Well holy fucking shit I guess I'm in India now.

So the bus stopped at the bus station in Varanasi at 3 in the morning, leaving me and this western-girl-dating-a-nepali-guy to find someplace to stay the night. Even at 3 in the morning, we were accosted by a pack of rickshaw drivers. The Nepali guy spoke some Hindi, and the three of us piled into a rickshaw after negotiating him to take us to a 80-rupee room (2 bucks) where I got a few hours of sleep until I woke up stewing in a pool of my own sweat on the sheetless bed, staring at the ceiling fan that had the guts to move just exactly slow enough to have absolutely no effect on the air in the room. It was 8 O'clock. I took my ATM card and passport and wandered off in search of a cash machine, and on the way I found an internet cafe and wrote my last post.

By an evil twist of fate, there was a street Lassi vendor right next to the ATM and, after watching a resepectable Indian man walk up and buy a delicious looking banana flavored glass of Acidophilus, all I wanted in this growing heat was a nice tall glass of whatever he was having (I was also having one of those your-body-trying-to-tell-you-something cravings about drinking yogurt to stop the interesting tricks my bowels have been playing on me for the past week). So I ask the man, "what kind lassi you have?" to which he replied "we have bhang lassi." Hmm. I've heard of India's famous bhang lassis from all the way in Thailand, and I envisioned the continuity of my day hitting a fork in the road. I could boringly walk around a bit and then go home to stare at the fan for the hottest part of the day, or I can dive in head-first into India's holyest city, bumbling around town in a drug induced stupor without any map, sense of direction, knowledge of Hindi, guide book, friends, or any idea of how to get home aside from a crumpled up business card in my pocket. The saint on my right shoulder had some good points about possibly losing my passport or being robbed, but the devil on my left had the final word. The lassi man asked me if I'd like it strong or medium, and thank everything that I had the modesty to say "medium" (even though I felt it was a copout at the time). He took a large spoonfull of some thick green paste, added some milk curd, added some white stuff from various white bottles, some ice, shook it like a martini, and served me the most delicious pot drink I'd ever had. I gave him 10 rupees (25 cents) and was off.

Before I even try to describe the insanity that was about to unfold, I should let you know that I'm also wondering why the hell I'd ever do something so dangerous and stupid. Everything I'd heard about India was how rough and tumble it was. The hotel staff, as well, did everything in their power to scare me from walking around by myself (I'd later figured out this was nothing but a ploy to hire a guide, but I was still terrified before I left). But later on that night I had a conversation with this Irish girl (a doctor, actually), whom I'd coincidentally met in the hot springs at the end of the Nepal trek. She had crossed the 18000-foot pass one day after I had, the morning after I arrived into Jomosom during a storm. The storm, apparently, went straight over the pass and caught everybody in an almost life-threatening blizzard, and I have so far heard three people's accounts of having made it. Two of them included vomiting up blood, getting lost and disoriented in the white-on-white landscape, losing the trail, and still for some reason persisting in making it over the top. This Irish doctor, despite a constant headache and frequent vomiting, never realized she had severe altitude sickness and kept going well after it was safe to. She was also travelling alone. But she related it to the book, Into Thin Air, where John Krakauer gives his story of the deadly 1996 Everest expedition where 5 people died. Reading the book, it's hard not to scold him for making so many stupid mistakes and neglecting the obvious signs of danger. But there's something we both noticed about how some decisions just can't be explained afterwards. For whatever reason, she felt totally safe to continue walking, long after someone had yelled at her to go down. Similarly, I felt perfectly up to the challenge to immerse myself in India for the first time while being incredibly, rediculously stoned. I guess some things are only mistakes if they go wrong. No matter how pissed off and frustrated I was when I finally got home, I wouldn't have changed that day for the world.



I started walking. It really didn't matter where, and I had no map or points of interest to see anyway. The first thing I noticed was how refreshingly isolated I was. In Nepal, I'd be consantly accosted by kids and teenagers trying to befriend me, or by vague merchants trying to sell me things. Here, I was the Scum of the Earth. There was no reason to pay any attention to me, unless you were trying to sell me something I didn't want. So it was easy to shrug everybody off, and be rude if I had to be, because I wasn't afraid that any of the people approaching me actually deserved any respect.

And so I walked like this, ignoring everybody around me, until I found my way into the old city. This part of town is as old as Jerusalem, with the meter-wide stone roads and the large stone appartment buildings with rediculously tiny rooms and doorways. Soon enough, the alleys got narrower and narrower, then the smells got more and more acrid, then the people got more and more deformed. The lassi started to kick in just as I was at the center of it all. Then I started to notice the Sadhus sitting cross-legged along in dark little alcoves along the street, the flames of massive amounts of burning incense, Yogis chanting from unknown rooms behind the walls, Hindi shouts of Things for sale, a lone Tabla played by some unknown performer, bulls and goats fighting to get through the narrow passes as much as the humans. It was craziness. Absolute insanity. I haven't seen anything like it since Marrakech, but I don't think it would be fair to compare anything else to it. There was just something about it that I can't put my finger on, something completely contradictory to all the shit on the ground, the dirty decrepid people, and the husslers that seemed perfectly natural, perfectly clean and sanitary. As much as everything was disgusting and poor and sad, it was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever seen. I had no idea what to make of it. So instead of trying to deal with these contradictions or make any kind of sense out of it, I just got the hell out of there.

