Ganges at Dawn

October 20^th, 2009 - Varanasi Day 2

Our morning began at 5 a.m. so we could reach the Ganges for a sunrise boat ride. We went to the same place as the night before, but the shops that had been so busy at dusk - with people buying bottles to hold the holy river water, and stalls hung with sandalwood prayer beads, scarves and shirts with blessings written in Hindi script – were now only just opening up. The big business this morning was selling “Indian toothbrushes”: thin twigs of Neem wood that they use to clean their teeth. Neem tree oil is supposed to have many health properties for teeth and skin.

The kids were up early and were on the hunt for daft tourists who would buy decades old postcards. They were more persistent than horseflies. If a tourist speaks to one of these kids, the child will follow that tourist for miles, or until the tourist is rescued by her bus. A stern “No” is the only way to handle them.

Veena met us at the boat. The gray and hazy morning fog had not yet lifted, but in the soft light I could see that the opaque Ganges water is muddy brown. As we were rowed in the opposite direction of the previous night, Veena tells us that the locals come for morning and evening prayers (aarti) every day. Aarti are lead by priests, holymen, or religious students. The sunset Aarti is elaborate with seven holy men in orange robes lifting candles, tossing flower petals, chanting and clapping, and waving fans. Every motion has a meaning and purpose. Pilgrims, tourists and locals come at both dawn and dusk to watch.

I saw the sun rise over the far bank of the Ganges. There are no buildings on that side of the river since the ground is silt instead of rock. The mist burned off quickly, bathing the 18^th century pilgrim houses in warm light. Men and women bathed side by side, and launderers slapped twisted clothes against the lowest steps.

Daylight robbed the Gangs of the mysticism it had at night, but gave a world of color in return. The air was rose-colored from the cremation fires and the buildings were peach and yellow. Women’s saris stood out like jewels. Vendors in boats filled with stuff to sell rowed out to the boats of tourists – we weren’t the only white people floating out there.

After our boat brought us back to the steps we walked through the Old City, a series of alleyways that were about as wide as three people standing shoulder to shoulder. The kids were on us in seconds and some of the women had unfortunately not yet learned to tune them out.

Ganges at Night

Outside the sky turned from peach, to pink, to periwinkle as we made our way to the Ghats for an evening boat ride on the Ganges. We were driven to a main crossroad where we had to get out and walk down the long streets that lead from the city down to the Ghats, and finally down to the river itself. The paved streets were lined with vendors selling saffron-hued “Om” scarves and religious figurines. Varanasi is India’s holiest city and religious souvenirs are a booming trade.

We walked past wallahs, street children and holy men – their half-naked bodies painted white – until we reached the steps to the river. In the marigold-colored lamplight, the white stone took on a golden tinge. Varanasi rose vertically from the water in huge man-made cliffs that tower over the flat murky water. The city has been growing up from the Ganges for hundreds of years. Newer buildings are placed on top of crumbling old ones; gods grace the rooftops of some and look out over the river. Children scamper up and down the steps selling floating candles and flowers for believers to set adrift with their wishes into the holy water.

Once in the boat, floating out into the water, I watched the Ghats and the river stretch as far as I could see in either direction. Mist shrouded the edges where the water and towers faded into gray infinity. Veena told us that sections, or Ghats, are divided along the steps for different purposes. There are bathing Ghats where men in loincloths and women in full saris ritually bathe themselves. There are laundry Ghats, which you can tell by the swaths of bright saris and a few pairs of blue jeans that are laid out to dry across the steps. Some Ghats are for cremation. Cloth-wrapped bodies are laid out on a low step, burned to ash, and swept into the river.

As we drifted down river, we approached one of the cremation Ghats and Veena instructs us not to take pictures. Mourners don’t appreciate cameras. We could see bodies wrapped in gold and orange – the colors for men – laid out. Each body will be dipped in the river for one last bathing, then laid out on wood stretchers for burning. Poorer families sometimes struggle to buy enough wood to burn the bodies completely, which is where stories of half-baked body parts floating down the Ganges come from. My imagination made corpses of everything floating past us.

Our boat turned back and I looked over my shoulder at the three hundred year old buildings: their curvy oriental windows and doors, stone carvings, globed and pointed roofs, and steps leading from the river up through stone archways into narrow alleys, shapes in ghostly shades of white stretching up from black water.

As we drifted near a cluster of boats lined up to watch the evening Aarti (prayer), girls scampered across the tops of the boats, leaping from one to the next, carrying baskets of small candles and matches. Most of us bought candles from the girls who, with Veena’s translations, told us how to use them. I silently wished for success in writing to I can do this – go adventuring – for the rest of my life. I’ve never seen such beauty and felt such grace. It is incredible to me that I’m sitting here on the Ganges at dusk, watching pyres burn and bathe the buildings in orange light.

                                                                                           

The dark river sparkled with our tiny flames. 

"A Nice Evening in Varanasi"

Varanasi, October 19^th

“A Nice Evening in Varanasi” is the title on the cover of the CD I bought from the musicians we saw that evening. It’s the adjective that gets me – “nice.” The word is so underwhelming, especially when compared with the reality of spending an evening in Varanasi, India’s holiest city.

