Varanasi

It claims to be the oldest living city in the world, and although its buildings have been destroyed and rebuilt over and again, it feels as old as time itself. A pilgrimage to Varanasi (or Benares as it was once known) and its Shiva temple that marks the spot on the banks of the ‘mother’ Ganga River where heaven meets earth is essential in every devout Hindu’s life, and the most holy place for them to die. 

Our guesthouse peeps over the Ganges from Meer Ghat, less than 100 metres from the main Dasaswamedh ghat upstream, where worshippers come from all over India to bathe in the morning and pray in the evening, with the burning Manikarnika ghat about the same distance downstream, where the dead are cremated. 

Bernard had decided to fly from Bombay to join us for two days in Varanasi before his flight from Delhi home, and our first morning we took a dawn boatride rowed by the surprisingly capable and cheerful pre-prubescent Vicky. 

One humid night we were awoken by one of the city’s frequent powercuts (or "now light gone sir" as they would inform us in our guesthouse), and in the sweaty moments before the generator rescued us from cooking in our bed we became sleepily aware of a spooky sound. A grimly repetitive bell toll followed by a mass chanting straight out of the history books heralded a funeral procession through the streets towards the burning ghat. We had been told that the ghat was ’24 hour’, but we still wondered what kind of funeral occurs in the dead of night, and were somewhat disturbed by the images our excited imaginations conjured up.

The next day we crept fearfully up to the burning ghat, filled with dread and the knowledge that photography was ‘strictly forbidden’ and that women were not allowed on its ash piled steps – for fear that they may commit sati (throw themselves on their husband’s funeral pyre), a practice outlawed by the British. 

From what we thought a respectful distance we watched in fascinated horror the wiry figures raking the smouldering ashes around a bright burning corpse, beneath cloistered towers filled with the relatives of the deceased. As we turned to leave, overwhelmed by the heat of the midday sun and the gruesome scene before us, a man in a white salwar kameez appeared from nowhere and confronted Gill with the charge that he had been taking illegal photos with the camera slung around his neck and demanded money. We refuted the claim, but suddenly another man, dressed in filthy rags, bounded nimbly over the eerie landscape like a nightmarish golum character towards us. This second creature was less diplomatic and there ensued an astonishing pantomime of good versus evil, as the two men appeared to quarrel over how severely these intruders should be treated. Golum was raging, waving his scrawny arms wildly and insisting that if we did not pay 1000 rupees then he would summon the grieving family and they would attack us for our affront, or simply smash the offending camera onto the burning pyre. I started to walk away dismissively and Bernard tried to calm the situation whilst insisting we should not have to pay.

Gill threw a worried and uncertain look over the man’s head and I responded with the plea that we had done nothing wrong, and that we should just be able to leave. The man turned towards me with startling alacrity, fixed me with a malevolent stare, and hissed through small red tinged teeth that I should keep quiet or we would "all three be crying later", emphasised by a decisive jet of paan juice that landed squarely before my feet in a blood-red splat. Recoiling in horror in the face of this otherworldly spectre, and remembering tales of brutal mob justice we realised that we had better pay the ‘fine’ and skedaddle, rather than contest the issue. Another threat directed at the precious D80 had Gill reaching for his pocket and the matter was settled. 

Later, although sore over the injustice, we joked about the bizarre scenario and it seemed to be soon forgotten. By bedtime however, I realised I was actually rather shaken by the episode and visions of shadowy ‘body burners’ coming to fetch us in our sleep, to an imaginary jangling of bells, haunted an uneasy night.

We’ve settled on a regular hangout, a German bakery with wicked cappuccinos and impressive bread and cheese selection. The Nepali chef sometimes escapes the heat of the kitchen to sit and shyly chat with us. He has been working ‘the season’ every year for 10 years and hopes that next year will be his last. We asked him why he didn’t like Varanasi, apart from the heat, and he replied – in hushed tones – that it was a dangerous place, with "many gangs and too much shootings". Later, the two of us mused darkly that it would be an ideal place for Mafiosi to make people "disappear", what with the perpetual burning of bodies, and suddenly the charming old town took on a rather more sinister aspect. 

Don’t get me wrong, we find Varanasi fascinating and there is a twisted beauty to the cow and beggar infested cobbled narrow lanes, dimmed by the shadows of dilapidated houses that appeals to the quixotic sense of adventure that makes us love India, but there is an unmistakable air of menace to the place that can be unsettling.

Gokul, the chef, gave us his contact details in Kathmandu and we promised to get in touch if we were still there in June – when he is due to return home – and he would take us on a hike (or "running up mountains" as he curiously described it).

In Varanasi I was reading The Age of Kali by William Darymple, a diverse collection of incisive and groundbreaking essays on surviving cultures, from the ancient to the bizarre, that really opens up your narrow tourist view of India.

Dharamsala

In 1959 a failed uprising against the occupying Chinese drove the Dalai Lama and 1000s of Tibetans from their holy land, to seek refuge in this mountainous region of Himachel Pradesh. With the very beginning of the snow-capped Himalaya range on the horizon, Dharamsala became the seat of the Tibetan government in exile.

Our knowledge of Tibetan history had only extended as far as ‘Seven Years in Tibet’ (the film with Brad Pitt, not even the book), until we researched their cause in preparation for our trip. The story is a heartrending one, with the Chinese coming out as the villains who destroyed hundreds of years of cultural heritage, burned a thousand monasteries and temples, and slaughtered around a million monks.

