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.

… you’re lying in bed reading and try to balm you lips with you trusty tube of Lucas paw paw ointment and end up getting an ointment facial. Remove the lid and turn it upside down and the entire contents flow out like water. 48 degrees in Fatehpur Sikri.

Monk watching in Luang Prabang is a big tourist past time. I’ve been here a few times but never got it together to drag myself out of bed in the inky pre-dawn light to see the alms giving. I don’t want to talk too much about it, but it made me hate my white skin and big camera even more than I did before. The most interesting part of it was that the monks had to walk past tryptichs depicting before, during and after shots of road accidents. Bizarrely they all strolled past, eyes locked on the images.

Luang Prabang is lovely. There is some amazing food and it is easy to hang out here. I stayed for days just wandering around and drinking coffees, eating street food and making new friends. But I won’t ever get up at the crack of dawn to participate in the tourist circus of alms giving along the main street in Luang Prabang.

Today is saying goodbye. Dinners and coffee in the suffocating heat, preparation for the weather at my first destination.