Hip Hampi
Trip Start
Jan 16, 2012
1
22
59
Trip End
Jul 11, 2012
Where I stayed
Shanti Guesthouse
Aum Guest House
Hampi, Karnataka, India
Thursday, March 8, 2012
For the ten-hour bus ride from Mysore to Hampi, I was swathed in Mysore silk—I had finally acquired a churidar, a tunic and trouser set with a scarf. From the moment I put it on, I was an instant convert to the concept: it was definitely the most comfortable outfit I had worn for the heat, and I felt appropriately dressed for the first time in India (In Sri Lanka, women wore skirts and jeans as well as traditional clothes, but in India only in TV and newspaper advertisements of cosmopolitan life have I seen women in clothes other than saris and churidars). In addition to the benefit of greater comfort, I noticed that Indian people seemed more friendly to me now that I was properly dressed (even though I couldn't bring myself to wear the scarf for the heat).
So I was cool as the proverbial cucumber on the journey that Dan later said was the most frightening road trip he’d ever been on—and this is saying a lot, given his frequent traverses in winter conditions between Fort MacMurray and Vancouver. This day, by contrast, provided perfect driving conditions—blue sky over a straight road in a dry and rural landscape dotted with palm trees. The road surface was even in good condition. But what this perfect day provided a perfect view of was lorries and buses heading straight for us every time, because they and we were always passing other vehicles. Once we ended up passing another bus on the right shoulder (just think about that for a second—they drive on the left in India—where is facing traffic supposed to go if you’re on their shoulder?). For me it was one of those days of suspended disbelief; I had to have blind faith in the driver because there wasn’t much choice. But it was a little hard not to say a little prayer from time to time: "Please don’t let us be a back-page story in the Vancouver Sun . . ." Three overturned lorries punctuated our route, one of which was having its cargo of kindling repacked into another lorry. An upside-down jeep showed us its undercarriage. A bus, much like ours, sat half on the road with its front end smashed in. The drivers are skillful, for sure. Our driver maneuvred the bus with unerring accuracy, turning away just at the last minute in the face of every oncoming bus and lorry, so that the whole trip was one long series of near misses. But as Dan worried, there was no room for error, no time for a blown tire or single moment of inattention. He white-knuckled it the whole way. And we resolved to make more of an effort to get on the train in future.
In general in Karnataka state, we saw a less regulated approach to travel. We saw fewer motorcycle helmets. We also saw serious overcrowding in vehicles. One open truck was carrying about 120 people—seven people linked arms across the back, and the passengers were about 18 deep. The people in the middle did not look comfortable. Meanwhile, three young men were enjoying their ride, on top of a lorry and high on life too: thick hair blowing in the wind, sun on their backs, clean air, the speed of the lorry: they saw the Angrezi through the bus window, waved exuberantly. I wonder: does road behaviour here show a profound lack of imagination as to consequences, or a calculated measure of the benefits against the risk?
In the afternoon an 18-year-old boy with his mother and female friend got on the bus and sat opposite us. He was an irrepressible examiner of my every feature and commented continuously in their language, Kannada, which caused a little confusion in our conversation when I said I was from Canada. He provided English words for my appearance: my eye colour (blue), my hair (white), my toe-nails (red); he also bared his teeth, in an indication that he’d like to inspect mine (his were amazingly white). His friend wanted to know what jewellery I had, in particular what gold (she looked disappointed and puzzled when I didn’t have any).
From an entirely Indian world, we arrived in Hampi, a tourist ghetto on two sides of the Tungabhadra River. Hampi is yet another World Heritage site, ancient kingdoms and sacred structures set amidst boulders piled up on each other all across the plain. It is undeniably lovely, and we were here on the recommendation of a number of other travellers we had met.
We stayed first in a basic room that lacked a view but was situated a few steps from the ruins, and even fewer steps from the “Primery” School. As school let out one afternoon, the tiny students in their blue shorts or skirts and white blouses recited something in unison—I wish I knew what, but I can report that it was done with great enthusiasm. Then they walked away with their big backpacks, chatting and laughing in involved exchanges, two girls consoling a sobbing boy—no parents in sight to pick them up in SUVs. This tiny lane also contained a number of homes, and at 6 a.m., we could hear the ritual sound of sweeping outside our window. Indians seem to spend a lot of time sweeping, but early in the morning those short whisk brooms are most in use. From my vantage point in bed, I imagined it this way: housewife on one side of the lane bends over and sweeps—swish, swish—the dust away from her doorway; then the housewife on the other side sweeps—swish, swish—the same dirt back again. Then they both scatter water over the area to keep the dust down and they make their koalam designs on their hearths with white powder.
