spot the next evening, a small girl approaches me, again selling postcards. I get chatting to her and I ask her about her life. Her name is Punita and she is just ten years old. She is one of six sisters and two brothers and she has been working in this job selling postcards for the last four years. Her day begins at 5am when she gets up and dressed and helps to get her younger sisters ready for school. She then has breakfast and walks for an hour to school which begins at 7am. She has classes until 1pm and then walks for an hour back home again. At home she will wash, eat and maybe sleep and then get ready to head out to work. She arrives at the steps on the Ganges at 4pm and will usually work for up to five hours until 9pm at night. Any money that she makes she hands directly over to her teacher who gives her a percentage of the small profit. 'I like this job' she tells me. 'Money is everything' she adds solemnly  with a seriousness that defies her tender years. I nod my head, because I can't disagree with her, hearing how difficult her life is at just ten years old, I don't doubt that for her family, money is indeed everything. 

While we are chatting a small skinny old man in raggy traditional clothing approaches us and stands staring silently at me, he must be at least eighty years old. I assume he is another beggar and get ready to swat him away. Then to my surprise he leans in close to me and asks if he can speak with me, he turns to the little girl and apologises for interrupting our conversation. 'I would really love to speak with you' he says widening his eyes in demonstration. 'Please, please, can you tell me............what is the name of your mother country?' he asks earnestly, leaning in close to hear my response. 'I tell him that I am from Ireland. 'Ireland' he repeats clapping his hands together with delight and breaking into the happiest warmest smile I have ever seen. He is a sprightly little man with sparkling brown eyes and he tells me that he is just 'so so happy to speak to someone from Ireland'. 'I'm not sure if he even knows where Ireland is as he seems to be mixing it up with Iceland. But we sit on the steps the three of us, me the Western tourist, the little street girl and the old man and have a great chat about life. I begin to see them both as people with lives and needs very different to my own and not just the pesky beggars who annoy me on a daily basis. My heart warms towards mother India again for just when I have her completely written off, she turns to show me another side of her diverse tapestry, the beauty of her people.

It strikes me that sometimes we just have to look a little bit closer to understand the full picture. Things aren't always what they seem and it can be a big mistake to write something off without giving it a proper chance. While there is no doubt that I have had some pretty trying days during my time here in India, I can also say that I have learned a tremendous amount about life and been put to the test in ways I could never have imagined possible. 

India can be a vibrant, colourful, inspiring and magical country but it is also not for the faint of heart-

Any place that can provoke such strong reactions in me, I know is a place that I will not forget in a hurry!

Namaste from India,

Arlene x

Varanasi - Holy City of the Dead!

                                                           
He leads me down a maze of twisting dark alleys and winding narrow backstreets, where rats scuttle into the shadows and shriveled beggars lurch at me with outstretched hands mumbling frantically in Hindi. The streets smell of urine and the rotting rubbish which is everywhere, in stinking piles at the side of streets and clogging up gungy muddy drains. I jump to dodge a fresh pile of cow shite, more dried cow pats littler my path and merge with the rubbish and buzzing flies. Some have decorated sticks deliberately jammed into them, marking them out as the holy shit piles that they are. Apparently it is good luck to walk into them. So lucky me in my pretty floral flip flops with my toes painted red as my feet gasp in horror becoming simply luckier and luckier as we go. I grimace in disgust dragging my heavy bag behind me, sweat dripping out of every pore in the baking heat of the afternoon sun as I get spattered again and again by the holy cow shite and God knows what else. 

I'm rushing to keep up with my guide who is taking me to my hotel, through a vast network of backstreets in Varanasi where rickshaws can't travel & we have been walking for over ten minutes now . An enormous buddha mural painted high up on a restaurant gable wall seems to smile down at me with a twinkle in his eye. 'Should have worn your runners now shouldn't you', he seems to say with a knowing smile. 'Should have brought a backpack with you Arlene, now shouldn't you', he whispers softly in the humid Indian air. After an eighteen hour train journey, I'm hungry, I'm tired, I'm hot and I'm getting rattier and rattier by the minute. My guide has left me wheeling the heavy bag while he runs on ahead carrying my little sleeping bag and he'll still be expecting his tip at the end of it. When it comes to Western tourists, very little is done without the expectation of a tip, just about everything has a price tag and I nearly keel over with shock (& delight) when men here are actually chivalrous & offer to help me with my bags instead of staring silently in groups as I struggle up steps at train stations. (You can tell from my tone that this doesn't happen very often, hee!)

