Travel with Manfred

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Copyright © 1995 by Manfred P.. All rights reserved.

Nov. 28, 1995

From Rat Holes to the Maharaja's Palace

Adventures in India

by

Manfred P.

Keywords: India, Delhi, Agra, Hyderabad, tourist, travel trip report, travel log, travelogue.

Foreword:

• Delhi -->
• Hyderabad -->
• Chirala -->
• Hyderabad -->
• Delhi -->
• Agra -->
• Fatehpur Sikri -->
• Agra -->
• Gwalior -->
• Orchha -->
• Khajuraho -->
• Varanasi -->
• Delhi.

The first half of my vacation I spent with Ravi, Raji, and their friends and families in Southern India. The second half I spend with my brother Gerhard and his girl friend Maria in Northern India. Instead of giving a day-by-day account, I bundled my thoughts by subjects. Furthermore, this travel report solely describes my personal impressions. Summarization of historical facts and data are left to the travel books; you won't find them here. For those of you who are curious about cost. The largest cost item by far was the airline ticket from London to Delhi and back. Within India I spent US$320 for three legs of air travel. All other cost (lodging, food, ground transportation) was about US$20 per day.

Introduction:

Transportation:

Among the things I noticed first was the polluted air, the large number of cops and military personnel carrying rifles on the roads, and the 'Horn Please' signs. The traffic moves on the left -- a contribution of the British. Nearly all trucks and motor rickshaws have some sort of a 'Use Horn' sign in the back. People follow it and honk liberally to indicate anything. Honking translates to 'get out of the way I am coming', 'watch out', 'I am stronger and bigger than you are', 'I am bored and have nothing better to do', and much more.

I sampled pretty much every available flavor of transportation.

• Rickshaw
• Motor rickshaw
• Tempo
• Ambassador
• 2nd class air con train
• 2nd class train
• 2nd class night train
• City bus
• Long distance bus
  This is where the most thrilling rides happen. Within my two weeks I experienced the following roller coaster rides.
  • Deluxe tourist bus ride from Delhi to Agra
  • Bus ride featuring the 'leaking oil' story
  • Bus ride featuring the 'smog poisoning' story

Rickshaw

Rickshaw rides are the most nostalgic form of local transportation. It is the classic mode of getting around in a city which is now more and more replaced by motor rickshaws. A rickshaw fits two or three people and the bike rider in the front is usually a skinny guy. Being the slowest way of getting around it's also cheap. What I like about it is the fact that this is the only environmentally friendly way offering mobility. A father and son team pulled us in Agra from the train to the bus station. Above all we did it to make some off-the-shelf tourist pictures. What I didn't notice when I was there but what came out clearly on the picture is that I appear tall, strong and bulky in comparison to the wiry peddler. In reality, I am not bulky at all, rather on the slender side. But in relation to the mere-skin-and-bone Indian man I come out fat.

Motor rickshaw

Motor rickshaw are the standard form of local transportation. It is to getting around what water is to a thirst. It is available everywhere. It's cheap and you use it all the time.

Tempo

We took a tempo from Orchha to Jhansi. A tempo is a three wheel vehicle of the size of a car, maybe a little bit smaller. The 18 mile ride with 12 adults and a couple of kids in this tempo took about 40 minutes. What makes me remember the ride so well is that I was freezing. The wind was strong and icy. With more than 12 people packed into a can like sardines I thought I would warm up. But I was wrong. One of my legs fell asleep in a bad position. It got stuck somewhere with the legs of the passengers next to me. While one leg was asleep the other had to be kept away from the stick which the driver shifted vigorously in all directions. The driver needed at least half a yard of space to put the stick in all gears. Besides being cold it was also slow. Imagine, on the way uphill bicycles passed us but on the straight he went flat out at 30 m.p.h. For such a meager engine this is quite a feat.

Ambassador

The Ambassador is the traditional Indian car. Together with the Maruti which is a Suzuki-India coproduction it is the most popular car. While the Marutis are more modern and meanwhile better selling than the Ambassadors, the Ambassador has much more style and flair than the Japanese looking Maruti. I think that the Ambassador is in production with only minor changes since 1940 or so. The Ambassador is often powered with used boat engines. That makes them burn diesel and results in increased efficiency and lower operating and maintenance cost. Not the most powerful vehicles as you can imagine. Nor are they clean.

I had the pleasure to enjoy an Ambassador ride from Hyderabad to Chirala. The highway from Hyderabad to Chirala was a main highway, but I wouldn't have known hadn't Ravi told me so. It was a 2 lane road with no road markers, the cars would drive anywhere on the road but not only would they drive anywhere they would also park it anywhere. I had the honor to sit on the front seat. We left Hyderabad after midnight. I tried to get some sleep but obviously I couldn't. There were many reasons why sleeping, at least for me, was impossible. First, the road was too rough and my body is comfortably swaying around. Secondly, the oncoming traffic was blinding us half the time with high beams. The other half of the time they didn't have any head lights at all. Thirdly, the ever present honking didn't stop even at night. It felt good to at least shut the eyes. I was sitting soft and had a lot of room.

I was amazed at how much traffic there was at that hour. Eyes still resting, the tires suddenly squealed and we came to a abrupt stop. Someone had left a truck in the middle of the road. Most likely it broke down right at that very spot and the driver was just a few yards away taking a nap until the morning hours. The stranded truck occupied half of the road. Stirred up by the noise of the tires I braced myself for the possible impact, but of course, or should I say fortunately, it never happened. We came to a stop two feet in front of it. Ravi, sitting in the back, told me that the driver slowed down because some oncoming traffic using up the second half of the road blinded us. While slowing down suddenly the dead truck popped up in front of us with no escape path for us. But our world-class driver (Everyone who can drive in Delhi or Taipei is a world class driver.) mastered the situation calmly.

Sometimes the two lanes were not big enough for us and the oncoming traffic since we also had to share the road with dogs, cows, and parked cars. The occasional swing into the dirt was unavoidable. The road was full of pot holes, sometimes there were more pot holes than road.

Somewhere we came to a stop, something was broken with the car. I guess this happens here all the time. With the car on the left side of the road the driver hopped out opened the hood and started fiddling around all in the dark. He could use the oncoming traffic with high beams as light for his repair work. Whatever was broken was fixed in a few minutes and we continued.

One more time back to the honking. With each car coming, being passed, or passing a few honks were in order. Since we continuously passed and were passed the horn was used continuously. Resting the eyes was the best we could do. I felt sorry for the driver. Keeping this up for hours is not a small feat. Eventually the sun rose. A beautiful sun rise, a red disk rising over rice fields and palm trees. Soon thereafter we crossed a bridge. Monkeys were playing on the railing and chasing the dogs off the bridge. Cattle pulled carts, bulls, and a herd of goats were on the road. Now with the sun shining I could tell that we had left the cities behind and were in the country side. We drove through villages. Some villages just line the rural road and most people live in mud or palm leaf huts. The road is their rest room. It appeared that people were lining the street taking an early morning crap.

