Saturday, February 02, 2008
Senses Working Overtime
Varanasi - Old City: Thursday, January 17th.
With our characteristic sense of timing, Jen and I arrived during the midst of a boatsmans strike. As a result we unable to watch the morning or evening rituals from the relative calm and safety of the river. Instead, we remained in the bustling and choatic throngs of activity at the shoreline. Alternatively captivated by the ceremonies before us and fleeing small gangs of hawkers and kids, our primary preoccupation was avoiding the rich variety of dung, trash and debris inevitably strewn along the old city's alleys and walkways.
After half an hour or so of skilful "man-handling" completed, with a final (and somewhat dramatic) flourish the barber flung the last of my "bad" energy off into the Ganges below. Spiritually cleansed and feeling an inch or so taller, I thanked (and paid) the barber for my impromtu massage. Now Varanasi smelt a little sweeter and certainly felt a lot calmer.
With our characteristic sense of timing, Jen and I arrived during the midst of a boatsmans strike. As a result we unable to watch the morning or evening rituals from the relative calm and safety of the river. Instead, we remained in the bustling and choatic throngs of activity at the shoreline. Alternatively captivated by the ceremonies before us and fleeing small gangs of hawkers and kids, our primary preoccupation was avoiding the rich variety of dung, trash and debris inevitably strewn along the old city's alleys and walkways.
The labrinyths of tiny dwellings and storefronts spilling into the seemingly endless alleyways was a challenge. There was no conceivable method or hope of orientating yourself along the narrow twisting pathways except for the occasion hand-painted directions for some of the major tourist business or relying on the often indiscernible advice offered by the locals.
Despite the onslaught of motorbikes and frequently blaring tv sets, it wasn't hard to imagine that life there had barely changed in centuries. At times my already over worked brain could barely keep my body upright and moving forward through the mazes of narrow alleyways - let alone dodge innumerable cows/dogs/goats and stay ahead of the insistent touts and our other new "friends" swarming around us. Varanasi's pungent odors and stenches were ever-present. However, the near constant cremations fortunately masked the worst smells from the dung and rotten trash strewn along most every walkway or corner of the old city. As I tried to imagine the cooked aromas that a stifling 120+ degree fahrenheit summer heat could produce on the city's debris, I was thankful that nature's ripening processes had barely begun under our winter conditions. Although the cultural claustrophobia of the old city could be at times overwhelming and maddening, enthusiastic greetings of local street kids or aromas of stewing spices often provided relief and reminders of why I had traveled half way across the globe to be there.
Unsurprisingly given the crush of life in the city, the Ganges is not the cleanest of rivers. The river has a chloriform count typically approximately hundreds of times higher than EPA standards and a water quality that even Cholera bateria are unable to survive for more than half and hour. Apparently the latest scheme for improving the river's health was the recent decision by local authourities and several clever scientists had attempted to introduce special "fleshing-eating" turtles to remove the cremains that polluting the river. It is sad although perhaps not surprising that the turtles didn't stay long. While I had lingering and faintly romantic visions of bathing myself in its holy waters, my rational brain (aided by my deep mistrust of the American health care system) persuaded me to resist this opportunity for spiritual cleansing.
Unsurprisingly given the crush of life in the city, the Ganges is not the cleanest of rivers. The river has a chloriform count typically approximately hundreds of times higher than EPA standards and a water quality that even Cholera bateria are unable to survive for more than half and hour. Apparently the latest scheme for improving the river's health was the recent decision by local authourities and several clever scientists had attempted to introduce special "fleshing-eating" turtles to remove the cremains that polluting the river. It is sad although perhaps not surprising that the turtles didn't stay long. While I had lingering and faintly romantic visions of bathing myself in its holy waters, my rational brain (aided by my deep mistrust of the American health care system) persuaded me to resist this opportunity for spiritual cleansing.
Nonetheless, one enterprising barber undoubtably attracted by my bewilderment and eyeing my somewhat unconvincing week old "beard" skillfully accosted me and within seconds of good naturedly shaking his hand, he was contorting my palm and wrist with his most convincing hand massage techniques. While hardly a Vulcan death grip, it was soon apparent to my over-worked brain that I was powerless to resist. Within minutes I was lying prone before a bemused sister and scores of other onlookers as the barber attended to my chackras :-).
After half an hour or so of skilful "man-handling" completed, with a final (and somewhat dramatic) flourish the barber flung the last of my "bad" energy off into the Ganges below. Spiritually cleansed and feeling an inch or so taller, I thanked (and paid) the barber for my impromtu massage. Now Varanasi smelt a little sweeter and certainly felt a lot calmer.
