What a "shitty" day. Literally. The stench was such that a scarf came in handy as a filter. And you daren't walk around without keeping an eye on the ground lest you step into a mound of human waste, or cow or goat or dog crap. Walking along the shore of the Ganges following a monsoon that left steps buried under silty sludge was at times gross to the extreme. Runoff from the city splashed and spilled and pooled in places that made it impossible to keep clean feet. Lynn had me laughing out loud as she walked through an especially mucky section (likely teaming with filthy nasties). Fingers splayed, looking not quite horrified, but clearly beside herself, feet sinking with each step. "Oh god...oh god...oh god...!"
Then there were the beggars who followed like shadows- mothers holding the tiniest frail babies with vacant staring eyes. Or sporting unimaginable deformities. Panhandlers tenacious as pit bulls. Throngs of people jostling for a slice of road.
Sadus - holy men with long greasy hair, minimal clothing, maximum lung capacity for ganga to help speed up enlightenment. It was mind bending. A distortion of proportions unparalleled at home. And to be shopping in the thick of all this?
Then came the late afternoon visit to Harishchandra ghat- a cremation ghat. Watching remnants of bodies - the hips of women, the chests of men "bone with meat" taken from the embers and tossed into the Ganges to perpetuate the circle of life (fish food). Watching the first born sons of the deceased starting the fires, pacing as their loved one's body turned to ash, finalizing the ceremonial farewell by dousing the fire. The bodies of dead women draped in red cloth; men in gold; though come time for cremation, they're all simply shrouded in white cotton. Their faces viewed a few times more as they're laid out on the stacked heap of wood. Sandalwood shavings sprinkled over the body to keep down the smell. Bones visible. Generations one after the next charged with managing the cremation site for centuries now. Their offspring, young boys of 8 or 9 or 10, playing around the ghat, oblivious to the solemn significance, learning at the hands of their fathers and uncles and brothers. Visiting the temple/hut where the flame that sets these bodies ablaze has been burning for as long as the tradition itself. Phew. What a day.

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Tubby time
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The day has begun
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A body either pure enough not to require burning (a sadu, child, pregnant woman...) Or one too poor to afford the price.
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Not yet 7am. Pyres of fire burning at central cremation point on Ganges.
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Holy crap this hotel is stunning. To quote the description in Lonely Planet: "simply gorgeous, this beautifully restored and maintained colonial-style house overlooking Assi Ghat is crammed with books, artwork and antiques." Each of our bedrooms is uniquely decorated with sumptuous raw silks, deep dark carved wood, sculptures, hand woven rugs, delicate cotton-print bed spreads, hand-painted wall and ceiling murals. Margo and I share a room with a view of the Ganges. Tomorrow we're to be up and at the foot of the Ghat to catch sunrise and a boat to the cremation pyres further along shore. Then it's off to the silk and cotton and carpet bazaars...
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Wooo hoo! We're all re-energized; six hysterical westerners after spotting our first elephant. We're on our way to Varanasi, an intense place where "untouchables" cart around the dead, cremation in full view, bodies and human waste floating on the Ganges, putrid smells, in-your-face poverty. Hopefully we can catch moments of sleep for what's ahead. This drive though is pandemonium (sp). We've travelled 45kms in three hours. Another 155 kms to go. The driver is darting and dodging and lurching and blaring his horn like a man gone mad. Gravol is today's blessing.
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At a crossroad nearing Varanasi, the street is swarming with police in riot gear and curious onlookers. There's been a shooting here- something to do with elections

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"I'm not dead, just old."
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It's nightfall. Bags are packed for a 6am breakfast and early departure for Varanassi.
What an inspiring day. Sublime serenity. Spent the better part of the afternoon participating in an auspicious Tibetan festival, enthralled with the ritual. The gentle sweeping of hands, snap of fingers. Whispered prayers and soft hums. Lighting of incense, stick pointed toward the front buddha altar. Prostrations. Moving to a second room to light oil lanterns. Holding thumb to pinky with palm outstretched to receive grains of rice, tossing the blessing into the air. Tinkling of bells, trumpeting horns, clanging cymbals, rhythmic bell clicks to keep chant time. Offerings many. The handsome dark haired monk (we ladies concurred - johnny depp pales in comparison). Tibetan women showing how to move mala beads, offering rugs to cushion the sitting. The gracious apple dumpling woman nodding recognition, gesturing with encouragement. Her elders following suit. Sitting through a full cycle of chant. Meeting the radiantly happy Abbot, sharing a few moments - enough to steal a photo. Sweet. Simple. Pleasure.

