Bad me milenge

600 Rs. and 35$ is what I needed to cross the border. The 600 were for the bus to Sunauli, a breakfast consisting of an omelet, toast and a chai, a night sleep in the Nepali side of Sunauli and another bus to Pokhara.

Left Varanasi about 2 hours late. Too many people in a little uncomfortable bus for a 10 hour ride. I got to the bus station on a rickshaw which I shared with Shannon, an Israeli woman. Once my rucksack was safe in the back of the bus, I proceeded to get in the bus to see the inside fully packed. Tourists mixed up with a bunch of rude south Indian business men was indeed an interesting image. Tourist politeness has no limits it seems. The Indians had occupied seats that weren't theirs and no complain was given by any single tourist, instead, they managed to seat were they could. By the time I had got in the bus, I wasn't aware of any of this, so I asked 3 Israeli how did the seat numbers worked out, pointing me to a piece of paper in the window that separated the driver form the passengers.

The Israeli girl was sitting in my seat. "I think that's my seat" I said. "Well, seat somewhere else" was her response. There were many ways to answer to my statement, that was not the way. The response itself wasn't all, the rudeness in it, probably due to her hard Israeli accent, probably due to simple rudeness and ignornce of politeness, made me furious. It was the second time in India I had lost it. At least this time it wasn't with an innocent rickshaw driver.

A little notice of buses in India. You want to sit in the front. The bumps and the curves of the unconditioned Indian roads are more noticeable in the back. It was a 10 hour ride and I had no intention to sit in the back. So with a surge of hate I claimed my seat.

"What?" My face was a shock, I couldn't believe what I had just heard, even more, I couldn't believe the tone of what I had just heard. "Why do I have to look for another place? You get another place!" I demanded. At that point, no explanation was going to make me chill out. Did I have an Israeli issue there? Would I have reacted different were they not Israeli? Maybe. Perhaps. The thing is that I reacted as I reacted. I wasn't coherent. I had had enough of Israelis in the past week and was fed up with their attitude. One of the guys explained me the situation, something they should probably said from the beginning instead of giving such an answer. They were also shocked by my reaction. After a while of criticizing Israelis in general, I realized I didn't care of that seat anymore. They weren't going to give it to me, and I didn't feel like sitting next to an Israeli anyway, so I ended sitting in the only available space at the end of the bus, right next to a fat Indian guy that occupied his seat and half of mine. It seemed as it was going to be the worst ride of my life.

But it wasn't. I mean, it didn't ended up being good, but it wasn't as bad as it looked. Actually, it seemed in a point as it was going to be the most comfortable trip I had ever had in India. Let me explain. All the Indians were taken out of the bus to be put in another bus. We thought we were going to be left in that bus, so they were plenty of free spaces. An illusion that didn't last long. Soon enough we had to get down, get our bags, and change bus. While the Indians were taken to a smaller but more comfortable bus, we were stuck in a wrecked bus with smaller seats. No free spaces in this one. And so I shared the trip with an old hippy English guy fond of playing the bass guitar and of jazz music. Smart enough, the guy was prepared with some "bang" out of which I had some, and indeed made the trip a bit more pleasant.

We end up at Sunauli at past eleven. Everyone was asleep. The town looked totally of what a border town should look like at night. No activity. We went to the Indian post to wake up the guards. Hard work. Once fully awake, the guard recover his cleverness and before handing us any papers to fill out or accepting any passport, he sits comfortably in his sit, with his fat stomach protruding onto his lap, and his face changes into a malice grim. "I help you, you help me. 10 Rupees each." he bursts out. Some protest, guess who. But quick enough, a Kiwi guy interrupts the protests with a "Oh just pay the god damn money". I mean, come on, it's almost 12 in the night, we still have to deal with the Nepali guards, and it's only 10 Rs we have to pay. It could have been worse. It was my first baksheesh in India. Curiously to get out of the country. Almost!

The rest of the crossing went on with normality. A short night sleep that would take us straight to a bus to Pokhara. A tourist bus that seemed more like a local bus, as it kept on stopping everywhere getting more passengers every now and then, and packing up the bus until the point some people decided to finish the rest of the trip on the roof. Yes, that is possible.

