India to Nepal 

As much as I loved Varanasi, India was taking it's toll on my sanity.  While I usually enjoy a chaotic adventure, what I really needed was to relax, and that certainly wasn't going to happen in India.  Nepal was my escape plan.  There were two options to get to Kathmandu:  Take the 2-day bus ride or fly.  The flight was $190, the bus was $15; easy choice.  I woke up in the pre-dawn blackness and took a motor rickshaw to the bus "station" which turned out to be a somewhat empty dead-end with old rusty tour buses parked along the curbs.  They offered a free breakfast consisting of a small (in both size and taste) sandwich and a thimble full of coffee.  Before boarding the bus, the ticketing agent advised us of two very "important" things.  One was that it was illegal to leave India with anything larger than a 500 Rupee note, and the second bit of information was that you could only buy a Nepalese visa at the border with U.S. dollars.  I opted to ignore the silly currency law and inquired about the exchange rate from Thai Baht to USD.  It was horrible; imagine that!   Assuming it was just a scam to force an outrageously insane exchange rate on their customers, I refused to allow them to change my money.  Besides, I've never been to a border town where there weren't at least a dozen exchange shops competing for your business . . .  Of course, I'd also never been to India.

We hopped onto the bus and began the two day journey to Nepal.  It wasn't anything like a Thai VIP bus, but in light of the cramped Burmese buses I had endured just a week before, it wasn't too shabby.  But as the sun rose, so did the temperature and we all soon realized that the air con was not working.  An hour long stop waiting for a train to pass only made the minutes crawl to a near halt.  Two hours after the train dilemma the bus made a quick jerk and we slowly rolled to a gentle stop along the side of some country road.  All the annoying backpacks made their way out of the bus; there was a girl with food poisoning, a guy with an ego, and everyone was suffering from some mild form of dehydration. 

Note: "Backpacks" is what I now call backpackers, sorry for any confusion.  After a few years in Thailand I have come to the conclusion that most backpackers are all the same in the short time you will know them.  They all do the same things, wear the same clothes, eat at the same places, even talk about the same things.  Most, but not all of them are either drunk, hung-over, or in the process of drinking. They are like an annoying herd of cattle that always follow you around mooing; and doing so in the same tone nontheless.  Fortunately, they can usually be picked out of a crowd, and thus avoided, by their gigantic backpacks filled with Lonley Planets and a copy of whatever sad-but-inspiring book someone has written about the country they happen to be visiting at the time.  For this reason it much easier (and phonetically shorter) to just simplify them as backpacks.   

After an hour filled with confusion, cursing, and blank stares at a lifeless engine, the driver decided it might just be a good idea to call a mechanic.  We were told it would be two more hours before he would arrive and everyone's anger gave way to the somber realization that we were helplessly stranded. 

One of the backpacks went to the engine and started moving things around and started jabbering on about simple mechanics.  "Who does this idiot think he is" I thought in an optimistic tone. "I'm sure the bus driver knows a thing or two about gasoline, timing belts, and keeping a radiator cool."  Ten minutes later the engine roared to a start and our spines were once again being jarred into misalignment on the bumpy roads.  Turns out, a fuse had blown.  My irritation switched from the "stupid" backpack to the stupid driver.  I'm quite positive this wasn't the first time this bus had broken down, why the driver was unaware of the fuse concept I'm not sure.

We arrived in the border town of Sunauli in the middle of the night.  It was much like every other border town I've been to in Asia, except this one had no electricity.  There were indeed many money changing shops around, but they had been closed for hours; their owners were now cuddled in their beds dreaming about overcharging  helpless tourists.  I was directed to a shop which had magically remained open to "help" us tourists exchange our money.  Backpack by backpack entered the small candlelit room and emerged complaining about the rate.  I entered the building, and sat down in what felt like a used car salesperson's office.  We haggled over the rate as if I was buying a car.  At one point I even walked back out into the darkness to find another option, but I soon accepted my fate.   I went back into the room and exchanged $60 worth of Thai Baht into $25.

This little incident only made me that much happier to be leaving India.  I'm sure it was mental, but I physically felt better just stepping across the border.  The Nepalese immigration office felt more like the Mayberry police station than anything else.  The officials weren't in uniform and were surprisingly friendly for such a late hour.  The only time their smile broke was when a backpack complained the officers wouldn't accept his worn $100 bill.  (any traveller should know that NO COUNTRY accepts US currency with so much as a wrinkle in some dead president's clothes).

I found the hotel and laid on the wooden "bed" all of two minutes before passing out.  Tomorrow would be here soon enough, filled with another exciting bus journey.

India: Day 4, Varanasi (part 4)  

When I think about my favorite experience in Varanasi, many thoughts rush through my mind.  The city is a blanket of color packed into narrow alleys with diverse people (and livestock) around each corner.  It feels like a living history museum built on a foundation of Hinduism... all of which I find extremely fascinating.  My favorite experience, however, is something relatively simple and quite insignificant in light of its surroundings:

After wondering around the city for a while I spotted a faded sign painted onto the side of a riverside ghat advertising a German bakery.  I followed the large white arrow into the interconnected web of alleyways and searched for the bakery; another sign.  I followed the newest arrow only to find another, and another.  While I was hungry to begin with, my appetite increased around every turn and with each new sign. It felt like an occurence from the old live-action Batman television show where The Riddler traps Batman and Robin in a huge maze and they must follow the clues to save themselves from starvation.  Thirty minutes, a dozen cows, and a few bottles of water later, I arrived at the bakery.  It was a large open-air cafe at the corner of two dusty "roads".  The little cafe certainly was certainly charming, but questionably clean.  Even still, a dozen or so Westerners were enjoying their meals, so I assumed the food wouldn't kill me.  I was thrilled at the opportunity to devour some French Onion soup so I placed my order and sat near a large front window, intent on watching life pass by. 

