Saturday, July 30, 2005

A tearful adieu

Border crossings are not always a fun day out. As a traveller, it's one of the rare moments when you actually need to be organised, and land crossings often take an inordinate amount of time. My last exit from India was into Bangladesh, and of it I retain no fond memories of the Indian Customs Service. 'Rude bastards' was how I would describe them, all this time later.
Still, India to Pakistan was a breeze; in fact, a little dull.

Where I expected milling, shrieking, disorganised crowds, dust, dirt and general pandemonium, I was faced with efficiency that you just don't expect on the subcontinent. Funny, that. During four months I had approached every civil servant with a sense of subservient dread, but here they are happy for you to leave and scan your passport before you have the opportunity to admit to yourself how much you're going to miss the place.

Then I got emotional. Being a long-term tragic single, I have few attachments and no-one to love. Instead, I fall head over heels for peoples and panoramas, and India is a place, for all of its absurdity, that really makes me feel good about myself. Unlike the Western obsession with careers, fashion, impersonal technology and the latest in everything, India certainly skips to its own beat in its own time. No-one in India really cares for all the shite we fill and end our lives with in the West. I like it a lot and admit to having a few tears in my eyes when I walked through no-man's land and into Pakistan.

The Singaporean accompanying me was appalled at my public display. Still, I've always considered the Chinese as expressive as ice and as appealing as a movie starring Nicole Kidman. I wiped my tears and silently thanked India for another four months of uninterrupted insanity.
And just let me tell you, Pakistan made an indelible first impression.

No cow. Bovine-free, a good thing. As simple as that. Lahore, a quick bus ride from the border town of Wagah, is free of excrement. This is no insignificant change when your nostrils have been violently assaulted for the last few months and your face constantly attacked by flies mistaking it for a pile of dung. Pollution and traffic remain as chaotic as I expected, but to breathe easily and deeply has made me immediately attracted to the young Islamic Republic.

I checked into a hotel full of sullen Japanese and dope-smoking Europeans, and crashed onto the bed. I flicked through my book, 'The Idea of Pakistan', and at present, I believe it to be a very fine idea indeed.

Salaam walekum Pakistan!

Friday, July 29, 2005

Hangin' with the posse

I've been befriended (read: adopted) by four Punjabi lads. Indians think it's tragic that anyone would travel alone for such a long time. I either have no friends or no life. Travelling solo doesn't arouse suspicion, but to them it just appears sad and lonesome. Gagan, Rajan, Nimesh and the other one have taken me under their wing.

They have shown me the sights. They have treated me to delicious meals in dhabas all over town. Dal makani and channa masala could quite well be the most delicious and fattening food eaten on the entire trip. I am happy and sated.

Sikhs are known to be a hospitable people. It is their custom to welcome the pilgrim, the traveller, the filthy backpacker. If you let them, they would keep you company every moment of the day and night. The guys knock constantly on my hotel door - for sightseeing, to join them at dinner, yet another photo opportunity.

These particular Punjabis may be the most avid skirt-chasers in in the world. As the native English speaker, I was the bait (or is it the hook?) Each time we approached a foreign woman I was prodded and encouraged to enter into conversation. You can imagine how successful was our approach.

I tried to explain the shortcomings of the technique. No woman aged approximately twenty-two and standing next to her boyfriend is going to exchange frivolities with me and my posse, four of whom were ogling as if she originated from another world. Nor is drooling is seen as polite body language in the West.

Despite (obvious) repeated failures, their spirits did not dampen. I tried to explain that Western girls and boys no longer talk with each other. Someone invented something called SMS and now people have reduced themselves to communicating as if they really did live on opposite sides of the planet. They smiled eagerly at me and produced mobile phones for inspection. I groaned.
I'll give them this much - they don't discourage easily. Tenacious and unfaltering. Women might choose another adjective. The only female who did look at us simultaneously attempted to turn us to stone. The boys kept smiling. Any attention was a step in the right direction.

