First days

First days of travelling in the beautiful south…

Before that, though, an episode I need to recount from the time in Goa.

For any of you who ever wondered what the swinging sixties were really like (this does not include Dad, Uncle Neil or Fari, who were there hooting and waving their shirts in the air), I think I found the closest modern equivalent at a beach party in Arambol. We took a taxi (a very un-cool think, I know) from south Goa to north, Paul, Gaz and I, along with some English girls we’d met. We arrived about four in the afternoon, and having quaffed a bottle of wine en route I was already waning. We sat and groaned in a café for half an hour, trying to remember the kind of energy that young people are supposed to have. Then we made towards the sea.

Halfway down the beach, we could see a muddy, undulating mass. Everybody we could pick out seemed to be moving to some internal rhythm (i.e. one that nobody else shared). We drew nearer, fascinated, aghast. There on the sand, accompanied by bongos, was the bizarrest fancy-dress parade I had ever seen. Bunny-girls went alongside people dressed as cats, one guy was dressed as a sumo with a papier mache dumbell marked ‘Very Heavy’. Several people were dressed as trees, while one guy sported trousers so tight they must have genuinely come from the seventies, and been through a few hot washes since. Yes, we had found it, ‘the scene’, and it was utterly hilarious.

As sunset drew on, we subsided onto the sand, utterly speechless. It seemed that every cliché in the book was there, every ageing hippy and failed seeker we had ever been promised by a hundred smug guidebooks. They had come out of the woodwork, reeling, a woodwork which itself was laced with LSD. What could we do but follow?

(Sweat, by the way, was the scent a la mode. Is this how the sixties smelled?)

The parade staggered to a halt at one end of the beach. Here, speakers and rough walls had been set up, masquerading optimistically as a venue. The drums continued, and the dancing grew more ridiculous, and, the more we consumed, logical. Leaving behind our cynicism, we joined in the fray. At about ten thirty, when the curfew for loud music is observed in all Goa, we were curled on the sand, happily chatting rubbish, and around 3, we heaved ourselves back to the town to commence the long haul home.

So there it is, then, I think I found it, what Goa is all about. Part of the joy of the place, for those who enjoy it, is that parties are often random, spontaneous. We ourselves received a tip-off from a British chap we met, and were quite prepared to hire a car and make a road trip of it, before we realized that none of we five were willing or able to take on the Indian highways. So taxi it was. A small cheat in a genuine night, and good fun to curl up in as we rocked home at 5.

It wasn’t long after that I left my friends, contemplating a 15 hour train ride to Kerala. I myself headed directly east, to another traveller’s ‘enclave’ (a word I have grown to dread) called Hampi. Hampi town modern is set among the ruins of a Hindu kingdom, dating from 1500, though parts of the place are much older. I would like to dedicate the majority of this blog, indeed, to the 24 hours I spent in Hampi, and everything I did there.

First, the night bus. I was itching to get back to traveling proper, after Goa and all its indulgences (a bit of an easy place, where not much happened). Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed once more, I had shiny visions of real conversations with small-town Indian people, of drinking chai while sitting on floors, of falling back on all my resources of Hindi and anything I could pick up of the local languages. And it came, in due course, but first, the night bus. Awash with optimism, I reached the bus-stop, and India responded with a flick of its tail. 1) The bus was 2 hours late, and 2) I couldn’t hold down the steak I had eaten as a farewell to beef-eating Goa, and had to stagger behind a local house to be sick. I couldn’t help exchanging a chuckle with myself/the night at large, but wouldn’t be put off so easily.

When it arrived, there were complications. The bus company (which had charged an exhorbitant 600/- Rs. for the ticket) kept trying to thrust us alongside random strangers in the sleeper compartments. I was almost top-and-toe with an American girl, before I kicked up a fuss, threw my bag at the guy and turned over to go to sleep. He was trying to make space for extra passengers, so he could make a little bit of pocket along the way – but somebody had deep enough pockets for everyone on board, and this particular westerner wouldn’t be cowed.

