A little background perhaps. Varanasi or Benares to use its seemingly interchangeable name (the latter also being the name of a rather tasty, if rather pricey, Indian restaurant in London) is the longest continually inhabited city in the world (I have no doubt some living inhabitants of Eastbourne would beg to differ). This is a fact that does not immediately grab you as the train rolls slowly into the station and the tuk tuk drivers begin to swarm the platform ready to whisk man and belongings (others are quite happy to whisk only belongings) to a destination of your choice - as long as its a destination of their choice - for a price to be negotiated - in their favour.
However, once mechanical means are left behind and the intrepid traveller achieves the lanes of Varanasi old town (perhaps 'very old town' or 'the oldest town' would be more appropriate) the city begins to reveal its age. Teeming and seething with life the architecture and lanes are borne of generation after generation building under, over, next to and round the corner from generation after generation. Never has the town planner's ruler been a more redundant tool . Maze like in nature the lanes buzz and vibrate, every twist and turn assaulting the senses (mainly sight and smell) anew.
From groups of school children to religious pilgrims, from cows to motorbikes and riders life within the lanes is much like life without just condensed and cramped and thus intensified tenfold. Each footfall brings yet another 'sight' to see, another shop in which to sit cross legged and peruse myriad of silken goods (mainly scarves). Varanasi offers people watching at its finest - sitting sipping a cup of chai (cross legged and musing over my 'journal' - traveller right?) and trying desperately to take it all in provides the basis for 'culture shock' of the highest order (the conveyor belt on the Generation Game could only have been enhanced by a Varanasi round - 'Cow, motorbike, cuddly toy!').
It also seems that all who live here leave their mark on the streets they call home - the effluent of cow, human and dog (I think that's the right order) line the streets in quite bewildering quantities. The occasional slip underfoot is best not dwelt on for too long (now where's that shoeshine from Delhi eh?). Hopscotch played with human detritus (of all types) loses its appeal really rather quickly but somehow Varanasi doesn't.
Varanasi to many though is about more than the buildings or the trepidation of every step. For it's fame amongst tourists results from its importance amongst Hindus which arises from its location on the banks of the River Ganges. For Varanasi is the point at which the Ganges - the holiest of Hindu rivers - becomes its holiest. Hindus from all over India (and further afield I have no doubt) come to bathe in its waters. From dusk until dawn religious acolytes come to perform ablutions and seek absolution. Lining the ghats (steps) which run along the river bank all of life's possibilities are played out. Considered the holiest place to die the 'burning ghats' witness a daily schedule of cremations. With no regard for Western squeamishness the bodies are placed into the water naked save for ceremonial robes and the flame of burning flesh.
Between dead bodies, human cleansing (of soul if not body) and the sewage outflow of towns upriver the Ganges is perhaps not for the swimmers amongst us. However where other cultures come to do what other cultures have always done the tourist is never far behind. Thus at sunrise (what sight is not best viewed at either sunrise or sunset? This is particularly true of sunrises and sunsets) I found myself merrily being paddled up the Ganges taking pictures of well, erm, other people washing (alas, I missed any burning bodies). Odd indeed but as the sun began its daily climb and the sky turned an eerie purple Varanasi revealed a quite stunning side...
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