Hanging with a holy cow on the streets of Varanasi

Set in a tiny narrow backstreet, blocked by three enormous cows around the corner from a square where uniformed guards sit with massive machine guns, we have finally arrived outside my hotel. There is no way in hell I would have found this place by myself. Varanasi is like no place I have ever been to before in my life. It is one of the oldest cities in the world dating back to 1200 BC and you can literally feel the history in the air. Stretching out along India's holy Ganges river, a confusing network of winding streets and alleys, it's waterfront is dominated by long flights of stone ghats, (steps leading down to a river) where literally thousands of pilgrims come every day from all over India to cremate their loved ones on funeral pyres. The shrouded dead are lead in processions through the narrow streets of Varanasi on simple bamboo stretchers adorned with flowers, where they will be taken down to the ghats and placed on the continually burning pyres. One body after the next, all day and all night, the flames never go out and over two thousands remains are cremated here every single week, flowing straight into the Ganges river. It is said that anyone who dies in Varanasi attains instant moksha, or enlightenment, so they come in their droves to live out their last days, waiting to die, lepers,  the old, the sick and widowed, finding shelter in temples, assisted by the holy priests. 

Steps of main ghat Varanasi

Indian's believe that those cremated in Varanasi will go straight into heaven. Many of the very poor who come here can't afford to pay the fees for the funeral burning ritual (sandal wood for example is very expensive here) and so many bodies (particularly those of babies and children) are unofficially placed directly into the water of the river, weighed down with rocks. It is not uncommon to see all sorts floating in these murky waters as some of my friends who have been here already have testified (to my absolute horror). Your probably thinking that this is one river you wouldn't want to be going anywhere near, right? Well they do .............in their droves. All along the banks men, women and children, strip off and bath in the dark smelly water, pouring it over their heads to wash away a lifetime of sins and drink its holiness...........yes, drink it. One can only begin to imagine how toxic the water is, so the mind boggles as to this particular practice. It's definitely not something I'll be putting to the test.

In my hotel I bump straight into two friends from my time in Pushkar, Julie and Trudy. I'm delighted to have some buddies to hang with in Varanasi. It's always more fun to explore a city with company. The next day the three of us take a walk down to the Ganges to drink in the scene. For a city that's all about death, Varanasi is simply bursting with life and colour and thronged with people. We sit on the steps to watch the boats heading off down the Ganges to the burning ghats. Everything is chaotic and blindingly colourful. Men walk around with large silver tins offering cups of chai (tea) for sale, street children peddle postcards, cows strut, kites dip & twirl in the sky to the beat of Indian pop music. Hindu holy men (Sadhus) in saffron robes with ratty grey beards sit bare foot in sheltered enclaves & watch the world go by. I have my palm read by an old beggar on the steps who tells me the next five years of my life will be my golden period (something to look forward to then). 

Holy man asleep on steps on main ghat

At dusk we take a wooden boat down along the Ganges towards the burning ghats. The night is eerily still as dozens of other boats join us in a long silent procession of black shadowy boats on the water. We glide over human ash and God knows what else down towards the blazing light of burning fires on the banks ahead. This is like nothing I have ever experienced before in my life and I feel as though I have been transported back to medieval times. What I witness doesn't feel like it's from a modern age & my own familiar life seems a world away. We watch silently on the water as multiple funeral processions snake down to the ghats. Dead bodies are handled by the social outcasts of the Hindu caste (class) system called doms. The shrouded body is dipped into the Ganges water and then left to dry before being placed on the funeral pyre. Huge piles of firewood are stacked on top of the ghat, with every log being weighed carefully so the price of cremation can be calculated exactly. We watch respectfully as families perform puja (prayers) for their loved ones by the light of the burning fires, beside shadowy temples where sacred fires burn & lepers and beggars are waiting to die.

An Eerie Sight - Funeral pyres burn along banks of Ganges 

Coming from our very different Western culture at first this close proximity to death seems so primitive, macabre and almost like something from a horror movie. I won't forget in a hurry the day I whirled around after buying a bag of bananas from a street seller to see a shrouded dead body being stretchered towards me. It put an aul spring in my step to be sure. (OK, I ran!!!!). But then as we sit in the boat and light the lotus flower and candle offerings we have bought and set them adrift on the water's surface; I feel a real sense of peace and a deep respect for history and tradition. I realise that the dead here have been treated with dignity and respect, cremated in love and surrounded by their loved ones and family on their final journey home. Varanasi is a city of prayer and devotion and it makes sense to me why so many Indians rich and poor would bring their loved ones here. We head back up the river watching the dozens of candle offerings float past us on the dark water like tiny fireflies dancing to the beat of the drums from the evening prayer ceremony which is just beginning. There is no doubt that Varanasi is an overwhelming and magical place but it is definitely not for the faint of heart.

