MANY MEN'S LAND

As we come closer, we realize that it is not a few silhouettes we would meet, but thousands of people standing on the shore, bathing in the two rivers, or sitting in boats. Dozens of colours, a human sea in the middle of a no man’s land of several hectares.

The first sight, on the Yamuna side

 The ground is bare, only pure soft sand, no green, no grass, only beige. 50 meters away from the shore, tents – organized geometrically – cover the rest of the place. This gathering is the annual Magh Mela, religious happening where almost 1 Million Hindus come to celebrate. Without this information, we would have thought this is a refugee camp. 

Colours and miltary tents

Boat people on overcrowded embarkation, people simply waiting – but not waiting for something in particular – basic accommodation, military tents of the exact same model, few electric devices meant for the most basic needs, tractors taking care of the space… This land is not meant for living, but arranged so that the most basic aspect of living could be offered. 

A bare land worked for this only occasion

We don’t feel like spending time in the middle of this. Once more, we are out of place, hardly understanding anything that happens, not even feeling any sense of spirituality. The festival is only starting and this is the beginning of a wider event. We go quite fast away, but first we walk until the Gange and salute him one last time.

Farewell to the Gange

GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRH... BIS

January the 11th 

We wake up with one fix idea : to see the Gange and the Yamuna meeting point, where Gandhis ashes were spread, and to say goodbye to the Gange we have followed since we have started our journey. On the map, it looks very close, maybe 2 – 2.5 km. So we discuss the price with the rickshaws according to this. We find surprisingly fast, and go… but on the way, after a long ride through the wakening up streets, we stop a first time. We think we are at the ghât, and the rickshaw driver, who seems extremely helpful, guides us until the river. Communication is a bit difficult, as he speaks only Hindi and we unfortunately have an dramatically  limited amount of vocabulary. The rickshaw has actually taken us to a boat-taxi stand, where the ride to Sangat is 500 ruppies, tourist price. First disillusion. We go back on the rickshaw, who is much less friendly now, for he missed a backshish and has to drive us to the agreed point, which is still far away. And he drives us through a slum, where we see children playing cricket on a pile of trash. The images of slumdog millionaire are coming straight to our minds. We cannot say there was any pathos coming out from people, they simply live there, life going its way. Is it because Indians accept their condition as a fate, or because they have grown in this condition ? We don’t know, but feel very uncomfortable as we go by, carried by one of them (Rickshaws are among the poorest group in  India). We are absolutely out of place.

Cricket is the national sport, played  by everyone

Next we go  through a cantonment, that contrasts with the slum. There is almost no one around, only few men with shooting gun. We are locked between a wall on the right and the river on the left. Our only fear now is that our man drops us there if we don’t pay more, as he talks to us regularly in Hindi about something we still don’t know about. We are out along the river, no clue how far, how close…

But we reach Sansawati ghât, willing to walk along the fort and the Yamuna river to reach the Sangat. But many men have different ideas for us. For the first time we are surrounded by men that are very manly : tall, aggressive, powerful. It is not easy to turn them down. They affirm that the path we want to take along the river doesn’t exist and that we have to take one of their boat for 500 ruppies! We still believe in the map of the Lonely Planet – though we have a doubt, as the guide book has shown itself too old – and go. We  reach the path, and get into a peaceful landscape, idyllic and quiet. And even though the surroundings should allow us to breathe openly, the fear that something could happen (a man is following us quite a while) takes away all tranquillity. We are restless in the middle of quiet. We were looking forward to a place without crowds, and find ourselves hoping for a crowd, right here, right now. When the first silhouettes appear, bathing in the Yamuna, we feel a deep relief. Funny

GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRH...

January the 10th

It all starts with a short trip by train, 3 hours of daylight and delight. Finally the space opens, the nature takes the place of the enormous cities. Open spaces, we can finally breathe. Annd it is first day since we left when the sun shines without any fog covering it. How simple and easy life can be.

