I met a friendly policeman in Umarha, a village overlooking the confluence of the Yamuna and Chambal rivers, 250 miles downstream from Agra. He explained that the Chambal region is home to some of India's most ruthless bandits, and made me promise to stay only in villages, and never paddle at night. That night I slept outside a host family's house on a charpoy, and awoke at 4:30 to the sound of young children nearby singing and chanting.

Their high-pitched voices were both beautiful and haunting. Under the veil of darkness, I was disappointed that I couldn't see them. I needed to visit the village toilet-a nearby field-and I picked my way gingerly along. I had to get an old man with a big stick to protect me from the madly snapping dogs. On the way back, numerous small fires had sprouted up, with groups of kids and adults huddled around roasting millet still on the stalk. When I asked my hosts and others gathered around who the singing children were and what they were singing, no one seemed to know.
As I prepared to leave, I asked the policeman if there was a post box nearby. "The post box is two furloughs from here. This boy will take your letters for you." He grabbed the nearest kid, barked instructions, and the boy scampered off. A group of young men picked up Moganga and an elderly man with a white mustache and toothy grin latched onto my arm. The two of us slowly made our way down the steep zig-zagging path while the men with the boat ran, shouting, ahead. A woman in a bright green sari doing her washing nearly died of fright, and yelled at the young boat carriers, to no effect. At least 100 people followed my boat, making their way down to the river. I brought up the rear with my elderly friend. After shaking many hands and receiving blessings I left drifting backwards. The waving continued until I finally turned downriver a half mile or so away.
Just past the confluence, I paused to talk to a group of men building a pontoon bridge. Something broke the water at the edge of my vision. I turned to see a gray dolphin jump. I grabbed my binoculars for a closer look and was amazed to see Gangiatic freshwater dolphins. Soon there were about five of them jumping close to my boat. They were about 1.2 meters long with a flat forehead and a long, upturned snout adapted for catching fish. I spent over an hour watching them feed and play.
In the days that followed, although I had promised the policeman in Umarha that I would stay only in villages, I continued to try camping. This generally proved impossible. I would ask for permission in Hindi, only to be told, "No, you must stay with us in our village,"-at least that's what I think the people were saying. My boat would then be carried to someone's house where a charpoy would be brought out, followed by food.
Hamirpur was the first town that I'd come across since Agra, and I hoped to find a hotel for a few days of rest and privacy. Both rest and privacy were non-existent in the villages, as I was on constant display. By now I'd learned to bathe and change with a crowd watching and maintain my modesty. A group of friendly teenagers helped me get my boat up the steep stone embankment and, luckily, there was indeed a small hotel just 200 meters away. I checked in, happily paying the going rate of $1.25 per night. My dreams of privacy were soon dashed by a steady stream of people coming along to see me, so I stopped answering the door. Later, I found the post office where several letters were waiting for me. The postal officials told me I was the first tourist to collect mail, and asked if they could read my letters. Hurt and dejected looks came over their faces when I said "no." On the way back to my room I passed the court building with its colorful scene of lawyers in black robes, lottery agents, peanut hawkers and old men with ancient, double-barreled shotguns.
With two days of rest and four pounds of apples, I left Hamirpur for the final week of paddling to Allahabad. Several helpers carried the boat to the river while a local reporter asked me questions. At the water's edge, a photographer took a few snaps as I paddled off. This was the holiday of Diwali, the Hindu festival of lights. Throughout the day I passed large groups of people praying on the banks and making offerings of, among other items, peacock feathers. The feathers were scattered on the river and added more color to the lush green landscape. Dolphins splashed in the water at the bends of the river, where it was deeper. A pod of four adults and two young broke close enough for me to see their eyes sparkle.
At the end of the day, I stopped at what I thought was an out-of-the-way place to camp, as I didn't want to bother people on a religious holiday. After settling in, I was about to eat my last freeze-dried dinner when a young farmer, Kosdil, came by to invite me to his house. We walked up over the bank and entered a magical village. Although they had electricity, none was being used. Instead, to celebrate Diwali, every nook of every house and building glowed with candlelight. Hundreds of candles were flickering in nearby windows as we walked toward his freshly-painted family home. As if to celebrate, the sky, too, was brightly lit with shimmering stars and streaming satellites.
I covered more than 100 miles over the next two days, which brought me to the dusty town of Rajapur. A policeman greeted me on arrival and, when I asked where I could stay, he took me to the police station. I pointed out a hotel along the way, but he insisted, "You'll be safe and happy with us at the station." I had my doubts, but couldn't say no. A short-wave radio crackled throughout the night and flashlight beams flashed over me from time to time as I slept uneasily on a charpoy under a banyan tree in the courtyard.
