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Location: Varanasi, India
Date: May 12, 2000
Hello there everybody!
First an update and then some travelers reflections upon travel...
I am in Varanasi, India, at the moment, and it is really TOO hot,
temperatures reaching almost 40 degrees Celsius in the shadow in
the afternoons. As you might remember, last time you guys heard
from me I was in Kandy, in central Sri Lanka. I think that when
I wrote to you last time, I was about to climb the Adams peak the
coming weekend. Kathrin, a girl I had met in Colombo, came to Kandy
for the weekend (she works in Sri Lanka), and we set off with three
different buses to get to Dalhousie, where more than 5000 steps
leads up to the top. The peak itself is holy for many religions.
Christians believe this was the mountain where Adam first set foot
on earth after having been cast out from heaven. Hindu's think it
is the footprint of Shiva. Buddhists thinks it's the footprint of
Buddha himself. We (the 5 tourists staying in the same guesthouse
in Dalhousie) got up at 2 in the night for a light breakfast before
we set of, amongst hundreds of locals doing the walk up there as
a pilgrimage. But, having read our Lonely Planet guidebooks only
too well, the group of us tourists scrambling up the steps only
thought of the nice sunrise up there totally forgetting to get into
the small temple at the top to see the famous footprint in the rock.
Completely wet from sweat we arrived up at the top (2224 meters)
after 2 hours 10 minutes, and luckily two other tourists in our
group had spare clothes to give me and Kathrin it was FREEZING cold!
Anyway, back down again at the guesthouse, the owner there showed
us a homemade video from the mountaintop, and also the footprint.
It's almost 1 meter long, so Adam, if it is his footprint, must
have been a real giant.
Me, Kathrin and a Venezuelan Brit. John, all of us having stayed
at the same guesthouse in Dalhousie, got a lift to Hatton with the
other 2 guys who had stayed there and scrambled to the top with
us. From Hatton we got the train back to Kandy, and John being excellent
in talking with and convincing people, managed to get the staff
in the restaurant wagon to buy us some beers we could consume while
riding the train for 4 hours. Normally beer isn't served on Sri
Lankan trains, but as I wrote, John was good at getting extra service
here and there... A couple of days in Kandy resting our aching legs,
and then it was time to say goodbye to Kathrin, who had to go back
to work in the capital, Colombo. It's oh so sad to say goodbye...
Then I traveled a loop on Sri Lanka to see some ancient cities and
Buddhist caves and monuments. I bought a round trip ticket for these
places in Kandy, as it is cheaper to buy a ticket for 8 different
sights there then it is to pay for the individual sights at the
spot. Still, not exactly cheap at 32.50 US but as they say on Sri
Lanka when faced with a problem: What to do?
So I set of in company with this Venezuelan Brit. John, and on the
first day went through the 5 caves at Dambulla, where there are
reclining Buddhas, sitting Buddhas, painted Buddhas on the walls
and ceilings, etc. etc. Impressive. Then on to Sigiriya, where once
upon a time the Sri Lankan ruler built a fortress on top of a 200
meters high cliff on a plain. Anything to escape the invading Indians.
There is not much left of the ruins on top, but the breeze was excellent
after the sweaty climb up there. Before sunset me and John had managed
to hitchhike our way to Polonnaruwa as well, but that one we left
to be seen on the next day. Polonnaruwa was seen in about 4-5 hours,
and then we got to the bus station to get to Anuradhapura. The bus
took time to arrive even to the bus station, and while waiting John
felt he was ruined out, and so took a bus back to Kandy. I finally
got on an Anuradhapura bus, snoozed for the four hour trip, checked
in to a hotel and dropped dead on the bed.
Next day I spent almost entirely on a rented bike, cycling from
7 in the morning until 15 in the afternoon. More ruins, but not
so much of castles or temples as in Polonnaruwa, more of dagobas
and stupas (Buddhist monuments) scattering the landscape. Hot and
burned nicely lobstered I then took a bus, not to Kandy as first
planned, but instead to Colombo for a last goodbye to Kathrin. The
next morning she was due to fly back to Germany, getting a taxi
to the airport very early at 4 am, and I actually managed to stay
awake until then. But the bus ride back in to town, and the bus
later on between Colombo and Kandy -- I fell into deep and well
deserved sleep both times.
In Kandy again, where Indian bureaucracy made me have to wait for
my new Indian 6-month visa for a full 7 working days. I had applied
already on the 20th of April, but with Good Friday and Workers day,
7 working days came to 12 de facto days, including the weekends.
Now I went to the embassy already after 5 working days, hoping that
they had already received an, O.Kâ from the Indian embassy in Stockholm.
A message that they could indeed issue me with a new visa (Indian
embassies always check via fax that you have to pay for with your
home country, that it is O.K. to give you a visa). But no, they
had not yet received a fax reply from Sweden. I had the following
dialogue with the madam at the reception: No reply, but come back
on Tuesday, then we will give you a visa regardless if we have a
reply or not?!? So, if it is in fact not necessary to await a reply,
why can't you give me a visa today then.... No sir, that is impossible.
