Ari's Planet

Going from Sauraha, gateway to Chitwan NP in Nepal, to India, is supposed to be simple. Take a 3 hour bus from Sauraha to Sunauli, cross the border, and go on. Ya, right. First, you have to be ripped off by your friendly hotel staff who give you such great deals. The price of a minibus from Sauraha to Sunauli should perhaps be around 150 Rs plus, so maybe around 200 Rs. Not 400, as the cheating folks in town would have you believe. Ok, no big deal, you're used to being ripped off with a smile. We take the jeep through the morning fog to the bus stand. The bus finally gets to the bus stand, I lock my backpack to the roof for good measure, and we clamber aboard.

About an hour and a half later we come to a town (name escapes me and Nepal book is in the mail). The driver gives some confusing story about an accident and not being able to go on and switching buses. I took this to mean there was something wrong with our bus, but it actually seemed to be perfectly serviceable. We sat there for about 30 minutes when I decided this was stupid and demanded some straight talk. It still didn't make any sense. Something about the road being closed ahead and hVng to switch buses. I told him he'd better get us back on the road and that I wasn't switching to any other bus.

A few minutes later we pulled up by a packed local bus. We had paid a nice premium for a tourist minibus, which is supposed to be less crowded, faster, and more comfortable, as well as not stop everywhere to pick up locals and their goats. Now it looked like he was getting ready to move bags from our roof to the other bus and then trundle us off. I got out and made it clear this was not going to happen. Some of the other passengers got out as well and we had a fun time with the driver. He said something about the committee and hVng to keep a schedule at 2pm. All of this was just sounding like nonsense--he was trying to get rid of his tourists so he could make more money on other passengers. Finally he agreed to take us on.

About 30 minutes later we came to the blocked road. Lo and behold, he really was telling the truth about the blocked road! A row of trucks and buses lined the road. By this time I had made friends with an American sitting next to me and two Israelis. Some of us walked up to the barricade. This consisted of a few stones and branches laid out on a bridge. About 20 police were milling around, along with maybe 150 civilians. It was all pretty mellow. We asked people what was up, including the driver. Apparently someone was killed in a road accident a month before and the family blocked the road to demand payment of 200-400 lakh (200,000 to 400,000 NPR). We were told these things usually last a few hours. We had a bottle of coke while waiting.

After a couple of hours sitting around, the driver started to get antsie again, he wanted to take us back to the town, put us on another bus, and get on with his life. Obviously, he just wanted to make more money. He kept on going on about the bus committee for which he apparently worked. We said he could give us our money back, and he said he only got 150 NPR per passenger. We had paid varying amounts, from 200-450 NPR, for our tickets (this gives some idea of the range of bargaining or rip-off potential). I told him if he wanted to go back to town and get rid of us he had to make it worthwhile--turn it into a business transaction. He didn't grasp the concept and just wanted to get rid of us. Some of the other tourists said they'd go to another destination, so clearly I was going to lose my support soon. Fortunately, someone got us out of the impasse by suggesting going through Birganj to India, which is in the opposite direction from Sunauli, but was a viable alternative plan. We quickly agreed to this. On the way back, our conniving driver kept on stopping for more passengers--he's not supposed to do this on a tourist bus; if you've seen how packed these buses could get you'd understand why it's no fun to pay a premium for something that ends up being another local bus.

We got back to town, found a local bus, and got a transfer to Birganj. Our group now consisted of me, an American from Tennessee, a Spaniard, and two Israelis. We left town around 14:30 and got to Birganj at night around 19:00 (though I may be off on the time). I should add that my stomach was acting up, but loperamide did a good job of keeping me from soiling my pants. Birganj is a major truck transit station for goods. Not many tourists come through it. It is really pretty ugly. We were chased by some very aggressive bicycle rickshaws, one of home I gave a good yelling to after he cut us off one too many times. We wandered around looking for a hotel and finally found one. Several places listed in LP had jacked up their prices and were playing "fixed price" with us. My Israeli friends accidentally left their fleece sweaters in one shady place, but when they ran back the folks there claimed the sweaters weren't there. We ate at one of the nicer hotels on our street and the food was quite good. At least we finally got to sleep, knowing we would be in India the next day, and weren't too badly eaten up by mosquitoes during the night.

