Getting off in Vârânasî in the middle of the night without an hostel booking or a plan is not a good idea
I arrive in Vârânasî (for the unaware: in India) after spending about fifteen hours in a startled and squeaking bus, completely torn
It is three in the morning. I am heavily packed, in addition to my usual backpacks, the small and the big one, I am carrying a huge bag with all my Christmas shopping. I plan to send it to my family through the Indian post.
So this is Vârânasî. Holy city. The Ganges, the crematoria, the temples.
A tuk-tuk drops us off in the city centre and I start looking for a place to sleep. No plan, no hostel reservation.
This city is a labyrinth. The alleys are just narrow enough to let a cow or a scooter pass, but nothing more. Everything looks the same. The same signs, the same adds, the same doors. When I see one, I knock desperately on the doors of the guesthouses I have found by chance from the hanging signs. But no one dares to get up and open. There are still few inhabitants who tell me this or that hotel, but the prices they tell me are beyond my comprehension: 50 dollars a night. I I walk a lot and realise that I am going in circles. I’m lost.
First encounter with the locals: impressive
Then I see a group of men in civilian clothes pass by, armed with old wood rifles, machine guns, batons and forks.
It’s all very funny. I’m French, so I’m not used to seeing a battalion like that running around in the middle of town. They walk nonchalantly, as if they were walking the dog.
Forks, pitchforks, museums rifles: I’m dealing with an special elite force
A man of imposing stature, who seems to be the leader, asks me what I am doing here at this late hour so far from home. I explain my problem.
Everyone laughs. “It’s too dangerous for you here! You must not stay here! ». I ask them why they are out at this time and so equipped.
“We are protecting our temple! ».
Oh well…
Temple and mosque are stuck back to back and there is tension these fervent believers. Mr. Chief tells me that Muslims vandalise Hindu temples. So every evening a group is formed to patrol around the temple to watch over Shiva and his eight arms. I casually wonder if we would do the same in France.
Bodyguards and ATM
Very anxious to leave me there, alone with my loads, the ideal prey of fanatical Ganesh kidnappers, they offer me to come with them.
“We will take care of you.“
(As I tell you, the world is less dangerous than you think!)
An offer I quickly decline, because keeping watch in these alleys until dawn in good company, no thanks.
But they don’t budge, they don’t want to leave me unprotected. Invested in the safety of my small person and my well-stuffed bonnet, they gently push me into the ATM.
It is lit with crackling neon lights and locked by a bank card reader (assassins are known not to have Credit cards). I just have to wait there to finish my night.
Tomorrow morning I’ll find a bed, they will open the door to me.
I thank them, sit on my bag and wait for about ten minutes. I find the situation ultimately depressing and absolutely ridiculous. I decide to leave the place and go back in search of a comfortable bed.
Following a complete stranger in this labyrinth that promises a cosy bed at a good price: what are we waiting for?
If I don’t find anything, I at least go to the gates of the Ganges, where Shiva’s eternal sacred fire has been burning for three thousand years.
On the way I meet an Indian in his sixties, well dressed, with elegant manners and who speaks good English.
“Are you looking for a place to sleep?“
I nod.
“I can take you to my hotel if you want.“
I ask how much, I negotiate a little, we come to an agreement and I follow him.
No, I’m not crazy. I listen to my instinct
At this point in the story, most of my relatives fall off their chairs and I get a concert of “you’re crazzzzy! ». Yes, it’s a bit true, it’s better to plan ahead, but it would not be so useful. Few days later I came across a traveller who had made a reservation and no one opened to him. He even got a bucket of water on his head from neighbours cause he rang the doorbell.
This very well mannered man in his sixties was really nothing special considering his stature and age. Armed with my Christmas presents and my trekking shoes, I felt I could defend myself. I didn’t feel I had anything to fear from this man.
Sure, he might have lured me into a trap, but the chances were slim.
A hotel, a proper one, open and reasonably priced? I fear the worst and stay prudent
So the charming man leads me through the maze of streets and we soon arrive at his three-storey hotel with a fountain in the middle and balconies in the windows… what a good surprise!
The cheapest room is really shabby, the mattress is made of straw and it smells musty. But don’t let that put you off, cheer up! I get out my red silk inlettbag, set up a cosy nest, spray the room with mosquito repellent. Pyjamas on, brush the teeth, quickly to the toilet and off to bed!
Basically, it’s not so bad, nothing to be afraid of…. After all, I only met nice people.
The scare of my life was the monstrous hand, straight out of a horror movie, that slipped through the crack of the shutter early in the morning and made a hell of a racket: a marauding, thieving monkey. That’s really scary!
Also, read if you still think traveling alone is dangerous
And I’ll tell you clearly: I’d rather sleep by the roadside in the middle of the night and wait for the day! This is all ridiculous, unacceptable, I refuse to go on board, no thanks!