Veena had set up a performance for us at the home of a troupe of traditional Indian musicians. She lead us like so many ducklings through narrow alleyways and dirt streets, pausing for rickshaws and cars, steering around wallahs and cow turds. We arrived in a back alleyway defined by a twelve-foot brick wall covered with palm-sized patties of dung. To my left, a middle-aged woman squatted in the mud behind a placid steer forming more patties. She glanced up at us and ignored our presence so fiercely that I don’t think anyone dared take a picture.  (Well, I did, but only when I thought she wasn't looking)

Varanasi, India

We stood on a porch in front of a double door made of thick wood with iron knockers. I wrapped my scarf more tightly around my shoulders, more in response to the darkening sky than to any chill, and kept watch for mosquitoes while we waited to enter. The musicians opened the door and greeted us, showing us in and offering us tea as we sat on a short elevated platform covered with carpets and cushions in the large entry room. Two of the men were short and dark; the third man was tall and androgynous with a pronounced lisp in green and gold robes.

The three men were brothers, each specializing in a different instrument: the harmonium, the sitar, and the tabla. The sitar is a classic instrument – when you think of the mysterious east, the soundtrack you hear in your head probably features a sitar. It’s a whiney, discordant sound. But as soon as the tabla player began, my eyes were fixed to his hands which beat like hummingbird wings on the two drums. The tabla drums are a little bigger than young coconuts; every beat sounds different depending on where the drum is hit, and what part of the hand is used to hit it. To learn to play the tabla takes eight to nine hours of practice per day for years, he told us, as he created deep, round metallic sounds, and light percussive tapping sounds for demonstration. The brothers have played all over Europe, traveling with dancers who accompany their music.

The tall androgynous man with the lisp didn’t look at all like his brothers. His skin was lighter, his face and body round, and his entire demeanor captured attention like a Broadway performer. He played instruments too, but his role tonight was to dance the part of Ganesh. A female dancer entered the room to play Lakshimi. They both wore percussive bells on their ankles that allowed them to add their own rhythms to the music. She whirled and the bells sewn into her clothing and clasped around her ankles tinkled and pounded in questions and answers to the tabla drums.

We all bought the CD. 

Likes, Loves, and Mutual Appreciation

I woke up this morning to my mother shouting from the next room "Jerramy Fine Likes you." Of course, I knew this was in the Facebook sense of the word but it took me a minute to figure out why the author of the book I just finished would pay me any attention. Then I remembered - I wrote a post in my personal blog, Chronicles of My Quarterlife Crisis, two days ago in which I informally reviewed her book. Review may be the wrong word - I loved her book.

It's her autobiographical account of her childhood in a small U.S. country town, raised by hippies, and her obsession with finding her English prince. I feel like I know Jerramy Fine, not just because I've read her autobiographical novel, but because her life and mine are eerily alike. Growing up in a small country town among hippies and cowboys is one thing we have in common, but more importantly, we share the feeling of being misplaced at birth. Like the Stork's GPS system failed, and we were really supposed to go to argyle-clad families in thatched English cottages.

We both scooted over to England at the first opportunity, but the difference is - she didn't let anything stop her from staying there. Living in England is a difficult thing to do as an American girl. Immigration authorities are not kind. It's nearly impossible to get a work permit. Finding a British boyfriend... well, nobody tells that story better than she does. The woes and perils of modern dating are heart-breakingly represented. I'd love to pick her brain on "Ben and Xander's Guide to English Dating" which I posted after visiting Oxford last year, since I believe she somehow managed to get scaredy-cat Brits to ask her out on dates (a feat that Ben and Xander declared highly unlikely).

Basically, I'd invite her over for a pot of tea and cucumber sandwiches any time. So getting a shoutout from this kindred spirit on Facebook and Twitter was an incredible Halloween treat.

Cheers!

Brewing Company Hops into Wine-Soaked Solvang!

Normally I am content to subtly link my articles on my Published Writing page, but seeing this Feature article published is cause for celebration! If I hadn’t imbibed all the beer in my fridge already, I would be popping open a bottle, because this was a difficult birth. I initially interviewed the Renfrows in the partially finished Viking Room on June 25th, when the estimated opening date was in August. Then, the opening date was September, then Oktoberfest, and now – finally – the Solvang Brewing Company has opened its doors and my article hit the stands on Wednesday!

I’m always proud when a feature gets published, but I get special warm fuzzy feelings with this one. It’s the community connection that I love writing about, and covering the long-awaited reopening of the Viking Room and historic windmill allowed me to show what a special community Solvang is. The last paragraph captures the heart of the story:

“A few months ago, this gentleman pulled up—he had to be close to 90—all spiffed up in a dress shirt, a bola, and a cowboy hat, heavy Danish accent. He says ‘When ’ja gonna be open?’” recalled Renfrow, who gave the man the planned opening date. “Fantastic; that’s my seat,” replied the man. “I used to sit there with my wife. Can I have that seat opening day?” Renfrow immediately obliged, promising, “We may have to kick someone out, but that seat is yours.”

