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I remember thinking that the “real” adventurous part of our trip began when we left Europe. At the time, climbing a mountain in Africa, traveling through China for six weeks, and trekking in Nepal seemed like the epitome of adventure. I won’t discount those destinations and activities, as they certainly provided moments of challenge, intrigue, and mystique. But we’ve been in India less than an hour and already we have witnessed three collisions---one between a bicycle and a motorcycle, one between a bicycle-rickshaw and a bicycle and the last one involving a small child being knocked off a bike by a taxi, motorcycle or bicycle-rickshaw. There was such a cluster of moving vehicles that I really couldn’t tell who hit who or what. Even more shocking was the nonchalance displayed by the child’s two older brothers (all three were all riding on the same bicycle). Rather than yell at whoever ran into their little, defenseless brother with reckless abandon, they simply looked both ways and darted in the swarming mass of traffic to retrieve their brother off the ground and throw him back on the bike between the two of them.
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Combine that scene with the dust flying up from the unpaved, or sometimes partially paved, road, the constant honking of horns and a fair number of cows, goats and buffaloes wandering around and you have my first glimpse of India. As sweat dripped down my face inside our air-conditionless taxi I had to pinch myself to be sure I had not been transported back in time. Where were the internet cafes, coffee shops and cafes that made their way into every other tourist destination no matter how far off the beaten path they were? Instead the roads here were lined with ancient wooden wagons overflowing with fruit being pushed by barefoot men dressed in no more than a piece of cloth wrapped around their body. In the midst of all this chaos darted scores of bone-thin, dust-streaked children laughing and skipping, oblivious to the startling scene that caused me to catch my breath.
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A typical street scene in India--complete with cows, scooters, and carts
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A few seconds later our taxi rolled to a stop in this mayhem. The road ahead which led into the Old City was too narrow for cars to pass and therefore we were left to navigate the remaining distance to our hotel on foot. I stepped out of the safe confines of our taxi, strapped on my backpack and followed Jarrod into the prehistoric maze of narrow alleys that make up Varanasi’s Old City.
We eventually made it to our hotel. I won’t bore you with the details, but it’s sufficient to say there was a lot of map consulting, a fair bit of backtracking, and tons of saying “no” to hotel touts eager to take us to one of their hotels in order to receive a fat commission. We elected to eat dinner at our hotel’s restaurant rather than venture out in the dark again. As we sat down to enjoy a relaxing meal the silence was pierced by what would become an all too familiar sound in India. A firecracker exploded no more than a few feet from our hotel. This ear- piercing and body rattling activity continued throughout dinner broken up only by soft, melodious music coming from a gentleman playing the sitar in the corner (a sitar is an instrument similar to a guitar). He was obviously from India as the firecrackers didn’t faze him a bit.
Overwhelmed by the sights, smells and sounds of our first day in India we made our way back to our hotel room. Through the open interior courtyard of our hotel we could see the staff of the hotel rolling out their sleeping mats in the lobby of the hotel. While the hotel owner and his family retreated to a wing of the hotel that served as their home, the staff simply slept under and around the reception desk. The next morning we would have to creep over their slumbering bodies to make it out of the hotel. This was their everything—the place they worked, where they ate, where they lived, where they slept.
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I suddenly remembered a conversation I had with a local man a few days ago in Nepal. Upon learning that Jarrod and I were going to spend a month in India he raised his eyebrows in mock horror and began furiously scribbling something on a scrap of paper lying in front of him. I watched as he wrote the word INDIA vertically on a piece of paper. He proceeded to tell me that he lived in India for three years and traveled throughout the entire country, from Delhi to Varanasi to Goa. He said after three years he came up with the following anagram to describe his time in India. I-I’ll, N-never, D-do, I-it, A-again. This, coupled with the wild scenes we witnessed in our first few hours in the country, gave me reason to question the sanity of our plan to spend the next month here. But rather than anxiety, I was filled with
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The autorickshaw, one of the most popular forms of transportation in India.
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anticipation. I looked forward to experiences we would have in the next few weeks. We climbed into our bug-proof sleep sheets and knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the next month would be non-stop adventure in every sense.
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return to india overview next india journal>
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