Punjabis are also incredibly fashion conscious. The boys were always dressed as if for a model shoot. I generally looked like the man who might move props about the set and then clean the room after everyone else had left for the day. A change of clothes occured every few hours. Photos were taken. Another change of garments. More photos. They wore sunglasses at night, and had the shiniest hair I've ever seen.

I had a wondeful time with them. And, much as they might hunt in packs and be the bane of any solo Western female traveller, they made me feel very welcome and were true friends to me. They were honest and refreshingly sincere. They didn't smoke, didn't drink, and were still virgins at 24. Do we still have these kind of people in the West?

My favourite people to date on the trip. I'll be leaving the country with a smile on my face.

Wednesday, July 27, 2005

Administrative tasks (it felt like a day at work)

When dealing with administration, I score 8 out of 10. I know well how to complete forms, am patient in queues, highly organised. I always carry a notebook, pens, a small stapler. My alter ego embraces paper and ink.

However, not today. I obtained my Pakistan visa, no sweat. A simple procedure, I merely had to visit the Australian Embassy to procure a Letter of Introduction, a piece of paper to give to the Pakis so that they might believe me to be the person that my passport already says I am.
A nice surprise, the Australian and Pakistani Embassies face each other. No need for physical exertion. I held back the homesickness in the air-conditioned office of my fellow compatriots, paid for and took my letter, and crossed the street. Only six metres of bitumen separate the neat and tidy from the dirty and dishevelled. It's that clear cut. On the 'Australian' side of the road the footpath is neat and tidy. The massive white residences of Australian diplomats sit in a leafy enclosure surrounded by high iron fencing.

The Pakistani Embassy is a walled fortress, the footpath littered with people and discarded papers - the disorganistation of the developing world. And you don't apply from within the complex itself, you stick your head through a hole on the perimeter wall. Still, service was friendly and efficient - I had the visa in 24 hours.

Iran has proved a little more troublesome. Some distance from the diplomatic enclave (perhaps to confirm its separateness from the rest of the world), I was anticipating uniforms, razor wire and a intrusive full body search. Instead I breezed through the door and sat watching televsion in the waiting room ... Can't say that I'm looking to Iranian cuisine as demonstrated by the woman wearing a black tent on the National station. It all looked a bit like beige mush.

I handed over my duplicate application form, the usual copies of passport and visas, the Letter of Introduction and passport photos. I was told I needed to wait ten days. A ten day wait for a seven day transit visa. Bollocks to that. I'm going straight to Pakistan and will try my luck from the Iran Embassy in Islamabad. The idea of spending further time in Dehli is not a healthy train of thought for me at this point of my life.

I also need $US. This is because (I've read and have been told) American Express travellers cheques are not accepted in the Islamic Republic, and you cannot withdraw cash from an ATM with your card if issued by an non-Iranian bank. So I get to carry a whole wad of notes with me. With prior experiences of theft you can imagine how much I look forward to this ...

If a journey to Iran means taking the greenback, the you can count on Indian authorities to make this a tooth-grinding undertaking. The National Bank of India has 'rules', some organic regulations that varied on my three visits to the Amex Office.

You can purchase $US if you are leaving India; I proffered my air ticket.

'My next flight is from Cairo, so you can see I'm leaving the country.'

'But when?'

'Here is my train ticket to Amritsar tomorrow. From there I'll take a rickshaw to the border.'

'How can we be sure?' [Return to opening line of dialogue]

Next, you can purchase only the equivalent amount of what you can prove you encashed in the country. Por ejemplo, if you cashed $1000, you can buy back the equivalent provided you kept the ridiculous receipts for each transaction. Who keeps pieces of paper like that?

... Back in my room, I kissed my image in the mirror after discovering encashment certificates for Rs 34000, easily enough to buy the amount I needed. It pays to hoard useless bit of trash. I also found a long-forgotten toothbrush and some safety pins, so things were obviously looking up.

