The entire train station complex was jam packed. Auto rickshaws jostle for space outside, depositing yet more people into the crush. It doesn’t help that my driver expelled me in front of the unreserved ticket counter. I pushed my way through, found my platform - the last - and searched for a spare, clean-ish and dry place to dump my heavy luggage. The only free spots were in the sun, and even these areas were loaded with families picnicking on rugs, or groups of men squatting or sitting on discarded newspaper.

Add the cows, monkeys, women spitting paan juices, mango sellers, chai wallahs and the million or so flies and this was uncomfortable. Unpleasant even without all eyes being on me. I don’t so much mind the wide eyed stares of the children, or the interest of the women who are probably just wondering what my life is like, where my man (or entourage) are. It is the somewhat sinister stare of the scores of men that make my skin crawl.

Sweat drips, children piss in the gap between the train and platform, and a man rides his motorbike past.

A bustle of electricity passes through the air, shocking everyone into action. A train has arrived on the opposite platform. As it rolls through young men jump aboard and suddenly beige uniformed men with old fashioned guns are everywhere amongst the crowd.

As the train slows, the entrances to the unreserved carriages are rushed by the people who were so recently reclining, picnicking, chatting. Those who have successfully secured seating raise the shutters, gloating. Each carriage has one unbarred window, which quickly becomes another entrance. Luggage is shoved though, disappearing into the darkness… as are babies. What happens, I wonder, if the parents don’t make it through the crush and onto the train.

Every so often a bamboo pole is extended out of the door, menacingly shaken, warning the hopefuls to stop pushing, or else. The crush into the carriages reaches its apex, the stairs are a mash of bodies and bags, and the crowd surges forward, those next in line hang precariously off the handles, ensuring their position.

Then the train moves. Shuddering forward a few metres, not enough to really notice, but my sanitised world view sees crushed bodies supporting the West’s ‘mind the gap’ stance. Of course, nothing happens.

The platform is virtually virtually empty now - by Indian standards. The system somehow works. There’s no blood, no wailing mothers and no fist fights, just a sardine tin of a train carriage, luggage in hessian sacks and screaming babies all the way to Mumbai.

Second stop: Varanasi.

Let’s just say that at this stage I was so out of it that I thought I was perfectly normal. In actuality I think the onslaught of India had melted my brain into a pot of ghee.

I arrived on a train straight from Kolkata, but 5 hours late thanks to some random middle of nowhere stops. After a whole night and  day on the train you better believe I was happy to be free of its icily air-conditioned shackles, and be out in the bustling crazy reality of Varanasi train station. Yep, I was so excited by that prospect that I approached the first Westerners that I spotted on the platform. Lucky for me they turned out to be awesome Australians who I’d run into again later on.

But back to Varanasi. Holy city. Pilgims bathing in the Ganges. Cows everywhere. I had prepared myself for a total onslaught of every sense and was rewarded with a town that was tamer than imagined. See, visiting in the low season can have it’s benefits. It may be ridiculously hot, restaurants and guest houses might be closed for the summer, but it seems that some of the touts take a holiday too!

There is something about Varanasi that I just loved. The city has a wonderful feeling that I can’t quite pinpoint. There’s a strange new sight around every corner, like a man blessing himself with a shitty cows tail. Just because you don’t understand it doesn’t make it wrong. A weird cafe run by three very attentive young Japanese women. Early morning walks. Dawn boat rides. Getting lost in tiny alleys and stumbling across yet another temple. I left Varanasi feeling much more comfortable with India, thankfully.

Way more photos on flickr.

…but that doesn’t mean it isn’t trying.

I came back from 2 months in India (there are more India posts coming, I swear), and two more shops nearby have been refurbished as wine shops. The sign above greets me when I leave (or enter) my alley. One of my neighbours works here, she sometimes waves me in for a tasting and a lick of air conditioning. This shop is next door to my local grocery, which also sells loads of booze (200,000vnd is $11.40AU today, by the way).

A very short walk away is a wine bar and shop with a much better selection. This place is right next door to le pub, pmums living room, and across the road from another wine shop and a deli stocked with a great range of cheese and cured meats and yep, wine.

Free liquor tasting, you say? A further 5 minutes walk away, I pass this restaurant multiple times a day. Today I happened to have my camera and managed to be cajoled into participating.

Two quick shots of Son Tinh’s cloying rose apple liquor and I wandered the last few minutes home, much happier than when I left work.

Oh and I haven’t even mentioned half the shops, or any happy hours, or fact that a longneck costs less than a dollar. I’ll certainly listen to this siren song, but it won’t lure me, oh no.