Where else can you find a 90-year old Danish cowboy in a pickup truck? Only in my home town.

So I would like to send a shout-out to the Renfrows, their partners, their brewmaster and chef for giving me outstanding material to work with and telling me the stories that created this story. Best of luck on your new venture, and I will be there this weekend to raise a glass to you in person.

Solvang Brewing Company

1547 Mission St., Solvang
805-688-2337

Travel Writer Needs Mental Vacation

 It’s only Wednesday, and I already feel like I need a vacation. One that includes sleeping and eating and lots of it. I spent Monday and Tuesday helping my friend at Blackmarket Bakery to create a press release and doing a few things around the store – who knew that there is actually quite a bit of technique involved to sticking labels on brownies? All those sticker-placement skills I learned in Kindergarten were put to use, which amused me to no end. But let me tell you, hanging out at a bakery for two days, smelling the deliciousness of artichoke asiago croissants, cabernet brownies, cherry chocolate chip cookies, and freshly baked tarts and cakes is torture. Very pleasurable torture. I’m still hungry.

And I’m tired. A mix of getting up early every day this week and learning a lot of new things (at the bakery and at fencing class on Tuesday), and writing all day today has me mentally bushed.

I need a little mental vacation. I need a mental cruise in fact. Because cruises are perfect. You get on a boat, eat, sleep, eat more, get out and look around, go back and eat and sleep.

This schedule is precisely why I am normally not a cruise person. I like action, adventure, and lots of walking. But today, I want to be on a cruise. Can’t afford one, so I think I’ll take a day off tomorrow to eat, sleep, eat, go to the gym (or think about going to the gym and watch TV instead), and sleep again. It’s almost the same thing and it will do for now.

(Incidentally, the picture is of an actual Blackmarket Bakery cake - they are really talented)

Photogenic Fullerton

Food Photography from Home and Travels

The City of Learning and Burning

October 19th

Varnasi is “a city of learning and burning,” our guide, Veena, tells us. There are four universities, and the city prides itself on the quality of its classical Indian music. The burning… I’ll get to that.

Like Delhi, Varanasi is crumbling. The dirt seems to be holding the walls up. The buildings are mostly the remnants of British colonial architecture and even though the columns and moldings are discolored, peeling and crumbling, they are still beautiful.

When I look at these white columned buildings, I can see the British colonists dressed in their Victorian whites and khakis, the ladies in their lace dresses, hair pinned in elaborate curls by their Indian maids. I see these ghosts sitting on the verandas sipping tea from bone china while being fanned by dark men in pale kurtas. Their hushed conversations are carried on the breeze.

Varanasi is the holiest place in the Hindu religion and is considered to be the center of earth in Hindu Cosmology. Buddhists and Jains also stake their claims here for holiness. It is one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world.

What draws people here, and what has drawn them for countless centuries, is the Ganges. Varanasi lifts itself up from the banks of the Ganges, its steps dipping into the water, the water sometimes rising up to the first few floors of the buildings, depending on season. The river provides life and livelihood for the world’s highest density of people. The river is also where they come to die. Leave it to me to reach from the sublime and poetic to a search on Wikipedia, but I think this says it best: In 1946, Jawaharlal Nehru wrote about the Ganges,

“The story of the Ganges, from her source to the sea, from old times to new, is the story of India’s civilization and culture, of the rise and fall of empires, of great and proud cities, of adventures of man.”

We take four air conditioned cars to the Momokshu Bhavan ashram. Midway, one of the ladies wants to switch to a less cramped car and, while we are stopped, an old man comes up to the window opposite of where I’m sitting, carrying a basket with a live cobra swaying up above the open lid. I, of course, think this is the coolest thing ever and without even thinking I point and say “Look! A Cobra!”

The woman sitting at the window turns around to look behind her, her nose inches from the cobra’s (with a glass window closed between them). A shriek and a jump ensue, and the man walks away with his cobra.

The Mumukshu Bhavan ashram is an old tattered building structured around a few shaded courtyards populated by monkeys and elderly residents. The residents mostly stay inside, or maybe that’s just because we were there. The people who stay at the ashram are waiting to die – they are old, feeble, a burden on their impoverished families, and want their bodies cremated on the banks of the holy river. Mumukshu Bhavan is a waiting room for death. To visit there is to feel mortality, an idea that is foreign to me as a 25 year old. Death is a theory to the young. We hear about it, sometimes we see it, but it doesn’t touch us. Still, I’m not entirely insensitive. I don’t whip out my camera to take pictures of the wrinkled men and women peeking out of their cells.

Some of the old residents are very willing to engage lookyloo western tourists and the women are taking pictures of everyone. It makes me uncomfortable. I know they would make great pictures, the kind you see on the cover of National Geographic with pleated folds of skin radiating out from wise timeless eyes. I get it. But I can’t justify what feels like rudeness and exploitation to get the shot. I can’t treat these people as objects to be photographed. I do, however, take pictures of the monkeys. Who doesn’t love a picture of a monkey?