In my absence, the Amex Office had decided that even if I went to Amritsar they couldn't be certain I would leave the country. And me? I wasn't certain the staff in this office would see the close of the day. Ashamedly, I exploded. I used some strong language. Months and months of having to deal with most petty bureaucracy in the world made me lucid and viscious. The staff didn't appreciate this. But what did I care? I, not them, now had to visit the black market in search of currency from a country I do not even plan to visit.

America, stop being a pain in the arse to every single country who does not share your sense of immoral warfare and rampant consumerism. If you could just get along with people who think differently than you, my travels would be a lot easier. I could use my traveller cheques, for one. Besides, we don't all want to go shopping and watch Oprah Winfrey. Your American lifestyle, as you portray it to the rest of the world, sucks big time. I've had it with you and your embargoes. You, you and your barbeque can piss off.

And as for India, you and your petty rules and regulations are the laughing stock of the world. Grow up.

Umm, I think that counts as a rant.

This, being India, it is often easier to flout than follow the rules. It took 14.675 seconds to find someone who could provide me with the cash I needed. We moved off the street and into a laneway. He ushered me into a little back office where we played with his pocket calculator until we fixed a price. I handed over the entire sum of cash that was to see me through the next six to eight weeks. My main man moved off behind a curtain and disappeared into the street. In my head, much time passed.

Karma (or is it dharma?) I swore in the office and now I'll be prostituting my cashless body across the continent to make it to my next flight in Egypt. I imagined brigands in Baluchistan offering me a free ride, then selling me at an elevated price on the exclusive white slave market. I would be captured by some unglamorous and unknown off-shoot of a guerilla organisation, made to cook for them, finally ending my life with my head in one corner of a room and my body in the other.

Luckily, the man returned before I could expand on my strangely attractive visions. He handed me the cash, we had tea together, and he invited me at least ten times to exchange some more money. I declined politely, safe in the knowledge I possess enough liquid to buy a flock of goats, three pretty wives, and a new enamel-coated squat toilet. Plenty enough to get me to Istanbul.

Inshallah, I'm off to the Punjab.

Tuesday, July 26, 2005

I think there might be drugs around here

McLeod Ganj is unique. Home to the Dalai Lama in exile, thousands of Tibetan refugees and a gentler species of Indian, the town attracts a mulitude of backpackers. Everyone is on a search. Everyone is engaged in the struggle for the freedom of the Tibetan homeland, empowering Tibetan refugees with basic English phrases.

So many people practising yoga. So many people radiating bliss. So many people clearly smoking much weed.

The town is perched on the slopes of a verdant valley, and maroon-cloaked monks peacefully go about their business among the Indian-owned souvenir shops and restaurants serving the backpacker community. I go about my own business. Which consists in watching other Western tourists. Fashion-challenged cooler-than-you people provide a bottomless supply of free entertainment. I get to laugh a lot. Which is my favourite sort of therapy ...

It's a travellers' 'scene'. It's all very Susan Sarandon and Dustin Hoffman; you can appreciate that a lot of effort has gone into the making of the characters in their setting, but something still rankles, something still nags. It doesn't quite fit.

Take Pippi Longstocking seated opposite me in the Japanese restaurant. An attractive woman with the English rose complexion that looks even better in a cold climate, she has cultivated a look that requires detailed knowledge of the Von Trapp Family singers. Pigtails are cute on little girls, and we expect them on people named Heidi and Gretel, but, seriously, come on ... She is dressed, or more truthfully, swathed, in a gargantuan shawl that gives her the shape of a lazy sack of turnips. She is such a vision of beige that I'm unsure where she finishes and the rattan chair begins.

Most brilliant is her facial expression, the consequence of studied tranquility and perhaps limited intelligence. Faraway, dreamy eyes. A mind drowned in Valium, or submerged in peace? Who knows? She reads 'The Tibetan Book on Death and Dying'. Very original ... It's all a little bit too recherche, n'est-ce pas?

