I finally left Kathmandu on June 22 – although delays caused by the many blockades meant my bus made very slow progress. This wasn’t a particularly enjoyable bus journey, with even less room to move than usual, and whilst I was attempting to get some kip, some bastard stole my Ipod.
Things didn’t improve much when I reached the border at Sunauli, where I was met by a man who told me that, due to the delays, I had missed my connecting bus to Varanasi and wouldn’t be able to leave this tiny border town until the evening. I was by this time exhausted and the man took me to find a hotel and someone to rearrange my transport, demanded some cash for his services and departed. I didn’t want to waste the day, especially as I’d already wasted two in Kathmandu, so decided to visit Lumbini, Buddha’s birthplace, 17 miles from Sunauli. The hotel owner said he would arrange a taxi which should take about 45 minutes to get there. In the meantime I went to my room to grab some sleep. When I returned however, the hotel owner informed me that all taxi drivers were on strike and that the only available transport was a cycle rickshaw which would take and hour and a half. I seriously considered not going (had I known it would actually take almost three hours each way, with just an hour and a half there I definitely would have left it) but realizing I would do nothing but sit in the hotel all day if I did stay, decided to give it a go. I had wanted to visit Lumbini anyway, and doing it this way would mean I would see a slice of rural Nepali life, from which tourists are generally shielded. I soon realized why the taxi drivers had refused to take me. We encountered three blockades within the first mile or two. Protestors had taken huge buses and lorries and simply parked them across the roads. I jumped out of the rickshaw and squeezed around the edges, whilst the rickshaw cyclist, a very helpful and patient father of five, carefully steered the vehicle through the narrow gaps at the side.
It was as hoped a fascinating journey. The inhabitants of these impoverished borderlands seemed as transfixed by the presence of some whitie gallivanting through their villages as I was by their daily activities. Perhaps the thing that struck me the most was how beautiful the women looked – in spite of their simple lifestyles. Colour and adornment are clearly everything in this society, and I saw women and girls emerge from mud and straw hovels, dressed immaculately without even a crease or a smudge of dirt on them. Beautiful saris in every bight colour you can imagine billowed from makeshift washing lines. Someone in Kathmandu once old me that Nepali people will go without food before allowing themselves to become disheveled and I just hope this wasn’t the case with these lovely people. They certainly seemed happy enough. Many of the children smiled and waved at me, and when a large group emerged from a children’s home, dressed very smartly in matching uniforms and looking, I’m delighted to say, very happy and healthy, they all waved and smiled very enthusiastically which was marvelous. Of course there were a couple of blokes who followed us on motorbikes, asking for money, but you meet the odd tosser everywhere. I was slightly alarmed, having just left the birthplace of the Buddha, when my rickshaw diver told me he’d fight them if they became too persistent…
Lumbini, where Queen Maya Devi of Kapilavastu is believed to have given birth to Prince Gautama Siddhartha from her armpit (?) in 563BC, is an enchanting and very spiritual place. Devotees of many nationalities have erected temples in the Japanese designed Lumbini Development Zone, which extends for miles around the sacred centre, but short on time, I asked to be taken straight to the Maya Devi Temple. This rather nondescript red brick building contains a stone marking the exact place where the Buddha was born, outside of which stands a plain but significant pillar, erected by India’s great Buddhist emperor Ashoka, when he visited the site (then part of India) in around 249BC. The lake in which Queen Maya Devi is said to have bathed before the birth can also be seen and I spent an hour here, just chilling and taking it all in. On the way back we were drenched by the monsoon which by now had swept up from southern India to encompass the whole of the Indian Subcontinent. When we arrived I was told the buses were not running to Varanasi due to more strikes, so I would have to take a shared taxi to Gorakhpur, India, and from there take the train.
