Varanasi: holy waters and holy cows

My room

My train pulls into Varanasi station on time and I take a tuk-tuk to the Rahul Guesthouse. My initial impressions are not favourable - it has an unfinished air, the rooftop eating area is scruffy, and it's obviously a long long walk from Varanasi's  main centre of interest, the historic ghats that lead down to the holy murky Ganges. I have a late breakfast (good porridge) but none of the other guests (backpackery types half my age) speaks. But it's very quiet, and my room is spotless, complete with a little desk, a window overlooking the river, and taps which gush forth hot water. I later learn that this is filtered, purified Ganges water. I hope it purges my sins without giving me anything nasty in return.

Backstreet near Guesthouse backside

The manager is very helpful, arms me with a map, and advises on routes, costs of rickshaws, etc. I walk all the way into town and rather enjoy the back streets, a temple on every corner, but away from the pilgrims and the curious. Needless to say, the streets are utterly filthy, heaped with rotting rubbish and worse, with cows, goats, mangy dogs and humans going all about their business in more ways than one. Indeed I almost stumble over a pair of copulating goats. The cows seem content to graze on discarded plastic bags. Nothing changes. I must have a strong stomach, or maybe, as German Michael (see 8 Nov) said, I'm desensitized.

Two crazies

Then I have a series of Deja Vu experiences. First there's the "sadhu" (I'm not sure if he really is, or is just a beggar with a saffron robe and advanced sales technique) who hails me with his gravelly voice and wants to be photographed with me (donation expected). Same man as last year, same big glasses, same inane smile, same spot on the ghats (he was probably thinking exactly the same). Then there's the "massage man". He grasps me warmly by the hand, then deftly moves his hand up my forearm and starts manoeuvring my joints and saying I should have a........ But this time I know what's coming and I definitely don't want to end up prostrate on the ground again while he pummels my neck, back and legs. I didn't come here to provide entertainment. Finally, a familiar face spots me and it's Anil my boatman from last year. I'm glad to find someone sane in this insane place. Over a cup of chai he tells me of his Japanese girfriend who's bought him a motorbike (he promises me a ride!) and taken him to Ladakh and Tibet. He's proud of his family's smart turquoise-painted motor boat - the one I watched being built last year - and takes me back upriver in it, and we eat together at a Pizzeria. No alcohol, unlike the Hotel Alka, but apparently they won't let locals in there. How stuffy (or casteish). Glad I didn't book there after all.

View down the Ghats

I wander back, buying a guidebook on the way, serenaded by a distant cacophony of jangles and chants from further along the ghats as the evening pujas and bathings get underway. The streets seem cleaner after dark when I can't see the rubbish, but I must take care not to trip over sleeping animals or tread in anything soft.