I emerged from the "old city" to a main road. Finally, something I could make sense of. The sight of real shops and motorcycles, rickshaws and bicycles running up and down the street felt somewhat comforting. At least it made some sort of sense. I still had no idea what to do with myself, so I entertained the idea of going Motorcycle shopping. No matter what the situation, there is nothing more fun in the world than Motorcycle shopping.

So I walked and walked and walked and walked, paying attention to every motorbike I passed, my mouth watering every time I walked by one of these Royal Enfields that seem to be the National Awesome Bike of India. Eventually it became apparent that I wasn't going to find a motorcycle shop, or someone who could fix my digital camera, or anywhere air conditioned, and by then it was not only gruellingly hot but I had finally come to terms with exactly how stoned I was getting. Before I knew it, I was in no condition to do much of anything and I decided to go home.

That's where the "fun" began. I pulled out the business card of my guest house and stopped the first rickshaw driver I saw. It couldn't be more than 10 rupees to get there, but then this guy looked around confused, asked some people something in Hindi, then said "eight-t". I said 8? Great! Let's go. He said no, "EIGHTTTT" so I showed him 8 fingers. He shook his head and flashed all 10 fingers to me 8 times and I got the picture. There was no way in hell I was going to give this guy 80, and by then a crowd of other rickshaw drivers had appeared. I was spun around so many times, each one telling me the other ones are lying cheaters and trying to forcably push me into their own rickshaws, none of them apparently having any idea of where to go anyway, that I just left the group of them in a dizzy frenzy. I walked away as fast as I could, having newly discovered the virtues of walking, when a kid on a bicycle stops and tells me he'll take me there for 10 rupees. I vaguely remembered him from the rickshaw frenzy, and thought it'd be a laugh to ride on the back of a bicycle through the rediculous traffic, so I hopped on. It was terrifying and exhilarating, but after two stops to see some friends of his, it became clear that he had no idea which way to go either. He put me on another rickshaw and negotiated the price to 10 rupees (which, in retrospect was the proper thing for him to do), and I gave the kid only 5 rupees which I was impressed I managed to still be able to do in my state. I was stoned. I was really, really stoned. Total confusion, entirely at the mercy of these mercenary transportation con-artists to get me home. None of them spoke my language, and every street out here looks exactly the same. Unless I was staring directly at the front entrance of my hotel, I wouldn't be able to find it. To make everything much worse, the hotel was through some meter-wide streets so no rickshaw would actually be able to take me directly there.

I remember being on the back of the rickshaw (by the way, if nobody's seen one they're basically large tricycles with a canopied chair on the back) and three people were all talking at me simultaneously. One was the kid with the bicycle, who finally went away when I gave him his 5 rupees, then there was the rickshaw driver, then this other "respectable" looking Indian who came out of nowhere and spoke perfect English. He mentioned my hotel, said he was heading in that direction, and asked to share the rickshaw. I was so transfixed at the hilarity and insanity of the situation that I could hardly mutter the words to tell him no, so he climbed aboard. Some way down the line, I asked him what he did and why he was dressed so well. He had a "shop." It was a great "shop." He had two in Manali, where he was from, but here was here to check on his "shop" here. There was something obviously wrong with the way he said "shop" that gave away that he was a drug dealer. Eventually, once he got clear about it, he told me it was nothing like a "government shop" and that, instead, he offered the best pot in India. 800 rupees for 10 grams, or 300 rupees for the cheap stuff. 7-20 bucks for 10 grams. neat. Too bad I wasn't in the market, otherwise that'd be a really cool shop to visit. That was EXACTLY the wrong thing I could have told him. Then he went off on how, since it was a government shop, he was able to offer Chinese Opium, Cocaine, and probably anything else I could think of. I did kinda want to see what a shop like that would look like, and if I needed to I could buy a few grams of pot to be able to leave comfortably if necessary, so he stopped the rickshaw prematurely and asked me to pay 5 rupees. I only had a 100 on me, so eventually the dealer paid the 5 rupees himself. I was pretty happy about that, grifting the grifter.

