First morning waking up in Varanasi, the holy city. Thus far, the chaotic city. From the train station to the guesthouse anyway. Far too exhausted upon arrival to do much else but check in, drink a bhang lassi and go to bed at 7:00. Almost restful aside from the assault of mosquitos, something Rishikesh lacked. Swatting them in the dark and finding my hands covered in blood when I got up this morning.
If not my heart, than my mind (or maybe vice versa) still rests in Luxman Jhula. Three weeks there established a "home" that I miss dearly.
My last day spent with my friend Dane from the Whiteaker Hostel days who arrived as I was leaving. The only rainy day I've had in India. We made the rounds from cafe to cafe drinking too much coffee, smoking and enjoying "American" dialog. My own bad feelings relating to the way my brief Australian fling ended recurring often. Eventually arranging to meet with Larissa before I left. A chai and a slice of pie on The Babylon Rooftop together, sharing affections and "no regrets". Funny, despite the troubles and brevity that I miss her. And grabbing my load, I left all that familiarity. Caught a tok tok down the hill, a bus down the valley and found my way into the Haridwar train station. Indians sleeping everywhere on the ground, rubish and debris carelessly heaped about. No english speaking officials in the ticket window. The machine gun sporting guard only able to gesture "5" when I asked for Varanasi platform. And so I wait on a bench. Clutching my gear and trying my best to read, it's so dark and distracting. I'm joined shortly by a turban wearing, armed station guard who sits beside me and strikes up friendly conversation in very broken english as his assault rifle casually lay across his lap pointed at my knee. He said I must be bored and lonely with no one speaking my language.
"Not yet". Considering the excellent cover of chatting kindly with the guard, I'd wished I hadn't gotten rid of my lump of hashish. For two full hours he ignored his task to tell me about the Punjab region and ask about my thoughts on God and India. He was very impressed to meet an American who doesn't eat meat. And once boarding began for the train he asked for my information so he can find me on facebook.
Finally 11:30 I'm on my train, bag chained to the seat. Sharing my 3AC compartment with a kindly Indian family who immediately offer to get off the shared bench that doubles as my bed so I can get to sleep. The night punctuated by starts and stops, grinds and screeches. Somehow very restful. And a morning spent chatting with the 16 year old daughter as father eyed suspiciously her devoted attention to my stories of the great American west.
And only two hours late, we arrive in Varanasi. I'm tired, hungry and anxious to check into a room and sprawl out. Not patient to haggle I am less than enthusiastic with the tok tok driver (the legendary scammers of Varanasi station) as I ask for Assi ghat and refuse his attempts to find out which guesthouse I'm seeking. Remembering my Oregon friends mention of staying at the Om Home, I head straight there. I'm shown a dingy though large room with private bath (hole in floor and water faucet) and hot water. Drop my bags, lock the door and check in. Maybe it's dehydration or the million little cups of instant coffee I had on the train but my head hurts and I just want to close my eyes. Of course, I quickly walked down to the ghat first. Gave myself a taste of why I'd come and then found my way to a disturbed itchy nights rest. And here I am. Good morning!
If not my heart, than my mind (or maybe vice versa) still rests in Luxman Jhula. Three weeks there established a "home" that I miss dearly.
My last day spent with my friend Dane from the Whiteaker Hostel days who arrived as I was leaving. The only rainy day I've had in India. We made the rounds from cafe to cafe drinking too much coffee, smoking and enjoying "American" dialog. My own bad feelings relating to the way my brief Australian fling ended recurring often. Eventually arranging to meet with Larissa before I left. A chai and a slice of pie on The Babylon Rooftop together, sharing affections and "no regrets". Funny, despite the troubles and brevity that I miss her. And grabbing my load, I left all that familiarity. Caught a tok tok down the hill, a bus down the valley and found my way into the Haridwar train station. Indians sleeping everywhere on the ground, rubish and debris carelessly heaped about. No english speaking officials in the ticket window. The machine gun sporting guard only able to gesture "5" when I asked for Varanasi platform. And so I wait on a bench. Clutching my gear and trying my best to read, it's so dark and distracting. I'm joined shortly by a turban wearing, armed station guard who sits beside me and strikes up friendly conversation in very broken english as his assault rifle casually lay across his lap pointed at my knee. He said I must be bored and lonely with no one speaking my language.
"Not yet". Considering the excellent cover of chatting kindly with the guard, I'd wished I hadn't gotten rid of my lump of hashish. For two full hours he ignored his task to tell me about the Punjab region and ask about my thoughts on God and India. He was very impressed to meet an American who doesn't eat meat. And once boarding began for the train he asked for my information so he can find me on facebook.
Finally 11:30 I'm on my train, bag chained to the seat. Sharing my 3AC compartment with a kindly Indian family who immediately offer to get off the shared bench that doubles as my bed so I can get to sleep. The night punctuated by starts and stops, grinds and screeches. Somehow very restful. And a morning spent chatting with the 16 year old daughter as father eyed suspiciously her devoted attention to my stories of the great American west.
And only two hours late, we arrive in Varanasi. I'm tired, hungry and anxious to check into a room and sprawl out. Not patient to haggle I am less than enthusiastic with the tok tok driver (the legendary scammers of Varanasi station) as I ask for Assi ghat and refuse his attempts to find out which guesthouse I'm seeking. Remembering my Oregon friends mention of staying at the Om Home, I head straight there. I'm shown a dingy though large room with private bath (hole in floor and water faucet) and hot water. Drop my bags, lock the door and check in. Maybe it's dehydration or the million little cups of instant coffee I had on the train but my head hurts and I just want to close my eyes. Of course, I quickly walked down to the ghat first. Gave myself a taste of why I'd come and then found my way to a disturbed itchy nights rest. And here I am. Good morning!
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