I crossed the border and got into the taxi which I shared with an Indian family, who spoke no English. We drove in silence for about an hour and a half until, at around 9pm when I was just beginning to doze off, a large vehicle ploughed straight into the side of us. The front passenger seat took the main impact and I was astonished to observe that not only were the mother and tiny daughter occupying the seat unhurt – they were completely unphased. In fact, as I sat in the back thanking God for the lack of injuries, the little girl, aged about two, seemed quite entertained by the whole situation. By now it was pitch dark and felt a lot later than it was. We had stopped in a very remote part of northern India and through the window I could see a crowd of onlookers, all men with long beards, whose dress seemed almost tribal. I must admit that at this point I felt a bit vulnerable and ever so slightly stupid. Here I was alone in a damaged vehicle in a remote part of India in the dark, surrounded by about 30 men, none of whom were likely to speak my language and I barely had a word of theirs. I had very little cash – meaning I could not abscond to a guesthouse if need be, though even if I could have done I don’t know how safe I would have felt so far off the beaten track. The father and son, who had been sitting beside me in the back, got out to inspect the damage but, wishing to remain inconspicuous, I smoked a fag out of the window, and hoped to God that the taxi would be able to continue. To my immense relief, after about 20 minutes, we continued on our way, and arrived in Gorakhpur about an hour later. I felt sorry for the taxi driver, who seemed a decent bloke and was perhaps the only taxi driver I encountered on the Indian plains who didn’t try to fleece me.
Gorakhpur station wasn’t a particularly pleasant experience either. My by now extremely heavy luggage always caused me problems and I dragged it to the station and tried to find my train and platform. This was my first visit to an Indian railway station and it was to be a sobering experience. It was only about 10pm, but the main foyer was littered with bodies - families, single men, old ladies, some sleeping, some sitting huddled together on the hard ground as cockroaches scuttled between them. These were not passengers but just a tiny fraction of the countless souls seeking refuge each night at railway stations across India. Having read about such things in the past, I should have been prepared for it, but on this chaotic journey, on which my plans and transport method had changed several times, I simply hadn’t given it any thought. I eventually steered my luggage around these poor people and found an information kiosk. No sooner had I located my train however, that I realized to my horror that I had lost my ticket. I was carrying five pieces of luggage, which I searched thoroughly and after 10 minutes, resolved to leave the station and find somewhere to stay for the night, by this time feeling close to despair. As I walked away my eyes scanned the crowded platform for the missing ticket. I saw one crumpled on the ground and picked it up, more in hope than expectancy – but to my utter amazement – it was mine!! I boarded the waiting train, unsure if the Indian Gods loved or hated me, but they certainly liked to give me a scare.
About 10 hours later I arrived in Varanasi, the centre of the Hindu universe, which grew up around the sacred river Ganges. Hindus believe that to die here releases the soul from cyclic existence, so this is an extremely auspicious place in which to die and be cremated. The bodies of loved ones are brought from all over India to be burned at the city’s Manikarnika and Harish Chandra Ghats.
Which in my humble opinion is all the place is good for. I HATED Varanasi. I can honestly say it was by far my least favourate place I’ve ever visited (and I’ve been to Benidorm!) I honestly cannot think of one redeeming feature the place possessed. On arrival I took a cycle rickshaw to the warren of narrow streets comprising the Old Town, from where a porter helped carry my luggage to an hotel recommended in the Lonely Planet, but which has to have been the filthiest place I’ve ever seen. I’m not generally too fussy about décor and cleanliness, as long as a place is bug free and comfortable (I joined the March to Tibet for goodness sake) but after inspecting the toilets I decided against staying there and spent another hour being led through the steamy stinking backstreets, looking for somewhere else.
