Getting into the city the heat quite literally bears in on us, like so many of the beggars in the street, inescapable and impossible to ignore. But our hotel, Shree Ganesha Palace, is an oasis in the desert, filled with kind people, cold water and even colder air. After the welcoming ceremony and accompanying photo we make for the cool sanctity of our room, where I’m ready to fall asleep in the sweet embrace of air conditioning. But Richelle has other plans, as she shakes me awake and throws me my freshly kicked off shoes. Sometimes I forget the Colombus that I'm travelling with. A voracious and insatiable traveller devouring culture and cities like a hungry man in a cake shop — too many flavours not enough time. “Let’s go” she says. We have a whole city to explore ” I huff and puff and follow her out the door.

We quickly find ourselves in the back of a rickshaw being pulled along by a pencil thin man with veins bigger than his limbs. It's hard to say yes to his pleas to take us, yes and he gets to pull us along sweating his guts out in the sweltering heat for the next 20 minutes. Or no and he goes back to pleading other tourists to let him take them wherever they like for 100 rupees or less (price fiercely negotiable). A man and his family have to eat, and our friend looked like he hadn't for a few days, so yes was the obvious answer.

After following Google to the Karela Cafe we quickly devoured some dosa and cold coffee with ice cream, after which we promptly fled back to our hotel room; the ice cream still melting in our bellies. We sit in the artificial coolness and await the arrival of a boat owner who is to take us out on the Ganges to watch the religious ceremony that evening.

He arrives before sunset and escorts us down through the twisting alleyways that lead onto the famous ghats – giant steps that lead into the mother Ganga. There are 84 of these along Varanasi’s foreshore, each serving some religious purpose or another. The city is abuzz with energy; a hive of bees, awoken by the heat, all clambering over one another to achieve an individual end. As our pilot, whose name I have shamefully forgotten, directs us into his boat, a group of young teenagers run over for a selfie – a phenomenon that happens at least 10 times an outing. Under the heat, my generosity languishes, I really cannot be fucked to stop every hundred metres to take a photo with a total stranger. The custom perplexes me completely, they don't know me, I don't know them. I'm only fascinating because I have white skin, which when my tolerance has thinned to zilch causes my voice box to tighten up, lips to curl back and can only offer a growl. I'm protecting my territory, my personal space, which as most people would know, like anything metal, expands in the heat. This causes our boat pilot to laugh, what does it matter? He asks. They think you're superstars. I scoff and jump in the boat, knowing that to stay still for more than half a minute is to invite another photo attempt. I can only imagine how Richelle must feel.  

As our pilot rowed us around the Ganges, we're surrounded by locals laughing and bobbing in the water. It’s Sunday, which in Varanasi means one thing: Bath day. We’re drawn to the packed beach on the other side and spend awhile just watching the people (mainly men) laughing and mucking around. This is where we witness the true power of the Mother Ganga – her unique ability to clean and heal, like dirt on the skin, washing away all of life’s problems. Afterwards, we’re taken over to the crematorium, where the fires have been burning all day every day since the time of Shiva. Our pilot explains to us the social hierarchy of where the different castes can be burned, high-caste higher up and low-caste further down. I can’t help but find it odd that the rich folks wouldn’t want to be closer to the river, surely guaranteeing that all of their remains are deposited into the Ganges and not the stone floor. We leave the eternal flames as the sun finally begins to set, a perfect image to depart the funeral pyres with.

We continue on to the main Ghat, where seven priests have set the stage for the ceremony to come. Our pilot lobbies for position amongst the hustling boats; night has fully set in now and our boat rocks gently in the waves of water and heat. Unfortunately without relief my head is promptly split in two by the overbearing heat and I lay down only listening to the ceremony and barely taking notice. Scene missing. Please see pictures. After an hour, we head back to shore, where we’re prompted for another selfie and I duly growl. My anger seems to entertain them more than anything else. The redeeming part of the evening is dinner – cheap and cheerful South Indian food. Dosas all round!