Namaste from India,

Arlene x

Pushkar & The Camel Fair

Pushkar Camel Fair Album

I’m delighted that my time in Rajasthan just so happens to coincide with the single biggest camel trading fair in the whole of India. Held just once a year in November at the time of the Kartik Purnima full moon, Pushkar Camel Fair attracts farmers, traders and villagers from all over Rajasthan, many of whom have traveled for days through the desert with camels, cows and horses in tow. It sounds really exciting, so of course I get myself on the first bus to Pushkar to take it all in.

The fair itself attracts literally thousands of people from all over India and beyond and so the little town of Pushkar is literally bursting at the seams and alive with life, colour and activity. There are musicians, fortune tellers, snake charmers and shopping bazaars where you can pick up everything from funky looking walking sticks to colourful decorations for your camel. In addition to the camel trading there’s a real carnival like atmosphere with wagon loads of gypsies arriving in droves and assembling rickety looking (death trap) fair-ground rides. There’s also an extensive timetable of games and events to keep the tourist occupied. For the men there’s everything from turban tying to a mustache competition and tug of war. For us girls there’s a Mataka (water pot on head) race as well as camel racing, animal beauty pageants and my personal favorite, camel dancing (I kid you not).

It’s safe to say that Pushkar Camel Fair is a veritable feast for the senses and the perfect place to just sit with a cool drink in a nice shaded spot (if you can find one) and take it all in. Myself and my friends from the volunteer house get chatting to some serious camel traders and have a bit of craic with them discussing our options for bringing a camel back home to Ireland. It might be a bit tricky getting him into the overhead locker what with the hooves and all but just imagine the attention you’d get walking through arrivals wheeling your suitcase behind you with a two humped central Asian camel lumbering along by your side………….quite a bit, I’d say (-:

Namaste from India,

Arlene x

Camels, Coconuts & An Elephant, Oh My!

Pushkar is a holy town in Eastern Rajasthan that centers around a lake, lined with ghats (flights of steps leading down to a river or lake) where Hindus make pilgrimage every year to make offerings to their gods and bathe in the holy waters. It is only three hours away from Jaipur where I am currently based & better yet this week is the start of India's biggest camel festival, held in November only once a year at the time of the Kartik Purnima full moon. It's supposed to be a spectacular affair, so for me there is no question about taking a trip there to experience it all.

I get the local bus from Jaipur to Pushkar. I am the only non-Indian on the bus & to say it is packed is the understatement of the century. It's hot and crowded, with the thick stench of BO hanging heavy in the air (possibly me). The driver keeps piling on more and more people, it seems as long as there is money being handed over, there is room on this already full bus. We are careening around steep bends at breakneck speed, there's an old woman being sick out the window beside me & the smell of vomit is wafting in front of me & merging with the other scents, creating a delightful cocktail of travel hell. I stick my head out the 'tin can of death' as I have christened it, for some cool relief, I swear to God, I'll never complain about Bus Eireann again. When we finally arrive in Pushkar, its dark, and I am literally dumped off at the side of the road and have absolutely no clue where I am. I gather my bags, make some quick inquiries from the helpful locals and get moving as fast as I can.

I make my way through a network of dimly lit winding back alleys like something from a Charles Dickens novel, where old women croak at me from doorways and I half expect Oliver Twist to come wandering out of the shadows and ask 'please sir, can I have more'. The main streets however are awash with activity and colour, smelling of a heady combination of roasting peanuts, rotting garbage, boiling spices and man wee. Cycle-rickshaws with tinkling bicycle bells meander through the narrow sandy streets in front of me, motorcycles stacked high with young Indians speed up on the narrow roads behind wandering pedestrians, beeping impatiently, while holy cows strut indifferently with the innate knowledge that they rule, blocking traffic & droping gifts of holy cow shite, as they go.

Holy cow struts through the streets of Pushkar

I wheel my bag past enclaves decorated with dancing Christmas lights, stacked high to the celing with twinlking saris, sparkly cushion covers & pashminas and scarves in every conceivable colour. My mind spins with the prospect of having to make a purchase decision in here, as persistent shopkeepers yell to me.....'Hello madam', 'Hi madam'....'Looking?'................'Looking is free madam'! .......'You want?'.'You want?'....'Where you go madam'?. I continue through the busy streets past more restaurants and shops with names like 'The Third Eye', 'Shivas Corner' and 'Papa Lala Silverwear'. I peer into enclaves where enormous black pots of curry boil and bubble over open flames in filthy looking dark kitchens stirred by men who have to stand on tip-toes to reach over them with large wooden sticks. It all looks very exciting & I'm really looking forward to exploring Pushkar the next day. I finally arrive at my hotel and predictably my room is gone. This is quite common and usually there is 'luckily' another room 'with a balcony' available at three or four times the price, which I refuse to pay. After some verbal sparring, eventually I am led through reception to a room that is clearly used by the family who run the hotel. By this point I'm so tired I don't care and it's not long before I am tucked up in bed under the glowing orange light of India's answer to the sacred heart of Jesus, a multiple limbed and elephant headed Ganesh, illuminated in the darkness by a single small orange light bulb. Outside wild dog packs are howling like wolves & killing each-other, inside a glowing elephant head is peering down at me, I can't help but chuckle to myself at just how surreal (not to mention eerie) it all is as I drift off to sleep, dreaming of camels, cows and smiling elephant headed Indian Gods.

