"Don't thank me, the Guest is God"

Fausto, a good friend and native Varanasian left me with a few parting words of advice. “Amanda, be sure to get lost in the Old City and have apple pie for dinner, visit the monkey temple, and oh yes, go to the University of Varanasi, it is the biggest University in all of Asia!” 

Naturally drawn to superlatives, I decided that surely apple pies and monkey temples could wait; I wanted to roam a campus again, and why not make it the biggest one of all of Asia? So I hired a rickshaw driver for 40 Rupees (less than a dollar), and off I went. He dropped me off at the University and I began my wandering. The buildings were dilapidated and decaying, the people looked at me strangely until finally the broken buildings turned into a slum and I was face to face with the back of the Varanasi train station. I thought Fausto must have been gone for far too long if he regarded this as a beautiful place to visit. While deciding my next move, two men approached me and my female travel instincts kicked in immediately. I pulled the shawl closer around my shoulders, hugged my bag just a little tighter, and instantaneously moved a ring to my engagement finger. They read my body language easily and said, “Mam, you should no be here, very dangerous, let us help you, where you are wishing to go?"

Without removing the starkness from my face, I said, “Is this not Varanasi University?”

They laughed at me whole heartedly. “Mam, this is abandoned portion of Sanskrit University” Dude B. showed me his ID he was a Phd student. He pleaded again, “This not good place, come this way I get an auto for you."

“How far to the University?” I asked. 

“12 km mam."

I melted, 12 K was an eternity in India speak and it had already been a big enough ordeal to get here. He led me through the rest of the slum, quickly to the main road. No autos came. He asked if I wanted some chai while I waited, and I declined. Still on my guard as this helpful human offereed me tea while waiting with me for no reason, I realized just how jaded all of my Indian mishaps had made me and got lost in thought.  

20 minutes passed and still no rickshaws in sight.  

“Mam, let me take you to the train station, I have a vehicle.” I looked him up and down, His clothes were clean, he had all his teeth, a legit looking student ID, could he also have a rickshaw hiding somewhere? I glanced across the train tracks and alleys and could see the main station in the distance. Exhausted, I gave up and trusted him as he motioned me back through the slum. 

And there it was. Indian death on two wheels, his vehicle was as I had feared... a motorcycle. 

For two months I had marveled and cringed in transit. Millions of motorcycles, zero helmets, all moving at a breakneck pace through India’s lawless lanes. Most carry three to four people riding with charcoal eyed infants sandwiched in the middle on young mothers' laps. The danger looks romantic for a second in the country ranked #1 for auto-related deaths. Their vibrant sari's trail behind them in shades of red and gold, and they seem flawless even at 90 miles an hour.

The World Health Organization recently stated, “1.3 million die every year in India due to a refusal to wear helmets combined with horrendous infrastructure and reckless driving.” (Note I found this stat AFTER said motorcycle ride). But looking at the sleek black bike, and the man I had met 24 minutes prior something came over me and the only thought I could muster was, I can’t leave India without riding a motorcycle… besides, what could happen on a five minute ride? 

5 minutes later we were gracefully weaving between rickshaws and buses. The train station grew larger and all at once began shrinking as we rode right past it. 

“We go to train station??” I yelled over the honking horns surrounding us. 

“No. Guest is God; I take you to the university."

I had heard this phrase once before, from my friend Bijal as I thanked her again for showing me around Mumbai. "Guest is God, Amanda don’t thank me, in India the guestis God," said casually. 

I looked at the open stretch of highway, before us, painted with yellow rickshaws, the blues and greens and glitters of thousands of sari’s moving about on motorcycles, and brown buses spreading them all by force. My own hair had come undone as we picked up speed.  I held on a little tighter and put my faith in the universe as we swerved to avoid a naked beggar and jolted through a life size pothole. 

20 minutes later, I was barely holding on. Traversing the roads, swerving and jolting, seemed more natural than walking. But then the sky began to darken and the monsoon was upon us. We pulled over and though we hadn’t spoken more than a few phrases of broken Hindi and English on the ride (I still wanted all of his focus on avoiding death by bus), I felt completely bonded to this stranger. And so, soaking wet, we shared a road side chai and a piece of chocolate until the rain slowed. 

Another few minutes and we were flying beneath the beautiful tree lined lanes of the real Varanasi University. Veshran drove me all the way to the center temple and we parted ways. He refused money, did not ask me for my face book or phone number. He said, only, “Amanda, guest is God, please remember that and enjoy my country.”

MUMBOA

My last real memory of Ramgarh village, the place that for 6 weeks defined life in India for me, was Ricardo Situmeang.  (Coincidentally, he is also the grad student who forced me to apply for a research position in India in the first place). He stood up in the middle of lunch, and clanged his fork against a metal cup. “Everybody, could I have your attention for one second? There is a rumor, that in the next village over, a vendor has a refrigerator, which means there MIGHT be beer. I propose that since Amanda, Claire Vicrant and Archy are leaving tomorrow, we should walk to there and everyone can have a drink”. 

You did not need to ask us twice, a group of 20 something young interns and researchers, whom hadn’t seen alcohol in nearly two months. If there was a village in a 20 mile radius that MIGHT have a cold beverage, let alone a cold beverage WITH alcohol content, we were damned well gonna find it. And so we set off on a two hour walking white people pilgrimage to find a few fabled bottles of Kingfisher (which in the end DID exist and tasted like sweet sweet village victory). 