At late night it was still warm outside and heat came in the car also from under the dashboard. It was actually warm to hot in the car. With the sun up it got even warmer. The best piece of this Ambassador came into action now. The air conditioner. This special piece of heavy duty equipment turns the car into a moving industrial-strength freezer. I am not joking. I have never seen anything like it. Forget the A/C of cars sold in Arizona or Florida. This Ambassador beats the pants off everything. Ravi told me that if it is cranked up for a few minutes at full power icicles form on the A/C. Now that is raw power! By the way, this car also features one of the rare gas and not diesel engines.

2nd class air con train

The same distance that I rode in the Ambassador I also got to enjoy in a 2nd Class A/C train. The train wasn't faster than the car as it was about a nine hour ride from Chirala to Hyderabad. Kind of slow in comparison with European standards. But the air conditioning worked fabulously well. I had to get my sweater out to keep from freezing. The train car was sparsely populated, three quarters were empty. So all of us grabbed two seats to stay extra comfortable. It was a slow, smooth ride, perfect for relaxing and napping in style.

2nd class train

Taking the 2nd class train to Gwalior was a lot of fun. Recognizing the train was the hardest part. When a train rolled into the station ten minutes after the scheduled departure time we started asking people if this is the one to Gwalior. Out of ten people asked six said 'yes' outnumbering the four that replied 'no'. Actually I used a weighing algorithm where each answer would be weighed by the looks of the person giving the answer and the confidence with which the answer was given. So, the answer from an okay dressed person, replying confidently in good English would weigh significantly more than answers from other people. Until we reached a final decision, however, we were first hesitant to get on the train. Then once on the train we had to change our mind again because a conductor-like looking guy said that this is the wrong train. Asking more people, we re-boarded. So, after an off-on-off-on scenario we finally stayed on the train and it turned out that we were right.

Weirdest thing though, other Indians asked me, yes me, which train it is and where it goes to. I responded in the safest way: 'Sorry, I don't know.' Our reserved seats were taken, as expected. I assumed though that they would move. After all, we had paid extra money to get these seats. However, as a response I got 'We are leaving soon, in half an hour'. An Indian 'half hour' is about one hour Western time. I thought that that was pretty gutsy. They never moved and we didn't want to push our rights. We simply found some seats nearby and got comfortable.

2nd class night train

A puzzling thing happened when we bought the tickets for the all-night train ride from Satna to Varanasi. First we were sent from one window to the next. There were four of them. It usually works like this. You line up somewhere. Once it is your turn, i.e. once you made it your turn with some minor elbowing, you ask your question. The guy behind the desk usually says something and sends you to another window. Eventually you get the information you want. Then you line up again to find out that that window only sells tickets for the 8 p.m. train but not for the 10 p.m. train. You will be sent again to another window. There you will learn that the guy at that window only sells first class tickets but not second class tickets. You need to line up at some other window again. Sometimes it's a window that you have been before already. This is a funny game, but that is not the puzzling part I mentioned above.

We do what we always do. Being three people, one waits with the luggage and the other two line up at two windows. We ask the question 'When is the last train to Varanasi?' Of course we get different answers. One said we should hurry it is leaving in 5 minutes at 8 p.m. The other said it is leaving at midnight. So, we line up again at the remaining two windows. Again, we get another answer '10 p.m.' and a second vote for 'midnight'. We go to the first two windows again and ask 'Is there a train to Varanasi at midnight?' We get one 'no' and one 'yes' as response. The guy who explained to us that the last train leaves in a few minutes now had answered 'yes' to the question if a midnight train exists. By now, we are pretty convinced (but one can never be sure) that there is a midnight train. Three out of four gave some indication.

Next, we discussed if we should get 1st or 2nd class tickets. It is an all-night ride, so after some arguing we voted 2-to-1 in favor of going 1st class. We lined up again to buy the ticket and here it got puzzling. We asked the guy what class he would recommend us and if there would be any seats left in the 2nd class sleeper. After some information exchange we give him the money for 1st class tickets. Suddenly, he gives us back more than half the money and tells us we should pay for second class and guarantees us there will be seats. This was the only time I have ever seen an Indian return money once handed to him. Amazing, I guess he figured it is not his money and he can't take a cut on it.

We had some time to kill before departure. Near the train station we settled down by a street vendor for dinner. I really stuffed myself with Indian versions of Egg McMuffin and tea. I even showed the vendor how to make an Egg BigMac with two layers of egg between three toasts. It was quite social and we chatted. When asked where we are going we mentioned the midnight train to Varanasi. Immediately we were told that there is no midnight train and that we should rush to get the 10 p.m. train. We remained cool. They started laughing at us for our foolishness and told us after another cup of tea that we had missed the last train. Life is always a gamble.

At midnight we were at the platform. Sure enough the train rolled in. It even had some Varanasi sign on it. Second class was full except for one seat but we needed three. We headed straight for first class and locked ourselves in an empty six person compartment ready to bribe any conductor. It was fairly comfortable and we even got to sleep. No one ever bothered us. Without any disturbance we got to Varanasi and got off.

City bus

Not everything is peaceful in India. The day before I arrived in Delhi from Hyderabad a bomb went off at Connaught Place injuring 22. This is not the first terrorist act of this kind in Delhi. Two months ago a similar bomb went of in front of the biggest tourist attraction in Delhi injuring 50 bystanders.

On the bus from Indira Gandhi Airport to downtown the bus was plastered with signs reading 'Look under your seat. There could be a bomb. Raise alarm. Earn reward.' The award is 15000 Rupees, $500. Not a bad bus ride. My brother later jokingly meant that that will entice someone to bring a bomb, place it in the bus, then report it in order to cash in on some of the reward.

On other bus rides in Deli I was offered a room. After I showed disinterest, I was offered sex. Needless to say that I refused that too. I just love it when these 'business men' try to make you feel bad after a refusal. They shake their head, utter something like 'why, you don't like women?!' and give you a look indicating that you are weird, strange and a pervert. Coming to think of it. Since homosexual behavior is absolutely unacceptable by Indian culture, maybe I should try to get rid of these people the next time by mentioning that I like men. But then again, that might only open a can of worms.