First sight of green

Because a happy moment never comes alone, our neighbors in the train – a father and his son – helps Cécile who struggles with the unclosable windows of this wagon. They try to help a first time, thinking we are simply unskilled with windows. Then they realize it is not so easy, the whole thing is broken. And for 15 minutes, when we think they are just talking together, they plan the rescue paper system. And out of the blue, they blocked the window with a single folded page of newspaper. And the window remains closed.

Besides them, two elderly women talk eagerly together. It is a relief to hear the sound of female voices and to see two ladies who are strong and present, not under any man around. In a country where we hardly see women and all the more so free women, it takes away a weight. Surrounded by men, we always feel somewhat out of place and partially unsecure. It isn’t a conscious feeling, but the sight of women takes it away. The atmosphere gets warmer, pleasant, trustful.

As we reach Allahabad, we are on little clouds, believing that our troubles are behind us. We feel that we can relax. So we do… but maybe it isn’t the wisest thing to do. As usual, we turn down the rickshaws, but these ones are tough ones and do not give up unless we walk 1 km away from their starting point, constantly saying that we know where we go. It is also the first time that rickshaws are openly aggressive in the way they address us.

A view on Allahabad, one of the countless rickshaws

Unfortunately for us, we have taken the wrong exit at the train station and are walking exactly opposite to our hostel. We mark a pause to check in the map where we are, and after 20 seconds in a corner, we turn round and see a crowd of Indian faces staring at us. Allahabad is not used to having white people in its streets. All these men sincerely want to help us, nothing more, they were curious to know what we are doing, and to make it easier for us to reach our goal. Our feelings get mixed. Overall it is extremely pleasant to feel that there is no back thoughts, that they are just surprised as kids would be. On the other hand, it is very disturbing to be so seen, to be unable to melt in the crowd. We are the centre of the attention, whether we walk, eat, smile, talk… Every gesture we do is under watch, every doubt is seen and immediately ten people gather to interrupt. It is impossible to make a pause. We have to be in motion in order to have some space around us.

So people put us in a cycle rickshaw who drives us through the (huge) city centre, direction our hostel. In the description written in the lonely planet, it is described as a abandoned and gloomy colonial bungalow, but as we reach it, we see a palace, with brand new gates guarded by security men, white walls, gardeners… far from what we are used to. The rickshow is forced to drive us until the stairs of the reception. We feel like diplomats in dirty clothes and backpacks. It is stunningly absurd moment. The receptionist shows us the menu of rooms, from deluxe to royal en suite. It is far out of our budget and we leave, by foot, alone, the castle of Allahabad. We realize then, that the lonely planet we have found in Varanasi dates from the year 2007, and things  have changed since it was published.  

 

Our idealistic approach of the city takes its first hit. But we still like it. We decide to take a break and eat before going to another hostel. We bump into a street restaurant and the owner brings us immediately to the new eating room he had built, something completely fake, with vibrant (pink and green) colors that completely miss the point. It feels very American. Before we can say pretty much anything, the man has chosen our orders. The food is not any special, but he keeps adding elements, and not even the ones we ask for. Perrine desperetaly want an egg, that  miraculously transformed into a paneer (cow cheese in sauce) in the back kitchen. The man is talking to us, too nice and cheesy. We ask for the bill and he brings it with a dirty smile. 310 ruppies, the equivalent of 10 times the amount of money a poor earns per day. We realize the man has served us only the most expensive dishes of his menu, without ever mentioning anything, (that’s why the egg never made it on the table), he brought us “gifts” (2 raitas) that were of course added to the bill. The thing being that prices are never settled in India and often counted according to the face of the client, it is almost almost impossible to discuss afterwards. And for once, feeling safe and willing to trust for a moment the honesty of people, we didn’t ask beforehand the price of things. If we convert it in euro it is nothing, and of course paying a bit more is ok for us. But this time it feels like being stabbed in the back. And digestion is much harder if you feel that the food was a way to use and not to give. Food doesn’t only feed a body; it is partly accepting the outside inside one’s body. Bad feelings towards the hands who cooked is a sure miss for the stomach processes.