His "shop" was right next to my hotel, so he said. So I followed him around and around these old city parts, constantly vigilant and making sure that we were always surrounded by people. All around me I kept seeing signs in English so I knew we weren't too far off from some sort of safety. All of a sudden, the foot traffic went from shoulder-to-shoulder to dead empty and I stopped. I wasn't going any further than that. The guy told me it was just around the next corner, but I could see in his eyes that he had no intention of causing any harm. He was a shrewd businessman and probably evil enough, but somehow I didn't feel threatened by him. He was salivating over making another customer, not of eating my soul. So I followed him another 10 meters down the road to an open door.

The inside looked dark. Too dark. There was no electricity, but some fire burning somewhere inside for light. It struck me like a ton of bricks that I had absolutely no intention of going in there. Just at that moment, some other short Indian guy with a shaved head and a comically tight muscle shirt came out and started shouting, not asking, for me to come inside to "take a look." He had the look in his eye of a hungry tiger watching an innocent little animal walk unknowingly into his cave... By now I was hyper-aware and paranoid and had I lost any interest at all of going inside. Muscle shirt man started pacing back and forth outside the door, as if guarding something, muttering something about how great his stuff is and trying to make the last-minute sale, but I was getting ready to leave by force if need be. I must have looked absolutely terrified, to be honest. In any case, the original drug dealer got the picture that I wasn't going inside and tried a different approach. He walked me back to the main street, pointed me to my hotel, and told me if there was ever anything I needed, he'd be somewhere there.

So I started walking up the street again. When another guy offered to walk me there, I decided to take the next right. I knew I was supposed to take a right turn somewhere, and this seemed right. It wasn't even so much about whether it was the right turn or not, it was more to achieve that confidence of knowing that I was well on my way to get home, I'd be home in any minute. 10 minutes later, somebody shouted "hey, Canada!" It was the guy whose presence made me turn prematurely. I had apparently told him I was from Canada. It turns out I tell everybody I'm from Canada when I'm nervous. He had a bright smile on his face and looked a little like a drunkard, but I really had no choice but to trust him. He led me back to the main street and pointed me exactly in the right direction, gave me exact orders, and sent me off. I gave him 5 rupees before he even asked, which put me in his eternal good graces.

He told me to walk 400meters, then turn right. I had no idea how far 400 meters was and, worse than that, I was kinda stuck for telling any sort of time. And it was hot. I was tired. There was some indoor place that looked like a narrow smoothie bar, so I stepped in and bought some water. The smoothie guy was just finishing up making two delicious-looking yellow drinks with fruit garnishes and everything, so I asked for one of those. He said something questioningly in Hindi, but I had no idea what he said so I just said "One More" and he shrugged and went to it. Only when he started making it did I realize there was no fruit in the bar except for a few old bananas and a bunch of jars of various powders. Maybe they were in some fridge somewhere. Nope. He put a spoonful of one of the powders from a jar into a glass. Then another from another jar. Then from another. Then another. Soon enough he was grabbing jars behind him, under the counter, from all over the store to put powders into this glass. I looked like a teenage chemist mad at work, and I was starting to get worried. When he served it to me, he gave me some sort of "look," and I had half a mind to think he was poisoning me. It was delicious. Perfect for the temperature outside. In retrospect I think it was some kind of fiber smoothie, but I remember examining everybody's faces to see whether they were giving me funny looks because I was drinking poison or because I was so funny looking. I turned out fine, and the trip to the smoothie bar would've been perfectly benevolent if I hadn't walked out facing the wrong direction.

So again I walked forever, 'till I finally decided I had gone too far. Then I turned around and walked back. By this point I started noticing people really looking at me funny, because they'd seen me walk that same stretch of road 4 (or maybe 6) times. Finally, I heard "Hey, Canada!" The same guy greeted me with the same bright smile, this time a big concerned. "How did you get lost?" I had no idea what to tell him. He took me by the arm, told me straight, slow, and descriptive exactly what I was going to pass on the way to the turnoff, and reminded me to keep asking people where to go.

There it was. I'd found him. A Nice Man in India. Finally, after hearing over and over again that everybody who talks to me is only after my money, I found a nice man who was genuinely concerned for the wellbeing of a strange traveller. I think, in retrospect, I had decided to go out exploring to throw myself at the mercy of the image of a Brutal India. I would either have been treated awefully, in which case I would save my time and leave the country, or the stereotype would break and I'd be finally able to relax out here. It turns out that all the hassle is only about trying to make a buck. That's it. Rickshaws and touts don't leave you alone because they want to offer you their services, not "just to hassle" you. Once I gave that guy his 5 rupees, he respected me and actually cared about providing the service he was paid for. That's the trick, I guess.

All the same, I was damn happy to get back home. It was 3 by the time I got there, and I found myself hungry and not wanting to eat because I'd have had to brave the world outside to get to a restaurant. So this morning I moved hotels and started over. Now that I've had my baptism of fire, it's time to explore Varanasi. I'm in the heart of the Old City, a few hundred feet from the Ganges, right next to where they burn people at night.

I'm in. I'm set. I'm ready. Bring it on.