Long distance bus

Buses get you anywhere, from the smallest villages to the largest metropolis. Usually they are overloaded and sales people use every stop to sell everything from combs to screw drivers. Kids use this stops to run after the foreigners to supply them with cookies, nuts, and bananas. I always loved it when complete strangers would walk up during such breaks and tried to make a few extra pennies by asking for money for the transportation of the luggage stored in the belly of the bus. Needless to say that the official conductor had already collected the full fair at the beginning of the trip. That is called creative money-making-scheme. These breaks are also good opportunities to sip a few cups of chai, the Indian tea, and stretch your legs.

The trips are rough bone shaking experiences. The windows are usually rattling and half open. Just don't stick your arm or head out the window. The way the drivers maneuver the bus through traffic would chop anything off that is sticking out. Once the rear bumper dragged first a bike and then a donkey with the bus for a few yards.

For any bus ride it is a good advice to expect the unexpected and to have a bit of a 'ma&ntildeana' attitude.

Deluxe tourist bus ride from Delhi to Agra

Armed with a full water bottle and bananas we were on the way to Agra from Delhi on the deluxe bus. This was also my first long distance ride in India. At least it made a gradual migration from European or North American expectations to Indian reality. The top-of-the-line tourist bus was worse than any run-down bus I have ever seen before in the US. It was a vibrating ride all the way through on Indian State Highway 2, the best highway I have come across throughout India during my 2 week stay. An amazing two well paved lanes in both directions for most of the distance.

Since we were tourists we were taken to the cleaners. Not literally. Literally we were taken to an overpriced rest-stop, a big restaurant with souvenir stalls and camel rides, etc. We enjoyed breakfast, tea and some small snacks. After paying and a half hour rest we were about to board the bus with the other 50 or so tourists. Just before stepping on-board the waiter came running and apologized. He explained that he had summed up our dishes incorrectly and that we owe him 5 Rupees. We gladly paid the 15 cents but I was amazed how he had figured it out. We were only one of many tables he waited. The 5 Rps. were well deserved for all the effort he went through. This guy must be a math genius. Most likely he threw a glance at the eggs and the bread after all the tourists had left, compared it with the money in the register (his pocket) and determined that there was one slice of bread missing. He then made a mental recall and found out that he hadn't charged us for a piece of bread. This is how I imagine it all happened. These guys often impressed me with special talents.

Continuing the luxury bus ride I offered the Indian guy sitting next to me in the bus a banana. He found an easy way to dispose of the peels. Out the window of the driving bus. When in Rome do as the Romans do. So, I followed that good example. The cows feast on these banana peels and act as perfect garbage collectors. Once again things take care of themselves.

Bus ride featuring the 'leaking oil' story

From Gwalior we headed south east by bus. To my surprise we even had an assigned seat. After an hour ride, oil came spilling out of the engine and a puddle formed in front of the first row where we were sitting. The fumes nearly knocked me out. They were very intensive. I watched as the puddle grew. I was curious how long it would take until someone else would notice. So, I purposely didn't point it out to others. The puddle grew big enough and the oil came flowing on the floor in my direction. Maria had noticed by now. My nose was rebelling and I could feel my brain cells die of lack of oxygen. Would the Indians every notice? When I saw one smoking and throwing the butt next to the puddle I gave up hope. I pointed the puddle out to other passengers. They started nodding and pointing at it. Eventually someone must have told the driver. He threw a brief glance at it. The smokers continued to inhale and I hoped that oil isn't highly flammable. In the next village we pulled over and stopped. Ahhh, I jumped off the bus gasping for fresher air.

Was I glad to get out of the bus. That smell drove me nuts. I went for a hot tea and some bananas. We wouldn't leave that soon. From the shade I watched a mechanic show up. I could recognize him from the distance. How? His pants and shirt were deep black and appeared to be soaked in oil. That could only be the mechanic. He started to look at the engine together with the driver and a dozen onlookers. After a couple of minutes he left. Was that a good sign or a bad? I didn't know. Shortly later he came back with a safety pin. That fixed it. All passengers joined to jump start the bus which didn't seem to have a battery. Missing batteries seem to be quite common. Ten minutes later we were on the road again. Like this example, many bus rides turn into an adventure.

Bus ride featuring the 'smog poisoning' story

We took another bus without battery that had to be jump started from Khajuraho to Satna; at least so we thought. It was obvious that something was wrong with the bus as thick clouds of smog continuously covered everything to the right of the bus. After a couple of hours the exhaust fumes also started to pour into the bus. Wades of smog came out of the holes in the walls and other places. Once again I was wishing for a gas mask. The Indians didn't seem to mind. People worry about the smog in L.A. That bus ride surely was the equivalent to living in L.A. for a year from my lungs point of view.

The bus was going slow from the beginning, but when it stopped on the middle of the road at night it was disappointing. We jump started it again but when the ticket collector started listening to the engine noises we figured something is up. I am not an engine expert but my guess would be that one or more of the cylinders weren't working. After another 15 minute ride it was over. The bus was parked and we were on the street. A good time to drink some tea. While we were negotiating a price for a continuation on an Indian Jeep look-alike another bus showed up and we were on the road again.

Yes, we were on the road again, but the bus ride was still an experience. This time the engine sounded fine and in good shape. So, the driver went like a bat out of hell at 40 km/h over the battered highway. The windows were rattling that I nearly went deaf. Nothing new there. The reader might think I am exaggerating here. Have you ever been standing near the runway when a Concorde takes off? This is the noise level. I had borrowed ear plugs from my brother, but it didn't help much.

What was new was that the vibrations were so bad that the back of the bench next to me came loose all the way. It simple was shaken so violently that the screws fell off. I think a few of my muscles were torn and the vibes certainly would have killed anyone with spine problems. Now and then we went airborne. At Disneyland they would charge extra for this sensation. Here it's all included in the bus ticket. Ain't life great? The best description I found for this experience is 'it rattles so badly that it loosens your fillings'.

Lodging:

Bureaucracy is out of proportion. The formalities at check-in are unbelievable. Usually the passport has to be shown and questions like data of birth, place of birth, date of visa, visa number, arrival from, arrival by, duration of stay, departure to, departure by, etc. need to be answered. Sprinkle a few signatures on top and you may stay.

Indian bathrooms have no shower basin or tub. Just a drain built into the floor. Makes the cleaning easy. Restrooms are usually Asian-style and not Western. Only the better hotels have Western toilets.