Besides a few cracks on the head from particularly lively bumps, which dented my sleep but did not destroy it, I reached Hampi with fairly few complaints after that. Found a guy at the bus stand with a 90/- Rs. room – I’d made it a personal vow not to go above 100 for the rest of the trip (you’ll see how long that lasted). Nandi Guesthouse, it was called, named after the cow ‘vehicle’ of Shiva, the Destroyer god, an apt name in that it resembled a both a bombsite and a farmyard. Jagdish, named after another god, was the typically wriggly owner.

Commence probably the best day of my solo travels so far. I’m still chuffed with what I accomplished. After breakfast, I meandered towards the temple in the Main Bazaar – parts of it surviving from 1000 years ago. An astonishing figure, sometimes you have to stop and think what that means. The British dark ages. (Or Middle-Ages. Or something) What makes the fact all the more impressive is that the Virupaksha temple is still living – that is, it still attracts worshippers and has its Brahmin and workers, it still has a freshly-dressed Shiva lingam every day, just as it has done for many hundreds of years. With a rupee in my hand, I stepped forward to be blessed by Lakshmi, the temple elephant (basically a smack on the head with her snout). After falling into conversation with Guru (an unusual name meaning ‘teacher’, usually conferred upon the elderly and wise, but this lad was 21), I was given a brief tour of the shrines and curios of the temple. The real experience began, however, when the temple closed for the afternoon. Lakshmi, exhausted after all that holy violence, lay down for a nap. The people departed. And I was led up a ladder at the back of the place (which Guru drew up after us) to venture where, apparently, few foreigners ever do.

As we stepped smartly around the temple roof (in the midday sun the stones had grown very hot), I asked Guru why he kept to the edges. He said it was because there were shrines underneath – we were literally walking on top of the gods. He led me around to the southern tower where we climbed some long-since-rotten stairs to sit among the bats and monkeys, and gaze out over the temple forecourt, and the landscape of Hampi beyond. It was heartening, exhilarating, to think that I was sitting where only a number of tourists had been, where, more importantly, generations of temple lads had been coming to sit and contemplate. How many arranged marriages had been bemoaned in that place? How many games of cricket discussed?

I left Guru with a promise to return the next morning, to see Lakshmi bathed in the river, and went out into the town. Actually, I had to tiptoe around the temple to the main gate to collect my shoes - ‘went’ is probably too heroic a word.

Phase two of my day in Hampi – investigating the rock formations. Again I’d like to call on our friend Google, because the rock formations around the village are so bizarre they almost beggar description. Almost. They’re…big. Weird-y. Big-on-top-of-small-y. Round. There, I hope I’ve given you a good idea of what they're like.

The horizon, in the first instance, is punctuated by a series of mountains which look like piles of boulders. It’s only when you look closer that you realize these boulders are piled in a very strange way. Huge stones, huge, are propped upon mere pebbles (comparatively), in such an apparently precarious way that any attempt to scale a hill will contain a fair few flinches, as you gain the crest of a great, smooth boulder, only to look up and see another louring ahead of you, apparently about to fall. Wishing for solitude (Hampi has a lot of tourists), I edged along a thin ledge, and sat looking out across the river. On the way back, I spotted some footholes carved into the rock face, and couldn’t resist these age-old attempts at providing a route. At the top, another staggering hunk of stone, perched on two others, made for a cave and a lovely bit of shade. Images of Vishnu, Shiva and other deities had been diligently printed inside, by a chisel and pair of hands long since fallen into disuse.

It was hot. I staggered along to the famous Vittala temple but baulked at the entrance fee, and wandering around the back discovered it was possible to climb over the wall. I’m glad I didn’t pay, no great shakes. I felt good about that, though I probably didn’t go far enough into the compound to indicate fearlessness.

It was time for some proper daring. All around Goa I’d been pestering my friends to hire mopeds, but in the end we didn’t get time. Hampi seemed like the next best bet – quiet country roads, relaxed feel. The guys at the shop chortled when I told them I’d never ridden before, and made me solemnly swear responsibility for any accidents of bike malfunctions. A cursory turn around the Main Bazaar seemed to convince them of something or other. They went inside to drink chai. An expert, then, I pootled out of town, pausing only at the gate which was closed for no apparent reason, and to swear at some laughing Indians.

