Varanasi to Agra - Pretty Ugly

Part two of my journal covers Varanasi to Agra.

Before reading on, be aware that this post is explicitly warts n'all.

It wouldn't be an honest appraisal of my experiences with the warts
removed. It'd be Worzel Gummidge after a Harley Street makeover.

In the week or so I’ve been here, it seems to me India is a contradiction.

Spectacular but disgusting. Diseased but infectious. Jekyhll. Hyde. Appalling. Appealing.

Beautiful but at times VERY ugly.

As it turns out, India is full of poor people.

I jest. But I’ll admit I was unprepared for the realities of witnessing poverty in an over-populated developing country. According to the UN, one third of the world’s poor live in India.

There are breath-taking sights and experiences to behold here, but also
hold-your-breath stenches, hold-your-stomach moments and
hold-your-nose toilets.

Varanasi is the World's 2nd oldest city. It has a slightly spooky,
mythical air. Some of this is due to pollution, but it has a
definite other-wordly vibe.

My time in Varanasi was completed with a boat trip down the Ganges to
watch the sun set over a stunning 17th Century fort.

I enjoyed the trip. In part due to good company. In our four hours on the water (the native rower deserved a medal) we saw two extremes of India’s character.

The banks of the stinking river are littered with carcasses. Many of
which were indistinguishable and most of which were being nibbled on
by birds, dogs and flys. 

Bear in mind that the charred remains of dead Hindus are scattered into the water. As are the bodies of those who can’t afford to be cremated first(!)

Our rower drank water from the river yards from a rotting buffalo. Someone else was brushing their teeth using the toxic water, surely doing more harm than good.

The fort itself was a stunning imposing building. Lord-of-the-Rings-esque. It was hard for me to imagine it in action without orcs, elves and hobbits.

Waiting at Varanasi station for the train to Agra, I witnessed the
most humbling and heart-wrenching vision of my life (so far).

The scene on platform 4 was set by a pissing cow competing with rats,
stray dogs and a person for salvageable rubbish from a mound under the
stairs.

Having been approached by hundreds of beggars, in various disturbing
states of disrepair, within just a week in India, I was beginning to
feel hardened to the rite.

Able to cast aside my emotions in order to cast aside open-palmed
strangers. (The ones with hands, that is)

We were approached by a young boy, perhaps five years old. He was
carrying a baby who was naked from the waist down.

My initial reaction was that I wished he'd leave us alone.

Give us some peace.

My gut suspicion was that they were begging for
money on behalf of a Slumdog-Fagan bastard.

The dawning that they were starving orphans, and that each other was all this sorry
pair had in the world, brought me an unshakeable feeling of total
despair.

I gave the boy some cucumber and banana. They sat where they
stood and ate it instantly.

It didn't make me feel any better about the situation.

I can't help but think it was a futile gesture on my behalf. Short of the Pitt-Jolies passing through Varanasi station, these pitiful children have no future.

The haunting episode has (cliché alert) given me a greater appreciation for my own upbringing, for the life my nephews enjoy. I proudly shower them with gifts, love and attention. Britain's welfare state is a wonderful thing.

The juxtaposition of India's beauty and filth continued in Agra.

We paid a visit to the Taj Mahal. It is a truly stunning place. Every
inch deserving of it's World Wonder status. It is mind-boggling that a structure of such granduer could have been
completed in 1653.

The building is magnificent from far away and this increases as you
get closer. Its immaculate symmetry and infinite inlaid precious
stone detailing are testament to the 20,000 craftsmen who spent 22
years on its construction.

Thoughts of my Mum nagging my Dad about stacks of bathroom tiles
lying dormant for a year curled the sides of my mouth upwards.

During our 2km walk between the Taj Mahal and Agra Fort, I saw what I
believe was a corpse.


A tramp, face-down, straddled the pavement and road. He was naked
from the waist down. If he was alive, which didn't appear likely, that
is no way for a man to live.

Next was lunch.

After an actually-very-pleasant meal, my companion Dave asked the
waiter for a toilet.

He was gestured into the street.

Each day spent in India has been exhausting - more for the mind than
body - but the experiences and rewards are already proving
unforgettable.

To conclude, a favourite quote of mine from Dave that surmises the
daily battle of wits of travelling in India.

'Every man has his limits and I think I may have found mine with 25
shits in 24 hours.'