When Ravi's friends kindly put me up in a guest house in Hyderabad it was explained to me that guest houses are more private with fewer disturbances than in a hotel. The guest house was a really nice place. TV, phone, queen sized bed. I was looking forward to a good night sleep. It wasn't quite so private as described. When I was about to go to bed someone brought me drinking water. When I was asleep someone turned on the light and brought me more drinking water. Then at 6 a.m. the light went on again. A phone call, but it wasn't for me it turns out. Some tropic birds make lots of noise. First, I am not sure if I am dreaming, but the birds go through this noisy phase later again to confirm my assumption. At 7 a.m. the light is on again. Someone brings tea. At 7:30 a.m. the light is on again, I start getting used to it. This time someone comes in to sweep the floor and clean the bathroom. At 8 I get up to take a shower. At 9 I get visited for more tea and at 9:30 a lady comes again to sweep the floor and clean the bath. I am sure that was necessary. There must have been quite a few dust particle that settled since the last cleaning job at 7 a.m. Well, labor is cheap. I take it easy. The cleaning lady seems to be very proud of the job she is doing. I smile. Meanwhile I also discovered an 8 inch lizard or gecko in my room which makes me feel good. This way there won't be any insects. A natural insect eliminator. Despite the disturbances I had a good night sleep anyway. This place was, however, definitely an exception. In all the other guest houses we never got bothered after check-in.

As low light of all nights we were staying for semi-patriotic reasons at a hotel owned by an Indian whose wife is Austrian and who spoke a few words of German. At night time we were visited by four legged creatures: rats. I heard them making noise in the restroom. Igit-igit. A cold shower ran down my spine. In the morning, Maria asked if I also had guests at night. I simply responded with a dry one-word response 'Yes'. Was I glad to check out.

As highlight we spent one night like a prince in a real maharaja's palace. A memorable day and night. The Sheesh Mahal Palace in Orchha was converted into a tourist hotel. Well, not all of the Mahal but one wing was converted. The luncheon room was an open airy area with rude waiters that prefer to wait on people richer than us. Even the public restroom was a delight. Western style seat with a window with carved screen and a view of the mile long palace garden. Our room was as outstanding: Sleeping five, hot running water, toilet paper, little soap bars, more of these great century old screened arched windows with columns, etc. Even the pillows looked like the ones you see in old Indian princess movies. Of course the hot water and the light didn't work for many hours due to the usual power outages that I observed everywhere in India. It doesn't happen every day that one can stay in a true real life maharaja's palace. So, one has to take these minor mishaps with a smile.

Food:

No Indian dish is even close to a Western dish. The closest one would be an egg omelet. The home cooked Indian dishes are even quite different from the dishes in American Indian restaurants. Needless to say that the local food is better than the American version. But there are many local cuisines that vary from district to district. I tried to have as many different dishes as possible and often ordered the meals from the menu that I had never heard of. They always turned out to be tasty. Overall the food was less hot than expected. I enjoyed that most dishes are vegetarian. Like in most of Asia each meal consists of several dishes not just one or two. Western style food is available too. Anything from popcorn, hot dogs, sandwiches, omelets, and more. Indians have a sweet tooth. This starts with the milk tea which is usually served with sugar already. Some of the desert was too sweet for my taste. Several deserts are based on sweet thickened milk. The standard and simple dish is a thali consisting of chapati, rice, a curry, a lentil dish, and tea.

In villages one is forced or has the pleasure -- depending how you look at it -- to eat just like the Indians. We picked up some fruit at street stands for breakfast and as an in-between snack. Our lunch was usually small since we used the time for traveling or sight seeing. The real meal of the day was a warm dinner. There are always small vendors or local restaurants on the main road. There the owner sits or knees in front of the wood stove. He usually has a second guy working for him who keeps the fire going and makes the different types of bread. The cooks usually offers one or two choices, both simple traditional Indian meals. Street vendors also often sell eggs in different variations.

Towns and cities not only have these local restaurants but also tourist restaurants with international fare, everything from french fries to banana fritters. Usually we preferred these less traditional places that acted also as traveler hang-outs. Main reason was primarily a thinking along the lines that if these other tourists won't get sick we won't either. On top of that I enjoyed the Bob Marley songs flowing out of the cheap speakers in those places. Some places really offered excellent food. In particular I remember Harry's Place near the Taj Mahal west gate. The waiter thought he looks like Richard Gere. Yeah, after a few beers maybe. Richard Gere look-alike or not, he was very friendly and the chow was great. We filled our stomachs to the rim. I was so stuffed. With each dinner there I gained a pound.

A specialty is pan or sweet killi as it is called in the south. Usually it is eaten for desert. It is similar to Taiwanese chewing gum that is also made with bethel nut and wrapped in a leave. Pan is an aphrodisiac, that can even have gold or silver in it besides the many spices and the bethel nut. It is delicious and good pan tastes much better than the Taiwanese type. Pan is furthermore rumored to have cocaine in it to stimulate the eater. That surely isn't true. It makes the saliva red and tastes yummy. It also makes me dizzy for a few minutes.

My favorite drink of course was chai, the Indian tea made with milk, black tea, ginger, cinnamon, adman, and gloves. The milk is brought to a boil, then the tea is added which gives it the nice creamy brown color. Last the secret spices are added from a box. It is served with loads of sugar. I usually never add any sugar to my drinks in the US. So, at first this was a strange change. But quickly did I fall for it and usually I added four spoons on a small cup. Ahhh.

The other traditional drink, mostly found in the tourist restaurants is lassi. It is similar to a Western milk shake. Though I am not sure how it is made exactly, it certainly contains a mix of curd, fruit (bananas, mangos), lemon, and sugar.

Good entertainment in any Indian restaurant is to read the menu from top to bottom. We found the wildest typos and mistakes. Hilarious, true good and cheap entertainment while waiting for the food.

Ravi taught me the right way of eating. With all five of your fingers -- not just three or four -- rice and curries are well mixed. Unlike in the Western culture 'playing with the food' is encouraged here. Then index, middle, and ring finger act as spoon picking up some food while the thumb pushes it into your mouth. No utensils needed.

Life in General:

Other cities have air pollution too but not as bad as Delhi. But dirt and dust is everywhere in the dry season.

Getting around is easy. Buses and trains bring you to any village you can find on the map. You don't even need much money to get there, just time. Airline traffic is quite reasonable, both price and connectivity is okay. Just don't expect them to be on time. I usually boarded the plane at the time when it was scheduled to land.

Safety was never an issue for me. I always felt save. India didn't strike me as a country where one needs to worry about hold-ups or muggings. Of course, the Cashmere region is an exception to that. I just watched out for pick-pockets and that was it.

After talking with Ravi I gave up my hope of finding an ATM machine in Delhi. I didn't even look for one. There are a few places in Delhi though where one can get rupees as a credit card cash advance. Here one finds again that bureaucracy is well and alive in India. First, banks close at 2 p.m. Getting the money was the usual time-consuming deal. First my bag was searched -- I assume for weapons -- when entering. No bomb there. Afterwards it was "please take a seat" a couple of times. Then I had to fill out a form, sign a couple of times. When I eventually got my money I learned something new. The money is bundled in packs of 100 Rps. bills by stapling them together with industrial strength half inch staples. For the past days I was always wondering how all these holes came into the bills. Now I know.