Crossing the border had not been a comfortable experience. My first insights of Nepal weren't being attractive. I just wanted to get to Kathmandu and renew my Visa. I was confused and frustrated. I was at a loss and I missed India.

We can't tell the future, or at least I can't. And I couldn't dream on how everything was going to change. But at the moment, I could only think on going back to a country I had already started to love. Love it's people, it's colors, it's sensations, it's variety, it's odors, it's dynamics, everything. The Indian heart and it's nature, full of love. I couldn't say goodbye, I could only say see you later, cause I was going back. 

Bad me milenge!

A city around life

Washing ghats, bathing ghats and burning ghats. Varanassi is a city of creation, learning, living and death. Early in the morning tons of people get in the Holy River, the Ganga, and take their daily bath.

The Ganga is born in Uttaranchal, one of the most beautiful states of India. It flows along the north until its end at Calcutta. It is a beautiful river, and when you see it at Varanassi, at Rishikesh, when you see it at it's formation, you can guess why would it be chosen as the holiest river in the world. Unfortunately, it is also one the most contaminated rivers in the world, and myself, would not consider at all getting any part of my body in it. But Indians in Varanassi live their lives around the River.

Among their daily activities, they wash their clothes there. They wash their animals, their Holy animals. And they wash themselves. Working next to the river is a usual thing for different kinds of vendors. Boat riders, postcard sellers, chai stalls or flower sellers for the daily pooja depend on the river and its everyday visitors, tourists and believers from every part of the vast country.

As the holiest city in India, the pooja is celebrated everyday at 6:00 p.m. A ceremony that takes about an hour and is performed at the main ghat, the Dasaswamedh Ghat. Incense intoxicates your nostrils and covers the place with a dim gray air, while young men perform the ritual in sweaty tired faces. Meanwhile, totally unaware of the importance of the act, you run around the place taking photos of everything that moves, or just sit and watch the show. Because, that is the sensation I got of it. A mere tourist show, with colorful lights and nice costumes. Whatever the pooja was, I have the feeling it has been forgotten years ago.

Not far away, at the Manikarnika Ghat, another ritual takes place. Something not as beautiful, but equally significant. Something that can be even repulsive or perverse. The ritual of death. It's the burning ghat, where Indians go to die and get burned according to their believes. Logs and logs of wood are piled up in the ghat, behind the ghat, and in front of the ghat, in the boats that transport it from other regions of India. The smell is not appealing and the sight is not apt for all stomachs. But not everyone is burned. Pregnant women, kids under 10 or Sadhus can't be burned according to tradition. Their bodies are thrown directly to the river and can be found along its edge some kilometers away. Should you go to the other side, hidden in the white sandy beaches terrible images might appear. And altogether is surrounded by terrifying stories.

And back along the ghats, babas and sadhus flood the place with their colorful poojas on their fronts, remembering again a colorful India. And after a walk, you can see that the Sadhus with their conversations, sellers with their contact with tourists, tourist with their contact with locals, believers after their bath and their pooja, and even the animals, have learned a little bit more of the music of life.

Bad luck or bad choices

Sometimes, when you travel alone, you are destined to keep on that way, alone. You can't control all the odds around you, so the choices we make along the trip might get us to were we want to be, or not. They might make us feel good, or just a bit more lonely than we already are. What makes us strong however, is how well do we endure those lonely times. After my time in Bundi relating mainly with Indians, I was fond of some tourist company.

My runny nose on my arrival to Varanassi was followed by a slight fever that kept me in bed most of the three following days. Not feeling good enough to step outside the bustling city, my few excursions were only to go to the Internet and nearby restaurants to eat.

My guest house was right next to the main street, but far away from the tourist beat. Not really far away, but not in it. I depended mainly on the people I could get to meet on the streets, restaurants and my own guest house. But as I said, I didn't make a good choice in choosing it.

90% of the guests there were Israelis. That fact automatically prevents you from making any relationship within the hotel. You might try as hard as you want, but if you don't speak Hebrew, forget about it. They'll acknowledge you, but ignore you. Why would they want to talk with someone of another country if they feel in their own country when surrounded by their people? The only other foreigner I got to see was American, and he just wanted to be alone. So the only choice in meeting people was in restaurants.