The heat of the Indian planes in summer was unlike anything I had experienced before. I was astonished to discover that the temperature itself was not excessively high – around 35/36C (mid 90s farenheight) which, whilst hotter than it generally gets in Britain, I have enjoyed in Europe and Australia. However, at 80% humidity in Varanasi, where the stench of rotting rubbish, shit and burning bodies hangs in the stifling air, it is almost impossible to feel comfortable or clean for long – no matter how often you shower. In Varanasi it is also impossible to leave your hotel as a westerner and not be accosted within seconds by people who either ask you outright for money, or try to capitalize from you in other ways. Young men, working on commission, come up with big smiles, asking such questions as your name and where you come from and insist on showing you around, repeating that they are not after money. To be fair these guys can be helpful. One for instance led me to the burning ghats and the daily puja to the Ganges, held every night at 7pm at the Dashashwamedh Ghat to appease the great mother. But there is always an astrologer or silk merchant they want to introduce you to – often a ‘relative,’ and whilst their English is often quite strong, they struggle to understand the word ‘no.’ I remember telling one guy for about the 14th time that I didn’t want to meet his astrologer because I didn’t believe in it, and besides I only had 5000R to last me until the end of my trip (sadly not a lie.) He then replied with disgust that there was no point trying to take me to his uncle’s silk factory then – and asked for ‘some help for me,’ i.e., cash.
Another time I returned to the roof of my hotel where I ordered a drink and leaned over to look at the view, relieved to be away from the street grabbers. The hotel owner, a stout middle aged guy with a huge moustache, came over, welcomed me to his hotel, and warned me not to be taken in by any of the 'street boys,’ stating they had hidden agendas and were probably on commission. I laughed and told him I’d already declined to meet an astrologer, a jeweler and three silk merchants that day - to which he replied that he was a silk merchant and that he wanted to take me to his bloody factory. I asked him if he had any boys working on commission. ‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘All businessmen do.’
Even the animals are bad tempered in Varanasi. One morning I was walking through the narrow streets when a bull suddenly charged at me and before I knew it I was hoisted several feet into the air on the creature’s huge sacred horns! I screamed and it backed me into a wall, at which point I managed to disentangle myself and stagger off. To be fair the bull made no further attempt to impale me and remarkably I was virtually uninjured. I was wearing quite loose clothing and I think that took most of the impact. You see bulls wandering around all the time in India and Nepal as they are highly sacred in the Hindu religion, and killing one carries a jail term. Indian cattle are considerably smaller than their European counterparts and are normally very peaceful, but I guess Varanasi is enough to sour the sweetest of temperaments. I was a bitch, shouting at at least one person every day. The extent to which I sometimes disliked the locals I encountered - mostly men who constantly stared at, attempted to swindle, and sometimes grabbed me, made me uncomfortable. I kept reminding myself that I was the odd one out in their country and should try to be more tolerant of their ways, and moreover, that the population of India exceeds that of the entire western world and that their customs were therefore more ‘normal’ than those I was used to. But every time I ventured out alone in Varanasi or Delhi I would return to my hotel earlier than planned exasperated and exhausted. I had experienced the same treatment when walking through Harayana on the March to Tibet, but found it much easier to laugh at when I was one of at least 12 westerners, and with lower humidity. I didn’t like what this town was turning me into.
But perhaps the worst thing of all was the bugs. I have been terrified of most creepy crawlies from a young age and whilst spiders are my number one horror, bloody great cockroaches the size of mice come a very close second. At around 9pm every night, the bugs came out. Varanasi was infested with terrifying black bugs, a couple of inches in length; which jumped. These things, though harmless, were everywhere and if you were brave enough to sit outside you would have at least one on you at any one time. Each night I attempted to brave them, but was soon driven inside to my room which usually contained about five, which seemed to make a beeline for my mosquito net. Scarier still however, was the mouse sized cockroach inhabiting my bedroom. This nocturnal horror was extremely active and made a hissing noise which chilled my blood. I don’t think I have ever spent such a fearful three nights as in that hotel, cowering beneath my flimsy mosquito net which never fully fitted the beds, meaning there was always a little hole in the corner through which they could get in. Thank God the cockroach never did run over me in the night, although I nearly screamed the place down when packing to leave, I found him hibernating in a pair of trousers.