Vendors take the money as long as the hole is in the center of the left half. However, if a corner is missing or it is torn along the center fold many vendors refuse to accept it. I stuffed the stapled money into my shoes and pockets as precaution against long fingers.

India is quite well prepared for tourism. Getting around is easy. Lodging is available everywhere. And shopping can be cheap, assuming you know how to haggle. Larger cities even have areas that completely adapted to budget tourism. For example, in Delhi Pahar Ganj is a backpackers paradise. Many foreigners from all over the world including us stay here. Pahar Ganj is centrally located, just a short stroll from downtown and the Connaught Place. It is a bazaar tailoring to tourists. The trade is accordingly. Restaurants, food stalls, guest houses, clothing shops, airline tickets bucket shops, bus tours discounters, and whatever else an economy travel might desire.

Pahar Ganj was also the place where I hooked up with my brother Gerhard and his girl friend Maria. While looking for the hotel where we were supposed to meet I heard a faint 'Manfred'. They were sitting at a bar indulging in an orange juice. We hadn't seen each other for a long time, so I was looking forward to spending the next week with them. Gerhard had already put together a 9 day trip from Delhi to Varanasi that also satisfied my interests.

Everything is available. But everything takes an awful lot of time. Just like it takes at least half an hour to get money at a bank, it took me two to three hours to get an airline ticket. The same holds true for making phone calls. I often had spend an hour any luck. The lines were continuously busy. I tried and tried and tried until my luck came through. I soon learned to keep my phone calls at a minimum.

Power outages are frequent and within my two week stay I saw them in many places from small villages to the capital. During the monsoon they are said to happen frequently, several times a week. Life is not affected by them. It happened twice at Ravi's house but also at the airport in Hyderabad and while I was in Delhi and Orchha. Not many things work on electricity. Phones don't. Ironing is done with char coal filled irons. Cooking is based on wood, and so on. Those people that need electricity usually have a fuel powered generator that puffs out black smoke. That just adds to the pollution.

Nothing gets wasted in India. Just like the banana peels that are thrown out the windows are eaten by cows, so everything that ends up on the street is somehow reused. Among other things, a guy collects bull and cow patties on his own cart. I thought that he would do it to sell it as fertilizer but I was told that they are dried and sold as fuel for stoves and fires. Great recycling. They also seem to use faeces to paint their front patios brown.

We also got to observe cultural elements such as a funeral. The corpse was wrapped in white linen and placed on a simple stretcher contraption made out of wood. It was sprinkled with red colored powder and flowers carried through the street followed by a procession of men. More elaborate funerals could be observed in Varanasi, described below.

Everyone in India is trying to do business with you. It starts with the little kids that want to sell you postcards. Others want to act as tour guides speaking several languages. This kid, maybe in his early teens, in Fatehpur Sikri spoke a few sentences in German, French, Italian, Spanish, English, and more. Not bad. Most of the time they want to sell you something. If they, however, find out that you have something that they fancy they even want to buy from you. Once I was sitting on a set of stairs writing pieces of this trip report on my PDA a kid came up to me and asked me about this tiny computer. The little kid seriously tried to trade a pregnant elephant for this small PDA. An attractive offer, but a PDA is just easier to carry. What would they say about elephant at the check-in at Delhi?

I hadn't noticed but after Maria mentioned it I observed it too. Every single Indian -- and we have seen thousands of them -- has a mustache. There are only a few exceptions. The funeral ceremonies of some religions require some male relatives -- only the sons I believe -- to shave.

Indian dress code is not very special. Most men still prefer a 'lundi' which is the some cloth wrapped around the waist that the Thai call 'sarong'. Women predominantly dress in a 'saree'. I haven't seen a single Western dressed women.

Indians have special talents. E.g. in hotels and guest houses boys will ask the customers if they have any laundry. Thousands of pieces of laundry from tourists as well as from locals get carried to the big laundry areas where dozens of women do their work. Before the day is over, all these pieces of laundry need to make it back to the original owner. And all of this needs to be accomplished without forms or writing. The delivery boys as well as the women can't read or write anyway. So forms would be absolutely useless. The solution: Nearly invisible tiny pen marks. With this highly efficient code a few dots and dashes describe precisely where and from whom it came from. This code must be quite compact to be so effective. What a strike of genius. It is said that some criminals who don't have ids have been identified by their pen marks in their laundry.

A similar mystery is the delivery system of lunch boxes in cities. All cities have systems where wives hand their hot freshly cooked meals in meal containers over to delivery boys who deliver them to their husbands anywhere in the city. The food miraculously arrives at the correct place still being warm, ready to eat. The empty food containers make the same unknown way back to the wives. Supposedly, all food containers are first marked, and collected in handful of centers. In these centers they are sorted by destination, etc. From these centers they eventually are distributed to the final destinations. The same idea -- fast delivery by using a few central hubs -- made FedEx a world-wide respected corporation that is hailed for its innovative ideas and execution. FedEx seems to be lame in comparison to this problem and solution.

India is also full of yogi and other people with special talents. I am a skeptic and don't believe in Shiva statues that drink milk and wonder healers that can cure cancer by placing their hand on the body of the patient. Nonetheless, many of these yogi are deeply religious individuals that do a lot of good and should be respected. One of the well known yogi is Bhagwan Sri Sathya Sai Baba. He lives somewhere close to Chirala but even in Delhi people have his picture hanging right next to Shiva in their stores. Nearly everyone knows him. Some think he is a con artist, some think he is genuinely a god-man. He himself claims to be nothing more than human. Nonetheless, he is said to create ash with hands out of thin air. He takes golden statues out of his mouth. While this might be doubted, it is certain that he takes donations of millions of US$ and puts them into health care and other humanitarian projects like drink water supply. Even the prime minister of India is one of his followers. He has millions of followers from all over the world. People that see him say that they found inner peace. A kid explained me when I asked him who he is, 'he defies e=mc²'. Pretty cool description of a person.

Customs:

The different districts or states of India have their own law. Some states ban liquor. Foreigner can always get a temporary liquor license. But it is interesting to note that liquor was abolished to make the wives happy. The less educated men perform manual labor all day long, and in the evening they drink which makes their wives that stay home unhappy. So, to make half the population, the women, happy alcohol got banned.

While English attempts to be straight forward and simple. Indian language can be very descriptive. Even names are very poetic. E.g. Ravi's niece's name is 'Lakshmi Pooja' which translates to 'prayer to the goddess of wealth'.

Weddings are beautiful Indian customs. Very colorful. These celebrations often include gatherings of more than a thousand relatives and friends. For details on Indian weddings please read my South Indian Wedding travel report.

Funerals can also be very impressive formal cultural events. For those that can afford it it is also very expensive. Read more in the Varanasi section.