Allahabad, a slight aggressiveness in the air

Allahabad doesn’t look so good any more. And it only goes worst and worst from then. We end up after a long search in a hotel next to the train station, exactly where our journey in Allahabad started. This is the gloomiest hotel we ever stepped in. The room has no window and reminds a cell. The wardens sleep full time on the ground, the chairs or on an old couch. The bathroom is a nightmare (we cannot even take a shower. The smell born from there is enough to make us feel dirtier that before we enter). But when there is no alternative to choose from, the mind can adapt to anything. And our prison becomes a cinema and restful space in the middle of this aggressive city. And when the lights are off, dirt is much less visible.

We go out twice, trying to reach a cinema and to buy some fruits, but the violence that swells from the city brings us back into our dear hotel. We watch Slumdog millionaire and see the real India, an India we cannot see. It helps us a lot understanding the surface we catch: all these begging children, the states in the  slums, the traffics, the fake tourist guides… We get a glimpse of what is behind all these things we are facing every single day.    

THE INDIAN BARBER

Perrine has decided her hair is too long and she is tired to look like a hedgehog. We see behind our guesthouse, in the labyrinth of the old city a little hairdresser shop. It is quite a rare thing to find a hairdresser is not only a barber but takes also women in. The owner looks like Gandhi, just smaller version. He is very sympathetic, speaks no English, wears very thick round glasses and agrees for the hair cut. Perrine has a good intuition about him. 40 ruppies, perfect price, let’s do it. But surprise, Gandhi will cut the hair but supervise his apprentice very attentively, smoking a biddy. The apprentice asks what Perrine wants, she says shorter, shows with her finger the average length she would like (10 cm) and the man takes the scissors. The sound of snipping scissors never stops. It is like a dance performed. His gestures were absolutely precise and completed. The scissors go and round rhythmically. The hair gets shorter and shorter accordingly. Then comes the shaving blade. And snips, snips around the ears, at the start of the neck. A bit more and he is going to take care of the beard! He is done, he asks if it’s good, Perrine is a bit in shock and says yes. He adds that he made a female cut and not a man’s cut. It was clearly the first time he cut a woman’s hair, and he probably hasn’t seen much examples of women with short hair. To his defense, Indian women don’t have or exceptionally short hair. It’s ok. Hair grows back and it was cut on full moon (so it grows back faster). Life depends on the way you look at it. Now Perrine has something of a little Indian boy. People call her “sir” or “mister” and hardly talk to Cécile anymore. In India, one never talks to a woman if a man is around. We don’t know if it is a mark of respect, a cultural habit, if women are disregarded in general… But sure it is an unpleasant feeling.

Hello Sir. Boat ?

A BRIGHT DAY

January the 9th

Today morning, for the first since we landed, the sun is almost shining behind a very very tiny curtain of fog. How nice, let’s have a cold shower !

We decide to be “tourists” today and say yes one time to have a trip on a boat over the Gange. Since we left Aridwar, we have set up an action plan which is to never say yes if we are asked, but to ask by ourselves from the silent ones the service we want to get. This applies to rickshaws, restaurants, hostels, water bottles, any business related shop, tchai… Basically this applies to every thing in India. So far it is definitely the best way to do it for us… if we weren’t so difficult. It can take us up to 15 minutes to decide on a rickshaw and we have been walking sometimes a lot because of being unable to say yes or to find somebody silent and sympathetic to ask from. But overall, we still believe in this plan of action. We are girls with plans (also called control freaks).

So, we plan to take a boat and we have noticed on the day before the right area (the Assi ghât, a bit off the tourist track) to ask for a boatman man. But as we walk by many boatmen, we are not quite convinced. Some are too old, and it’s hard to ask an old weak and skinny man to carry us around. Some are too eager to take us, and we obviously don’t like it. Some are scary looking, and we want to be safe. As we cannot choose between old, eager and scary, we decide to take a tchai. But now we need to find the right tchai… And then comes the new angel. He didn’t ask us to come to him, so we come. We ask for two tchais and are overwhelmed with the taste of it, not too sweet, real milk and a lot of ginger. Heaven. For the first time ever, we have a conversation of more than 3 sentences with a tchai man. And he teaches us how to make tchai his way… His mother is here also, preparing fire, a very beautiful old lady. Those people were so true and sincere, only looking forward to exchange with others. We needed it. Thank you master.

