2 ON THE STREETS OF BENARES

The Thai Airline’s landings at Bangkok and New Delhi were like doves’ feathers settling on fine Belfast linen, which was in contrast to the thumping belly flop we experienced at Varanasi in the late afternoon of the second day. The pilgrims on the Spice Jet 737 took it all very casually, though.



The baggage hall consisted of a small square hole in the wall which allowed most of the luggage to pass through, some of the larger bags, however, got caught in a sort of log jam which was freed periodically by a man employed to do just that. Unlike most baggage carousels, this one didn’t go round and round until all the bags had been collected, this one ended abruptly at a point 8 metres away where all the suitcases where dumped in a heap on the floor.



Eventually with our host Govind’s guidance in the local art of pushing and shoving, we retrieved our precious luggage.



Outside in the car park our driver found us and led us through the melee to our station wagon. Every car seemed to be intent on running every pedestrian over as they moved forward and back in a strange erratic dance. Each car eventually reached the exit but not before almost, but never quite, making positive contact with several other vehicles. Our driver threw himself into this scrum as a willing and eager competitor.



We lurched out of the car park and onto the open road with 20 km to travel to the centre of Varanasi (this holiest city was once known as Benares). The next half hour was like a visit to a bizarre fairground. It was as if we were on the Ghost Train where hazards and scary things popped out from every bend and corner: a bicycle here with 2 or 3 passengers, an auto-rickshaw there with cracked and broken mirrors. Cows, goats and children also played this wild game of Dodgems.



Cows may be sacred animals but they still get a full blast of the horn when they are in the middle of the road.



Our driver raced along the road narrowly missing each bike and car by the finest of margins. He mostly hugged the centre of the road until an approaching vehicle sent him diving back to the left causing mayhem with more bikes, cars and rickshaws.



All this activity would seem to be the height of danger, but not so. There is so much traffic and so little space that none of this movement takes place at any great speed. There are collisions occasionally but they are always low speed and thus rarely cause much harm.



Every now and then a roundabout appears. At least, we would consider it a roundabout and would negotiate it in a clockwise direction. Here, vehicles encounter the roundabout from four converging roads and split up in apparently random directions, some clockwise, some not. A policeman is often stationed on a platform in the middle and helpfully waves his baton in time to an imaginary tune in his head. No one takes the slightest notice of him or of his referee’s whistle.



Frightening though all this activity was, I was more impressed with the colours and the bustle of the people and the various animals that were part of the montage.



Everyone was doing something or going somewhere. Streets and streets of trading stores or stalls lined the road selling everything from milk, silk, vegetables and clothes to motor cars, toys and Hero Honda bicycles.



Those who weren’t buying or selling were part of a never ending river of people heading from somewhere to somewhere else. The auto-rickshaw is a very special vehicle and I’ve seen them elsewhere in Asia. Imagine a Vespa or Lambretta motor scooter of the sort that featured in the Italian Job movie. Then turn it into a three wheeler with a seat for the driver and a row of seats behind for two passengers and you have an auto-rickshaw. Add another ten or twelve passengers and a cargo of chickens, boxes and grain sacks and you have an Indian auto-rickshaw.



Although their safety performance as public transport comes into question, they are powered by natural gas and hence make a valued contribution to reducing India’s carbon footprint.



Riding along these bustling, crowded streets one is confronted with the apparent age and dilapidated state of the buildings. They are usually 2 to 3 storeys high, made of red brick and are on the verge of falling down. Though they seem in the final stages of existence, all of the buildings are used by someone for something.



In many cases the front yard which meets the road is used as a cycle or rickshaw repair garage. Whilst behind a fruit and vegetable store trades beautifully displayed vegetables on a sack laid neatly on the dirt floor or on a rudimentary bench.



The constant hooting traffic continually invades the trading space as one car veers onto the walkway to miss another road user. The buildings are also home to many, many families apparently related to the traders.



Mangy dogs prowl the street seeking scraps of food. Some of them looked so thin and wizened that it occurred to me that it may be kinder to allow them to be run over and despatched to canine Nirvana.



In all this fracas, a lone child of 7 or 8 years of age is weaving her way through the honking vehicles with a bucket. Well, two buckets actually: the one bucket has a hole in it, the other has no handle. Employed together, they make a perfect whole!



She is collecting cow dung which she will dry and burn on the home fire; for it is cold in Varanasi at the moment and the night time temperatures fall to 5°C.



This incredible display of activity, colour and noise came to an abrupt end as our driver guided the wagon through the guarded entrance of the Varanasi Gateway Hotel to an avenue of palm lined peace.



We pulled up at the hotel portico and were helped out of the car shaking and trembling by a concierge dressed as the Maharaja of Ranjipore.



Whatever would happen next?

Chris Skelding 2010