Hawking:

In India you involuntarily dive into a pool of expert hawkers. They are the best of their kind, pervasive, and ever surrounding. One needs a lot of patience, energy, and a mellow attitude to get through it with a smile. I am very glad that I had the opportunity to speak German. This way one could get some privacy from the ever listening, nearly prying, ears of the Indian hawkers. This made dealing, haggling, or plain walking through the streets much easier for us. Deciding where to go, what to see, would usually lead to the exchange of a few sentences between us friends. If done in English you would immediately be approached by people trying to sell you something with an introductory sentence like "My friend, I hear you go to &ltput anything here>. Let me guide you there. Very difficult to find, I show you place." And then he drags you off in some other direction to show you silk show rooms or whatever he wants to sell you. Several times we were brought by rickshaw drivers to the wrong place. Instead of bringing us to the agreed upon destination we would end up in front of some hotel where the driver wanted us to check in so he could get the commission. It is tiring to have to argue all the time and nonetheless end up in the wrong place.

In Varanasi we were approached literally hundreds of times a day by people wanting to sell us boat rides. Yes, 100 times is not an exaggeration. That is an average of once every 5 to 10 minutes all day long. I am convinced that tee-shirts with the print 'Boat? NO, THANK YOU.' would be an absolute best seller with travelers here. Sentences like "Hello, rupee", "Hello, pen", "Hello, what country", follow you all around the cities. Who is that guy called 'Rupee' anyway?

One could divide the Indians into two mutually exclusive groups of people: those that want to sell you something and those who are friendly. A cool, relaxed, mellow, laissez-faire attitude is the best weapon. Ignoring them works okay too. It is sad, but a friendly responsive approach will not work with hawkers. That is like a come-on. You'll be talking all day until your voice is sore. And you won't be doing anything else but talking.

Communication:

That fact leads to situations as described in the transportation section. For a foreigner like me finding out when a train leaves is not as simple as it sounds.

When I asked for information it always lead to guesses. Another example is this anecdote. When I needed to take the bus to the airport in Varanasi I double checked when and where the bus leaves. Still, when I got their to catch the bus to bring me to my 10 a.m. flight I was told that the first bus leaves at 10:30 a.m. Ooops, minor surprise. After being told several times that there is no alternative bus, eventually after remaining persistent that there must be some way to get to the airport I was told that there is a local bus that leaves from the local bus station. When looking for the local bus station which was a little bit more than a mile away, I was of course once sent in the wrong direction, but thereafter I found the bus station. Next challenge was of course to find the right bus out of a dozen. After asking about a dozen people I had narrowed it down to two buses. With some faith and a third discussion with the guy at the inquiry window I picked the right one which got me to the airport in time.

Educated people, business people, or teenagers from private schools all speak English well and give accurate information if asked. The youngsters even seem to be keen to try their English and show off with their knowledge. The same holds for six to ten year old kids who have English in their elementary classes. They gladly practice the English words they have learned so far.

Communicating with a vendor is a different story. They can greet you in ten different languages. They know the numbers in a couple of languages so that they can communicate their prices. They know enough about geography to befriend you. The typical discussion would start with: 'Where you from? Ahh, you are from Austria. So, you speak German. Capital Vienna, right? Ahh. Nice country. Austria -- nice people. I have very good friend in Austria. I make you very good price on &ltput anything here>. For you as my Austrian friend just &ltput anything here> Rupees.' After this introduction the haggling starts. Despite the fact that these people have most likely never left India they are really good at geography.

Health:

The last night before departure I had to vomit a few times followed by the runs. I didn't think much about it until a month later when the doctors found five viri in my body that I had to fight for four months. That this sickness lasted so long was rather unfortunate. Two flavors of hepatitis and shigella combined can be worse than the medical books describe it. Nonetheless, that should not lessen your fun in India.

Hyderabad:

Interestingly the king of Hyderabad was the richest man in the world until kicked of his pedestal by the king of Brunei. The large diamond that is part of the British Crown Jewels that are locked away somewhere in London came from here and was 'stolen' during the British occupation of India.

Tirupathi:

30,000 people visit this religious center daily on average to pay respect to Lord Venkateshwara who has his eyes closed since his gaze would scorch everything. To deal with all these visitors and to keep the center running 6,000 people work or serve as staff.

Delhi:

Delhi is as polluted as Bangkok, maybe even more. Just a few hours in the city make your eyes hurt and your lungs feel like you are a chain smoker. And that pollution doesn't stop until late at night. As I have noticed before the air pollution puts a ghostly layer of gray over the city at night, like fog.

The walk from Pahar Ganj to Old Delhi was an experience but as unhealthy as inhaling 10 packs of cigarettes. The different professions have their shops on the same street. We wandered through the row of carpenters, plumbers, greeting card resellers, etc. Eventually we ended up at the Fatehpuri Mosque. It was unlit all but on one side. Like those broken down trucks on the highway, it suddenly appeared out of the smog and darkness.

The rickshaw took us back to our hotel area. The scenery or the pulse of the bazaar had changed from the afternoon. The big crowds were gone. The restlessness of the daytime had disappeared.

For hours I wandered around in Old Delhi without being bothered by vendors and without seeing tourists. This proves that there are spots that are not frequented by foreigners. After strolling through narrow streets filled with people I reached the Old Delhi railway station which looks more like a Red Fort imitation than a train station.

One of the last things I saw during my first India vacation was the Red Fort. It didn't strike me as grande as the Agra Fort. Without doubt my senses become dull after having been here for two weeks and having seen so many forts and temples. At this point the Red Fort was just another fort. Only his size and history is outstanding.

The light show in the Red Fort at night is absolutely worth while. The lights are awfully shoddy and the sound has poor quality but the value is the narration of the historic facts from which I learned quite a bit. Among other things it talks about the peacock throne that was once in the Red Fort in Delhi and is now in Iran. A throne made of pure gold set with sapphires, rubies, and the famous Ko-i-noor diamond. Another big diamond that was carries off.

Agra:

It was built around 1,650 by the love crazy Shahjahan when his wife for 17 years bearing 14 children did during child birth. His wife was certainly more important to him as his treasure chest as one can see. When he came up with the idea to build a copy of the Taj in black marble as his own future mausoleum his son had enough of this money spending ruler and through him into prison at the Agra Fort.

When I heard about the precious stones in the Taj I incorrectly thought of sapphires, etc. Not quite right. The white marble is inlayed both on the inside and outside with decorative flowers in semi-precious stones partly from China. Besides the inlays there are also marble carvings on inside and outside The two tombs in the center in the inside are surrounded by beautiful white marble screen work. The voice carries well here. And there are always Indians trying it. Visible from far distances is the passage from the Koran that is inlayed in black marble in an arch shape around the entrance.

