By Any Means: His Brand New Adventure From Wicklow to Wollongong (23 page)

‘Come on, this is a waste of time.’

We took off into the streets, looking for someone who could take us to Ramnagar. We made our way through streets heaving with rickshaws; market stalls and darkened shops selling just about everything you can imagine. At last we found a line of jeeps, the type the US army used to use - a couple of seats in the front, benches on either side of the flatbed, and a canvas canopy.

‘That’ll do,’ I said, pointing to a blue one that looked in reasonable condition. The driver assured us we could get to Ramnagar by four p.m., so we loaded up. The seats were incredibly hard and there was no suspension, but the major problem soon turned out to be that the jeep wouldn’t actually start. Jesus, it was turning into that kind of day. The driver spent a good few minutes spinning the engine over with no sign of it firing before he got out.

‘Here we go,’ Russ said. ‘The bonnet’s coming up.’

I jumped down and was about to tell the driver we’d find another jeep when the engine burbled into life. Russ hauled me back and we tore off through the crowds with the horn blaring all the way to a petrol station.

I sat back with a sigh. All that haste just to sit beside a petrol pump. Roll with it, I told myself: it’s hot and you’ve got a headache. If Ewan was here he’d tell you to suck it up, Charley: it’s just one of those days.

We bounced all the way to Ramnagar. Every time we hit a bump Russ and I would leave the seat and smack our heads off the metal bars that held the canvas hood in place. I already had a headache from the heat and lack of sleep, and this wasn’t helping. Neither was the traffic: we were nose to tail, the only respite from the fumes and the heat the bit of breeze that drifted through the hood. Stopping at a level crossing we waited in a mass of other vehicles as a goods train thundered by, boxcar after boxcar. When the barrier finally lifted nobody moved. There was so much traffic bunched together on both sides of the railway line nobody was going anywhere.

Suck it up, Charley. Hands hooked in my armpits I took a breath, sat back and closed my eyes.

Somehow the drivers got it sorted. After lots of yelling and hooting of horns they got the traffic into a line that filtered across the tracks and on we went. The driver was as good as his word and despite all the hold-ups he got us to Ramnagar just after four. Hoping that our boat would still be there, I hefted the gear and looked around for the river.

The River Ganges is 1,500 miles long, and the epitome of atmospheric, spiritual India. We couldn’t find it. After much hunting I suggested we head to the old fort. All the other forts we’d seen had been built close to rivers. Sure enough, the Ganges flowed on the other side. We met our skipper, Supla, outside a cafe, and he led us down a dirt road with derelict buildings on one side and some empty-looking shops on the other.

For some reason I’d been expecting some kind of power boat, but this was a skiff - a rowing boat with an oarsman in the front and a surly-looking guy with a moustache on the tiller. The travel company Explore had arranged this for us. There were lots of them all moored together with kids swimming alongside, laughing and joking, duck-diving and splashing each other. I could see Varanasi on the other side. Supla promised he’d have us there before the sun went down.

Climbing aboard I took a moment to stretch out under the canopy where some rugs were laid for us to sit on. After the sweating metal of the jeep it was bliss.

‘What a way to end the day,’ I said to nobody in particular. ‘A trip up the Ganges.’

The guy at the back poled away from the shore. After a few minutes I sat down alongside the oarsman. Taking an oar each, we pulled into the middle of the river.

‘2012,’ I told him. ‘The London Olympics. England and India rowing side by side.’ It was just what I needed, a bit of therapeutic exercise after a hectic, stressful day. ‘Hey, Russ,’ I said. ‘Isn’t this great? Here we are on the Ganges rowing a boat to Varanasi, one of the holiest places on earth. I’m going to ask for all my past, present and future sins to be forgiven - hope it works.’

I’d say a prayer for my little family as well.

‘I spoke to Mungo on the phone,’ I added. ‘He’s on his way up to Newcastle and they’ve pencilled in an op for tomorrow. He told me he’s desperate to get back.’

‘He needs to be fully fit,’ Russ said, ‘for his sake. Did I tell you we tracked down another cameraman in the meantime? Indian guy called Wency - short for Wenceslas, apparently. He’s pretty experienced. We’re meeting him later for a beer. There’s another guy coming down from Nepal as well, so we should be all right.’