While my stomach initially appreciated the "Brown Bread Bakery" Sign, I soon
noticed that the arrow inadvertantly pointed at cow patties baking in the sun.
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In fact, it seemed as if someone was collecting these things for some odd reason.
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At the bakery, I had already put my camera in its bag, giving it some well-deserved rest, when a man wearing a turban popped his head into the window frame.  He was wearing colorful clothes and had two wicker baskets under one of his arms.  "Well, the snake man is back,"  I heard a lady mumble from across the room.  My eyes light up and the man noticed it, motioning for me to come outside.  I followed him into an empty street where he sat down and motioned for me to do the same.  He placed the two baskets in front of him, opened the tops, and within seconds, two hooded cobras emerged.  They swayed back and forth for several minutes as I sat only four rather uncomfortable feet away.  Amazingly enough, with all of the bizarre things around me, these were unquestionably the coolest five minutes I spent in India.  These five minutes also resulted in one of my favorite photos of all-time.

The Snake Charmer
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India: Day 4, Varanasi (part 3)  

Half the fun of being in India is watching the people around you; the oldest of the old, children, the rich, the poor, friendly folks and angry idiots... everyone blending together to make an environment as rich and diverse as one's choice of flavors at Baskin Robbins. 

A man performs a ceremony to the gods as the sun rises over the Ganges river.
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My favorite part of the ceremony is the cobra bowl-o-fire. (bottom right)
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Two men watch the sunrise over the Ganges river.
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A white man...
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A spiritual leader and young monks pray and meditate during a morning ceremony.
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The girl on the right asked me to take her photo.  The one on the left apparently didn't like that idea.
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A woman sewing clothes at her walk-in shop tucked inside an alley.
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Ooooooh, FIRE!
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This Hindu ceremony had many different rituals to it.  One for each of many gods.
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I must admit, I like the smoke!   It evokes many
good memories associated with fog machines...
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India: Day 4, Varanasi (part 2)  

This entry focuses on the infamous Ganges river.  I have long heard of the importance this river plays in the lives, traditions, and faith of the Indian people.  Hindus consider it an honor to bathe on its banks and long to be cremated there upon death.  My mom's friend, Smita, sent me an email explaining:

"Anything that is giver of life or supports life is holy and worthy of respect. It personifies a mother. Like the rivers. Our culture and our religion is very much based on what we do in our daily lives and especially the decision  we make when one is at a cross road. Every living and non living thing has a gender. life giving and or life supporting are always female. rain is female but thunder is male. river is female but the ocean is male.  So if you can imagine Ganga or Ganges or for that matter the Mississippi or the Nile, as not just a body of flowing water but a life sustaining force where once there was nothing but little by little a village emerged and then a town and then...you will understand its significance in ones life not just today but generations ago and for generations to come."

I woke up early one morning and hired a boat to take me down river.  The captain (if a large canoe can even have such a thing) only made me play the "Guess the price- foreigner!" game for a short time before we set off.  As we drifted down the river, people were gathering by the hundreds.  Women in bright fabrics washed clothes, children; themselves.  The gigantic ghats seemed to glow like golden palaces in the warm morning sun and somehow I found myself at peace amongst a chaotic city just waking up.

The ride was slow and steady providing ample opportunities for pictures.  Each time I lowered my camera there was something else that would catch my eye.   I had been told not to take photos of the cremation sites, but as the capt`n rowed us closer to the shore he motioned at my camera and encouraged me to take a picture.  After asking more than twice if it was okay, he cheerfully said "okay okay."   Well this was certainly NOT "okay okay" with the workers near a fire as they began to point and shout at me.  I felt horrible, like I had violated some cultural code of the utmost significance, but alas I was in a boat and the damage had been done.  I kept the photo.

A half an hour-or-so later a man rowed his boat up to ours, ignored my captain, and handed me a plate with flowers and a candle on it.  I knew he wanted money for this act of kindness and I was low on cash.  I told him of this financial problem I had, hoping he would paddle himself away and annoy someone else, but  he said "okay okay," lit the candle, and gave me the plate.  I half-heartedly tossed the flowery contraption into the water and ignored the man who now wanted 50 rupees for the gift.  I think floating flowers down the river is an offering or something the Hindus do because the locals were also buying these things (although it only cost them 10 rupees).  I argued with him about the price in between shots and he took notice and said, "For your gift I pray you get good pictures."  "How senseless" I thought- the locals were probably praying for life-sustaining things like food and good health while this man was praying for my photographical prowess.  (In all fairness, I've heard far more outrageous prayer requests in church) I told the man he was either getting 20 rupees for the flowers or he needed to swim downstream, retrieve the plate and sell it to someone else.  He said "okay" with an angry face and took my money.

 
Boats lined up at sunrise.
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More boats and the sun.
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Oh captain!
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A panoramic view of Varanasi from the boat.
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A riverside mosque.
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Baths in the Ganges...
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A tourist told me he dipped his hand into the Ganges and it felt like clay.  The captain told me tests confirmed the
 river was not polluted.   As he said  this, my eyes drifted to the shore where animal feces and human remains
were being swept into the water.  "Time for a swim," I thought.

Boats by the shore.
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Boats docked in front of a tall ghat.
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