The restaurants nearby weren't really crowded with foreigners, and it wasn't until I recovered from my cold that I discovered the tourist beat. It was in the Old City. The area I had discarded for two reasons. Jimmy, and eighteen year old Indian boy I met in Kudle beach recommended the Assi area, and the Lonely Planet didn't precisely recommend the Old City area, so it made sense. What a huge mistake!

Once discovered, I spent most of my time between the ghats and one of the restaurants, one of the many German Bakery's. There I wrote, I draw and I observed the people coming in and out. The usual costumers and the first timers, the foreign tourists and the Indians, the hippy dressed and "normal" dressed. The street outside was busy, not as much for the quantity of passers by, but for the narrowness of the street. Carts, motorbikes, cows, water buffalo's, tourists and locals tried to get their way, sometimes jamming the shaded streets for a couple of minutes.

But still there I wasn't lucky in the action of meeting people. I relied on getting seated with other loners as me, but generally couples seated. On one occasion I tried to make conversation with a Japanese couple. Extremely complicated. Their English was really bad. So I generally consumed my time, and myself, on drawing. Sometimes, actually, ignoring those who seated with me at the table.

I remember a night I invited to the table a couple of Spanish girls and an Argentinian man. Conversation was fluent and interesting. The guy from Argentina was dressed as a Baba. He had long dirty dreads and a dense grey and black beard. He called himself an artist, selling things wherever he went. His next destination was Italy. One of the things that shocked me the most was his stubbornness when talking about image. His image, is well-known, isn't liked in westernized countries. In his own country, he said, people look at him with repugnance. And he talks energetically and repudiates the high concept of the image in these countries. He felt good and safe in India. But he didn't realize, and didn't want to realize, for more I insisted, that he was using his image to feel that way. He depended on his image to survive in India without a coin. He got in trains for free, or got food and beverages from other Indians, just because they venerate him as a Baba. What he looked like. His tanned skin was obviously an advantage. Babas, saddhus or Holy men are at the center of Indian spirituality. They don't work, and hardly have any possessions. People give them money, food, or whatever they need. They are the wise men in Indian religion. It's amazing how hypocrites can we get to be. Repudiate a concept when it doesn't favour us, but ignore it when it plays to our advantage. How far away was this guy from the image he was giving. A kid was definitely wiser than him, at least if it's for the innocence a kid see things.

So days past by, without any new interesting acquaintances, until the time to go to Nepal.

A ride in the track lanes II

7:30 a.m. - I arrive to the Nizamuddin Railway Station, 3 kilometers from the New Delhi Railway Station. I start conversation with a foreign couple looking puzzled at a map. They had just arrived to India that morning, and were heading to Rajasthan from that station later on the day. They were there just to know where the station was, though, they had no clue where they were. So the three of us head outside for a rickshaw driver. They were heading to Connaught Place and I was heading to New Delhi Station, so I bargained a rickshaw for the three of us.

It was a hard bargaining. I wanted to pay only 30 Rs. He wanted 100. We ended up paying 60 because the other couple went for it. So they payed ended up paying 40 Rs. asking me if it was enough. Of course it was, I was going further away. I felt as if I was ripping them off 10 Rs.

Once in the station, I wanted to double check on my train ticket. It was just a printed piece of paper. It wasn't a complete sheet, it had been cut from the middle. The face of "What the fuck were you thinking of" when they saw my torn paper said I needed the whole sheet. So I start to panic. I had paid 500 Rs. for that ticket. I call Immy and tell him to send me the whole ticket to my email account. They try, but nothing comes out. After several unsuccessful tries, I gave up and decide to get in the train with what I had.

At 15:15 I get in the train. A fat guy with what appeared to be a mixture between a burlesque and a grotesque face started conversation with me. It was a long trip, so I had to keep it on. The worst thing you can have in long journeys are enemies. So just try to be always nice and patient. He offered me peanuts, and I took them. Only 5 minutes later a group of people sat in front of me and also started conversation. One of the first things one of the guys tells me is: "Don't accept food or drinks from anyone." I knew this. I've always known this. Tourists travelling alone have been robbed of all their belongings after they accepted a drink or food that would put them to sleep. I was starting to relax, to get confident. My experience in Bundi had served just right, or maybe the other way round. I was back in India, and I felt comfortable with it, more than I had felt in my almost two months in Goa and surroundings. On that train, on that moment, I realized I was going to miss it, I was going to miss India on my stay in Nepal. The rest of the trip went on, with new faces coming and going until a whole family occupied the rest of my compartment with bundles and bodies of kids and grown ups.