Like all 'good' tourists we visited the Taj three times to capture all its different flairs: in the morning, at noon, and in the evening. In the morning we also got the view from the distance from the top of one of the lodges with a restaurant on the forth floor. In the foreground are the non-pleasing shacks where monkeys jump around and all sorts of garbage is visible. In the middle is the Taj in its splendor and the background is formed by a wide brown riverbed and bordering fields. Just before dawn we went down to the river to view the Taj from a different angle. The rising sun gave it a reddish touch. The river was less picturesque with pools of white foam. Nearby is also a ruin with all entries locked off. While we were feasting our eyes on the Taj a muezzin was singing his morning prayer with a rough smoker voice. Tiny patches of fog also drifted across the river hinting at the low temperatures. It was pretty nippy, not to say cold in these morning hours.

Shahjahan spent the last years of his life in prison in the Agra Fort from where you could see the burial place of his wife. This fort turned out to be the most impressive fort I saw in India. Each time you take a turn marvelous views open up. While the Agra Fort is not as famous as the Taj it is equally beautiful in my humble opinion. It offers such a wide variety of great architecture with wonderful perspectives and views. The view of the Taj that is surrounded by morning fog adding mystic to it is one of the best Taj views I have seen.

The fort is a gigantic defensive structure, on of the world's largest. It contains different palaces, a mosque, and all sorts of buildings. Back in the times of the mogul 500 buildings were surrounded by two walls. A stroll through the remaining structures not only exposes architecture but also fauna. Among other animals I watched vultures sitting on cupolas, monkeys dancing on the roofs, and parrots making noise.

While in Agra we lodged in Taj Ganj, the Taj Market area. Harry's became our favorite place for food and his guest book was a source of entertainment with funny and weird comments from guests.

Fatehpur Sikri:

Fatehpur Sikri is called a ghost town. I am not sure why. Maybe it was one in the past. It sure is not a small dead village where the wind blows dust and dead weeds across the dirt road. Today it is a small town where all the kids try to make money as guides in the palaces.

A whole list of tombs, palaces, mosques, and courtyards is open to the public. Many places are beautiful but I thought that the small building with a column that combines Islam, Christianity, and Hinduism was unique. The bottom was a square pillar that represents the Islamic architecture, the middle part was a round column representing the Christian style, which morphed on the top into a Lotus flower standing for the Hinduism. All parts were heavily and beautifully ornamented with delicate carvings. Very nice.

The majority of the buildings were in red sandstone, many with marvelous stone carvings. They even have a copy of the mosque in Mecca here. It is made entirely of white marble with a mausoleum in the center.

Even for those that were tired of sight seeing something was offered: wonderful courtyards with lawns and rose bushes perfect for relaxing and taking a nap.

Gwalior:

The palace on top had great columns with elephants holding the roof. Besides the squirrels I was the only visitor to the archeological museum. When I went inside I thought I saw something moving. Carefully did I walk around until it turned out that it was only a squirrel.

The mosques and temples on the Northern end were partly ruins but still interesting. Like in all great palaces we found outdoor swimming pools, empty and in bad shape of course. Not too many tourists make it here. Hence, we were popular especially with the kids who all shouted 'Hello' and started laughing when we responded.

Orchha:

When we arrived at night many people in the village worked together to find us a place to spend the night as the hotels in the village were completely booked. Not a single room available. The people seemed to be more friendly here than in the big cities. Eventually while we had dinner they found us overflow rooms where we could spend the night. The accommodation was very basic, standard for cheap guest houses: bed, pillows, linen, two water buckets, toilet, light bulb, and fan. I was using a spare mattress as a blanket to keep me from freezing. I felt for the other poor pilgrims outside sleeping in tents and cooking in the stoves they brought.

Just like the room the dinner was basic: thali and tea for 66 cents per person. For breakfast we had parantha bread. After we rubbed the sand out of our eyes we spotted many blackened ruins on our morning stroll. Grass is growing on the neglected temples. In preparation for the festival music was played through loudspeakers on the market place.

Among the visitors and pilgrims still coming into town were many sadhus. They even had a special guest house just for sadhus.

Just a few steps from the village center is the Sheesh Mahal Palace. The door was covered with foot long iron spikes to keep the elephants of enemies out. The view from top of the palace was great. About 30 temples and historic structures litter the vicinity. Extraordinary paintings covered the walls of the chambers of the four queens and the king. Music from the market place is carried across the bridge connecting the palace with the heart of the village.

One can walk on the top of the palace wall. The palace is slowly falling into pieces. The level of destruction under which it is right now has its own charm. At the same time it is not advanced enough to make it unsafe to walk around on the different levels of the palace. Now and then a wall or a stairwell had collapsed but overall it is in good shape.

Part of the palace is used as a hotel with single rooms that were twenty times the cheap rooms in the village. We thought we deserved the pleasure to relax one night here feeling like the former royalty for one night.

One of the key temples is a mix of Hinduism and Islam in style. Most of the temples and palaces in town were built in the 15th century. During that time this must have been a splendid community at the peak of prosperity. Paintings and other elements were added in the 17th century. The only temple not from this period is the modern Rama temple painted in yellow and pink.

One day after lunch we went down to the river. Kids asked me to be on their picture. The bridge was one lane without a railing. While we were right in the middle a bus appeared. Since we knew that there wasn't room for both the bus and us we started running to reach the end before the bus could threaten to throw us into the wet. It was a beautiful day and people come here to the river to wash themselves, their laundry, and in one case their motorcycle. Strolling along the river we hunted for the perfect spot from where to see the temple ruins on the other river side. It was idyllic, quiet, a warm breeze, the river running by, trees in the surrounding and a temple complex with six major buildings just across the 100 foot wide river. Like in most of the temples in town, grass was growing on the cupolas, and vultures used them for their hangout.

As afternoon pastime we walked towards east on the main road in the village. There we started a hike along a loop heading towards some temples we saw in the background. After a short walk through the bushes and crossing a side arm of the river we ended up at the palace wall. The water which was calm and smooth at an edge turned into a small white water. This change from calmness to vigorous movement had its own charm. From there we passed a temple next to a rice field and then end up at the Radhika Bihari Temple which -- as far as I can tell -- is used as a stable. Another temple seems to have been converted into a home for a single woman.

At 7 p.m. the festival started with a free dinner for all in the Rama Temple. Everyone we ran into told us about it. In the courtyard of the temple the people lined up. The crowd elbowing for food had to be controlled by police with wooden sticks as the pushing and shoving became too much. Two different music bands played. A trio with two drummers and a trumpet went wild and a dozen of people sat on the floor singing and playing music with a variety of instruments. Outside the temple the air was filled with smoke since all the poor started burning wood to cook their second meal or to stay warm.

