Now I've escaped the dreaded ashram, and had several cups of cawfee, I am in remarkably cheerful spirits. I've soon checked into the Ganga View - an unpretentious little guest house, owned by a guy called Ajay with a bloodhound called Tiger sitting by his side - a few minutes walk from the river. It's $4 a night (the going rate) and for that I get a double bed, my own spartan bathroom (with sporadic hot water) but - most importantly of all - a fan with three different temperature speeds...
Tomorrow comes early. Really early. I am woken at 5am, for morning meditation. Bleary eyed, and with pounding head, I stumble to the main hall, where all around me are chipper-looking devotees, cross legged on the floor, chanting mantras and looking much more peaceful than anyone should be allowed to look at such an ungodly hour...
Off we go…and it’s not long before we’re picking up more passengers. Schoolgirls in their blazers, pigtails tied up with ribbon, women on their way to work, and a huge “babushka” type who shoots me a toothless smile. And it’s not long before we’re pulling into the next town. One schlepp across the road to the next shared auto rickshaw and I know I’m on the home run...
I am completely unfamiliar with my surroundings and stroll off down a side street, spying a cow ambling towards me. Women are sitting on the ground all around me, surrounded by piles of zucchini, chillies, an array of tropical fruits (quite a few of which I can’t recognise), children are returning from school, neat and tidy in their white shirts and grey skirts/trousers – little bags under their arms, chattering amongst themselves...
At least arriving in the middle of the night means you won’t get caught up in the notorious traffic that plagues the city, both night and day. Thirty minutes at night could be two hours in the rush hour (as I found out to my cost two years ago). People are rising from their slums at the side of the road, the chai walla is stirring his brew, small boys on their rickety bikes are wobbling by, precariously, and the city is coming to life.
After my mad dash to the border, the subsequent journey to Amman is dull in comparison, only livened up by a chance encounter with an urbane Palestinian named Ahmed. Dapper and stylish, in a grey suit, smoking a cigarillo, we strike up a conversation at a bus break, and are soon engaged in a lively debate about...football. He loves Man U (which would usually be enough for me to turn my back) but I'm in a generous mood - and, anyhow, my team are five days from a historic Double...
Last stop…I’m here. Its 9.12 am…I should just be able to intercept the bus I need, which has come from Nazareth. I reach down to grab my backpack from the luggage section and out of the corner of my eye see my Nazarene Tours bus. It’s driving away from me, around the corner…then disappearing down the road towards Jordan. “No….no…”I wail, to the amusement and consternation of the driver and passengers. You see, there ain’t no taxis around and I’ve now no clear way of getting to that border. Save hiking. Which, of course, is what I do…