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At this very moment I'm sitting in the very spot where the buddha spoke his last words. The powerful energy here escapes words. Calm and awesome both at once
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The entrance grounds to our lodgings in Kushinigar. I'm sitting in the spacious lobby, morning sunlight streaming in, chanting echoing: "buddhang, saranang gacchani, dhammang saranang gacchani, sanghang saranang gacchani"
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"All conditioned things are of a nature to decay - strive on untiringly." The last words spoken at "a miserable little town of wattle-and-daub, right in the jungle in the back of beyond." We have beern sitting for some two hours listening to Norman reading the final discourse. Unlike the others, who appear to be accepting of these readings, inclined to the teachings, past skepticism resurfaces. Doctrine, man-made rules, ego-centricism, hmmmmm. That said, the calming stillness at this site cannot be denied. As we sat at the foot of the golden buddha statue in reclining death pose a group of Tibetans arrived to pay hommage. A moment in my own nirvana.Their devotion utterly mesmerizing.Captured some awesome photos. Exchanged pleasantries and took photos of a couple of nuns, illiterate. They led me to an english speaking monk who wrote out their address so that I can forward photos. It smacks me up the side of the head to witness the delight digital images bring to those from wattle-and-daub villages and towns.

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After a 12 hour drive through abject poverty, we find ourselves checking into luxurious comfort at The Imperial in Kushnigar.
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...where are we?! "We're here." We've been travelling in the minibus for a while now. Left svarsti just after 7am, stopping at the place where sidhartha gautama (aka the buddha) led a sheltered highly priviledged life prior to setting out for answers - Kapilavastu. The stupa dates back to the 5th century BC. In the early 70s archaeologists dug into the stupa and discovered a casket and relics with inscription identifying the renains as those of the buddha and also naming the people who placed them there. Fragrant gardens were alive with flitting black and saffron butterflies. A pink lotus pond the perfect place for quiet contemplation. Back on the road, we passed through myriad dry, dusty villages. People are constantly traversing the shoulders, from where they're coming or to where they're going is anyone's guess. Despite the grimey filth, women are immaculately groomed, their colourful saris punctuate the monochromatic dusted greenery. Pulling off the road for a pitstop, we found ourselves visiting a most unusual elephant temple. Rows of sculpted elephants; different sizes, colours, graphic patterns. Village children clamoured around those of us with our cameras hoping we'd take their pic, squealing with laughter at their images. We're now somewhere, in the thick of unmoving traffic. Truck drivers ahead and behind stand outside their vehicles. No hurries. No worries.

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...Sunset...
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Dr Lynn at sunset in sravasti following a full day of monkeys, meditation, dharma,spicy dahl and paneer, tales about a devotee purchasing land from an ancient prince by covering the property in gold coins, a frightening murderer who wore a garland of fingers of his victims but changed his ways after meeting Buddha, and a challenge between Buddha and another sage involving magical mango trees, golden pathways, levitation and cloning. Full heads to be sure.
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Monday oct 24- en route to a rermote village, Sravasti. By public transport it takes some 3 days. Via taxi-van we're planning on anywhere from 7 to 12 plus hrs. We just encountered our first snag 86 kms away from destination. Main hwy, if you can call it that, is closed and we have to take a detour. Barb (hopefully newly elected Reeve of Haliburton) I'm thinking of you on Ontario municipal election day. Turns out we're being detoured because of elections in Ayodhya - the hotbed of Muslim/Hindu tension. and general India mafia corruption. The other morning the Times of India reported violence and death in pockets where polls were taking place. Just as well we're being diverted, I suppose. Can't tell you how many head-on collisions we've seemingly come close to encountering. Driving in India or being a passenger for that matter, sure ain't for the faint of heart. Housing construction has changed as we move westward. Brick and concrete and exposed rebar replaced with mud and thatching. Rather difficult to text as we bounce and dart and dodge along. More later. (Ps- thinking of you Ron and Pat and family)