Still thinking of getting on a boat to feel the Gange from another perspective, we start our quest again and walk round and round our area for a good 15 minutes. After a long thinking process, we decide for the old man with the red jacket. He is old but strong and he runs so fast if he has to catch a flying object. Being on the Gange is not so special as we could think, even though the colours, the view on the city from there, the feeling of the water are great. But being with this man on his boat is something priceless. We try to talk with him, but words are missing. So we communicate with smiles and looks. A silent exchange. We reach the other shore after 10-15 minutes and land on a desert line. There is almost nobody, the grass hardly grow, only signs of people are to be seen (shadows or objects left behind). This whole shore is part of the Gange during the Monsoon. It is only where the Gange never runs that vegetal life explodes green and vibrant. How come this holy river, symbol of life and death, only leaves grey sand behind itself ? Being alone, feeling the space, finally you can breathe. It’s funny how quickly we can get used to anything. The faculty of adaptation surprises us all the more when we realize what we adapted to. This silence is not a silence, it exists mainly because there was so much noise before. As we get back to our boat a conversation in Hindi happens somehow – thanks to Bollywood movies - with our driver. We learn he has four “very good beta (sons)” and three daughters now married and in saree at home. We leave our man, quite happy with our choice, when he shouts at us and points in direction of his son. The son comes closer, smiles and asks us “do you want marijuana ?”, followed in echo by his two brothers. Very good sons indeed !  

Our man

PREM, WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU ?

It all starts with Prem in the train from Haridwar to Varanasi. Prem was one of those who – like us - had a waiting list ticket. During the night, he was very caring that we all get a seat. He came with his wife and son (8 months old), and was very proper in every way. He is this nice chap, round faced, a very touching and sympathetic fellow. We thought then that he could be the ideal father. In the morning he was very friendly with us, spoke a bit of French or anything you like. We really believed we met our first Indian potential friend. As he used to be a tourist expert cheaper, guide in Varanasi, he gave us all the tricks we should care for so that our stay in Varanasi is safe and enjoyable. He told us to come to visit him at his house on the day after. And here we are, the day after – a Sunday – at his place which happens to also be his music shop. After offering us a tchai, he takes out a few albums (wedding album, work album…), so that we feel that we are getting to know each other. Then starts a new long monologue. Every time we ask a question, to enjoy the dialogue-form of communication between human beings, he doesn’t answer anything, but follows his line. His line is simple : “What can I do for you ?”, which means, “How could I make some money out of you ?”. Cecile being slightly sick (because of an allergy to kind-of-clean bed sheets), he offers to find an ayurvedic doctor. Unfortunately, Perrine’s mother is an ayurvedic doctor. First miss for Prem. Then he explains that he and wife give courses in tablas, cythare, harmonium, yoga, meditation, Hindi, dance, singing. As we say that one hour is too short for any of these, he answers that everything can happen, time doesn’t matter. Obviously we are not going to take any lessons, so he tries to find what he could do for us… Do we need postcards ? No. Do we need tea or spices ? N. Do we have something extra in our bags that takes to much space or weight, because his wife has a charity and could take care of it… No. Two hours later, we come out, fairly angry at this man for being such a opportunist and at ourselves, because we wanted to believe we met an Indian manta last. We knew there was something fishy about his kindness, but didn’t want to understand it, we rather believed he simply is a nice man.

