Varanasi, Bang Lassi, and thieving bastards.

Vanarasi is by far and away the most intensely surreal place I have ever visited. Hands down. I'll come to that in a second but first a quick account of what befell me upon arrival.

I definitely had my wallet in the hotel lobby, of that I am sure. I went upstairs, had a shower, leaving my room unlocked while the staff changed my sheets. When I returned my wallet was no where to be found. Cue hours of searching every inch of my bag/ the hotel/ the staff, but no wallet. I am thus forced to cancel all my cards and accept the vile conclusion that I had been robbed. It is one of the worst feelings in the world.

It was either the kids changing my room or one of the dodgy rickshaw drivers, I suspect the latter, but really that's not important now. Trying desperately to sort out my money problems, eating the cheapest item on the menu and contemplating whether I may have to take a job shining shoes until I can afford to get home, I became very philosophical about the whole ordeal. I realised that my best move from here was without question to put the whole thing behind me and move on. The situation was only as bad as I made it now. I realised that I had to forgive this guy.

So to whoever stole my wallet, it is unlikely that you will ever read this as you probably do not own a computer, which to me is a tempering thought. For while I am angry at having suffered a small inconvenience, you have suffered a lifetime of hardship and struggle. Why should you not steal from me? Resent me? Hate me even? The small fortune you stole from me was but a weeks budget in my eyes, I forgive you and I can only hope you spend it well.

Perhaps on a prostitute so ridden with venereal disease you will end your short, bottom-feeding days scratching your oozing sores all the way into the gangees. Or maybe you will spend the money on a oven, which tragically explodes a week later, rendering you helpless as everything you love catches on fire. Or maybe the opium you spend it on puts you into such a deep trance you are mistaken for dead and burned alive, as seems to be the general vibe around here. These little gems in the realm of possibility bring me great comfort. Enjoy your horrific life- you utterly deserve it. You are forgiven.

Ahem, anyway.... Varanasi is utterly mental, and thankfully I have still enjoyed the experience. You can scarcely move here for having to dodge a enigmatic and colourful funeral procession. Dead bodies covered with ornate orange cloth and flowers, being carried down by a chanting masses of people, to be cremated on one of the ghats. I have never experienced anywhere so entrenched in ritual, the sacred and... well to be honest the burning dead people steal the show somewhat!

What they chant sounds a lot like "Fuck the Hague, Brown Nose," but I'm sure that can't be right. Unless there happens to be a staunch labour party base in Varanasi?

The ghats (basically small harbours,) run along the West bank of the Gangees where Varanasi sits. The river is the most sacred place here and all along there are people washing away sins, drinking the water for its healing powers and of course burning their dead family members. I've had a couple of long walks along here and one boat ride- it's quite a walk. In fact the Gamgees is mega polluted, lifeless and swimming with disease, and those who bath in and drink it only edge themselves further towards their own burning pyre, but hey religion can make people act strangely, as we well know.

The bank is also home to a hospice, and those of you thinking of nice comfortable armchairs and painkillers on tap can think again. Imagine instead row upon row of old, dying Indian people groaning, crying and eventually dying in mud. Varanasi is the most holy of places to die, so weirdly enough their presence here is entirely voluntary.

I also saw a home set up for widows of the recently deceased. Apparently before this place they were expected to throw themselves on their burning husband at the funeral. If they were, perhaps naturally, reluctant they were pushed by the family. Not sure what my gran would have made of that- luckily now this place exists. I have also heard rumors of cannibals who live downstream and eat the bodies that they don't burn, i.e. children, holy men, etc. I have decided not to investigate this one, at least not this time!

Behind this visceral display lies a maze of streets that are simply impossible to navigate, filled to bursting with the usual Indian old city chaos of cows, dogs, various brands of shite, and people trying to sell you stuff. Though I haven't been overly hassled here to be honest. The main street feels kind of like a Hindu themed Disneyland.

Only one discovery here, aside from the joys of Western union money transfer. Stop reading now mum. No no I mean it, stop. Make her stop Vicky, thanks. I awoke yesterday with extremely hazy memories of the evening before, mostly involving pissing myself laughing at... something, and only one note in my notebook from the evening that scrawled over the lines read, "Holy Fuck Bang Lassi!!" Lassi is a delicious sort of milkshake thing they have over here. Bang Lassi, containing a hearty amount of good things, is widely available, and a much better option than the numerous, toothless dodgy bastards that offer you various delights in the dark alleys!

Unfortunately I overestimated my capacity somewhat and ordered a medium strength. One again arrogance was my downfall! Fantastic stuff tho, just remember to enjoy the effects in a safe place, like your hostel roof garden, away from the streets, where you may become a little vulnerable. The worst you can do is order too many pancakes! Some Aussie guy we took along yesterday, who sort of looks like a 13 year old in a fake Amish beard, got so out of his tree he insisted on high fiving locals, dancing on the back of motorbikes and demonstrating the finer points of Australia's dominance int the field of Badminton!

I'm currently traveling with a very multi-national group consisting of two Aussie lads, Rob and Joel a British girl, a Polish girl and a German girl called Jaz, Katalina and Johanna. All of them excellent fun and I'll write more about them in a few days.

Honorable mentions go to Tommy, the French/ English guy I traded resources with on the train, who speak in a broad London accent, but very French inflections, and Jonny, who I seem to have lost in the melee, which is a great shame.

Another night train awaits to Khajurho, where I will be visiting Karma Sutra sculptures. I am advised public masturbation is still frowned upon, which is crushing news indeed. Until then a special message for the girls and Tommy- Jonny, jonny, jonny, jonny, whoop, jonny, whoop, jonny, jonny, jonny, jonny. That is all.

(Nothing to do with you Jonny if you read this, its some stupid game they taught me over a bang Lassi!) Shit I just lost the game.