I also saw my first dead body in Varanasi, at the Manikarnika Ghat, where cremations take place 24/7 every day of the year. I was led to a viewpoint, where I was, of course, asked for money towards cremation fuel. Something I had not realized is that women are not allowed to attend cremations, as it is believed that women are more likely to express emotion – something strictly forbidden at the burning ghats. I must say I found this profoundly unfair and felt more than a little guilty that I as a westerner was allowed to observe the cremations of people I had never known, whilst their wives, mothers, sisters and daughters were barred. But as my self-appointed male guide put it: ‘they have to accept it.’ After cremation, the ashes and human remains are thrown into the Ganges to achieve the state of Moksha – in which the soul will rest in peace for eternity.
In Varanasi, the mother Ganges is not just polluted. It’s septic. Water considered safe for bathing should contain no more than 500 faecal coliform bacteria per 100 ml. In Varanasi the figure is 1.5 million. No dissolved oxygen exists. I did meet one crazy Russian guy who braved a swim, but I was careful not to get so much as splashed by this water (believed by Hindus to cleanse your body of sins) in which the local population paddle and bathe seemingly without a thought. I was there during the monsoon when the Ganges is very high – too high to take a dawn boat trip or walk along the river side exploring the ghats. A downpour which occurred during my long awaited departure for my train to Delhi flooded the city, and my stoic cycle rickshaw driver kept going as the water rose to around two feet. Residents, some of whom were wading up to their thighs in the filthy water, seemed unphased. All the time I expected the rickshaw driver to say he could go no further, but thank God he got me to the station and I was able to board my train to Delhi. I had originally planned to go via Lucknow, where the Indian Uprising was sparked in 1857, but after my experience in Varanasi I decided I couldn’t face it and headed to the capital, where I returned to Majnu ka Tilla - the city’s Tibetan settlement where my journey began, and where I spent very happy times following The March to Tibet in April.
On arrival in Delhi I took another cycle rickshaw to Majnu Ka Tilla, and was so happy to be welcomed by two delighted Tibetan monks who remembered me from the march. I saw a few friendly faces over the coming days including, most unexpectedly, my lovely Aussie friend Lauren, with whom I worked on the magazine in McLeod. It seems everyone from McLeod heads to Majnu ka Tilla and I was so happy to be there. Delhi was still stiflingly hot, and when I ventured out of Majnu Ka Tilla I was soon driven to screaming point by the locals, but it felt so good to have a friendly air conditioned place to come back to. I have always considered air con rather unnecessary in chilly England, but here it was an absolute necessity. It never gets cool in Delhi at this time of year, and I was astonished to walk out of a lovely air conditioned restaurant at 11pm to find it still oppressively hot outside. Over the next three days I explored the Red Fort, the Baha'i Lotus Temple and India’s largest mosque, the Jama Masjid – completed in 1656 from white marble and sandstone, and boasting a seating capacity of 25,000 worshipers and two 130ft minarets – one of which I climbed. Single females are forbidden from climbing the narrow tower alone, but when I bought my ticket they lent me a bloke. At the top however, it was difficult to enjoy the views as the small viewing platform was desperately crowded with young Islamic men to the extent that my rent-a-bloke had to ask some to move aside in order for me to see anything. On the way down a boy who looked in his late teens squeezed my arse, and when I turned around to give him a piece of my mind was slightly shocked when my companion seized the lad and slapped him hard three times around the face.
I was by now fast approaching the end of my trip. Over the last few weeks I had been building my plans around the fact that a Tibetan magazine had asked me to interview the Tibetan Prime Minister in McLeod and write an in depth political feature for a special anniversary edition - focusing on his stance on the forthcoming Olympic Games in China. Of course I was delighted and began to look forward to the interview. About a month before I had asked the editor of Tibetan World if he would like me to arrange the interview and he replied telling me not to trouble myself, assuring me he would sort it. As the time approached however, the appointment remained unconfirmed and a couple of hours after I booked my bus ticket to McLeod, the editor came back asking me to arrange it, by which time it was of course too late. I was pissed off, not least because had I not thought I needed to return to McLeod, I probably could have squeezed in a visit to Ladakh, in the far north or India, for a week or two. But with just four days left until my flight back to London, I resolved to go to McLeod anyway. I was not happy on the Indian plains and it seemed almost fitting end my trip in the place I knew and loved.