We made it across just as the sun dipped behind the river temples. Varanasi - one of the oldest and most spiritual cities in the world. The perfect place to wash away the cares of the last few days.

 

The following morning I spoke again to Mungo who was already in hospital, about to have his operation. It was only a couple of days ago that he’d been in the back of that pickup when his knee gave out. Funny to think we’d been spending all this time escaping air travel, but I had to admit that it certainly came in handy in a crisis. Mungo said the operation would take about forty-five minutes and all being well he should be released later that afternoon. By then he ought to know how long the recovery time was likely to be and how soon he’d be back. It was great news - Mungo was very much part of the team and I missed not only his camerawork but his company. In the meantime, though, we had Wency and Deepak, the new shooter who’d come down from Nepal.

Varanasi felt different from anywhere else we’d visited in India. There were the same mad streets, of course, full of wonderfully ramshackle buildings, narrow alleys and backstreets, open doorways and lines and lines of washing. There were children playing, dogs sniffing around for scraps; but unlike Delhi or Mumbai the roads were not jam-packed with cars. The main mode of transport seemed to be rickshaw or tuk-tuk and there was a different atmosphere. Mumbai had been bonkers; wall-to-wall people full of bustle and industry. Delhi had been more open and there were more cars, people were more serious and it had the feel of a capital city. In Varanasi there was a mellow feel although it was still incredibly busy. Walking through its streets the morning after our arrival, I felt refreshed and very relaxed. I passed shops selling all kinds of food, silks, rugs and lots of brass objects. There was a strong, distinctive smell to the place: spices, incense, the river.

Russ and I each jumped in a rickshaw. I told my driver we wanted to go down to the river. He was a skinny guy of about forty with oily black hair, very quiet except for a really terrible cough. Halfway through town I felt so guilty I asked the poor guy to stop. He thought the fare was over and began working out what I owed him but I helped him down from the saddle. ‘You ride in the back,’ I said. ‘I’ll pedal.’

He looked puzzled, eyes wide: he didn’t understand.

‘You sit there,’ I pointed to the multi-coloured seat. ‘I’ll pedal.’

Still he stared, not quite getting what I meant. He spoke a little English but I don’t suppose anyone had ever offered to carry him before.

I needed some exercise and riding a rickshaw couldn’t be that difficult. Ringing the little bell I joined the melee, the little guy sitting uncertainly in the back. The streets were thick with other rickshaws and tuk-tuks and I was part of society now, a rickshaw driver in Varanasi avoiding shopkeepers and stallholders, priests in red skirts and sashes. I was competing with tuk-tuks and motorbikes, scooters piling past me. Everyone was looking on and laughing: a traveller, a tourist, riding the rickshaw with the owner in the back. It was hard work and hot, and I had to avoid people who just sauntered out in front of me. I also had to avoid the cows.

The cow is sacred to Hindus. Rajiv, a local guy we had hooked up with, had explained that the cow represents the maternal force, because it gives milk and nurtures the young. There were lots of mothers here, wandering about all over the place; black ones, grey ones, they reminded me of the oxen we’d seen in Ethiopia. Oblivious to the traffic, they just stood there or lay down where they fancied with drivers having to go round them. I wondered what they ate, where did they sleep? Where did they go at night?

The answer was they didn’t go anywhere - they just crashed out where they pleased. They are so revered, they can do whatever they want. They scavenged for vegetables, dropped food, samosas, bits of bread, anything they could find. The trouble was much of the food these days came wrapped in plastic and I saw one black cow trying to lick vegetables from a bag and ending up swallowing the whole thing. I’d seen it in Africa - the plastic bag, a blight on the animal kingdom.

Despite the traffic, the pedestrians and the cows, the rickshaw was just what I needed. I got the hang of its weight and weaved my way towards the river. I had thought it would be impossible to crash in a rickshaw, but I soon saw I was wrong. I got up a bit of speed but was bunched in behind a tuk-tuk when the driver braked and, taking evasive action, I almost slammed into two other rickshaws. My passenger was having kittens. I tried to placate the other drivers. ‘Sorry, guys, my fault. Sorry,’ I said.

