Goodbye India

Having haggled down to an acceptable price before the journey, the rickshaw driver that took us to the train station for the night train out of Varanasi played the “I have no change” trick. The change involved was only 10 rupees, but this, along with all the other hassle we had, meant we left the city with a bad taste in our mouths.

Don't be afraid to visit there just because my account however. The city itself has a nice relaxed atmosphere and is beautiful in parts, and our experiences were as much down to bad luck as anything else. It was just a shame that, in our three weeks in India, the only place where we really felt targeted as Westerners was our last stop.

Our final journey in India was also one of the most comfortable, switching to a hired car at the last train stop, Gorakhpur, to bring us to the edge of this country and the gateway to our next, Nepal.



Out of all the countries on our itinerary, India was the one I held the most apprehension for. Looking back now, I can't even remember why this was the case. India surprised me. I really enjoyed it, the food, the rickshaw journeys, the scenery, the history...it all adds up to a superb three weeks. Three weeks! We experienced and saw so much, it felt like so much longer. Not a bad start at all.

Scam City

Strolling down the Varanasi ghats in the sun, John and I came across Gearóid, who had wandered ahead earlier, face down getting a traditional Indian massage. Spotting me observing my friend, I was targeted instantly by another massager with an adjacent table.

Before I could even say no he was massaging my head and hands. I said no to a full body massage, even at 250 rupees, but he insisted that it would be much cheaper. What followed was 30 minutes or so of discomfort, sometimes pain. Then at the end he insisted on 500 rupees. I said no way, and as I argued with him he tried to keep massaging me, with a few of his onlooking mates in my field of vision. I had to fight him off. Another bloody scam. I paid 400 in the end. Gearóid and John were happy with their massages, but I was incensed. Between our farcical arrival and now this, Varanasi was not leaving a good impression on me.

Hello, Boat?

After the trouble we had on arrival, wandering about was all we were motivated for on our first night in Varanasi, the holiest of Indian cities with the revered river Ganges flowing through it's side.



The Ganges holds huge importance in both Hindu and Muslim faiths, with huge numbers of pilgrims from both visiting Varanasi every year. For many Hindus it's their final pilgrimage. Hindus believe that if you die here you achieve automatic enlightenment, the ultimate goal for any Hindu. Hence you have the odd phenomenon of many elderly or very ill Hindus coming to the city as a place to see out their final days. Seeing bodies openly cremated on the banks of the ganges is a sight that I won't forget in a hurry.

But Varanasi has some life too. The maze of narrow pedestrianised streets are great fun to explore, packed with people, cows and flying motorbikes. Along the ghats on the banks of the Ganges, we saw everything from cows and people bathing to clothes being washed as well as the aforementioned cremations, all along the same two kilometre stretch of river.

No visit to Varanasi is complete without a boat trip on the Ganges, preferably at sunrise, so says the Rough Guide to India. And you can't walk 30 seconds down the ghats without hearing the words “Hello, boat?”. So on our last morning we struggled out of bed at 6.15 and hit the water.



In a way it was surreal. On the river banks you have pilgrims and locals giving worship and going about their business, and on the river itself you have dozens of boats full of tourists watching and photographing them. Add to that the fact that our hired rower was about 12 years old and incapable of rowing three giant Irishmen around, and you get an idea of the scene. John even attempted to row himself.



After he spun the boat around in a circle for a little while we decided it'd be best to give the 12 year old a little rest and leave it in his little hands.

Welcome to Varanasi

After a reasonably comfortable overnight train journey (I got some sleep this time), we arrived at Varanasi station looking forward to relaxing for a day or three. Our schedule had been close to hectic for the past few days, and this was our last stop in India, so we needed a bit of down time before tackling Nepal. As it turned out however our search for a hostel was anything but relaxing.

A seemingly nice Nepalese fellow gave us a good price (50 rupees) for the rickshaw journey. He wasn't the driver as it turned out, he rode in front alongside, but no harm, the price was good. The Nepalese fellow, or gobshite as I'm going to term him henceforth, suggested a hotel he knew well, promising everything we were looking for and inour price range. It sounded good. When we were pulling up outside the entrance, gobshite said that actually it's a bit more expensive, but very nice.

Price is our priority, and we reluctantly called in to the place. Too expensive. Cue John justifiably getting very angry with gobshite, throwing the 50 rupees his way and storming off, with Gearóid and myself in tow. Gobshite proceeded to stalk us, asking why were we walking the wrong way, the hostels were in the other direction apparently. After five minutes, we realised we had no idea where we were. Gobshite was still around. Realising our lack of options, we demanded to be taken to Yogi's. He agreed, at no extra cost. I thought this was nice of him, but John was still suspicous.

We pulled up to the hostel. The sign matched the name on the book, but looked very temporary. We had a look at a room. Not great, the price was too high, and the hostel manager didn't make a good impression. Not to mention gobshite was pushing the hostel the whole time we were there. We'd had enough of him.

Finding a nearby main street, we tried to get our bearings, gobshite still in tow! We asked a shop owner to show where we were on the map. Nowhere near Yogi's! The hostel was a replica! And gobshite even had the cheek to point to the real Yogi's when we asked him to show us where we were on our map. At that point I wanted to turn to gobshite and say things I wouldn't publish here, but he had conveniently vanished.

After a 2km walk with our backpacks in the sun (we weren't chancing another rickshaw), we found the real Yogi's. Close to it was another recommended place, which we had a look at first. It wasn't great. We told the owner that we were going to check out Yogi's around the corner, and he told us that someone died there today. Great, more lies we thought. But around the corner we went to be faced with a group of police officers and some onlookers outside Yogi's. One of the staff had committed suicide there that morning.

After an exhaustive and exhausting couple of hours we finally found a suitable place for a suitable price. We've had better arrivals.