 |  | by BBC South Yorkshire
contributor Ali Davies | |
|
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.  The old prepare themselves for death and the dead are being thrown in.
Not just dead animals but people. | | 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 wonderÂ…. 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. Seven deadly sins in Vegas and an explosive situation in Java >> | 