They forgave me and we rode on but having almost lost his rickshaw the driver had had enough and demanded I give it back. It was hot and sweaty and by the time I got off I had the ubiquitous wet patch on my bum. I paid the driver and, leaving him still looking pretty bewildered, Russ and I found a roadside vendor and grabbed a cup of tea. There were tea sellers everywhere, stirring great pots of the stuff already mixed with milk, kept warm on stone-block burners fired by charcoal. The guy who served us dipped a saucepan then filtered the tea through a homemade sieve into a teapot. When the pot was full he grabbed a couple of glasses and poured from a great height like some Spanish wine waiter.

‘Smells just like English tea,’ Russ said.

‘Which mostly comes from India,’ I reminded him.

There was a really mellow feel to this city: it was chaotic, yes, but there was a method to the mayhem. I loved it, the lack of cars brought everything closer - the tiny shops, the market stalls. Rajiv told us that the market was the heart of Varanasi, and I could see what he meant.

As I sipped my tea, I watched grey monkeys climbing telephone poles. Apparently they were the cause of a lot of vandalism in the city. Like some raucous, unruly gang, they tear bits off rickshaws, chew shops’ canopies and pick up food wherever they can find it. They even find their way into people’s houses.

I could hear bells ringing everywhere - from rickshaws, and from the hand bells used by priests in their religious ceremonies. I could hear them even above the blaring of tuk-tuk horns. From streets and narrow passageways hundreds of half-naked kids ran down to the water and yet amidst the pandemonium there was a feeling of peacefulness, a real sense of spirituality and well being.

Varanasi is the melting pot of India, pilgrims come from all over the country to bathe in the river and cleanse themselves of their sins. There is a morning ceremony and an evening ceremony with each priest enacting the same ritual at the same time on the
ghats
, or steps, that lead from just about every major street down to the water.

Everywhere we walked people had red lips and teeth from chewing betel nut. I’d had some in the truck yesterday and it was foul: here, it seemed, everyone was into it. Maybe that’s what kept them mellow.

I could smell the river now: it was filthy, full of pollution and yet people swam in it and bathed in it. Some of them even walked on it.

I did a double take. At the far end of the street I could see the water, muddy brown between the buildings and I swear people were walking on it. Two or three at least. As we got closer, though, I realised that it wasn’t the river, it was mud: what I could see was the bank on the other side. I turned to Russ, shaking my head and laughing.

‘I really thought people were walking on the water. What an idiot!’

Rajiv took us out on a boat rowed by his mate, who was full of smiles and laughter. He told me he’d been working on the river all his life. His father had done the same and his grandfather before that. He carried pilgrims and tourists, and in the monsoon months when there were no tourists, he transported cargo back and forth from Ramnagar.

We headed gently downstream. The water really was filthy: some workmen were fixing a sewage pipe jutting from the beach, and it looked as though the sewage was pumped straight into the river. The workmen told us it was filtered but I could see human turds lying among the stones. What really amazed us, though, was the water supply, a couple of pink stone towers that sucked up river water and fed the city. The problem was they were downstream from the sewage outlet. We pointed it out to Rajiv but he just shrugged.

They took us close to the temples and massive houses with their turrets and towers; imposing structures that spoke of the old days and provincial rulers. It was dusk now and kids were swimming, just their heads bobbing above the water. Women in brightly coloured saris stood waist deep, or poured water over their heads while squatting on the steps. I bought a flower candle and, saying a prayer for my family, I sent it on its way.

At night the city took on a whole new aspect as about forty priests gathered on the ghats, where they set up Hindu shrines and altars. They performed their ceremonies standing on strips of carpet at intervals along the paved stone promenade, and pilgrims gathered for songs and worship. Assisted by groups of young women blowing conch shells, each priest went through the same rituals at exactly the same time, so the whole city seemed to be singing. The sound echoed across the water, reaching our boat as we drifted by; an incredible experience, and very moving.

As we stared out across the water we could see funeral pyres burning, the bodies laid on piles of wood with no coffin, just their faces covered. It was believed that if they were cremated they would not be reborn, allowing their spirits to rise free. Rajiv told us that people brought the bodies of relatives from all over India, and even abroad, to burn on the banks of the Ganges. He pointed out a blue building with two stone tigers overlooking the water - the tax office where the families of the dead paid the cremation duty. The tax was high if you were wealthy and low if you were poor. No one was denied the right to send their loved one to heaven in the traditional way.