1-26-09

Dad still wasn’t feeling well this morning but he wanted some bread and fruit juice, which was an improvement on eating nothing. Patrick and I set out to find some, but bread is surprisingly difficult to find. When we did find a loaf, it was the of the cheap wonderbread variety. Beggers can’t be choosers, I guess. Actually that’s not true. Beggars always seem to choose us! And sometimes if you give them a small coin, Rs. 2 for example, they scowl at you and immediately hold out their hand for more!
When we got tour flight, the attendant said that there was no record of our ticket. When, after much careful checking, nothing turned up we decided that the travel agent in Kumily had either had some computer malfunction or had stolen our money. Mom and I were inclined to believe the former while Dad and Patrick thought the latter possibility more likely. We had no other option but to buy a new set of plane tickets, but Mom and I will return to Kumily when we go back to Kerala and pay a visit to the notorious agent.
We got to Varanasi and were driven along the main streets by a taxi. But our hotel is right on the ghats (by the Ganges) and the streets, if they can be called streets, are too small for rickshaws, let alone taxis. So when the taxi could go no farther, we were met by five porters from our hotel. Without more than a houdy-do, they grabbed our suitcases, tossed them onto their shoulders, and started jogging through the ever-narrowing alleys of Varanasi. I was hard put to keep up, stare around myself as I always do in a new place, avoid both cows and cow patties, and make sure I had not lost any family members by the roadside. There were betel stains all over some walls, making the entire streets look like murder sites. Betel nuts, a mildly soporific drug, are popularly chewed by Indians, especially in Varanasi. It is a rather disgusting habit that involves the constant spitting of red juice and stained teath. Betel may encourage a person to smile more, but it also ruins the smile.
After chasing after the porters for a while, we arrived at Alka Hotel. Patrick and I sat with the bags while Mom and Dad walked up to the third floor to check that our rooms were satisfactory. Mom came down with a disappointed look on her face, but there was little we could do at that point. We were completely lost, had no idea where else to go, and had five heavy suitcases. So we took the rooms. Dad had booked one Rs. 1500 and oneRs. 650 room. The fancy one for him and mom in their last week together, and the budget one for Patrick and I. But the hotel manager had thought we would like to be next door to eachother and had changed the booking to one 1350 room and one 750 room. I suppose he thought it was alright because it was about the same amount of money total, but no one was happy. Mom was disappointed and Patrick and I were quite angry. Our room was both tiny and dirty. Mom had warned me that she and Dad would get the nicer room, but I had had no idea it would be this different. And she hadn’t told Patrick anything. Eventually we got things sorted out. Mom and Dad got the Rs. 1500 room which was still, luckily, available and Patrick and I moved into the 1350 room. So it worked out in the end.
Or so I thought. Mom still looked as though she were about to cry at dinner. We’d tried venturing out of the hotel to find a recommended resteraunt, except Dad who still felt sick, but the twisty-turny streets, the dirt, the crowds of people, and the rumors of Varanasi being dangerous after nightfall soon convinced us to turn back. We ate dinner in the hotel restaurant instead.
Despite everything, I was unexpectedly happy. I had had no great hopes for Varanasi, as Mom had. I merely saw it as the next stage in our journey. Yes, I knew that it is the oldest living city in the world, that it is one of India’s biggest pilgrim sites, that the Ganges was a sacred river, but I still had not really envisioned what it would be like. When we got there, and started running through the narrow streets, I decided that this was the Real India – India as it would have been a hundred years ago. Of all motor vehicles, only motorcycles and scooters could get down the alleyways. I felt as though this were a prime place for an adventure. Even our nerve-racking restaurant excursion only made me more excited. And so, as we ate dinner and watched the people bathing and washing their clothes in the Ganges, I was my usual, chatty, cheerful self.