We woke before dawn to watch the sunrise over the river, there are morning ceremonies here, far fewer tourists and the heat only clings to the stone, nothing else. In other words, I’m a little more receptive to selfies and socialising today. With my head sans ache I’m far more open to new experiences and I promptly jump in to play cricket with a couple of kids, who the second they discover I’m an Aussie assume that I am friends with the entire Australian cricket team. I tell them I am and that I only spoke to Steve Smith on the phone the night before, he was asking me for advice on his upcoming final in the IPL. This instantly elevates me to god status. Unfortunately, my performance in the crease soon brings me crashing back to mere mortal. After an hour of play, we’re on our way and I promise them I’ll say hi to Steve for them. After eating “The Best Pancakes in India” (not really, not even close to the Banoffee pancakes on Havelock Island) we fled back to the shelter of our room till the afternoon.

That afternoon, we pretended to be Hindu’s, infiltrating the depths of one of the holiest sites in India, The Golden Temple – An old temple built in the late 18th Century. On a busy day this would never of happened, we would’ve been thrown out and probably cursed for all eternity. However it was reasonably calm, and we had an offering, so the people were more tolerable. The priest smiled at us as we clamoured to give our collection of flowers and leaves to the gods; each person is only allowed 10 seconds to say their prayer before they’re shuffled on by the supervising police officer, although people cling desperately to the bannister to finish their prayer. The officer must have sympathised as he told as what we had to say upon making our offering, although he soon gave up as our English mouths struggled to form the Indian words. Even though we were pseudo-Hindus I felt a profound connection to the place and people, their immovable faith easily transferring its power to those around them, including myself. Don't expect photos though, anything electronic is banned. Even my relatively innocent digital watch. 

The next day, we’re escorted around the old city by a local history enthusiast named Raghu, like the pasta! His words, our thoughts. He led us through the snaking alleyways, revealing the thousands of hidden temples tucked away in the varying buildings and homes. The information he shared was fascinating, and boy was he a fountain of knowledge – his ability to recall Hindu lore and Varanasi’s history was beyond impressive. Unfortunately, as the information poured in, so do the heat and my headache duly returned. There wasn’t much to be done, and not even the stupidly delicious lassies of Blue Lassi could pull me out of my stupor. Although I will just take this moment to mention Blue Lassi. Holy Cow! If you ever find yourself in amongst the chaos of Varanasi, make sure you make your way here. Besides the passport photos on the walls looking more like a missing persons room in a police station it is a beacon of flavour enlightenment. Plus they have a labrador called Honey, who is awesome and also enlightened.

I found the city a chaotic collection of dichotomies. One of extreme contrasts that are frequently presented at something as simple as turning your head. The combination of heat, sheer number of people, the dead bodies carried through the streets to be cremated and the thin layer of Paan (a substance similar to chewing tobacco that most Indians chew and spit everywhere) that rests on everything sometimes made the city Vara-nasty, but with it’s constant supply of kind and gentle souls (especially when the manager of our hotel gave us a printed copy of the picture they took of us when we arrived), innate mystical nature and the overwhelming sense of belonging it often turned easily into Vara-nicey.  

When we arrived at the station, we discovered our train was delayed for 3 hours, which soon turned into 6, then 9. A delay that was only made worse with the train arriving at the 5 hour mark, then awkwardly backing up like a person who’s turned up early to their surprise party. However, this turned out to be a great opportunity to spend some actual time meeting a variety of locals: Like Puja, who was going home for her final high school exams, which were the next day, and the beggar who was missing a foot. Or Avinash, a lovely man that we’ll probably be staying with in Delhi and a young man that needed to take a photo with Richelle so badly that he nearly cried when she said no. By this time tensions had mounted and we were both almost at boiling point, in fact I think we were all at boiling point. It was at this moment a horn sounded, breaking all the tension and washing everyone with relief; the train had finally arrived, we jumped on and said so long to Varanasi.

Next stop. Agra and the Taj Mahal.