I hope you like the scarf

Clare, Uttam and Pete

The autorickshaw Uttam drives now is one he rents for around Rs 200 per day. “I pay for tyres, brake pads, brake fuel and so on,” he says. Pete asks if he’ll buy his own one day, and he tells us he’s saving for one, but saving is tough going.

I enquire about the Indian driver licensing system. Apparently, it exists. All up, it costs several thousand rupees to become fully licensed. First up they have to sit a learner’s licence – “You can sit that when you are 18. Then you go for private licence within one to six months, and then after three years you can go for government licence,” Uttam says. “That one gives you discounted medical care – they pay 25 per cent if you have a crash – and other benefits too. But not if you crash when you are driving drunk,” he adds. “You need to renew your government licence every three years, as well. And then you can get your commercial licence, but the government licence is good enough, so I do not need this one. Uttam tells us the government licence costs around Rs 3000, but it can change “according to goodwill”. Uttam says, “If you know someone in government, it can be little bit cheaper, say, 2500 rupees only.” It seems the notion “It’s who you know, not what you know” is universal.

Barn’s phone rings in the rickshaw, and it’s an Indian number calling. We assume it’s a hotel about a booking, but he looks confused and repeats the caller’s introduction. “It’s my new friend calling? Sorry, who is this?” He explains when he hangs up that it was a customer service representative from Vodafone India who he had spoken with earlier in the day when he was having issues with his sim card. The first time they spoke, Barn was having trouble remembering his new Indian number and she had given him a lecture: “You are verrrry confused, sir. Please write down your number on a piece of paper, and then read it out to me exactly as it is written down.” Just as they were making headway, he accidentally put her on hold and the call was disconnected. Amazingly, this girl displays exceptional customer service contradictory to my earlier rant about Vodafone. She had saved Barn’s number and rang him back from her personal phone when her shift was over, to see if the issue had been resolved. Ten points, Vodafone India. She then proceeds to call him back five more times in a stalkerish manner. Negative ten points, Vodafone India.

Our tour of Varanasi finishes with a trip to the Muslim Cooperative Society – the oldest manufacturing area in Varanasi. A Muslim man shows us around, and we bypass the mosques and head down some alleyways to see silk khadi (hand weaving). We’re told it’s a slow process, with some Muslim dresses taking five to six weeks to complete. A group of men and a young boy are painstakingly threading silver beads onto a piece of silk and explain that silver ones are used for wedding garments only. We meet another man who’s weaving 7000 Kashmiri silk threads finer than strands of hair on an ancient leg-operated machine that has programming cards with codes for different patterns. It’s the same kind of device they’ve been using since the 14th century, and we’re told it’s like an early version of a computer. Again it’s painstaking work; “I’m going to look at my pashminas differently now,” Clare says. Me too.

The man showing us around says they export to lots of countries: “Europe, the USA, Jordan, Dubai, Australia – many, many counties.” “New Zealand?” we enquire. “Many, many countries – but no, not New Zealand. You know Australia? We export our bedspreads for 8000 rupees to Deevad Joes.” “Ohhh, David Jones!” we chorus.

No more duvets, please!

Before we can return to Uttam in the rickshaw, there’s a catch. There’s always a catch. We have to visit the man’s silk store, where he proceeds to unfold all the king-sized silk duvets he has, trying to tempt us to buy. There’s ones with pictures of the fort we visited this morning, more with elephants. Initially, none of us has the heart to say we're not in the market for duvets, but as we slowly drown in fabric, we shake our heads, saying we can’t take any more luggage. But he persists. “We can post!” he says, continuing to unfold. “They’re washable in liquid soap!” he enthuses. “Made from baby cocoon silk!”

He gets out some Rs 3000 ($75) pashminas made from the tummy hair of Himalayan goats. “We have ones from the beard part, too!” he exclaims. "God, they're expensive," Barn mumbles. We start to look at each other. There’s only one thing to do now. One of us will have to buy something so we can escape. I should get my mum something nice, but not $75 nice (sorry, Mum). The man looks at Barn, suggesting he buy a scarf. “He doesn’t have a wife,” I say. “Girlfriend?” the man replies. “You like the green one, sir? Maybe for a business friend?” We all laugh, imagining Barn buying one for his new boss at Russell McVeagh.

At this point, it’s getting dire. I ask if he has any cheaper ones and he brings out a pile that are only 50% pashmina, for Rs 300 ($7.50). Taking one for the team, I pick up one the colour of Mum’s mother-of-the-bride outfit from my sister’s wedding last year. “I’ll take it!” I say, not even bothering to bargain with him. I hand over the 300 rupees and we bolt out of there.

