Born in Colchester England in 1971. Adam, or 'Andy' to friends, has spent most of his life travelling in one way or another in search of wisdom, experience and adventure, beyond our own suburban existence. At the tender age of 28 he has witnessed every extremity this world has to offer; from the war ravaged deserts of Iraq and the killing fields of Cambodia to the wonderful snow capped peaks of the Nepalese Himalayas, and much more between.
May 17, 2000
View from the Red Fort, Agra.
Bombay is the home of the Indian dream, a high-wire trapeze city of riches, poverty and dreams. Mumbai - as it is now known - was literally dredged up from the Arabian Sea, the result of land reclamation during British colonial times. Seven islands became a claw- shaped peninsular 20km long and five wide. This most vibrant metropolis in India teems with people, 14.8 million at the last count, and its historical and cultural connections make it all the more fascinating for the inquisitive traveller. The author Salman Rushdie once said: 'Bombay was central; all rivers flowed into its human sea. It was an ocean of stories; we were all its narrators, and everybody talked at once'. No visit to Asia would be complete without a glimpse into this living museum, and home of the modern Indian popular culture. I simply had to go.
Crossing this vast land from west to east is no easy task. The rail and bus infrastructures are notoriously slow and often dangerous. Careful consideration would have to be given as to which method of transportation to use, and thereafter what route to take.
I sat in my hotel in Kathmandu, map spread across the bed, and gazed thoughtfully at the wall contemplating every conceivable eventuality. For all its cultural diversions, India is a poor and often dangerous country. This would be no gentle stroll through the park. I wanted to be prepared.
There were two of us left in the party, myself and a young Irish girl. Having discussed the possibilities, we made for the local agents and surprisingly managed to book two seats on that evening's luxury coach to the border town of Sunauli. What surprised me was that in all my time in Asia I had yet to come across a 'luxury coach', and the description somewhat worried me. Were we to be presented with a forty year old bus (of which there are many in India) now given a new lease of life after a lick of paint and a few re-covered seats? But as the old English saying goes, 'you pay your money and you take a chance'.
I was impressed! Not in the least because this coach appeared quite comfortable. It even boasted a TV and entertainment system, and by comparison looked relatively modern. 'I think I'm going to enjoy this' I remember quoting at the time. It left almost exactly on time, and I relaxed in my seat feeling quietly confident that we would have a pleasant journey ahead.
However two minutes into the journey I realised that everything about the bus was designed for discomfort. The seats were designed by a dwarf seeking revenge on full sized people; there was no other explanation. I have seen domestic aircraft with more legroom. I swear that for several minutes the blood ceased to flow through both of my legs. The guy in front of me had discovered the rusting lever on the side of the chair and had now reclined his seat so far back that the back of his head was in my lap.
My own seat was now raked at a peculiar angle that induced immediate neck ache. The next few hours were spent experimenting with every conceivable body position, so as to achieve some element of comfort.
Emerging at the border the following morning we disembarked in a hunch like stance, and made for the official looking wooden table by the roadside that was evidently the immigration office.
Ticket in hand, and somewhat loosened after a strong coffee and light breakfast, we eased through the formalities and headed straight for the dust clouded courtyard that was the bus park. Our 8.30 bus failed to appear. This is not altogether unusual in India and was no cause for concern. We waited patiently at the roadside perched on top of our packs providing a little light entertainment for the locals whom had now congregated into a small gathering around us. The pace had changed. We were twenty yards into the country and already the mood and atmosphere had declined into a state of organised chaos. People in their hundreds were scurrying from bus to bus, truck to truck, shop to shop, shouting, screaming, selling, buying. This was India, the change had been instant.
The situation was deteriorating from one of relaxed anticipation, to that of fear and alarm. Our bus was over an hour late and we were becoming mobbed by an uncontrollable crowd of ill clothed and dirty locals trying to sell their wares at vastly inflated prices. Women of middle years, yet looking much older, held naked children aloft and fell to our feet begging us to provide for their screaming, starving child. Emotionally it was heartbreaking, yet we could do nothing. To give to one you must give to all, and the mob would have doubled or even trebled had we produced any money or food. We could do nothing but collect our belongings and push our way firmly through the crowd in search of our bus.
