The Mighty Ganges

Now, some may scoff when they check this lil' webpage, saying, "man, if i was not working, running around the world like a chicken with his (or her) head cut off i shure as H-E-double-hockey-sticks wouldn't be sitting at a dang compooter writing autobiographical doodoo about myself (redundant?) all day long!"
Unless you were in Varanasi for the fourth day. In which case you might.
Not that Varanasi (Benares) doesn't have its share of things to see for the touristically minded. There is of course, the legendary Ganges river, right down the alleyway. In this city of Shiva, there are temples galore (gore?), boatrides to be had, photos to be taken. But of all the places i've been this one is particular.
It could be the noise, which is similar to a Ratt/Styx double bill opening up for Poison. Or, more descriptively, someone systematically destroying the entire rhythm section of the JB's. Horns. In your eardrum. direct and non-stop. Or, possibly, if one was aurally challenged, it could be the constant ducking and weaving needed to negotiate the alleys full of people, cows, their sh!t (both people and cows (that exclamation point makes it PG right? ohh bold)) and the persistent touting of everything one could possibly ever desire. No, seriously, soliciting here comes close to an art form. From whispers of various street names for drugs (brown sugar?) to paint, the ubiquitous postcard and every form of textile under the sun, they got what you didn't even know you needed. But the all time winner is the Handshake Masseuse. Operating near the Main Ghat, a proffered hand leads to a gentle come on to show the amazing dexterity of the artist. One look into the rotting maw of the practicioner, however, leads one quickly out of the relaxing state in which he wished to leave you, and into hysterics at the thought of where his hands might have previously been.
Now, im not one to knock someone's hustle, cause its a tough world out here. But better believe, after traipsing across Asia, that you better come with a smarter game than a hand massage if you wanna get me. For instance, Goldie Hawn. Approached by a gang of 12 year olds, who originally came with the postcard/"what country" intro, we were quickly suprised to hear next "wanna see some pictures of Goldie Hawn?" Now, at the tender age of 26, im a little young for "Laugh-In" but Private Benjamin's kind of classic, and i saw "Death Becomes Her" in the theatre. And as far as intros for getting folks into your patron's silk shop, that's priceless. Turns out Goldie actually not only visited Babu's silk shop, but came for dinner, and posed for an entire roll of photographs, not to metion keeping up a now-laminated corespondence with Babu(although it must have changed from a beautifully scripted handwritten to email which was then printed, complete with typed signature).
These kids were great. Not that we can't tell, but they knew who was legit and who wasn't, and were secular enough to say "ok, no one's looking, quick, take a picture!" at the infamous Burning Ghats. Not that you need a picture, cause the ashes are all over you, and the memory doesn't really fade quickly. Especially when your hired boat pulls right up to the bank where the bodies are pushed (swept?) into the water, and you are offered a chance to get out and stand right next to the fire. An entirely different kind of experience. As i was told by a still groggy Israeli in Beijing (insert your best accent here) "India's the real sh!t, man."
Yes. India is the real sh!t. Next stop Amritsar, the Sikh Golden Temple and the famed Pakistan border formalities. Don't worry Fox News watchers, we don't have visas.