When she upsets the entire contents of a freshly arrived bowl of miso soup into her lap, she gazes about as if in religious ecstasy. What? Hot liquid scalds, woman. Please, give me a sign of life, some reflex movement. Scream. At least search hurriedly for a napkin. She is Michelangelo's Pieta. Serene, unnerving. And apparently made of stone.

Still, I'm not criticising. I still dress like my mother chooses my outfits (just joking Mum). So I fit in well here, and have participated in some of the most challenging conversations on the journey. I'm always intrigued by those on a quest. I had a huge debate-cum-argument with a young Amercian girl who droned on and on about the genocide of American Indians in the 18th and 19th centuries. It wasn't so much her reasoning I disliked, but she kept calling me 'dude'. Every sentence commenced, 'Dude, you know ...' I really wanted to slap her but doubted it would bring her out of that Simpson-esque stupidity that appears to have infiltrated all North Americans under thirty years of age.

I am in my mid-thirties. I do not want to be called 'dude' by someone half my age who sounds like she just stepped out of the usual trash US TV crap that Australian stations continue to purchase. I'm quite happy for her and her type to exist on screen, she's easily switched off. I have no desire to discover these people are real human beings.

So, anyway dude, the Dalai Lama is in town and everyone's attending his daily readings and talks. I haven't been, but it's only because I'm too ignorant of what this entails. I know little of the Tibetan people's struggle, and don't feel right taking the place of someone who is genuinely interested in the cause and in becoming enlightened. I'm not really in search of some higher mode of thinking - I guess I'm a bit lazy in that respect.

McLeod Gaj is a good place. It rains a lot. The landscape is magnificent and dramatic. I have seen snow for the first time in many years. Travellers are open, friendly and relaxed. No one hurries or moves fast. The streets are too narrow to allow much traffic, and my hotel is situated down down in the valley a light of 147 steps from the main road. I sleep well. The air is fresh and clean.
Many travellers stay for extended periods of time. Which is what I would also liked to have done if only I had been more organised ...

So now I have to return to Delhi. Yep, Delhi.

Think of he naughtiest, baddest word you know. If you scream it out loud, you're getting close to how I actually feel.

Monday, July 25, 2005

I guess if you can't write anything nice ...

The capital of India. I'm been sitting here for ten minutes trying to think of its positive aspects. It has history. The throng on the street exudes vitality and a wild, frenetic energy. But best to remain sincere about the place ...

When you stroll about Paris, you cannot but remark its elegance and its beauty. Paris makes me want to give up my Australian citizenship and become French. It is the supreme city, and for me it will probably always remain without an equal. It's gorgeous and full of fabulous French people.
Delhi has another effect on me. Perhaps it is the mind-numbing and inescapable traffic congestion. The screeching idiotic touts who try to draw you into each and every shop. And the filth, oh, the filth.

The result of listening to an endless cacophony of blasting horns is that your shoulders meet with your ears, your neck muscles ache with tension. Why sound your horn when the traffic moves no-where? But it's not that. After several hours in this place you get wise, and construct a mental barrier that blocks the din of traffic and people. After several days, you are walk about in silence. Quite a feat, but one required to survive here.

Nope, it's the paralysing and unholy alliance of unchecked pollution, heat and desperate ugliness. Dhaka is also a screaming dungheap, but it has colour and movement and friendly Bangladeshis to recommend it. So too with rotten egg Bangkok. Even Los Angeles, a city in which architectural hideousness is spread more widely than anywhere else on Earth, can still pull you into its charm. But not Delhi. Nope. Nothing to be done. The capital city of the world's rising industrial and nuclear power is an national embarassment. It's a bloody disgrace.