The next morning I met a retired, bespectacled teacher who took me on a tour that included a small temple where a 450-year-old copy of the Ramayana, the Hindu story of creation, is kept. The teacher then produced the newspaper article written in Hamirpur about my trip, which I had not seen. Much to my surprise, the reporter quoted me as supporting the splitting of Uttar Pradesh, the state I was in, into four states. This was a very touchy subject and one on which I hadn't commented. The newspaper article perhaps explained why the police were so insistent that I stay with them.
Although I got a late start, I was determined to reach Allahabad within two days. I paddled solidly through the day, not stopping except to drift and eat. As sunset approached, I decided to carry on into the night using the moon as my guide. There were a few boys out fishing in boats and we passed each other with quick, unsure glances. A few hours later the river had become noisy and there were swirling currents pulling the boat about. I stopped to camp on the rocky bank. Wishing I still had my sleeping mat, I fell asleep to the sound of the fishing boys singing in a high-pitched, sorrowful key.
I left before first light and found that the cause of the noisy river was a bend where the bank was eroding and falling away in large chunks. A light mist covered the water, skirting and swirling around a string of large wooden fishing boats with tall bamboo masts and tatty, square-rigged sails. Later, the mist lifted and the wind ran against me. The chop kicked up and I had to put my sprayskirt on for the first time since the second day.
Around noon, I caught a glimpse of an airplane in the middle of a loop. I could see military markings on the trainer. A bit later on, the plane again did a loop-the-loop and flew upside-down along the river low enough for me to see the pilot's silver helmet. My map showed that I was only an inch away from Allahabad, but it took another hour to actually get to the city, and longer to reach the confluence. The north bank was lined with beige stone and red brick buildings with high archways-colonial buildings from the British and Mogul empires. A large Mogul castle with satellite dishes and a tangle of aerials sat where the confluence must have been a few hundred years ago.
As I paddled, I could see a distinct line of separation between the gentle green Yamuna I had been on and the muddy, murky Ganges. Sadhus had built platforms over this line, as it is a very holy place to pray and meditate. I, on the other hand, was experiencing the opposite end of emotions. I excitedly jumped about within the confines of my boat, elated at having completed a journey of over 1,000 miles. I sat on the confluence for a while before pulling into the fast-moving Ganges. I floated down 400 meters, then crossed back to the Yamuna. Boatloads of pilgrims passed by, asking where I'd come from. "Very good!" one group shouted. "You should have come down the Ganges-it's more holy!" scolded a man in another group.
More holy or not, the Ganges is certainly more polluted. As the afternoon shadows lengthened, I saw numerous drains emptying filth into her, and several corpses. The Ganges is India's most sacred river and, thus, it is the wish of many Hindus to be cremated on her banks, ensuring a favorable rebirth. However, the soaring cost of wood has led many impoverished families to send bodies on their final journey without cremation.
I stopped at dusk when invited to a small, tidy ashram set in a little forest. The founder was blind in one eye, smoked pot nearly non-stop, and looked like Jim Morrison on the cover of American Prayer. Soon after my arrival, a group of seated men began chanting and playing religious music through amplifiers. This continued unabated through the entire night. On top of the noise, birds in the canopy of the banyan tree I slept under used me for target practice. I barely slept and readied to leave at first light. "Don't you want to stay for breakfast?" I was asked. I quickly paddled away, leaving the amplified, drug-fueled din behind.
The last few days on the Ganges were more pleasant than the first. At a stop for water I was invited to play cricket, India's national sport. My swinging the bat American-style caused much laughter. In another village, news of my love of mango pickles quickly spread and I was made to sample every household's homemade variety. The ladies all beamed with pride as I expressed delight at the tangy taste of each of the samples.
I began my final paddle under a bright blue sky, wrapped in a warm breeze that gently pushed me toward Varanasi, 30 miles away. I took my time, slowly paddling past fields of green wheat and watching four men struggle to pull an ancient, heavily laden wooden sand barge upriver.
Early in the afternoon, 68 days after I'd left Paonta Sahib, the ancient holy city of Varanasi came into view. The city sits on a three-mile gentle bend of the river. Every neighborhood has its own temple, some of which are over 1,000 years old, and ghat, steps that lead down to the water. I drifted past boatsmen, babies being bathed, barbers, washers and priests. Pulling in at Kumiko Pension, I was warmly greeted by Kumiko, although Shanti seemed a bit disappointed that his dire prophecies of doom hadn't come to fruition. Back on the Ganges, a pod of dolphins danced upstream.