Thousands of people were sitting already at the market place where people had erected a podium on the previous days. Musicians were playing and the distorted sound was carried far by the speakers. The cops -- as soon as they saw us -- escorted us to the front row of the market place right in front of the podium so that we had the best view. Once again foreigners got special treatment; must be part of the Indian hospitality. When we joined the show, a drag queen which I assumed to be Sitar was sitting on the thrown in the back of the stage, one by one more drag queens came on stage and started singing and dancing. Most of them had a set of bells around their legs so even their dancing was musically underlined. After this had repeated itself a few times a real woman came on stage and started an erotic dance not dissimilar with a belly dance. The music as in all Indian celebrations was load, nearly painful. I didn't get to see the end as we moved on to look around in the village again.

At night we went exploring into the Chaturbhuj temple ruin next to the Rama Temple. It was spooky. Pitch dark, and the music roaring from the distant speakers echoed through the halls. Gerhard wisely had his flashlight handy. The ascent to the top lead through a series of steep stairs. A great place for horror movies. When we left the stairs and halls we were some 220 feet above the ground standing next to cupolas and the edge. An unusual feeling. A cold wind blowing, a slightly squeezey feeling in the stomach, excitement, feel of the unusual, and scary.

We slept so-so since we had to listen to Indian disco music at 10 decibel from the little fairground they built for the festival. Another unique experience. At down we were again at the same place that we left at midnight. We watched the sunrise from top of the Chaturbhuj Temple. At day time all the spook is gone and it was solely cold. But standing the cold was rewarded with a good view.

Khajuraho:

Khajuraho is one of the top tourist places. They even built an airport at this small village. Tourists with deep pockets and little time can now fly Delhi-Agra-Khajuraho-Delhi in a single day. Amazing.

The temples are superb examples of Indo-Aryan architecture. One of the temple signs calls some of the friezes 'mastery in rendering the female contours'. It did not exaggerate. These temples are master pieces. They are built around 1000 and depict scenes from elephant fights, mythical lions, gods, and erotic couples, threesomes, and foursomes. In a frieze that seemed to be an exception a sodomistic scene was depicted where onlookers hold their hands in front of their eyes in disgust. The erotic scenes are sort of a 3-D rendering of the Kama Sutra book, a graphical instruction manual.

One of the bigger temples has 872 statues (an English man did the counting for me). Most of the statues are about a meter in height. Once there were hundreds of these temples in the vicinity of this village. Now about three dozen are still around. Pieces of the temple can be found embedded in regular houses in the village. Some statues were used for making roads. In short, these temples partially became cheap and convenient building material.

The Jain temples in the east of the village have pictures and a statue of a nude man in the sanctum. The book even says that some of the active Jain pilgrims celebrate here without fig leaves.

The village has many art and craft stores. No surprise. But it also has a few nice hang-outs. Bars and above all a peaceful park around the main temples where hawking is prohibited. This park formed an island of peace, an escape of 'very cheap, you buy'. But it was only a partial escape. I didn't get to nap because the 'where you from? ... ahh, Australia' didn't stop as I was continuously approached by Indians who wanted to practice their English and were looking for someone to talk to.

Varanasi:

Walking down one of the mayor roads and coming up to the Dasaswamedh Ghat the red sun appeared in front of us. A worthy arrival. We watched the sun rise across the Ganges and how it slowly burned away the haze. Small fog clouds ghostly rose from the cold hardly flowing Ganges. The hawkers pestered us with boat rides but other than that hardly anyone was up. Just a few early birds taking their morning bath.

Varanasi is a holy city, an auspicious place. Here Buddha first spoke publicly about his enlightenment. To die here ensures a direct route to Nirvana. Needless to say that many religious people come here not only on a pilgrimage but also to spend their last days here. The rich get burned and their ashes thrown into the Ganges. Those who cannot afford the wood get wrapped in cloths and thrown into the river that way. It is a bit eerie as the birds and dogs occasionally fight over the corpses.

'Ghats' are the steps leading down to the Ganges. 100 names distinguish the different ghats. Among the most famous ghats are the two 'burning ghats' where corpses are cremated. The one to the west is the new one without flair. The one in the east is the traditional place. Here the expensive cut, dry wood is stacked up everywhere. The dead are carried to the burning ghats in wooden stretchers. Male family members in some cases must cut their mustache and go through other rituals. Kids, pregnant women, people killed by cobra bites, and animals must not be burned according to religion. Instead they are wrapped in clothes, weighed down with a rock and dropped from a boat in the middle of the Ganges. The corpses are wrapped in colorful cloths. Then they are dipped in the Ganga, as the Indians call the Ganges, to wash the body. Meanwhile a pile of wood has been prepared. The corpse is placed on top of the pile. For the ceremonial burning of men golden cloths are added while women are burned in plain clothes. Next, more wood is placed on top. On the very top grass is placed that has been carried around the funeral place five times. The five times are symbolic for the five elements like water, air, etc. The whole thing is set on fire in front of family members, by-standers, watching tourists, and roaming cows. A watchman also looks over the whole scene to make sure no pictures are taken. Wooden barges laden with fire wood are floating in the water. In the background between the temples the hammering and wood cutting noises can be heard. The actual burning is performed by outcasts, people that are so low they don't even belong to a caste. The cost of the funeral, I was told, is Rps 5000 (US$150) which is an average half year salary. As return for all this effort a direct trip into Nirvana is guaranteed.

Nearby the burning ghat are two buildings housing the people that came to die here but can't afford to live here.

The bazaars of Varanasi are never ending. A giant maze. I of course got lost in the narrow streets in Old Town. I was asking for it and sort of expected it. I walked for more than an hour in the narrow lanes. All directions look the same, all alleys are alike, pan wallahs on each corner, chai sellers in the streets, silk products in the displays, there was nothing distinct to be used as marker. I had to ask a cop to find my way back.

Besides the markets the only other attraction are the ghat. We took a sunrise boat trip down to the Asi Ghat, the southernmost ghat. All ghats are holy. But interestingly, some places are holier than holy. Don't ask me how that should be interpreted. This morning I also saw dead cow floating in the water. That reminds me of the smell. Along the Ganges the air could be bad. The smell of rotten corpses and burned meat from the cremations hung occasionally in the air.

Our hotel room was central and nice. Central also meant close to the main burning ghat. When the wind turned we got a whiff. From the balcony we could watch the kids fly kites. A half sunken temple was right in front of our hotel room and above all we had a great Ganges view. Instead of a TV we had monkeys play on our balcony.

Conclusion:

Like the wheel, symbol of India and often used as a reference by Mahatma Gandhi, my life will roll on. We will see where it will bring me next.