And it was as lovely as ever. Monsoon had hit meaning sunny McLeod was not so sunny anymore, but returning to somewhere so familiar where I had been so happy felt like coming home. Grinning from ear to ear, I jumped off the bus and ran to The Ladies Venture Hotel, a fabulous establishment run by Shanti Baba – a wonderful Kashmiri who stood for peace, parties and pleasure. I had been visiting this place with a variety of friends to chill, drink chai, talk, smoke and eat fabulous food which Shanti never charged us for, on and off since January, so it seemed very fitting to end my journey there. My only concern was that the monsoon heralds spider season in McLeod, where the eight legged foe can be BIG. I’ve heard many horror stories starring amorous arachnids in McLeod, which can grow to the size of a man’s hand. But through a combination of vigilance, paranoia and extreme good luck, my last weekend remained spider free.
On my first day back it was almost impossible to walk down the street, so many of my old Tibetan friends rushed out to greet me and I was so happy to see them again. A nice girl I met at Kopan Monastery in Kathmandu was also in town, and I dragged her to Carpe Diem amongst other places.
Whilst I missed all the wonderful friends I made here who have since moved on, I attended teachings at the Tibetan Library of Works and Archives, did a couple of conversation classes with Tibetan English students at the Hope Education Centre – a fabulous institution founded last year by the son of a successful New York based Tibetan opera singer. The people are truly humbling and so grateful for the hour and a half you spend with them. When I announced after my last lesson that I sadly would not be returning, the organizers hugged me and draped a Khata (Tibetan ceremonial scarf symbolizing goodwill, auspiciousness and compassion) around my neck, which I’m looking at now, hanging in my room with the rest of my travel memorabilia.
I ate, drank, hung out with friends old and new – often, though not always, at Carpe Diem – a fabulous Nepali run restaurant which became my living room when I lived in McLeod. Pilgrimages to Moonpeak Expresso, home to arguably the best chocolate cake and banana bread in India, if not the world, were also made. I also made the most of the Tibetan Buddhist aspects I knew I wouldn’t get at home, and just enjoyed McLeod. It’s wonderful how a former British hill station, now home to the Dalai Lama in exile, brings so many people, Tibetan, Indian and western together, to eat, drink, be merry and carry out good work. God bless McLeod and everyone I met there.
After three wonderful nights I caught the night bus to Delhi, and after a scare at the airport where staff said they had no record of my flight alteration and demanded £50, I was allowed on the flight.
After six months in the third world, Virgin Atlantic’s economy class, with it personal TV, soft pillows, blankets, clean toilets, roast chicken dinners and WALKERS SHORTBREAD felt like the most luxurious thing I’d ever experienced.
THE EPI-BLOG
To all my fantastic travel buddies,
Well I'm back home after six months in India and Nepal. Got back a couple of weeks ago actually but it's taken me this long to recover and get sorted.
Well, what can I say; what an incredible time it was. I hoped it would be, but the trip didn't always turn out as I had planned, which is probably all to the good. But it could never have been anything like the experience it was without a little input from you guys. Each and every one of you, whether we met for just 20 minutes over a cup of tea and sublime chocolate cake in Moonpeak, in a monastery, half way up a high Himalayan mountain, marching for Tibet along grotty Indian trunk roads, in Carpe Diem - or if you were stuck with me for five or six weeks as some poor buggers were, thank you. You all made the trip so much richer.
I'm now enjoying fried bacon sandwiches, baths, being able to leave my window open without an army of scary critters flying or scuttling in, not being stared at/cheated/grabbed, and being healthy for more than a month at a time (I hope..) Basically all the things that put the 'great' into Great Britain, although I also miss McLeod very much. Also busy looking for one of those job things.
Enjoy, stay in touch and maybe I'll see some of you again some day - perhaps on the next big trip - 'The US and A' perhaps?
Thank you so much once again, shanti shanti.
Lots of love,
Soph XXX
