Lonely Planet begins its description of Banaras, India, with the words of Mark Twain, who in his wonderfully sarcastic way complains of the city's incredible oldness. And it is incredibly old, vying with Syrian Damascus for the title of oldest continually inhabited city in the world. But its land still drips with life. Trees grow through buildings. Goats, cows, chickens, children, dogs and troops of monkeys fill the streets. I ride through it all on a 97 cc. Honda motorcycle, my light eyes masked by mirrored shades but my white skin and long hair noticed by all that I pass. It's a city where people come to die, a prominent location along the Ganges where Hindus are burned on pyres and their ashes cast into the river. Not all Hindus are burned, however: for example, babies and sadhus — ascetic pot-smoking dread-locked holy-men — are already considered pure so their bodies don't require purification by fire. They are therefore thrown into the river in their entirety. Or whatever entirety is left after a life in Banaras. As I ride to classes in the morning, I invariably pass what looks like a trash heap. It is in fact a plot of land, or rather a piece of street, allotted by the government for the untouchables of the city to set up their homes. Children play with pigs in the refuse, often neglecting to cross the street to use the gutter designated as a toilet. A few weeks ago, the town council made one of its few visible moves to help these people: they delivered a dumpster so the untouchables would no longer have to pile their garbage in the street. Now the children play in the dumpster. Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, I ride for six minutes toward the center of the city. Suddenly, there is a noticeable shift. The buildings mostly look the same, though some have off-center spires. Many of the shops look the same, but in some of them I can see hung meat. The street suddenly seems vast ... there are fewer cows and far less garbage. I pass by well-groomed men and little boys wearing immaculate white shirts, pants and brimless caps. There are few women, as there are in most areas of the city, but those I can now see have their hair covered. Some are wearing full burqas, or "niqabs," with all but their eyes covered. I have entered the Muslim part of the city. An island of meat-eating, dead-burying, anti-icon, monotheistic culture in the center of the insanity that is Banaras. It is not a bastion of calm in this crazy city: it is a center of difference. Generations-old animosities are put on hold as Hindus pass through the Muslim center to do business and as Muslims pass through Hindu neighborhoods for the same reason. There is violence. There is prejudice. But there is also forced co-existence that allows for interaction and, occasionally, from this comes friendship. This city is another experience all together for women. A combination of Western media, some crazy tourists and local sexual repression along with the lack of social protection make harassment in the streets a daily occurrence. Kissing noises and whistles at their least menacing, gropes of breasts, thighs and buttocks are not uncommon. On certain holidays, days when men are more likely to be stoned and drunk, the situation can be worse. And if you are an outsider, there is no one to turn to. The police, even if present, will rarely help in a time of need, and if you file charges, they will get back in touch with you only to see if you've given up trying to prosecute. But if you become a part of the community, you need only say the right words to the right friend. Alleyways will be aptly used and you will never have to worry in the streets again. It's the time of year when the white people begin to roll into Banaras. The weather has cooled, and I can smell again. (Until living here I did not know there was a level of temperature and dust that can cause complete, long-term olfactory shut down.) People treading the threadbare hippie trail waddle through the streets wearing instruments around their necks that are worth more than the annual income of almost all the local businesses. They remove the caps from these devices and turn their lenses to capture the squalid beauty of a child in the street. They do not notice the child's mother and her motionless, sexless baby in her arms standing behind them, begging for enough to eat for another day. But they do ask me where they can buy Clearasil. The air's harsh here, isn't it?
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