In the morning we decided to head straight for India. We walked the 4 km to the border in about 1/2 hour, all the while chased by rickshaw drivers. The border is marked by a large gate with the road pretty much open all around it. We ducked into the immigration office, got our exit stamps, and went to cross the border. A crew was filming for a music video, but it was extremely low-budget: a couple of guys pushing a truck and a video camera. The cops let us take a parting shot of the gate and we left Nepal. We crossed what looked like a no-man's land populated by a carnival, including giant ferris wheel. After crossing a bridge we got to Indian immigration, filled in the necessary forms, handed over our passports, and got out immigration stamps. The clerk asked for coins or foreign money, as he collects them. If you hang onto your foreign coins when crossing Birganj there will be a happy clerk waiting for you.

We met the money changers, exchanging at around 39 INR per 1 USD. I swapped my few remaining Nepali rupees and we headed to the right for the train station. On the way, a cow was being helped onto a cart. A bystander said it had a "cold", which I took to mean a generic illness, and it was being taken to get care of some sort.

At the train station we were a bit bewildered. Since it was still relatively early there weren't too many people. There aren't many signs. There was a computerized booking office and a ticket counter. We went to the general ticket counter and tried to buy tickets to ???, our intermediate stop on the way to Varanasi. The clerk said there were only general class tickets, but we wanted AC3 sleeper tickets. V had been told that you could just get on the train and upgrade there. So we found out which track the next train was on, which I recall as leVng around 0930 or 1000. We dropped our bags at a cabin in the mostly empty sleeper car. V and P went in search of someone on the platform who could sell us tickets and were told we could buy tickets on the train by a conductor. The train got going and we settled in for our ride. The glass windows were broken on both sides, and one side was tinted a dark yellow, leVng a strange feeling surrounded by the blue-vinyl benches. Eventually, the same conductor came around. We asked to buy tickets, but he insisted we had to pay the full fare plus a 250 INR penalty for not hVng tickets. Explaining we had just arrived, didn't understand the process, and had been told by him to get tickets on the train did nothing to move him. We ended up forking over about 600 INR per ticket, but at least we were in India, moving on a train toward our destination.

We arrived at Gorakhpur around 1800. We left the train station and went in search of food. Other than a few cookies, we had not eaten anything all day. We stopped at the first restaurant opposite the train station and got Indian thali for around 25 rupees each. After hVng eaten the equivalent Nepali food, I must say Indian food is many times better. HVng satisfied our stomachs we went in search of a place to sleep. LP said there were a few cheap and similar hotels across the street. We checked three hotels and settled on Hotel Verdan. They said they had hot water, which we discovered was not true later that night. Some of the rooms were ok but were noisy as they faced the street. Me and P ended up being roommates, but the room they gave us had a window that didn't close, making the room noisy and exposed to mosquitoes. We got another room, which was quieter as it was away from the main street, but it had major water stains. The hotel also had Internet access, though this was apparently affected by a poltergeist working for the electric company.

In the morning we bought tickets for Varanasi, left our bags at the train station, and took a taxi to Kushinagar, location of Buddha's death and cremation. The taxi was 800 INR (?) for a round-trip including waiting time. The drive each way was about 1.5 hours. On the way we passed an overturned truck amidst a forest of straight trees. Overturned trucks were to prove a relatively common sight on the roads. We got to Kushinagar around 1100 and wandered around the simple temples. The town is small and
relatively undeveloped. The temples were nowhere near the extravagant Buddhist temples I had seen in Japan and China, which surprised me as it is a major site of Buddha's life. Buddhism is less pervasive in India than in these other countries though Buddha traveled and lived in the region that is now northern India and southern Nepal. The lack of many extravagant shrines may be for the best, as Buddha did not want to be worshipped. There are, however, several temples, and they are not all simple, though they are new. I found the supposed site of his cremation, marked by a giant mound covered in bricks and hVng remnants of gold leaf flakes, to be the most relevant.

We got back to town around 1800. We had a few hours to kill before the train left around 2130. It was Christmas eve and I wanted to do something for P and T. We went on an apparent walk in search of some alcohol, but really to pick up additional things to help celebrate Christmas. We managed to find pound cake, Baccardi rum, some Indian sweets, a tiny Santa and Christmas tree, kitkats, and some streamers to decorate the cabin. I made sure to buy the cake and Christmas items out of sight of P and T. Buying the liquor was an experience, as the liquor store was locked with a chain gate and people (some of whom were drunk) would say what they wanted and shove money through the bars; very ghetto.

We had dinner and went back to the train station with half an hour to spare before the scheduled departure. Our bags were where we had left them. My trusty combination lock and home-made security cable came in handy for locking all the bags together and to the baggage rack in the checked luggage office. The train station was packed with people sleeping on the floors. The cow that was wandering around in the morning apparently decided to move elsewhere. Our train was not on the track. We deciphered the information board and asked many people to confirm that it was delayed by two hours. We went out to check the Internet for a while and I got to call my father on Skype. P had a stroke of genius and got a deck of cards. Since the train ended up being delayed until around 12:30, this proved to be very handy and we whiled away the hours on the platform (times might be a bit off from my memory). I now understood why the platform was packed with sleeping people.