I had been reading about Varanassi in my Lonely Planet. I was getting freaked out. I had just read the "Dangers and annoyances". If you don't really want to go there, just read that section and your mind will be cleared on not going. No doubt at all. But I was already going. I had to go. I wanted to go. It couldn't be that bad.

And finally, after a 16 hour journey I arrived to Varanassi at 7:30 a.m. The train had been too cold. Not even my sleeping back was enough. I had a runny nose that came from my journey from Kota to Delhi and that would keep on with me for the next 3 days in Varanassi.

I stepped out of the train thinking I would find thousands of Indians trying to get me into a hotel, a taxi or a rickshaw. I was ready for the battle. But only one person came. He got me to the Pre-Paid rickshaw stand and I paid 70 Rs. There was nothing to bargain, nothing to argue. That seem too peaceful for me despite of what the guide said.

Finally, after checking out three guest houses near the Assi Ghat I stayed at the worst option possible. Staying near the Assi Ghat had been already a bad decision. But I would not know about that until later on. However, before going for a decent sleep I had some breakfast on the rooftop, where I talked with an Indian guy working in Zurich as a waiter and visiting the Holy city on holidays. Strange I thought. But that was just a preview of what Varanassi can get to be. Actually, that was insignificant to what Varanassi really is.

At 9:20, finally, I go to sleep.

A ride in the track lanes I

8:30 a.m.
"Knock, knock."
"Yes?" My sleepy voice said.
"Hot water."

Hot water on a bucket. My 100 Rs. room hat hot water on a bucket, but it had to be delivered to my room before 9:00 a.m. Otherwise, there was no more hot water as electricity didn't come back until 5 p.m. So more than once my door was knocked at 8:30 when I would start my days at Bundi.

My last day in Bundi, I wanted to take a hot shower before my long trip to Varanassi. On my arrival to Kota I tried to get a train directly to Varanassi, but it was impossible. There was only one train a week to do that journey, and it was on Friday's. So it was either too early or too late to get it. My solution was to get a train to Delhi, which I booked directly at the Kota train station. Unfortunately, I couldn't book a train there from Delhi to Varanassi, and the girl wasn't being very helpful anyway. So I didn't even asked about the possibility.

Once in Bundi I managed to book a train from Delhi to Varanassi through an agency. It turned out to be a total rip-off, but what to do? I could have tried to book it on my own through the Internet, but I went for the easy and sure option. I liked the guys that had sold me the ticket, they were honest, as honest as an Indian businessman can be, but the guy that actually booked the ticket, oh, I didn't liked him nor his expensive commission of 200 Rs. The excuse given was the use of Internet and telephone calls. What was he thinking, that I was new in India? I resigned though, cause I thought it was too late to try it for myself. Should've tried it for myself on the first place.

The day went on slowly talking with the guy from the grocery store and many of his friends who invited me to chai and some snack I can't recall it's name, Immy and Tanny from the Internet place, Deepak, whose mom did the best rice I've ever tasted in India, Yug and other artists, and at Ringo's Restaurant playing Carom.

Immy advised me to leave at about 7:30 p.m. And at about that time I was saying goodbye to all my new friends. Indian friends, not a single tourist. On my way to get a rickshaw I bumped into J.P. whom I'd met at Ringo's. I didn't trust him, but he was fun to be around. He was learning Spanish from a notebook he had and practiced with it whenever he was with me. From his talk I would say he was a trickster. He said he owed money to his friends, all of them tourists. He dressed and acted as a tourist wearing a backpack wherever he went. Immy talked about him with a bit of disdain.

I finally get to bargain a rickshaw for 20 Rs. to go to the bus stand. Once in Kota I bargain a rickshaw for 30 Rs. to go to the train station. They laugh at me, or with me, I can't tell. Again they wanted 60 Rs. but I wasn't up to paying more than what I had payed for the same journey on my arrival to Kota. And I won again.

