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by
成人快手 South Yorkshire
contributor Ali Davies |
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Varanasi,
India 1998
I was
completely cheesed off with teaching students the finer points of
the English language.
"What's
the difference between to get on with and get off with somebody?"
I don't know and more to the point, I don't care.
On
a grim January evening, rain pelting against my window, I stuck
in a pin.
Within
an hour I had booked my holiday to Varanasi, India - land of enlightenment.
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The old prepare themselves for death and the dead are being
thrown in.
Not
just dead animals but people.
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| Ali
Davies |
Varanasi
sits on the banks of the holy river Ganges, the river of life. Its
waterfront is dominated by the endless flight of steps leading down
to the river, the ghats.
Here
every morning thousands of pilgrims bathe themselves and perform
various Hindu rituals.
Those
who die in Varanasi can attain instant moksha. No, not a new kind
of coffee. It means your soul will be broken from the circle of
reincarnation, and you will gain Nirvana.
"Light
my candles in a blaze,
'cause I found God!" - that's Vishnu not Cobain.
I am
up at dawn and head down to the ghats. The Ganges are wide, three
times the width of the Thames, and a dirty brown.
People
perform their ablutions, children swim, women wash clothes, priests
pray, the old prepare themselves for death and the
dead are being thrown in.
Not
just dead animals but people.
There
are the burning ghats where you can see limbs melt while families
mourn their dead.
As
the smoke rises, the souls are finally released from earthly life
and the samsara, the unceasing cycle of death and rebirth.
If
I dip my hand in the Ganges will I be released from the monotonous
world of teaching I wonder聟.
Damascus,
Syria 2002
Damn,
Arse, Cuss. Those three words summed up my feelings. England was
deep in the November blues and I wasn't going to stick around and
be dragged down by them. When my drawing pin hit Damascus, I knew
fate had a sense of humour.
I was
on the road to Damascus like St Paul of bible fame, wanting to find
Straight Street, where he converted.
I didn't
find the house of Judas
but did find an interesting drink on the menu in Jabri House. I
didn't try it due to its rather unnerving name, "Lemon/ Slash".
Damascus
is a hectic city with two very different sides, ancient and modern.
I spent most of my time within the walls of the old city, a
labyrinth of narrow, shady lanes, devoid of cars.
I whiled
away afternoons smoking the hubble-bubble pipe and listened to the
dulcet tones of Lebanese freedom singer Fairouz and the deafening
wails of Egyptian singer Umm Kolthum.
It
was Ramadan so there was strictly no eating, although I did become
a master of eating a concealed snack behind my coat.
At
dusk the taxi drivers would make a mad dash home and crossing the
road became a suicide mission.
Everyone
was heading home for iftar, the long awaited feast at sundown, to
have a drink, light up and stuff their faces with as many sugary
sweets as possible.
I would
head up Mount Qassioun, the mountain overlooking the city. It's
said to have been climbed by Jesus, Abraham and Mohammed.
At
sundown, the call for prayer from here is a haunting experience,
with the hundreds of mosques throughout the city sending out their
hypnotic messages.
By
night, Qassioun looks like a Christmas tree, or a static firework,
with thousands of white lights from the houses and green from the
numerous mosques.
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