I am too tired to be brave, yet to pumped to stay still.
So, I’ve relocated to the hotel bar, ordered a beer and set my self up in the ultra-retro, ultra-stylish bar of the Hotel Hindustan, Varanasi, because really, when you’re waiting for your tour to start, what else is there to do? And when in doubt, and you know you can’t drink the water, drink beer.
It’s a rule I’ve taken with me to Bali and Thailand – it’s a rule that I’m going to use here. Beer is your friend in third world countries. The beer won’t send your stomach into spasms. Beer is normally good and plentiful in these hot, strange places – it’s your go-to bevvie, as you know it will normally be good – think Bintang in Bali, or Chang in Thailand – more than palatable. (Same could be said for Adelaide – the water is next to brackish at the best of times, but it is the home of Coopers… who’d a thunk it.) So, it is just me, my 650 ml bottle of Kingfisher and a very fetching orange and brown bar, décor circa 1975, failing electricity and a laptop with a charged battery. I am wearing a huge smile.
This place is NUTS. It’s more okay. It’s fantastic.
I have poor Anand, the bartender, answering my questions and keeping me company while I write this. I’ll find some dinner a bit later and turn in early. The wifi here is next to dead, but it seems a bit better down here than in my room. The room is fine – clean enough if you ignore the slightly musty smell. TripAdvisor had warned me, so my expectations were managed. All is well. The tour starts tomorrow. I’ve met my tour mates, but I’ll get to them shortly. I think we’re in for some fun.
I’ve been wary about this trip for months, as many of you know. More fear of the unknown that fear of anything else.
Today was always going to be my down day. I arrived in India at 9.00 last night. From the moment I got off the plane, my fears dissipated. Some of this was the fact that walking into the customs halls the first thing you see is a frieze depicting mudras – hand gestures used in yoga with the intent of channelling energy flows. For some reason, I found this comforting.
An hour later, after queuing in the All Other Passports lane – duly photographed and fingerprinted, my passport was stamped and I was left to find my suitcase, which was thankfully going around on the carousel. In another five minutes, leaving the arrivals hall, a man was standing with a card with my name on it. 15 minutes later, I was at my airport hotel – after once again my bags being x-rayed and my person being patted down. More on this too.
Phew.
Two showers and seven hours of coma-like sleep later, I was back at the airport for the flight to Varanasi.
And it was at this moment that I fully realised that I was no longer in Kansas and the only thing I could do was put a big smile on my face, laugh and enjoy experience.
Alighting the courtesy car, I queued to get into the main building. You’re only allowed in if you have a valid ticket. I presented my passport and itinerary to the man in the uniform with the pistol and made my way inside. No dramas, however, slightly disconcerting.
The conversation was short.
“Varanasi, yes.”
‘Yes.”
“Australian.”
“Yes.”
“Your cricket team is getting better.”
“We won back The Ashes.”
“Have a good trip.”
This was the third of about 20 cricket related conversations I’ve had today.
Here are some things to know about Delhi Airport. It’s modern. It’s got good air conditioning. And it’s probably somewhere that Dante had in mind when describing the eighth circle of hell. Melbourne airport and the Sydney/Melbourne commuter crush at seven AM on a Monday morning has NOTHING on this.
Unlike Australia, where you get to the airport an hour before a flight, here, you give it two hours. And you need it. It’s not the check in process – that’s fine. The security processes, however, are another matter.
Once you have your boarding pass and your bag is sent on its way, you’re sent to the security queue. This is where the fun starts. The queue is LONG, unruly and sexist – but I am looking at this through my rose-coloured Western glasses. Once you reach the x-ray machines, you are divested of your belongings and you’re sent to the queue to have your person screened. There is a queue for women and two queues for men. As a woman, you go through the metal detector, and are then ushered into covered cubicle where a female security officer pats you down. Then, and only then, can you go get your belongings. I queued for about 20 minutes. Making things worse, the stragglers arriving at the queue, pushing in, delaying you further, with monotonous regularity.
And here is the big disparity. As a woman, you’re treated very differently. The waits are longer, the queues are longer. On your own – you’re a bit of an anomaly. It’s not that subtle but I’m told it’s getting better – but again, through my Western lens, this is something I’d get very annoyed with very quickly.
The flight to Varanasi was unremarkable, other than it was an hour late. I was seated next to a lovely couple from Iowa, Anne and Susan. Educated, well-travelled, erudite and fun, we chatted over the flight about many things – their dislike and distrust of Trump, where they had travelled, Australian crime series (they both love Phryne Fisher and Dr Blake) amongst other things. It made the flight go quickly.
Arriving in Varanasi, I once again looked for my name on a card. I was met by Mahendra, our tour guide and the two other people on the trip - Mark and Pete from Adelaide.
Talking more, we found out a bit more about each other. The important stuff. Mark is a Hawthorn supporter. Pete goes for the Crows. They are on a longer tour, heading off on an 18-day tour of the North of India after this. As we were stowing our bag, I caught sight of Mark’s address on his bag. Mark lives around the corner to where I grew up as a kid in Seaview Downs. The world is small and mysterious.
Unfortunately, they are staying at the other Intrepid hotel in Varanasi, about 20 minutes by car away (and looks a lot better than this one). I think we’d have a ball if we were in the same place. I’ll see them tomorrow at 9 am when I’m collected for Day one of the tour – Varanasi Old Town by Rickshaw.
So far, Varanasi is an enigma. This is one of the oldest cities in India. Its dirty, it’s frenetic and it’s nuts. The traffic can only be described as Bali on steroids. Cows wander the streets. It’s sad to see them foraging through rubbish – as Mahendra said, no milk, no food – they are left to wander.
The other thing I’ve noticed – the streets are full of men – women are barely seen. They are a rare sight. Again, from a Western lens, its disconcerting. I’ll look into this more as the trip continues.
Also strange, when we dropped off the boys at their hotel, I sat fast. The driver encouraged me to get out. It took a bit for him to negotiate that I was on my own and the boys were travelling together. As a woman, it appears I’m supposed to be at the behest of a man. Allegedy. Ah well.
My beer has been drained. I need to find some dinner. Unwilling to negotiate the streets by myself at night, I’ll see what the restaurant downstairs has to offer. I’ll take my book. It’s all good.
A proper night’s sleep and I’ll be up for more tomorrow. I'm hoping the jetlag won't be biting too hard.
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