My travel buddy Fiona is also in town this week for the camel fair and I arrange to meet her & her friends the next afternoon at their hotel. I make my way across town to their hotel, retracing the same streets I took the night before. I step over sleeping dogs stretched out dead to the world in the baking heat of the mid-day sun. Street carts are piled high with packaged rice and white beans for sale. Copper pots are laid out on dusty rugs on the ground, while clothing shops cater to western tourists with tacky looking T-shirts embellished with the monkey and elephant faces of Hindu Gods. I walk briskly, drinking in Pushkar life. Stalls of deep fried snacks dripping in oil, limbless beggars, leather bags, helium balloons, baby pink candy floss, pots of coloured stones and neat piles of coloured henna powder ready to decorate foreheads. Holy men in turbans with twig like legs hobble on wooden sticks, old women sweep the street with branch like brooms as small children scatter underfoot squealing loudly. High up in the hazy afternoon sky a yellow kite ducks and dives over rounded temple rooftops, tugged by an invisible string while someplace I hear an Indian woman singing a high pitched dramatic song, interrupted only by the honks and beeps from passing motorbikes and the tinkling bells of meandering bicycle rickshaws.  

Pushkar holy lake

As soon as I pass the lake, I am confronted by a fake Hindi priest who pushes a handful of pink, yellow and bright orange marigold petals into my hand. He informs me urgently that 'today is very very holy day in Pushkar', (surprise!). 'He is insistent ...blocking my path, 'please madam', ......'you must come now and throw your flowers into the lake'...........'Must I'? 'Only two minutes madam, you can find Om hotel this way too'. 'Today is very very holy day'....'It is'? It seems like just about every other day is a holy day in India with intrinsic rules and rituals that must be followed precisely. Although I know he is just out to earn a quick buck, I'm still interested in the ritual. Who am I to argue. Ok then if it's only going to take two minutes, sure why not......it's not every day you can use the excuse for being late....'Oh I'm sorry but I had to go and throw my flowers into the lake'.

He leads me down a large flight of steps at the ghat, where giant monkeys with red bottoms hang out in big groups. Avoiding spatterings of monkey shite and the occasional cow pat I follow him down a second flight of steps to the water’s edge. After removing our shoes, he leads me through a prayer that involves (bizzarly) holding a coconut and throwing my flowers and colored powders and rice into the holy lake and asking for blessings for my family. I feel like I am in an episode of Father Ted. I repeat after him....'good life, 'good mother', 'good father', 'good sister', 'good workings', 'good schoolings', 'good husbands', 'good childrens' and then I repeat a long, long list of Hindu God names. This of course quickly leads to the question of how much I want to donate to 'the church', which he feels equally reflects how blessed I want my family to be, Hmmmm! A dollar??? Should do the trick I think, pushing a fifty rupee note into his hand and quickly scurrying off, I watch his mustache droop as I go, Oops!. I make my way back up the steps of the ghat which are full of people who have made the holy pilgrimage to Pushkar from all over India. I stop for a few minutes to drink in the scene. Groups of young men strip and dunk into the water of the lake, pouring jugs of it's holiness over their heads. Women in saris dip themselves gingerly in the cool waters while mouthing prayers in Hindi. The steps of the ghat are alive with colour as dripping clothing and saris are dried in the midday sun. Discarded coloured flower petals bob on the waters surface as thick flocks of birds soar and swoop over the busy lake. It really is a feast for the senses & I say a silent prayer for my own intentions. I realise that I'm pretty lucky to be here as many Indian's are too poor to make the long pilgrimage here as much as they would love to. It is said that souls who bathe in these holy waters on earth will go straight into heaven. While I don't quite fancy taking the plunge into the grimy looking waters myself, I do however quickly stick my big toe in. As I make my way back up the steps and continue on my journey through the hectic streets of Pushkar town, whatever about the rest of me, I'm secure in the knowledge that at least my big toe is going all the way to heaven (-:

I'll write more about the camel fair itself (with pictures) in my next post.

Namaste From India

Arlene x