NEPAL: Pokara

We had spent too much time in Kathmandu and were excited to go to Pokara which we heard to be more relaxed. The bus ride turned out to be a substantial moment in our Pokara adventure as we met this lovely lady, Nicole. From that day until we left Pokara (accept when I was rafting) we saw her everyday. A great relationship and I will miss her for the rest of my travels.

So now it is the three of us that arrived in Pokara to the nightmare of the bus park with all the yelling totes trying to get us to use their taxis and hotels. They also used the selling tool that there were few taxis on the road because of the impending strike. We just ignored them and ended up walking a good 40 minutes, with our bags on, to North Lakeside. To give you some orientation, Pokara is situated on the beautiful Fewa Lake and the tourist area is Lakeside. North Lakeside is closer to the actual Lake and much quieter.

We found this cozy guesthouse called, Pokara Quiet Home. It was one floor, consisting of 5 rentable rooms and another room for the family of four to sleep. Every night in Pokara was spent at the Quiet Home. It became almost a family. The other people staying there were all our friends and often stayed at Quiet Home until they left Pokara or went on a trek. The son of the family had his birthday while we were staying there and we were invited to the big party. This consisted of a big feast cooked on an open fire outside the small kitchen, a piñata that two of the tourist-guest made out of paper mache, and lots of children running around. As per usual, the piñata almost caused numerous injuries.

Digressing a little, the whole talk of no taxis because of the strike was accurate and the next day the strike (Bunda) began and no taxis or any motorized vehicles were allowed on the roads. This strike was called by the Maoists who represent the peoples desire for changed government and, as the name probably already declared, a more socialist Nepal. These activist were fighting the good fight against the government and demanding change for the people they represent. In reality, the Maoists are a group of thugs that bring in uneducated, easily manipulated people from poor villages and give them sticks to march around chanting. Most of the shops in Pokara did not want to close. They were forced to close their doors for the stick wielding Maoist would come harass or hurt them. Since tourists still needed to eat at restaurants, as we could not cook for ourselves (technically), most of the restaurants took a half-open stance. Either one could sit inside with the doors closed, one could sit away from the main road, or they left the shudder half open and closed it for any trouble. This was the same for shopping. Many shops would leave the shudder open a bit. If you knocked they would let you in. Anytime Maoists came strolling down the street everything closed up tight. The bunda continued for 6 days. Produce started to get expensive for the locals as nothing but police and Maoists were permitted to use the roads.

Despite the negatives, it was an interesting experience. We got to experience Pokara without the cars and trucks ruining the mood. Many children off from school played soccer and cricket in the middle of the streets. There were bicycles everywhere and smiling people. There was, unfortunately, lots of Ox feces in the streets as the Ox/water buffalo were allowed to roam free to graze. The shops were also permitted to be open between 6-8 pm. This is when the main part of Lakeside came alive. Yet all would stop during the day when the Maoists marched down the street. Most of them holding sticks but some of the biggest bullies held iron poles that they would drag to intimidate. The day before the strike ended, the shopkeepers of Pokara held there own demonstration, marching down the main street. The police stopped them and the Maoists came running to start a counter demonstration. The two groups were separated by 100 metres and a lot of police. It ended as quickly as it started but these uprisings from shopkeepers happened across the country and probably resulted in the stoppage of the strike the next day.

Life certainly continued despite the strike. One day, we bought a watermelon and some vegetables and bread and rented a boat to take out into the lake. The lake is so peaceful. We had my little speaker playing Bob Marley and we sat in the sun and swam in the water. Our little picnic lunch was delicious.



The strike made us be less active. I was interested in rafting but that was stopped. I wanted to do a motorcycle course but that too was on "strike". We took to reading, eating, and sitting. Three great pastimes. We discovered, thanks to our friend Etai, the best meal in Pokara. In Nepal, they eat Dal Bhat. That is watery lentils, veg curry and rice. This place called Sweet and Sour served the best Dal Bhat which also included this amazingly delicious chili sauce. The locals eat with their hands. This is not unlike India but I felt more comfortable in Nepal. Anytime I would order Dal Bhat, which was almost everyday, I would eat it with my hands. It felt more natural eating that meal with my hands. The interesting thing is that now that I am in India and ordering similar meals, I have no urge to eat with my hands. Must have been Nepal's charm. I would also eat this meal in the morning. Around 10am I would head over to sweet and sour and meet Nicole, Randy, and Etai for a morning Dal Bhat. After stuffing ourselves because of the refills, I would walk 20 metres to the lake and jump in for a swim.



We also did some wondering in Pokara and around. We went to this town, Serenkot, situated on top of a mountain. Here, if you are lucky, you can see a clear view of the entire Annapurna range. We were lucky. It was crystal clear. Although we didn't know it at the time, we would trek right into those mountains.