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Yvone adds her own Brazilian interpretation.
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Classical Indian music: sitar and tabla performed by two professors, doctors of music at a university in Varanassi (?)

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Our surprise. A private sitar and drum concert in our home dining room. How awesome is that?!
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Our guest home in sarnath
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On arrival the children placed garlands of fresh marigolds around our neck and dabbed our foreheads with tumeric and dry rice.
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The two wee girls, both with dark liner beneath their eyes.
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...This jam session is a sensory extravagance. As we sit here the gong from a nearby temple is sounding. A gecko scampers and pauses on the wall behind our performers. The air is heavy, though not nearly as weighty as previous nights. Ceiling fans stir up wisps of coolness. Grampa Jain sits wrapped in a shawl, the fire from his 90 something body diminishing.

Saturday oct 23- sarnath. Emotional sums it up best. Some 75 school children in tidy uniforms and bare feet. Sitting under the shade of a banyan tree on a plastic tarp. Many visibly happy, others with a sadness so deeply embedded in their eyes it leaves one breathless. One little boy had a stump arm, a hand growing awkwardly, twisted, ill-formed.Two wee girls at front sat knee to knee, one holding the other in a frightened sisterly fashion. Traditional song and dance, introductions with dr jain serving as interpreter. Our turn to reciprocate we led the group in rowsing renditions of "head and shoulders..." And "I'm a little teacup..." Tears were impossible to fend off when the youngsters sang, in hindu with snippets of english and a definite indian rhythmn "we shall overcome." Phew. Afterwards, we wandered through a nearby village. Happened upon a potter who gladly demonstrated his skills. Further on I was invited into a gated garden to join a jubliant group of women celebrating a pending birth. They tugged at my pants, wanting me to sit and join them in a ceremonial paimting of feet. Had to sadly decline and return to my colleagues. Further along still, a 2nd Tibetan temple. Ostentatious in the extreme. Funded by western faithful.lunch back at lodgings, an afternoon to do as we wish. I'm sitting now in the courtyard of the modest Tibetan temple after having had the pleasure of watching ritual chanting. The bugs are getting hungry tho. Time to make my way back. Something special is planned for tonite. I suspect it may have something to do with the full moon. Sarnath, a place of teaching and learning. Yes, that it is indeed.

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Margo, Yvonne and Lynn at Deer Park, Sarnath
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Stupa with Jain temple in background
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Ruins @ sarnath - the place of first teachings
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At the stupa in Saranath where buddha is said to have given his first discourse. Melting.

Friday oct 22 - Sarnath. End of day. Fay and eddie you were front of mind when I realized I was visiting a japanese temple: "na mu myo ren ge kyo". The abbott beat a drum as he chanted, accompanied by devotees also beating on two enormous drums or their own small handheld tamborine-style drum. Hypnotizing. Incense, sedating. As the chanting came to a close a large "singing" bowl was struck; its tone lingering long after. Young children came bounding in at the conclusion, wishing namaste, hands in prayer, grins beaming, knowing a sweet would be offered by the abbott. Visited my first ever Tibetean temple, turning prayer wheels, marvelling at the mystical deities painted at the entrance, the 100,000 budda figurines inside, the towering buddha statue with third eye. Took a pic of a maroon draped monk chatting on a cell phone, saffron robes hung to dry. Also visited a Chinese temple. Each is so very different from the next. Sampled a banana lassi from a street vendor. Street dogs at the ready for scraps. Returned to the guest house in one big puddle. Clothes damp with sweat, ankles itchy with mosquito bites. Another simple meal; vegan as it turns out. Then story telling with the good doctor. He's behind a school project that sees that the area's poorest children, girls especially, receive a free education. Funded by generous patrons of his guest house. Too much detail to go into here. Suffice it to say how so little for us western folk can make such a dramatic positive impact here. Will be visiting the project tomorrow. Anyhow, a long day planned, with an early start. So, nighty nite.