Three things concerned me at my point of embarkation on the long, winding, shitty, potholed Indian road. One was that I didn’t have a helmet. More chortling when I asked for that. I suppose you might find it difficult to wiggle your head in any kind of expressive way while wearing one. Two, the fact that my scooter was crap. I’m not an expert, but I’m guessing that an inability to conquer your average speedbump is not the sign of a good engine. Three, the beep. Ah, the beep. I knew I would have to perfect the use of the horn in order to be respected on the Indian road.

Beeping the horn, I surmised, is in fact very much like the Indian head-wiggle. The protocol roughly goes: one for yes, one for no, one for stop/go, one for thankyou, one for two sugars please, one for sorrow, two for joy. At the completely unnecessary gate, I practiced asserting my authority by beeping the horn. After hammering it three or four times, an apathetic guard sauntered out, scratching his arse. Success, maybe.

Still, I tried to keep my wits about me, and not to overdo it. I had a particular mental image I did not want to live out: that is, of myself conscientiously beeping the horn as I sailed off the road into the nearest bush/river/living room. So the other problem, admittedly, was my driving, but with nary a petrol pump in sight to reverse into, I thought I was home free.

The less I talk about the first few minutes, the fewer nightmares I’ll have. Suffice to say that, by the time I reached the heart of the southern complex of ruins (entirely by accident), I was posing wholeheartedly. Parked my bike smack in the middle of the sunshine, because I liked its green glint in the light, and was halfway to the old barracks before I remembered something about overheating. I hurried back. All the other vehicles were huddled in the shade at the opposite end of the car park. Tit, it screamed, my bike.

By the end of the ride to the underground Shiva temple (which was half underwater too), I was suitably gung-ho and dangerous, taking on buses in games of chicken. When in Rome… On the way to Anegonda village, I met something that could match my new found arrogance: a herd of cows, who didn’t flinch at all when I hurtled into their midst doing a good thirty. This close to peteburger, and I decided to take the back roads home…only to meet a herd of goats on a narrow lane between paddy fields. You wouldn’t believe it. I’ve got the video.

(A big thankyou please to the lovely Indian bloke who walked past my bike when, key in ignition, bag containing camera and passport on the seat, I’d parked it on a country lane to follow the sound of drums. I winced from a shocking distance, perhaps 50 yards or more, but he didn’t even look at the pot of gold. What a guy.)

So my scooter and I managed to cough and fart our way back to Hampi Main Bazaar, back along the backroads. Evening now. I can describe neither the bizarreness of the rock formations across the paddy-fields, nor the beauty of that half-lit half-hour. 5 miles though fields of thick-leaved x-plants, and always with a magnificent vista just around the bend. The swamps steamed. I was driving through a prehistoric land.

And had I mastered it? The guard levered himself up to open the gate once again, and it seemed there was a hint of deference in the way he scratched his arse this time. Peter Beech, moped-rider extraordinaire. I thought I saw a guy on an Enfield nodding in brotherly recognition. It was only when I got back to the shop that I realized I’d had my indicator on for more or less the entire journey, since I’d misfingered the horn going into that herd of cows.

And the day wasn’t over. Scampered up to the nearest hill for one of the most magnificent sunsets I’ve ever seen. The earth itself was panting smoke, from fires in the distance. Families of boulders perched in silhouette. Actually I went up the wrong side of the hill first, and had to scramble through the temple to meet the sun full-on just as it dropped behind the distant crags. It was a strange moment, as otherworldly as the terrain.

In the morning, I hauled myself out of bed as promised. I think I’m starting to become a day-person. Tripped to the river where all had gone to wash: rickshaw-wallahs, shopowners, respectable men, all screaming like teenage girls as they dived into the current, then crawled out to dry on the warm, flat rocks.

The whole village was there. Classes full of kids, brought by their teachers, were given a perfunctory splashing, and at 8:05, Lakshmi ambled down from the temple grounds. Being a lady, of course, she went right into the middle of the women washing, and fell over. This is the way they do it. The keeper sighed and began to spoon water over her back with his hands.

And then, unable to top that, I left Hampi behind. Took a local bus to Hospet, and a local bus to Chitadurga. I’m now in Mysore, and I haven’t really seen many westerners since. But anyway, I think that’s enough to be going on with, I’ll try and blog again soon.