INDIA: Varanasi

Sitting here, in Rishikesh, at a roof top restaurant overlooking the Ganges river, I immediately think of a few days before when I was in the holy city of Varanasi - considered one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in existence. Although just a few days ago, it feels like I was on a different planet. I remembered thinking while I was in Varanasi that the entire country of India is a different planet or least it could be. You could land in India with a spaceship and not be the least bit surprised. I now realize while sitting in Rishikesh that it is not India but specifically Varanasi is the 'other planet'. Varanasi and any city like Varanasi. Although, I doubt there is one.

I have to apologize, for this post initially was not supposed to be a tiresome rant about Varanasi, as you will see, but a lovely description of my immediate rebirth upon entering the cool (only 30 degrees) hills of Rishikesh. I decided that neglecting to describe the senses and feelings that I had while being in Varanasi would be self-destructive. I cannot hold in the hatred I felt for that city.

I surprise myself with such a word yet the feeling is true and maybe mutual. I can't speak for Varanasi but I feel she doesn't like me much judging by my bowel movements while I was there. Many talk about Varanasi as this spiritual, holy place with a sense of foreboding. The most common feeling I had was disgust. How can people let their holy river get so polluted? How could millions respect their dead by burning them next to the filth that is the alleyways of Old Varanasi? How can a rotting body on the side of the river bank completely abused as a tourist photo-shoot be considered holy? I have heard that Varanasi holds this limbo position between the real world and the dream world. Is it not just the mythical hell on Earth with that never ending fire and revolving door of bodies? Now that is a bit harsh.



There is something to be said about that limbo position. This IS the real world. Period. That city exists and I went there, Smelled her, tasted her, and hated her. That is truly what makes Varanasi so infamous. The holiest city for the Hindu people and I am disgusted with it. It is not that I am so much disgusted by the idea of thousands of bodies being cremated beside a river and beside me, it is many other things. I am disgusted with the garbage spewed carelessly all over the streets and the "holy" cows that walk the alleys eating garbage and releasing the most unnatural splashes of feces everywhere. How do you carry your recently deceased family member through these filthy alleyways to the dead river Ganges so polluted it lacks sufficient oxygen?

If you weren't convinced yet of such a wonderful place the heat of Varanasi might sway your vote. Varanasi's over 40 degree heat makes your brain sweat while abusing your nostrils by baking piles of dung and garbage. As you walk through these tight alleyways trying to avoid both types of piles, you must also avoid other people, bikes, motorbikes, cows, and harassing shopkeepers who offer everything they sell in one long breath. It is also unnerving when these shopkeepers get right into your face and you can see their red stained teeth from the Paan leaf that they chew. This disgusting habit leaves red spit stains all over the streets. All of this in the sweltering heat. A heat that I have never felt before and hope to never again.



There is an alternative to paan for the desperate people of Varanasi. You can get a small packet of some kind of chewing tobacco readily available at any shop. This tiny pack of tobacco packs a big punch. I have no idea what it does to your body or mind but it definitely affects mine. These people put this stuff in their mouths and then attempt to talk - attempt to talk to me. I just feel like being the motherly figure and refusing to talk to them until they remove that crap from their mouth. This is how they live and function. Surprisingly, they don't just do it to annoy me.

Furthermore, all this magic was magnified by the simple fact that I was sick. I was exhausted, ate very little, and took frequent trips to the squat toilette. The heat amplified my sickly state and completely drained any hope of enjoying even a tiny bit of Varanasi. I dreaded leaving the guest house for the madness of the street. I would only consider going out at night when the beating sun disappeared and the world seemed a bit more sane. My diet consisted of toast and bananas bought from the guest house restaurant. I developed a paranoia towards any other food in Varanasi.

Varanasi epitomizes the word 'extreme'.

Now, while in Rishikesh, I am looking at the same river Ganges yet I see life. I want to swim in its holy waters. I want to wash Varanasi from my body in the Mother Ganges.

Somewhat dramatic but you get the point.

- Break -

I have now washed for the first time in the holy waters of the Mother Ganges and I feel great! I woke up this morning from the first good nights sleep in two weeks and I am looking forward to a day filled with very little. India is again exciting for me. Varanasi attempted to obliterate my desire to be in India by smacking my senses against a rock. I have now felt the cool, clean waters of the Ganges and am rejuvenated towards the rest of my trip. (The sweet mangoes may also have contributed to this rejuvenation).

Varanasi is an interesting place as you might have gathered. At the same time, not going to Varanasi would have left me without such an experience. If you go to India, Varanasi is a must. I will never forget that city.