So much for flexibility. I killed time quite well in Kandy though,
going to the Pub for western style dinners paying with the plastic
card, chatting away with the other guests at the Pink House Guesthouse
and in general just relaxing. When I finally had my visa stamped
into my passport, a second problem awaited me -- the fact that all
seats for the flight from Colombo to Trivandrum in southern India
were full. Air Lanka wanted me to pay extra for business class,
which always has free seats, but at that moment a certain, not too
common, flash of intelligence occurred in my brain. I asked how
much extra it would cost to fly to Madras/Chennai instead, and as
it turned out to be cheaper, of course I booked a seat there for
the next morning.
And so on the 3rd of May I was once again on Indian soil. I got
a train to Bhubaneshwar, Orissa state, and as soon as I could I
left the rather dull city of Madras. I saw the many typical Orissan
temples of Bhubaneshwar, but being a non-Hindu, I could only look
in from a platform built right by the surrounding wall around the
most impressive temples. The same platform was once upon a time
built for Lord Curzon, and is still in use today. Impressive temple
structures in there. On to the most famous one of the Orissan temples
that very same day. The huge sun temple of Konark. It must have
been a very impressive building once upon a time, as it still is
today, although most of the carvings on the sides are rather worn
down by weather and wind. Still, some of the erotica, resembling
what there is to see in more famous Khajuraho, is well worth studying.
It really makes you wonder if people were more gymnastic/elastic
in those days. Some of the positions displayed are just a little
bit too advanced to master without breaking a bone or two in your
body.
I stayed two nights in Puri, also on the Indian East Coast and also
part of the so called "Orissa state triangle," which is what most
people see of Orissa state. The hot pre-monsoon weather has scared
away most of the tourists though, and Puri was almost empty of them.
Then I took the train here to Varanasi, where I once again met up
with my friend David, the Dutch chef/globetrotter whom I first met
in Uganda in November. Good to see each other again, but yesterday
evening he left for Khajuraho. I'll have to kill this day and tomorrow
somehow, and then I'm off to Gujarat state. A state that the Indian
press describes as having a severe water shortage at the moment.
We'll see how I'll survive. In worst case: no showers for the next
coming weeks.
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I have written it before and I'll write it again: one of the best
places to meet ordinary Indians (as compared to the touts, rickshaw
drivers, hotel owners, self-acclaimed guides etc. that are always
pestering you), is on board the trains. On the train from Puri here
to Varanasi, I shared almost the entire carriage with a group of
50 tamils from Coimbatore, in Tamil nadu state. They were on a one
month pilgrimage tour, and had only just started with Puri. I myself
had been a bit unlucky, not managing to get a confirmed berth on
the train, but they helped me to plea for the conductor, and so
I got a berth amidst them. We then sat talking with each other on
and off during the afternoon and had a good time. It turned out
that they had brought their own chef with them, so later on when
the cook and some of the pilgrims helping him went through the carriage
carrying big pots from which they scooped up food on the pilgrims
respective plates, the pilgrims also managed to find a plate for
me. The cook gave me some food, but most food I got from the pilgrims
sitting in my group of 6 berths. Everyone of them offered some of
their food to me, and so I was eating a delicious south Indian meal.
A small boy of maybe ten even came from another "compartment" a
bit further away with one of his chapati breads, and gave it to
me while putting his hand on my shoulder saying "eat!" Afterwards
we sat talking a little bit longer, until at around eight p.m. all
the pilgrims went to bed at almost the same time. I too crept up
to my upper berth. But the sleep that I got didn't last long. An
hour or so later I was woken up by the nasal voice of a man walking
through the carriage waking everybody up with his loud "CHAI! CHAI!"
This didn't please the sleeping pilgrims, who stopped the man midway
through the carriage, explaining to him that we all wanted to sleep
in peace. So from then on until the next morning, no seller dared
to open his mouth in that wagon again. What a relief! At four thirty
in the morning the pilgrims got of the train and I was, for the
first time ever, in an Indian train that was almost completely empty.
That too felt odd.
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When I was in Pondicherry, in Southern India, about two months ago,
another funny thing happened to me. I was walking down the street
in the evening in company with a Dutch girl called Helen, when a
roaring and growing noise from behind made us turn around. From
around the corner came a guy on a big motorcycle of a well known
brand. Black metal, lots of chrome, and a high handle. The driver
was wearing black Levis 501's and black sunglasses although it was
already about nine o'clock and dark. He had a big black beard and
his hair was black too, with only a few strays of grey, and it was
pulled back in a ponytail. He stopped his bike right in front of
us and let the powerful engine die out. He had big red stickers
with swastikas both on the front and the back of the motorcycle,
and at least he LOOKED a bit frightening. Hells angels? Should we
have started to run? No, this was in India, and the man was just
a devoted Hindu who had come for his evening prayers in the temple
that Helen and I had just passed. With a smile he asked if we wanted
to come with him inside of it?