I know I'm a man of simple, inflammatory remarks, but in Delhi I walk about asking myself 'How did it get to this, how can people be so uncaring, so neglectful, so lacking in aesthetic ideals'? The place makes me downcast. Infrastructure is poor. Pollution is everywhere and of every type. There is loads of money is this town, but what the Hell are the authorities spending it on? Quite obviously, not anything that will raise the living standards of the working classes. The enitre city looks exhausted.

If Dehli is a family size Cadbury Snack bar, then you need to cast aside the Turkish Delight and that horrid green minty one and just get stuck into the rest. Like the carcinogenic colorings of the mock-Pineapple and -Strawberry segements, Dehli can have dangerous allure. It's just not that good for you, and you need to consume it in small quantities. And to draw the analogy to its tawdry conclusion, Dehli-ites are also a bit like a Snack bar: brown on the outside and rather sickly in the middle ... don't taste too much too often, and, like ingredient listings on the packet, don't believe much that they say. This is where all 'the lying and cheating peoples' of India congregate.

But I like Delhi's 'regular' inhabitants, those not dealing with the tourist. I respect them and almost admire them for managing to survive in such a hostile environment. You would certainly need great internal strentgh and a solid constitution. Sure, I'm not thinking of the diplomatic enclave or of the rich; in any city these folk cocoon themselves into air-conditioning and chauffered cars, withdrawing from the unsavoury and the unpalatable. The common man on the streets of Delhi has my respect, I would not (want to) survive here.

However, I do love the bleak nightscape form the rooftop restaurant of my hotel. The transition from the real to the fantastical has always been an easy one for me, and if you've seen and remembered the opening shots of 'Bladerunner', then you'll understand the euphoria I feel in this murky nocturnal vision of the imagined future. I'm transfixed by the polluted twilight and flickering lights. It's all very exciting. It really is the city in which you can imagine Deckard arriving; through the filth and the rain, into a metropolis of innumerable retrobates (and replicants).

And maybe I look like Harrison Ford, if you squint really, really hard.

If we don't all start being a lot kinder to this planet, perhaps Delhi is the future that awaits us. In a science fiction movie this enchants me, but in my everyday existence I'm appalled that such places even exist.

Just too damn ugly.

1 out of 10, and that's only because it reminds me of my favourite movie.

Sunday, July 24, 2005

Encore une fois ...

Once more I return to Bombay.

I have my new credit card. With many thanks to the wonderfully friendly staff of the Australian Consulate, I finally collected the replacement. The piece of plastic that will enable me to take the next part of the journey. Unfortunately, you can neither cash Amex travellers cheques in Iran, nor is the ATM network connected to the global system. But in these countries, where there's a will, there's a way. I'm just playing safe and making sure I have back-up. Don't wanna be caught with out it ... you get the picture.

I've decided to lodge a claim with the insurance company, and hopefully be compensated for the stolen camera. Other than that, it has been a very quiet visit to Mumbai. I simply organised my ticket to Delhi and hung out at hostel, chatting with others and realising that I'm very close to saying goodbye to India and heading into a new country.

I'm becoming a little excited about Pakistan. I'm ready for a change.

Saturday, July 23, 2005

Ajanta and Allora

The temples of Angkor may have met their equal.

Within a hundred or so kilmeters of the rather uninteresting town of Aurangabad lies the cave temlpes of Ajanta and Ellora. And they have to be seen to be believed. Like those at Badami, the caves were carved straight into the rock. But here the stone carvers had reached the zenith of their powers - one temple, known as Kalidasha, is staggering both in size and undertaking. It is an entire free standing temple carved out of the mountian and it's the size of a large cathedral. The workers simply started chiseling away at the top of the rock, and worked their way down. No need for scaffolding. There must have been few work-related accidents since there was simply no place to fall.

Unfortunately, I'm too tired to write much today ...

But I spent six hours roaming the cave temples at Allora, and another day exploring those in Ajanta. I took a guide for both tours, but was so fatigues that it would have been a much smarter idea to have stretched the visits over a greater period of time. Too late now.