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Lotus temple.

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Open stairwell to bdrms. Dr Lynn donning traditional garb
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Daughters of our host Dr Jain. Meals here are prepared to optimize clarity of mind. No chilies or garlic or onion. Delicious simplicity.
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View of sri lankan temple from our Jain guest house lodgings in sarnath. Rec'd blessings from a monk there. Attended evening chant ystrday.
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8:30 am it's so humid fingers are sticking to ythe keys. Hindi chanting is blaring from sytreet speakers. Meditated on the rooftop earlier; mango forest behind usn the chatter of birds and drone of flies marrying the chanyting. No respite from heat. So, this is wher beddha is said to have met his 1st disciples

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Deborah, from foreign affairs, in the stairwell of our delhi lodgings: reminiscent of italy
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Wed oct 20. Dang this BB for recording notes. Twice now entries have been inadvertently deleted. Will save and return as I go along. Sitting now on train headed to varanassi. Our group has been scoped out by a young boy and his mother. Luggage is chained beneath seats. Anyhow, more quick notes about delhi: passed a leprosy compound,and a number of slums built from verigated tin, hemp bound wood limbs draped with plastic. Rounded a few corners and left behind the squalor. Gov't officials live well. Behind gates and greenery and wide, clean streets.Corruption has a strong hand here for a reason. Air is heavy with dust and putrid smells.

Tues oct 19. Dizzy-ing day in Delhi. Headed to largest mosque in India, on outskirts of old delhi. Sat quietly listening to a young muslim teen reciting prayers from the Qoran. Walked through bizarre bazaar of old delhi. Urine puddles here and there, men hawking and spitting and picking their noses. Rickshaws and scooter taxis causing complete pandemonium. Heat exhaustion and dehydration hit a few of us. Live bare wires hanging so low even 5 foot nothing me had to duck. Lunched at a local haunt. Awesome spinach paneer with fenugreek. Lotus temple, a large bahai place of worship for all denominations. A basketed cobra swaying as we disembarked the bus. Visited the site where M Ghandi was cremated. And the compound where he was assassinated. Both deeply moving. All of these sites involved removal of footwear. So very much to write about but difficult to capture in this blog. Tried chai tea from street vendor just outside the hotel. Luscious velvety. Mmmm. Visited 5 star Imperial hotel yesterday. Grand. Ostentatious

Wednesday October 13/10

Well I left my happy home to see what I could find out
I left my folk and friends with the aim to clear my mind out
Well I hit the rowdy road and many kinds I met there
Many stories told me of the way to get there.

So on and on I go, the seconds tick the time out
There's so much left to know, and I'm on the road to find out

Well in the end I'll know, but on the way I wonder
Through descending snow, and through the frost and thunder

I listen to the wind come howling, telling me I have to worry
I listen to the robin's song saying not to worry

So on and on I go, the seconds tick the time out
There's so much left to know, and I'm on the road to find out

Then I found myself alone, hoping someone would miss me
Thinking about my home, and the last [guy] to kiss me, kiss me

But sometimes you have to moan, when nothing seems to suit ya
But nevertheless you know you're locked towards the future

So on and on you go, the seconds tick the time out
There's so much left to know, and I'm on the road to find out....

- Cat Stevens

Oct 1 - happy b-day Mom

I've been thinking (breaking your no. 1 rule again Mark), when I first traveled to Rome, aged 17, Christianity, err well Catholicism to be specific, became a giant "???" Funny that. Wonder how the holy places of India will resonate. To hear early morning Muslim calls to prayer and the "namaste" greeting of Hindus. To see seas of maroon and saffron; robed Buddhist monks chanting, meditating, meandering. Fifteen more sleeps...