This turned out to be about our worst train ride. We clambered in and found our "first class" seats. First class on this train was worse than 3AC on our previous ride (and from the other 3AC rides we have taken since). The cabin was full of mosquitoes. The fans didn't work--apparently they were disconnected because it was "winter", but I think that was just a story the conductor told us. It was grungy and dirty. Worst of all, the conductor was very horny. Yes, he leaned on his horn seemingly all night long. Our cabin was near the front of the train. A train horn is very loud. My earplugs only kept the pain level down, they didn't help me sleep. We entertained ourselves by killing mosquitoes. HVng gotten settled, we broke out the Christmas surprises and had a merry time drinking rum and coke and munching on sweets. I had the hardest time sleeping. Around 0300 I remembered to take off my glasses, but being quite out of it (I hadn't slept properly in days) did not place my glasses carefully and they ended up falling sometime during the night, scratching one of the lenses. I carry a spare pair, but my main pair is superior.

We arrived in Varanasi around 0800. We took one of the innumerable large white taxis outside the station to hotel Singh. I didn't like the idea of using the commission-paid tout who found us as we disembarked, but the hotel was quiet, had a nice yard, and everyone seemed to be happy with it. We were tired, so what the heck. Our rooms were 300 INR for a double room, with hot water when there was electricity. Electricity in Varanasi cuts out from around 1000 to 1800, so shower in the morning or in the evening. The food at the hotel turned out to be good, but the owner and his brother were quite rude and annoying, making it a mixed experience.

Danny, who worked at the hotel, spoke amazingly good Hebrew. He said he learned it from tourists. That's how many Israelis come through India. This unfortunately obviated our strategy of speaking Hebrew among the fellow Israelis to avoid eavesdropping when bargaining. He offered to take us to a silk weVng factory, promising "no pressure". At first he seemed like a nice guy, and it would be fun to see how they make silk items. We took a short look at a few men working on looms, then went to his shop. V and OT were interested in buying some gifts for folks back home. Danny showed quite a few nice items and said the way to tell if something was real silk or a synthetic immitation was to burn a few edge threads. I imagine this can be easily circumvented by placing real edging on a fake item. He soon switched to pressure selling, including the special Christmas holiday prices for "today only". I didn't buy it for a minute and we got out of there.

We walked down to the Ganges. I have seen movies and pictures of the Ganges, but it is a different experience to step through the orange-painted altar of a ghat and out onto a platform above the river. Before us lay the Ganges, goats, white walls reflecting brilliant sunlight, light and water and grey. Everywhere I turned there was a new kind of sight, a different kind of smell, the filth of a polluted river that purifies those who touch her. To die and be cremated here is to escape the cycle of death and rebirth. Nowhere is the Indians' lack of hygeine more evident than at the Ganges. The river, according to LP, is septic in places and has fecal bacterial counts of 1.5 million per 100 mL, where the safe bathing limit is 500 per 100 mL. The pollution does not deter Indians, who happily fish, launder, swim, bathe, submerge, and finally scatter their ashes in the holy Ganges.

We walked north along the ghats on the west bank of the river. A small herd of buffalo, children and men flying kites, men exercising, bathing. People washing clothes, drying them on the walls, the dirty ground and mud of the river banks. Goats. Cow dung patties drying in the sun. Dogs and puppies. Beggars. Endless offers of "boat", that is, for a boat ride on the Ganges. We came to the main burning ghat. The burning area is filled with large piles of wood and several cremation fires. We went up to bypass the fires and were followed by someone claiming a better view up a tower. He kept on saying no photos, which was quite irritating. We followed him up, repeatedly checking that no money was expected. At the top he points to a beggar woman and says we're supposed to make some donation, saying he'll get his uncle who owns the tower to get permission for photography. This is obviously complete bullshit. We take a look, he wants 500 Rs per photo, then drops to 200 Rs, neither of which do I intend to pay (or to take photos). When we refuse to pay they suddenly get very belligerent so we leave. Truly among the rudest ugliest people I have met on my trip, working at one of the holiest sites in India.