That life seems years away now, as I close out yet another chapter, which I shall hence forth refer to as Mumb-oa. India, Chapter 2. Two weeks in Southern (ish) India split between Mumbai and Goa, never more than 12 feet from a beach and a beer. 

Emma picked me up from the Mumbai airport after my epic trip there finally came to an end (re: three cancelled flights, one 12 hour bus, and a Delhi train break down). Having made so many friends in Ramgarh, I underestimated just how much I still needed to see a friendly face from a former life (pre-India life) and Emma was the perfect medicine. A wonderful friend and fellow tree hugger from my grad program at American, Emma is also doing her field work in India this summer studying the auto-rickshaw industry,  Unfortunately she resides on the opposite side of the sub-continent but that didn’t stop me from hopping a sketchy domestic flight to get a glimpse of the place that has defined life for HER in India... Mumbai.  

In what can only be defined as culture shock, round 17 for this year, Mumbai was just about as different as you can possibly get from Ramgarh. Paved streets and bright lights, Mumbai is a truly beautiful city that hugs the curves of the Arabian Coast. The Colaba district screams its history through old British buildings of gothic perfection and a type of ancient wealth that dances through hilltop bars and the taj hotel. Tucked in the North is Borivali National Park, a tree home away from home, yet the Juhu Bandra suburbs are crowded and bustling enough to remind you that you are still in fact in India. 

I spent the week indulging. Hopping from cafe to cafe while working on my research, drinking chai at the taj, going for early morning runs on the beach (until the  ass grabbers and morning poopers - literally, got too much for me to handle), sipping wine at the Dome ( a famous rooftop hotel bar that wreaked of wealth and royalty), sharing super human dosas for lunch, and giving my best shot at the Mumbai train systems (which I dominated thanks to Emma’s fabulous train lessons). 

                                      

  

    

Before long it was Friday, and part two of South India unfolded with new friends and new hostels on the beaches of Goa. I immediately remembered how much I love being a backpacker. Carrying my life on my shoulders, meeting strangers, and sharing mopeds, getting to know people over King’s Cup, and frolicking around Old Goa in an attempt to be cultured. And at least once a day I thanked the universe for making it monsoon season because Goa, usually the Jersey Shore of India, was at 20 percent capacity, a beautiful wet tropical paradise, where the deserted streets made it seem like this city was meant to be my private playground. 

My best friends were the five other people that occupied the city, all of which resided in Astrix hostel, the only available lodging. They hailed from Egypt, the UK, Australia and India, and sometimes the highlight of the day was watching Darshan solve the rubix cube...but that was OK... because in Goa you can cruise the coast via motorcycle or never leave your balcony beanbag chair. You can drink 1 dollar Kingfishers, or splurge on 2 dollar mojitos. You can stay true to your local and eat Vegetable masala or just as easily nom on a hickory burger and fries.  But if at the end of the day if you are not relaxed, well rested, completely content and or buzzed, you’ve done something terribly terribly wrong. 

"But Mands, I don't even know what an Indian Pulpería looks like!"

When an exasperated Aeriel Emig exclaimed, "Ugh, I don't even KNOW what an Indian Pulpería looks like!", what she meant was, she needed a life visual on the details that don't usually make mass emails or blogs... to answer questions like.... WHERE do you buy groceries? And so, in dedication to Ms. Emig and Momma Wheat ("Can you even buy fruit where you are???), here is a photo blog...the who's who of Indian vendors, an informal economy at its best. 

Need to add minutes to your cell? These guys gotcha covered. 100 rupees (2 dollars) gets you about 87 minutes of talk time (if like my you bought your sim card anywhere OTHER than Mumbai)

Banana Man. I have spent about half of my time in India on the BRAT diet (Bananas, Rice, Apples, and Toast) to battle the amoebas and stomach maladies that are inherent with traveling this country. Thus, the Banana Man wherever I am, is inevitably my BFF. This guy's name is Vicrant, and if I smile big enough/ look sickly enough, he gives me an extra two bananas fo FREE. 

I haven't touched meet since arriving in India..but I suppose if I did get the urge, this guy sells it pretty fresh. Live chickens.... just a few steps away from my Banana Hookup. 

Tomatoes from ground level baskets... If your vendor sells more than one kind of vegetable, he's a floozy.... the man with JUST tomatoes KNOWs a good tomato when he sees it. 

Heading to a temple, wedding, or other Indian festivity? Need flowers to offer to Krishna? The stall to the right of the fish market is the place to get your fresh scent on. Perhaps it smells so good because you just walked through the fish market, but either way it's heaven to the nostrils after a few minutes outside in an Indian city. 

Chai Walla (the bringer of chai), because no day would be complete without a baby cup of spicy sugary heaven, five Ruppees ( about 25 cents) gets your fix, and this lady brews it best. 

Last but not least, the grains, the spices, the nitty gritty, usually look a bit like this if you're buying from a fresh market. And luckily for my BRAT diet, this guy also sells saltine-esq crackers and apples. 

India... everything you need on one street. Tremendous.