Half an hour later all three of us were sitting in an ice cream
parlor. Now the man had started to become rather annoying. In a
more and more pleading way he was trying to convince Helen that
instead of leaving town tomorrow, she should join him for a 5 day
meditation course. He kept talking about how "her aura" was sending
out signals that she should stay, "I can feel it!" He also said
that it wasn't just coincidence that had made her choose to come
to India, something bigger made the choice for her. Helen tried
to stop his argumentation by saying that she had actually won the
flight ticket in a competition, but that made the man even more
excited. With wildly opened eyes he pushed himself away from the
table and towards the back of his chair, looking her straight in
her eyes and saying with great excitement: "GOD HIMSELF has chosen
you to come to India!"
Soon after that we left him in the ice cream parlor.
Oh, the well known brand of the motorcycle? No, not a Harley-Davidson.
An Indian Enfield Bullet.
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Lets go even further back in time and I'll tell you what happened
on the boat "Mahsood" while cruising a river in Bangladesh. This
was in beginning of March this year.
"Mahsood" plies a route between capital Dhaka and Khulna (and vice
versa) in Bangladesh, and the service is also called "The Rocket."
Not so much because of the speed, I guess. The boat is a paddle
wheeler, although nothing compared with the ones on Mississippi.
Still, it is a relaxing 24 hour trip to do when you either have
entered Bangladesh from India and Calcutta, or when you are about
to leave the country to that same town. I had reserved a berth in
a two-person first class cabin. When we set of from Dhaka at 6 p.m.
sharp (first and only time in Bangladesh anything ever got going
exactly on time), the dinner was soon served in the air conditioned
dining room, from which doors led to the 12 first-class cabins.
The staff was dressed in their uniforms and there was an air of
luxury hanging in the air, at least an air. Next morning when I
woke up, I decided to take a closer look of the boat. I left first
class and mingled with the poor Bangladeshies in third class, squeezed
together everywhere where there was an empty space on the floor.
I went down to have a look at the impressive engines (not covered
at all, resulting in a great noise and, no doubt, someone sooner
or later having an arm ripped off or crushing some fingers in the
moving parts of the machine). But an even higher noise came from
the back of the boat.
There, two alleged thiefs were bound with their arms behind their
backs, and now the crowds were demanding justice. A man told me
that they were accused of having stolen 7000 Taka from a fellow
passenger (approximately 140 US0, and that passenger was now the
one who was to deliver the punishment. An old man in the crowd handed
this younger man his walking stick, and so the younger man started
to beat the thieves in a quite brutal way. Still, the walking stick
wasn't really efficient enough, the "judge" decided, and so someone
brought a big bamboo stick to him. Over two meters long and with
a diameter of about 4-5 centimeters. The thieves were now lying
down on the ground, knees pulled up to their chins. "Mr Justice"
pulled the lungi (sort of male skirt you wrap around your waist,
very common in Bangladesh, south India and Malaysia for instance)
and underwear of one of the thieves, and kept beating them, now
with the much heavier and stronger stick. When the almost naked
thief started bleeding from his buttocks, the oppressor put his
finger in the wounds (AIDS? What is that?), and then smeared the
blood into the thiefs eyes and face. Fellow passengers seemed to
enjoy the show; I saw several of them smiling at the scene, and
some helped the man to beat up the assumed thieves when he himself
needed a break. Someone brought the brave avenger a plastic jar
of drinking water, while another man stood on the stomach of one
of the thieves, slightly jumping into the air to get more weight
behind his punishment. The thieves were crying and coughing, they
had problems breathing but the stick was mercilessly pushed to their
stomachs while the punishment kept going on for maybe half an hour.
All of a sudden from around the corner came a short man who went
straight up to the punisher and tried to wriggle the bamboo stick
out of his hands. I first thought it was another passenger who wanted
to have a go at the thieves, but the stick wasn't handed over. Instead,
from around the corner, came maybe five more men, and they all jumped
on the guy who had earlier been beating up the thieves, and whom
everybody, as far as I could understand, had seen as the poor victim
of a crime, only measuring out his punishment. Now it was his turn
to be beaten. The five men literally jumped on his back to get him
down on the floor, one bit his ear in his best Tyson-style so that
it started bleeding, while the stick and peoples elbows were used
to hit him in the back. Soon the young man was forced down in a
small boat that no one had noticed had anchored right next to the
paddle wheeler that had by now stopped. The young man looked very
confused, clearly not having expected to be beaten himself, and
was now taken to the shore where I could see some policemen waiting
for him.
Well folks, I guess that has to be it. Back out into the beating
heat,
Hannu
Read more
of Hannu's adventures.
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