Just after the sweeping one morning we set out to explore Vittala Temple, about 2 km away through ruins and rocks. We had a peaceful walk in the early morning cool. Then we tried to find a path south to the Royal Centre, another group of important ruins. We headed out over the mounds of rocks, following what turned out to be an animal track—it ended eventually at a canal that we couldn’t cross. The day had heated up and thorns lined the path—disastrous for my silk churidar! We backtracked a bit, and then plunged into a banana plantation where a surprised man making a ditch told us where we could find a bridge leading to the track we were looking for. Men carried huge loads of bananas on their stems from the plantation fields to this track, and set them down there, wrapped in banana leaf wrap for shade until the next stage of their journey to market. It was extremely hot by now, around 11:00, and there being no other shade, I made use of my umbrella. We finally reached a main road and had chai at a roadside stand, where a woman worked at a fire to heat the water and cook snacks. Wilting by now, we were picked up by a rickshaw driver who already had three other fares and charged us too much—but we needed the ride. After a restorative lunch and drink, another rickshaw driver persuaded us to let him drop us off at the main sites, again overcharging us while convincing us that it was a good deal. We were too beaten down by heat to protest, and he spoke good English, which was helpful. He wanted to know, though, what language Dan spoke? I should have said Danistani. Anyway, the sights were interesting: 16th century Royal Elephant Stables, Lotus Mahal (a pavilion for the Queen), the Hazararama Temple with intricate sculptures from the Ramayana stories, and the Narasimha statue, Vishnu in his lion incarnation.
After our epic trek in the heat, I was much in want of a foot massage, and I had a place in mind where they would do a thirty-minute massage for 200 rupees (~$4). On my way into the tourist part of Hampi Bazaar, I was intercepted by a guy offering massage. When I said his was twice the price of a service I’d seen earlier, he protested that his was professional, not like the others—and to prove this, he gave me a demo right there on the street. He started to massage my arms and neck as I stood there, and soon I had my eyes closed and (on peeping) I saw that he did too. This continued until I felt arms gently pull me out of the way of a cow that nevertheless bumped into me. I was sold, and went in to have a proper foot massage—it was one of the best I’ve ever had.
Our second guesthouse was on the far side of the river from Hampi Bazaar and overlooked a vibrant green rice paddy and the river. Dozens of cafes and guesthouses lined the river, and they provided a respite from travel. They had mattresses with cushion backrests laid out beside tables so that as soon as you’d finished eating, you could go right into the nap phase of your day. Lanterns covered with Rajasthani embroidery and glass hung over each table, and in the evening this made a pretty sight. The cafes were full of non-Indian tourists, many of them the twenty-somethings we’d been wondering the whereabouts of in Sri Lanka. Dreadlocks were more common than in the general population, as were tattoos and voluminous cotton trousers with the crotch around the ankles. Add the strains of fiddle music and you could be at a summer folk music festival. Some of these folks had come to climb the boulders, and could be seen returning from their climbs with their mattresses on their backs.
Our last day in Hampi was March 8, Holi, festival of colours. I got up early, rented a bicycle, and pedalled a few kilometres down the road among rice paddies and big rocks to Anegundi, another village among ancient ruins. On the way back, I stopped for a tea-stall chai, and then climbed the steps to Hanuman Temple. Many white-garbed pilgrims were on their way down, and they greeted me with “Sri Ram,” “Sita Ram,” and “Namaste,” full of good cheer on this Holi day. At the top, an elderly man with pink hair called to me—I had almost walked onto the sacred rock with my shoes on. I had of course, to take them off, only to walk around in monkey shit—it’s a monkey temple, after all, and there were lots of monkeys up there, well fed on bananas brought them by the pilgrims. The views were stupendous—piles of rocks everywhere with the bright green of young rice between. From there I could see the temple on the top of Matanga Hill, on the other side of the river, which Dan and I had climbed at sunset a couple of days before.
On my way back down the stairs, pilgrims on their way up were as friendly as the ones on the way down. I decided that although I enjoyed relaxing and hanging out at in the riverfront tourist cafes, my favourite memories of this stop will be the ones of the “real India.”
Comments
I spent an hour of Capilano U time reading your blog - I wonder what the repercussions will be.
Thanks for including the picture of you in your churidar. I think you should wear to work!
I agree wholeheartedly with your resolution to take the train more often!