On the way back to our hotel, we ask more about Uttam’s marriage. He says he’s 24 and has been married for two years. Despite his family’s protests (he was meant to have an arranged marriage with a family friend’s daughter), he married for love. “I met her in Assi [Assi Ghat]. I see her one or two times, and we talk. Then friendship turns to love.” In Indian marriages a girl’s father has to pay the husband – it’s a tradition from hundreds of years ago. The government is trying to outlaw it, as apparently it’s not uncommon for women to be murdered after their dowry has been handed over. But Uttam reckons the government can’t do anything about. “For good family, nice family, you just have to pay. But she have no dowry, she have no money, but I say I can do without that.”

They had a small wedding, marrying in a temple, with just a few friends there. “My family would not attend, and her family would not come either.” Uttam tells us that he had great support from a Swiss girl, Anna, who he met when she was volunteering for Red Cross in the area. “She was good friend, she support me a lot and help me, but she’s gone back to college, to university now. Maybe she will come back again, she said maybe in five years, so maybe in 2015,” he says, with a sadness in his eyes.

Taking one for the team

When we get back to the hotel, Erin and Harriet have deteriorated. The poor things are in pain and in need of medical attention, so Barn calls the doctor. One arrives around 7.30pm, diagnoses the girls and prescribes a host of medicines. Barn, the legend, then hops on a motorbike driven by the hotel manager, in search of a 24-hour pharmacy. He’s gone for what seems like an age, and returns, valiant, medicines in tow, having visited six pharmacies. They’d also had to make a return visit to the doctor, as he’d prescribed a medicine that either did not exist or was not available in any of the five pharmacies visited previously. What a champion. At 9.30pm, we dose the girls up and send them to bed, before we head to the rooftop restaurant of our hotel for some dinner and to get Barn a well-deserved beer after a frantic day in the Holy City of Varanasi. Mum, I hope you like the scarf.

Hard work in the holy city

Sleeper train to Varanasi

Arriving in Delhi, Barn and I can’t believe how Western the city feels, relative to the other places we’ve visited in India. Road rules clearly still don’t exist here, but there’s slightly less tooting on the roads as we leave the airport. Furthermore, they’re roads which actually resemble real roads. This is a first. We ask about the 2010 Commonwealth Games and what we glean from our driver’s broken English is that the city was cleaned up in a huge way before the Games – a bonus for those living in Delhi.

We meet up with Harriet and Erin at the hotel and try not to share all the news of our past 10 days apart, as we have a 17-hour train ride to Varanasi the next day. When we get to the platform, Barn reminds me that we’re going to be spending longer on this train than we have in most of the hotel rooms we’ve stayed in so far – not a comforting thought.

As we board the train, a man pushes in front, separating me from the others. He’s stalling, looking into each cabin as I try to push past to get back to the group, and I realise his friend is right up behind me. I feel something touch my handbag, and quickly pull it closer to me before stopping at a seat and insisting they both pass. When I look again, I realise a 20cm hole has been sliced into my bag. Fortunately, the cut was made right where my sleeping bag liner and jersey were, so nothing was taken, apart from my naivety, perhaps.

The Ganges at dawn

The train passes as slowly as expected, and we arrive at Rahul Guest House on the banks of the Ganges in Varanasi at 5.15am. We have a much-needed coffee and board a boat at 6am to watch the sun rise over the Ganges. It’s a must-do experience, but not one I’d jump at repeating any time soon. We float through thick fog past the ghats where some bodies are being burnt and others are being tied with rocks before they’re released onto the water to sink.

The Ganges

There are boatloads of other tourists doing the same thing we are, and others with men selling tacky Varanasi souvenirs from them. It seems wrong for people to be capitalising on this situation, but where there’s a rupee to be made in India, you can guarantee somebody will be making it. Nearing the end of the journey, a Canadian on our boat comments that it’s interesting we haven’t seen a corpse yet. Less than 30 seconds later, we pass one floating face-up. I can’t look for long, but the corpse is still well formed and you can tell it’s a man. There are crows sitting on the man’s bloated stomach, and ceremonial paint still adorns his forehead. He even has his silver wristwatch on. It’s creepy, to say the least.