The thing is, we don’t want to believe that every time people come to talk to us it is to cheat us. But we are white pigeons wearing 2 bagpacks, one on the front, one on the back. Life is not always a nice piece of cake…

VARANASI, NO SHOWER, NO POWER

January the 7^th

India is the place to learn life. Tonight we learn how not be claustrophobic and how to fit two average French girls in a bed meant for an average Indian. We spend first a few hours happily in the ladies waiting room (our oasis for peace in the railway stations). It is the only space in India were there are only women, where one can enjoy the company of ladies. Indian cities are male cities, and it is relief to sit in the middle of sarees. As we go to the train, we realize there is no WL wagon (as marked on our tickets), but that this mysterious WL letters mean Waiting List. Basically, you don’t have a reserved seat, but might have one if some people cancelled theirs. This detail was not mentioned when we bought the ticket. We are given the bed 39, where an old lady was deeeeeeeeeeeply asleep. After an interestingly absurd hour (see video), we end up “sleeping” together in the upper bed.

We met a wonderful family, honest and generous from Calcutta. They give us a new insight of this city, which wasn’t our dream destination before. The son, a teenager, is friend with Perrine on facebook. He advises us to go to see an action movie, now Bollywood hit in India, DON 2. Hopefully we’ll manage to see it.

January the 7th

Before stepping in Varanasi railway station, we built a plan: how to survive a highly touristic town, where cheating is the local sport. As we arrive, we look a bit tired but we are so strong in our mind that nothing could get us out of the way we drew for ourselves. We walk through the army of rickshaws, calling us. A man starts a conversation – a monologue – and even though we repeatedly said no to his offers, followed us through the car park. As a fairwell, he gives wisdom : “No shower, no power”. Mmh… True.

Without a failure we get to the ghâts, reach our hostel and realize that Varanasi is mainly filled with Corean tourists, which is a drama for the restaurant owners. One of them, so happy we came to eat at his place, tells us that he misses dramatically European tourists, because Corean tourists eat crisps, drink chai and share once in a while a plate for five. A funny man.

the candle ceremony 

At sunset, all along the Gange, is held a candle ceremony. Varanasi’s is very famous and of course we go to see it. It is not a ritual that is performed, it is a show that has lost all spiritual aspects it probably used to have. The monks have flawless faces, the rituals are directed towards the audiences only, the music is played on CD, children are selling flowers to be lit on the river. It is well thought business affair where the key commercial argument is that financial participation is good for the karma. On the river, the boats are full of tourists who observe the scene for a high price and take countless pictures they could bring back home, saying that they have experienced hindouism. A sad view, really.

kitsch

Tired and a bit depressed / angry, we go to sleep early with our Corean companions.

January the 8^th

We wake up at 6.00 to see the morning raising in Varanasi, when all Hindus – up to 60000 pilgrims and locals per day - bath and wash their sins away in the holy Gange. It is Sunday, it is cricket day. All along the ghâts, young guys play seriously, without forgetting of course as we pass to ask if we want to go on a boat. The atmosphere is peaceful, joyful and light. The picture we had of Varanasi starts to change and improve little by little as walk South. We are almost alone and left, which is a gift we enjoy.

Few men here and there are washing clothes and bed sheets in the river. They perform a dance, as their gestures are so refined, precise, beautiful, as if it came from another time. The presence to their actions is mixed with an absence to it. Paradoxal and fascinating choreography. We surely have lost this quality of movement in Europe in our everyday tasks. We could watch them endlessly, contemplating a form of perfection.        

A man washing, it's beautiful

We also pass by our first cremation. It is believed by Hindus that the one who dies in Varanasi will be freed from the cycle of reincarnations. Thousands of bodies are brought from all over India, for their last physical journey, to be cremated by the Gange before their ashes are spread. First we see the wood, stored in tremendous quantity, then we see the smoke. A body is brought, wrapped in red cloth, meaning it is a woman. We want to wallk by without stopping, but a man hells us and offers to come closer so we can see everything. We refuse. It seems absurd to us and even disrespectful to take part to rituals we don’t understand nor belong to. The family alone should be there, how could tourists fill their curiosity in such a place. The man, angrily, tells us that we cannot understand either the Indian culture nor the meaning of life if we don’t see it. If we had gone, there is no doubt we would have paid for the “service”, and sure this money would not help the grieving family. Money, money, money…  Wherever, whenever. If it comes out, any reason invoked is good.