This Shit Is Banaras

One of the reasons for my lengthy stay in Varanasi was to ensure that I celebrated the day of my birth in a place I knew not to be a complete craphole. Determined to make a special occasion rather than just stroll along the ghats for hours yet again, I looked for some way to mark the day in my memory. Inspired by the sight of bathing saddhus and swimmers, I decided to take a ceremonial plunge into the Ganges.

This was an exceptionally poor idea.

Though I intended to use the experience to take in my surroundings and allow the reality of my awesome new life to sink in, the only things that sank in were a plethora of industrial byproducts, and the various forms of waste deposited by the approximately 200 million people upstream. I have also been reminded that in Varanasi alone about 100 corpses are dumped in the river a day. Fantastic.

I freely admit that I am no stranger to vomiting on my birthday, but I would say that it is preferable to achieve this via foolishly dedicated binge-drinking than it is to do so as the result of tropical diseases. I spent much of the rest of the day having an adventure in plumbing, as Indian toilets (a bizarre and fascinating topic on their own) are even more uncomfortable and degrading to puke into than Western ones. At least they have knee pads. Fortunately the effects of this folly were short-lived and after a lengthy rest I was well by the next day.

I am being stalked by a masseur. There are countless men at the ghats offering massages and using the "Varanasi handshake" to trap unsuspecting tourists into an experience with their less-than-supple hands. One of these men follows me great distances every day, argues with me, frequently puts his hands on my face, and has numerous times sneaked up behind me and started rubbing my shoulders. Today I snapped at one such intrusion after he had trailed me for about 500 meters and lashed out with a would-be devastating insult, only to be reminded that my razor tongue only limply wiggles when deployed on an Indian audience. "Ten rupees sir, only ten rupees", his incessant refrain echoed as he grasped me by the cheeks. "I wouldn't give you ten rupees if your oldest daughter was massaging my dick", I shot back. "...Only ten rupees sir. Good massage."

I suck at India.

There is a dog - Cerberus is his name - that lives below my window. He is the single most evil-spirited animal that I ever hope to encounter. His hateful, dragon-like growls haunt my sleep and I have many times awoken to the yelping of dogs and puppies he has bitten or the thundering hooves of tooth-scarred cows rounding the corner. Were I not locked in here every night I would grease my chest, dig the leotard out of my backpack, put on my lucha libre mask, go outside and knock that fucker's teeth out with a bar stool.

I met a silk wholesaler today and for journalistic reasons (Ghostface gotta get paid) visited his factory to take notes on the weaving and dyeing process. All you need to know is that the scent of each color is capable of producing a subtly different form of nausea, and that the presence of that much dye is enough to make you feel like your eyes are going to bleed, and not just because the designs are way too garish for autumn.

Much more pleasant was my half-planned run-in with my old homie the buffalo herder. "I wait for you," he said "take one pole." Sweet God, yes.

With the neophyte zeal of a fraternity pledge I joined in herding his buffalo out of the Ganges and up the massive steps to the city streets, slapping buffalo belly and waving my stick all the way. Dozens of people stopped and stared , but I've come to accept that as the price of doing anything really fun in India. Maybe it's because they're so unused to seeing a member of the tourist hordes give up their dignified distance and actually immerse themselves in the day-to-day of common Indian life, or maybe it was because a guy in royal blue Indian pajama trousers and a Serbian t-shirt was loudly slapping a herd of buffalo.

Finally I ran into my saddhu friend. This guy is an old man who just spent 45 days walking barefoot from Delhi to Varanasi with nothing but an orange robe and a sack of body pigments. We sat down and in very stilted English talked for some time about the meaning of love. After offering a great many romantic tips (Do not let her father see your filthy toes; shop at her parents' store and casually flash wads of cash), he concluded "What is good? One wife, whole life." I swear, somewhere in India is a massive academy that instructs people in the English language solely in rhyming verse. "Burning is learning, cremation education". Even people with only the slightest English know at least half a dozen random couplets. I'm going to donate a truckload of Snoop Dogg CD's to this academy and blow India's mind.