We walk the city in the afternoon, try a thali recommended in all the guide books, and navigate the intense traffic. After dinner at a restaurant overlooking the Ganges, we meet another lovely autorickshaw driver, Uttam, who we enlist to take us sightseeing the next day. On the way home, Uttam proudly shows us the sparkly Indian bangles he’s brought his wife, and we tell him he’s chosen the best ones. He smiles, stoked, and tells us that in India, it’s not common for men to buy their wives gifts. He tells us he’s 24, two years our junior, and asks Barn if he’s married yet. “Unfortunately not,” he says, “But I’ll be buying bangles soon enough,” Barn adds, laughing.

Clare arrives off a train from Delhi in the morning, and we begin the day as a foursome; this should be the start of “The Famous Five do Rajasthan and Uttar Pradesh”, but Erin is struck down with an as yet unknown illness, so Pete, Harriet, Clare and I head off with Uttam while Erin rests up. He takes us first to the Ramnagar Fort and Museum, a 17th century fort and palace on the eastern banks of the Ganges. We wander through the slightly underwhelming museum and look at cases of weaponry – Indian swords with flint lock pistols, axes, daggers, some bejewelled swords, and a lot of empty cases that should be holding ‘ivory articles'. There are elephant tusks, and – bizarrely – a relatively modern Indian lounge suite behind glass. We see tiger heads, animal hides, a lion trap, and a once-beautiful ballroom with leadlight windows that’s sadly now in a state of disrepair. Pete reckons it would have been a great 21st venue in its heyday.

Harriet starts to go downhill, so we drop her back at the hotel for some R&R with Erin, while Clare, Pete and I continue on to Blue Lassi for “The best lassi in all of Varanasi” – an advertising slogan Clemenger’s would be proud of. This place has been talked up by everyone who’s ever visited the city, and it’s unfortunate Erin and Harriet aren’t with us to enjoy our first one as they were huge campaigners. We’ll have to come back tomorrow, we say. On the way there, Pete accidentally says “bang lassi” instead of mango lassi (Freudian slip?), and our driver Uttam launches into a big spiel about “bang lassis” – the drug-laced version of the milky drinks. Pete’s pleading, “No, I didn’t mean that! We do not want the drug version!” but Uttam presses on. “Bang lassi you can only buy one day of the week in Varanasi. It is very dangerous. The marijuana last four hours, but bang lassi lasts 12. It’s made with the baby leaves,” he says. “It have delayed reaction – you not feel it for one and half hours. Easy to have too much.”

He admits he’s tried it many times before – but he doesn’t do it these days, now that he’s married and has a 10-month old son. “The feeling is very nice, but you can only have little bit, no more. But it is not good; you drinking more and more of it and you become mad. Things are always running in your mind. Anything you think of – the spiritual matters, the sexual matters. You are always thinking, deeper and deeper, any matter,” he warns. “Not long ago, tourist come here and he have the bang lassi. He was in the street for six hours – six hours! – playing with dolls like a baby. More than 200 peoples were watching him in the street, and he not watch any of them, he just watch the doll.” 



Clare ready to tackle 'The best lassi in all of Varanasi'

We get to the lassi place and I opt for a banana and coffee flavoured one. Pete tries the Lonely Planet-recommended apple, and Clare a banana coconut. As we’re ordering, the owner says, “We have special lassi, magic lassi. We can get a lot of things here. We can add magic seeds.” Uhhh, no. Definitely no magic seeds, thank you very much. In her job at Telecom, Clare’s doing some work for Fonterra, so she films them churning the milky drinks, and asks about the ingredients. “Milk, cream, saffron, rose water, and pistachios,” they say. They tell us it’s buffalo milk, not cow, and when we leave, we quiz Uttam about the Indian dairy industry. He tells us buffalo milk is Rs 20 per little, whereas it’s Rs 40 for a litre of cow’s milk. He adds that the buffalo milk is stronger and you can add 300mL of water per litre to dilute it. Apparently they save the cow’s milk for ceremonial use – it’s one of the offerings to the Hindi gods. Temples are even washed in the stuff. “We have big shortage of cow’s milk when we have big religious ceremonies – this is 14 times a year.”

Uttam picks up his sister’s 10-year-old brother on the way, and we say hello and ask if he goes to school. He doesn’t. He sells postcards to make money for his family. He’s one of 11 children and there’s no one to pay for his education. Uttam tells us more about his own family – one brother and one sister, both married now. His father died when he was nine, so he’s been working since he was just 14 years old. First, it was “small jobs like chai shop,” he says. “I started driving auto in 2008, but I do one year learning in 2007. I work one year for no pay to learn.” Clare says that must have been hard, not earning any money for a whole year. Uttam replies in an unintentionally poignant manner: “In India, to get something you need to lose something.” We all nod and look down, silently and unanimously agreeing on the value of hard work.