His Holiness the Dalai Lama himself is well known for advocating a peaceful resolution with the Chinese government, and condemns violent action by his people. The Chinese claim that he is a cunning mastermind of a terrorist organisation, even going as far to suggest a link with Al Qaeda, is preposterous.

McCleod Gange, the Dalai Lama’s residence and where we stayed for over a week, is a pretty mountain village with more of a Tibetan than Indian feel. We thought we were entering another country, and since we had just learnt that the Tibetan border had been closed, we were glad to experience this taste of such a rich ancient culture, in case it doesn’t reopen before the Olympics. Although he was home, we didn’t manage to see the Dalai Lama whilst we were there. Bernard glimpsed him arriving home in his car the morning we arrived and was told this was very rare.

Unfortunately the main reason why we spent so long in McCleod was because we were both ill with colds from the sudden change in climate. We did manage to meet up with Henry (from the camel trek) and his girlfriend Yfatt a couple of times, and made some new friends at a wicked little restaurant with loungy seating called Carpe Diem, which became our local hangout. Someone always got out a guitar and sang, and the Nepali crew was brilliant at remembering everyone’s names. Definitely one to keep out of the Lonely Planet. Apart from that I’m afraid we didn’t get up to much worth reporting. The sight of rolling hills and snowy peaks tantalised us from our balcony, and many people we met had climbed up and were rewarded with awesome views, but we were never strong enough and the weather turned rainy and cold by the time we had finally recovered.

It was interesting to see how the Tibetans lived outside of Tibet. Unlike in their home country there were plenty of reminders of their continuing struggle. Hunger strikes, student rallies and banners proclaiming the injustice and protesting against the ‘Celebration of Human Rights Violation” that is the Olympics were visible everywhere, in amongst the fluttering prayer flags. Every night a solemn candle procession walked around the main square, led by chanting monks in their red robes. I just hope the world listens to them and boycotts China until they reach an agreement; Olympic glory be damned.

Rishikesh

It was in Rishikesh that I made the annoying discovery that, although he’d never had a single lesson, Gillie was actually better at yoga than me. From my swot’s position at the front of the class I assumed that Gill and Bernard were larking about at the back, until I turned to see the natural yogi balanced in a perfect tree pose, with a look of complete shanti his face, whilst I wobbled precariously on one leg.

Apart from yoga the only other thing to do in Rishikesh is white-water rafting down the torrential Ganges. Close to the Himalayan source of this sacred River, Rishikesh serves up its water ice cold. But until we leapt off the boat to float downstream in our lifejackets we hadn’t realised just how cold. Once in the water the three of us quickly drifted away from the boat and further ahead at an alarming rate. The three boatmen took their time coming to reach us, so by then the initial thrill had subsided and been replaced by almost complete extremity numbness. The trip was great fun though with plenty of “woowoo”-ing down some of the steeper rapids, and a lot of floating – not too much paddling.

We drifted past a couple of beaches, one with bikinied tourists spread out on the white sand in the baking hot sun, with the obligatory crew of Indian photographers sneaking illicit ictures with their mobile phones.

The next day we set out upriver on a mission to top out our faded Goa tans. The first beach we came to had relatively calm water, but the police shooed us away, telling us a Finnish guy had drowned there two days before. The second beach seemed to have much stronger currents rushing around rocks, but nobody had died there recently so we were allowed to swim there. Despite a sign advising ‘no bikinis’ there were several girls making the utmost of the scorching sun, so after some deliberation I positioned myself strategically between two groups of sun-worshippers (hidden from the paparazzi) and lapped up my first taste of the sun on my skin since Goa. The water was too cold except for an extremely quick dip between baking sessions, and we only stayed in the midday heat for about 2 hours, like true mad dogs and Englishmen (and one South African).

We were accompanied back to ‘town’ by a sweet young Israeli girl who was travelling alone, to whom I asked the same question I always ask of such girls – how did she find travelling alone? She said she found it “interesting” and laughed ironically. But, like the others she agreed that in India one is never alone for long. I am utterly impressed by these solo female travellers, as I don’t know if I could cope alone in a country like India. Even when I pop out without Gill to the shop I receive a barrage of male attention ranging from uncomfortable stares to blatant proposition.

One lunchtime, in the German Bakery on the other side of the river, we met an Australian Billy Bob Thornton! He was on the table next to us, with an English girl we’d seen on the train to Rishikesh a few days before. They were both staring at a glass of water with a strange retro white plastic LED box balanced on its rim, with two silver rods protruding down into the water. As they seemed quite mesmerised by this contraption, so were we, until Bernard’s curiosity got the better of him and he asked what it was. The dude then laconically explained, with much deliberation and careful musing, that it was a silver ioniser that emitted a small electrical charge to dispel the precious metal from the rods into the water – guaranteed to cure any ailment. Indeed we could see trails of silver tracing into the water. His friend had given it to him as a leaving present. Bernard the entrepreneur could see an opportunity in this bizarre theory, and liked the sound of the dude’s friend - the mad inventor who never marketed his inventions, and the two of them swapped contact details.
When the girl had drunk her magic potion the dude sloped off with a casual wave, across the suspension bridge, with an Om sarong wrapped around his head. This guy was seriously cool – we really liked the cut of his jib.