The ticket agent explained that our bus had departed without us almost an hour earlier. He had evidently forgotten all about us and was happy to leave us to fend for ourselves once more, having already relieved us of our money. An argument ensued and after a swift mention of the word 'police' he quickly relented and beckoned us to follow him to the promised bus. We wove in single file between the dozens of buses and trucks that had somehow squeezed themselves haphazardly into the park, pausing occasionally to brush off another beggar or salesman, much to the delight of onlookers.
The bus that stood before us could only be described as a wreck. I swear it was in fact several wrecked bussed welded together in an amateurish way. The brown rusty colour of its appearance was actually rust. Inside the seats were covered in an inch of foam, if they were covered at all. The floor was covered with thousands of nut shells and discarded garbage, windows were broken or simply missing, it was hardly what we had expected. We spoke for a while and concluded that we had little choice but to board and face the long and agonising journey ahead to the town of Varanassi.
As we departed the conductor approached and demanded we pay for a new ticket, after all this was not officially our bus. Tired and weary I was in no mood for games, and a blazing row erupted. This was Indian corruption at its worst, for this was a government bus and the conductor was a government employee, and he was fully prepared to throw us and our bags onto the road right there and then, unless we again paid a highly inflated price for a new ticket. We paid up and watched the money slip into his pocket. He jumped off full of smiles and presented our original ticket agent with a tip for his troubles. We had been totally conned. I was furious, spending the journey moping quietly in my seat keeping a watchful eye on any person who dared approach me.
It took thirteen hours to drive the two hundred or so miles to Varanassi. The bus driver had conveniently decided to stop at any opportunity in order to play cards, or converse with friends and family on the way. Indian time is slow time, and it would take some time for me to grasp this concept.
Varanassi is known as the Eternal city. Perched on the edge of the Ganges, India's most holy river, its purpose is to provide an eternal resting place for those who have left this world and are journeying to the next. It has little to offer in the way of tourism, but it still provides an interesting array of diversions for those passing through. It is simply heaving with people. Hundreds of thousands live in the town, and more in the surrounding villages. Each morning as the sun rises, people flock to the banks of the Ganges in their tens of thousands for their early morning cleansing in this most holy of rivers. It is a truly magnificent sight, sailing along the river in a small boat, the bank is but a blur among a swarm of people. Silently they bathe, and pray. Their bodies create a moving silhouette against the backdrop of the rising sun.
As dawn turns into day the light bears down upon the ornate crumbling architecture and steeply stepped Ghats that wind their way down to the banks. This is a truly magnificent place, a real insight into Indian beliefs and culture. Further along the river we come to the most sacred of 'Ghats'. This is where those who have come to rest are finally released, the cremation site. Piles of wood several meters high surround the site and occupy the surrounding buildings. To one side a flat area is occupied by row upon row of people recently passed, each dressed in their brightly coloured cremation gowns in preparation for the ceremony. Around eight bodies are cremated upon separate fires simultaneously. As soon as one cremation is complete another is prepared. As the wood is piled high, the deceased person's family collect the body and carry it to the bank where it is then dipped into the river in order to cleanse the soul. It is then placed upon the wood, and again a family member lights the fire to a background sound of prayers and chants. The soul is then released and their new life begins.
An interesting point is that the amount of wood used in a cremation depends entirely on the wealth of the family. Therefore it is no surprise that the beggars here along the banks, beg not for money, but for wood.
We were now a group of six, having collected a few stray travellers along the way, all having been conned in similar circumstances and equally as furious as us. We had arrived and decided to stay together, safety in numbers as they say. Varanassi is not an especially good place to walk. For one thing there is the constant danger that you will be run over. Zebra crossings count for nothing in India, which is not unexpected but takes a little getting used to. It is a shock to be strolling across a main road, lost in idle thought, when suddenly it dawns on you that 6 lanes of traffic bearing down on you have no intention of stopping. It isn't that they want to hit you (like they do in Paris) but they just WILL hit you! This is partly because Indian drivers - of which there are thousands in this little place - pay no attention to anything happening on the road ahead of them. They are too busy tooting their horns (a national pastime), gesturing wildly, and preventing other vehicles from cutting into their lane.
Read Part 2
Copyright Adam Williams
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