My Varanasi - a photo essay

45 hours later I staggered off the train into the +45 degree heat. I was sweaty, ill and felt like half the woman I was before I started this journey. I was in Varanasi and I felt like death. The next week was a blur, surviving in a hazy existence. Electricity was intermittent at best, relief from the oppressive heat sought, but never found. A diet of yoghourt and rice persisted. A week of my own pain and suffering. These, though, are my photos of wonderful Varanasi.

A woman washes by the ghats

Young men swim playfully in the River Ganges

A traveling man rests by the ghats

A Sadhu cooks his supper

A man and his mango

Street life in Varanasi

Manikarnika Ghat, the main burning ghat and view from my balcony.

Man on pilgrimage, ghats of Varanasi

Man and his boat. He lives, sleeps, eats, and will probably die with his boat. Early morning on the River Ganges.

Man and his daughter, making yoghourt

Ghat life on the River Ganges

View from afar, the River Ganges and Varanasi

Funeral

A family picnic

Ruler of the streets, Cow in Varanasi

Man vs Bull

A hidden street

-Tossed Sallard-

Ahmed of Arabia

I stood in the petrol station, sifting through the loose change, bus tickets and lint that occupied my jeans pockets. I was 21, a student and buying what I found most important at the time; cigarettes and Red Bull. Unbeknownst to me a man stood behind me, patiently waiting his turn, Red Bull as well, in hand.

"Your jeans. Your jeans, they are very nice."

Stunned from my purchase I turned around and there he stood. Head cocked slightly to one side, with milk chocolate skin and dreadlocks, beautiful dreadlocks flowing freely, all the way to his waist. It was true, I did have very nice jeans. I thanked the man and whilst I was half way out the door he shot his hand out and introduced himself.

"Ahmed. My name is Ahmed and it is very nice to meet you."

Ahmed was a musician, a natural linguist, a dreamer, a recent immigrant to Canada, and a world away from home. But, above all else, before anything, Ahmed was a Moroccan Berber, extremely proud of who he was and where he came from. He told me stories of home, of an endless sky, with thousands upon thousands of stars and one moon amongst the shadows of the dunes. The Sahara Desert. And in the morning, when the sun started to rise, warming up the sands, its rays dancing in the dunes, it was he said, "heaven on earth."

My dreams of the Saharan Desert and Arabian nights were not born from Ahmed's passion for his mother land. I perhaps, have Disney's Aladdin to blame for that, but instead reminded me and reignited the flame, of my own personal desire to walk amongst the dunes with an endless sky and thousands upon thousands of stars, to see, 'heaven on earth.'

And now, a dream has come true. Morocco here I come.

Departures - Delhi, India

My bags were packed, but I wasn't ready to go. The sweat dripped down my spine, lingering, before soaking into the mattress. I hated it. I loved it. In 3 hours time I would be leaving this complex maze of a country - India, and I didn't want to go. 

Sleep evaded me as I realized I was resigned to my fate. Soon, India would fade into the backlog of my mind, and be just that, a memory.

With a heavy foot, I walked out the door, down the stairs, and into the misty streets of the capital city. I walked by the dozens and dozens of bodies sleeping on the pavement, and heard the not so distant scowl of a pack of dogs, even more territorial at this early hour. I looked for a stick to prepare myself for one last battle. The dogs with their ribs protruding, lunged at me from the shadows. Each step closer meant another pack of dogs, another challenge. I felt like I was walking to my death. 

Or perhaps, I was just being melodramatic. 

I got to a clearing looking for transport. The taxi wallahs sleep in their vehicles, I just needed to wake one up. A man quite eager to make 300 rupees, showed me to his cab. Again, I stepped through the trash, around the cows, and kept my stick in hand, ready for attack. A man came from behind, grabbing my bag, begging, no demanding rupees from me. His breath smelled of fermented dog shit. I still had my stick. My driver came 'round, shoving him away. Delhi, had almost got the best of me. Almost. My driver flew past red lights, at 80mph, eventually landing me at the airport. I had made it, just barely.

My clothing stuck to my sweaty body. The dust, grit and grime from 7 months of travel through Asia remained under my finger nails. I slung my backpack on, and walked away from this beautiful, infuriating, amazing, incredible continent. 

Definitely not for the last time.