9:00 p.m. - I'm waiting outside the train station for a train that is not leaving until 11:40 p.m. eating some biscuits and smoking my rolls.

10:30 p.m. - My train is delayed 40 minutes.

10:50 p.m. - A kid asks for money while I talk with an Indian fellow who is going to Delhi in a train that leaves in front of my bored face. The kid keeps on asking until he gets bored and punches my arm. I don't even bother about it.

11:30 p.m. - I go outside to smoke more cigarettes and more snacks.

12:20 a.m. - I go inside to wait. I'm the only tourist in the whole station. I get stared, talked about, but I can't say what they are saying. I think to myself how important it is to learn the foreign language and I promise to myself I'm going to study again my Hindi notes. I didn't, at least in Varanassi.

12:30 a.m. - My train is delayed 10 more minutes. I don't know where to look, how to sit, what to do.

1 a.m. - I finally leave to Delhi coldly cuddled in my sleeping bag, one eye asleep, one in my belongings.

One photo

There are some phrases Indians learn by heart. "Name?", "Which country?", "Are you married?", "Boyfriend/Girlfriend?" are the interrogative ones. "School pen.", "Rupees."or "Chocolate." are the demanding ones, and usually said by kids.

As I have said, there is nothing much to do in Bundi. A couple of palaces and bazaars are it's main attractions. But for some time now, I've been searching for something else that I can't find in it's temples, palaces, bazaars and castles. I've been searching for that part of their lives specially dedicated to Indians. So against logical safety advices, which I think are nonsense, I venture myself into the residential areas, as I did in Udaipur, Diu or Bundi.

Adults usually look at you with a weary eye, but kids, their open hearts and interested innocent minds, run to you pronouncing all those demanding sentences I listed before. But, if they see you with a camera on your hands, they will forget all those phrases, and ask directly for "One photo". Young and adults indistinctively. A photo you have to show them once you have done it. Sometimes they get a bit aggressive, and you have to straighten them up before you show it. Too many hands try to grab you camera at the same time, it turns into chaos if there are too many. Sometimes they give you their address so that you post them the picture taken. I still have to post a couple.

Their poses are many. From postures taken out of their favorite Hindi movies to the strangest face they can put, twisting their faces in ways I find impossible, or with the saddest face imaginable. In these cases, I generally wait a lot until they laugh about the situation and loose concentration on the picture that's being taken. Those, I think, are the best. Sometimes I do a stupid face myself so that they can laugh.

Unfortunately, I'm not too good at taking pictures of people, but I'm working on it. I think this defect might come because I'm really not too good with people. I am harsh when I have to be soft, and say things in too a clear way that I end up offending those I love and care about. My mouth generally goes faster than my brain, without realizing I'm hurting my family and friends. However, they are always there, and I'm grateful for their patience and love.

Carom

20 chips, 10 black and 10 white. 1 red chip, a big white one and a squared board with four holes at each corner. The Indian pool. As in pool, you use the big white chip to move the other ones into the 4 holes. All 21 black, white and red chips start at a circle drawn in the middle. Each side of the board has a line from where you will throw, with your fingers, the big white chip.

There are variations on how to play the game. The way I spend hours and hours playing in Bundi consisted on getting as many chips in the holes, either white or black. Black chips were worth 10 points whereas white chips were worth 20, and the red one 50 points. Condition was that if you got the red one in one of the holes, you were obliged to put another chip in on your next shot. If you didn't get one in, the red chip would go back into the center of the board. Same would happen if any chip would be thrown out of the board. When the big white chip gets into a whole, we had to put back in the board a 10 point chip. You could get change if you only had 20 point chips.

At the end, if the red chip is one of two chips remaining in the board, and you get the other chip in first, you loose all your chips putting them back in the board.

Having finished the first round, you can play again, but only betting the lowest amount won by one of the players, i.e. the amount of the player with less points. And so on until one of the players has all the chips.

An easy game were skill is necessary, but that it's gained with practice. I played this game several times at Ringo's restaurant with locals and foreigners. Locals were harder to beat.

I remember all this Tibetans playing this game constantly at a shack back in Mc Leod Ganj. I wondered why, and now I understand. I wanted to play and play. In many cases, people bet money. I had already lost money playing poker, and I wasn't up to loosing more. But I have to buy this game!