We wandered through the narrow alleys and found a roof-top restaurant at Fuji guesthouse. A roof-top view in the pleasant sun of December is a great way to eat lunch. Since there is no electricity mid-day, restaurants lower down are also quite dark. We then wandered back along the ghats and hired a boat to see the sunset and aarti ceremony for 70 INR per hour. Our boatman turned out to be quite entertaining and friendly. He said he had been doing this for years and had a Japanese girlfriend from whom he had several kids. We crossed to the sandbar in the middle of the river, then paddled back to watch the ceremony. The ceremony consists of several stages involving wVng first smoking incense containers, then flaming pots, and finally candelabras with many small candles. There is drumming and chanting. People place candles inside lotus leaves on the river.

The next day we got up at 0530 to catch the sunrise. The sun actually rose around 0630, but it was still nice to get down to the water when it was quiet and not filled with people chasing us around, touching us and offering massages. There were a few people already offering boat rides, though. We found a spot and watched the sun rise. Fishermen and tourists drifted by. My friends went back for breakfast. A local artist showed up. I took many photos of him and ended up buying a couple of his small simple drawings of the river for 50 INR. He seemed like a nice quiet man.

After a late breakfast I walked up to the main post office to mail some of my trekking gear home. There are no signs inside the post office other than EMS rates, so it is not clear where to go. A man who may, or may not, have been working for the PO said to go across the street to wrap my items. This concurred with LP. I got a box that fit my stuff and the man carefully sewed it up in canvas, then it was sealed by another man with wax after I wrote the address and my passport number. I went back to the PO, and the same man took me in back, weighed my package (4.7 kg), then had me fill in the customs form and pay the clerk. It came to 1600 INR for the mailing plus 95 for wrapping. Then the man asked for bakshish. He said he was a letter writer. Oh. I asked him how much he usually gets, since I really had no clue, and he said 50 INR, which I gave him--he certainly saved me some time and hastle, I just hope the package was insured and registered as he assured me.

I walked back to the ghats, checked out the simple Alamgir mosque, and walked back toward the hotel. I found another nice rooftop restaurant behind the main burning ghat. A brother and sister were flying a kite and chasing eachother on an adjacent rooftop. After lunch I went back to the hotel. In the morning one of the days in Varanasi, a man stopped by offering to get us train tickets. His commission was 80 INR per person, which is pretty stiff, but it saved us a bunch of time and we got it down to 70 INR. He got us tickets on the train for the next day to Satna, from which we would take a bus to Khajuraho. On one of our mornings in Varanasi a gentleman came by saying he was an astrologer, had been to many countries, met the king of Morocco and other big shots. P thought it would be interesting to get a reading from him. In the end, he wanted 5000 INR but P got that down to 1000 INR and said it was interesting.

Trains in India run on a nominal schedule. They may or may arrive when the schedule says they will. When you ride on a "super fast express" the train will take approximately twice as long as scheduled to get to its destination. There is a lot of time spent sitting on the tracks waiting. I hate to think what a regular train would be like. This, however, is just like train travel in the US. Amtrak trains may, or may not, arrive on schedule (typically not), and will usually take much longer than scheduled to arrive at their destination. Likewise, bus travel in Nepal and India is just like flying in the US. You can't figure out how to get tickets. Everyone pays a random different price. Buses are delayed or switched for no apparent reason. Seats are cramped and uncomfortable, there is not enough space for luggage, and there are too many people getting on and off. Finally, the conveyance will go to some random intermediate place that has little to do with your destination. Trying to get a straight story out of the employees is next to impossible. On the train, as on flights, just when you are getting to sleep a steward or seller will come running by with something you don't want. In India, they'll loudly shout "chai chai", "water bhodi water bhodi", etc. You don't really get used to it (who gets used to being woken up?), but you learn to accept it more calmly.

Our trip from Nepal to India took longer and was more uncomfortable and aggravating due to the stupid road blockade and the typically annoying bus companies. The local police could have removed the blockade, but probably figured it was better to let the locals simmer than to risk sparking a bigger confrontation. Amazing that a major transport road can be blocked for so long for so little. The stuck bus had a silver lining: I made some new friends and enjoyed their company for a while. The border crossing adventure, from Birganj via Rauxal to Gorakhpur was entirely unrecommended. Mosquitoes, dirt, ugly air. At least we got to see Kushinagar, but I wouldn't go out of my way to catch it unless seeing the major sites of Buddha's life is important to you. Varanasi is a dirty, crowded city with a major river that is badly polluted. Seeing the rich waterways, I can understand how Indian civilizations could persist for so long. The holy aspects and the numerous ghats do nothing to soften the rip-offs and commercial annoyances. It is fascinating to observe the things people do along the river, bathing, cremating, washing. The dirty, polluted skies are filled with small kites, flown by children and men. It is beautiful and it is ugly, like all things, exploding stars that ferment the elements of life.