The temples are of all sizes, some with light decoration, others with a profusion of ornamentation. And three major faiths are represented here - Hindu, Buddhist and Jain. A World Heritage site, I recommend a visit if you happen to come this way.

Friday, July 22, 2005

A day at the museum

For those of you who care, the bump on my head is receding.

Better than this, today I visted the Salar Jung Museum, a collection so vast that I've just returned to the hotel after seven hours exploring the galleries of a single building. I've had to rethink my views on Indians and museums, since prior to this visit I've always thought it a poor mix. They tend to stuff a whole bunch of items into dark corners and ill-lit cabinets, let the dust settle, then permit building and exhibits to fall into disrepair. So today is a pleasant change.
Salar Jung, adviser to a Nizam of Hyderabad, was an avid collector. And he must have had his hands on some serious cash. It's fairly well known that the Nizam was the world's wealthiest man for some time. His Golconda mines ensured he could swan about on gold caparisoned elephants and rely on a staff of thousands. So I guess this guy, being on the payroll, was rolling in it too.

My favourite display was the illuminated manuscripts. Only several hundred of the fifty thousand volumes in the collection are on show. What is there is in beautiful calligraphy - Arabic, Persian and Urdu, some on vellum dating back to the ninth century. The workmanship is astounding.

Hyderabad, according to history writers and guide books, was once a city of palaces. Today no more. It's your typical Indian town filled with dust and bad smells. But it has friendly people, great food, and restored my faith in Indians and museums.

Thursday, July 21, 2005

Bijapur

A suitcase fell from the luggage rack and came down on my head. I have a black eye, a small cut on my hairline, and a bump on my head. I don't look mean and sexy. I look as though I've been beaten up. Still, passengers on the bus felt sorry for me and I gleefully munched on their give-aways for the remaining hours on the bus journey.

Bijapur's main attraction is Gol Gumbaz, a rather silly-sounding name for the mausoleum of a long-dead Muslim ruler, whose name I've forgotten to record. It's a massive structure, inelegant and bulky, but possessing one redeeming feature: the world's second largest dome. Measuring 38 metres in diameter, you access the whispering gallery via steps in the eight storey diagonal towers at each corner of the building.

If you talk to the wall, it will provide you with an echo ten times over. As you do, I shouted a few choice words at it. Pathetic. You ask yourself, 'what should I say?', and all you can think of is rude words. Why do I think this kind of thing is still amusing? In any case, my only other company at this height was a group of adolescent males; I'm confident they weren't muttering lines from the Koran ... and it was them, not me, who got a stiff telling off from the guard.
A good city for exploring on foot, I visited Bijapur's other attraction, the Ibrahim Rousa, a sixteenth century mosque-cum-mausoleum, and a bit of a taste for the Islamic architecture that awaits me in countries yet to be seen.

Best of all, the town has an important Muslim population. This means I can find and feast on meat easier than in other places. Scanning the menu, I went for a Meat Lover's Meal. Half a tandoori chicken and half a chilli chicken. I ate some salad to stay healthy. As I looked out over the rooftops and watched a few cows battle it out over the refuse, I gorged myself on flesh. My mouth burned for half an hour after, and I belched pure joy.

I'm slowly returning to my carnivorous ways. I like my veggies,, and this country is the greatest in the world for a vegetarian. But after months of spicy slush, I needed to sink my teeth into a dead animal. I feel better for it.

Wednesday, July 20, 2005

Badami

Badami is the type of town I like. It has only one main street (you cannot get lost), and within one hundred metres of the bus station you can locate a decent guesthouse and a good selection of restaurants. Food and board aside, the reason to see Badami is to marvel at the caves cut into the hill.

You climb fifty steps and before you is an entire temple carved out of solid rock. It is sculpture in reverse and inside out. There was no guide avaiable to take me through the place, so I'm a little ignorant about how the stone carvers achieved their fabulous work.

A space larger than the average Australian two-storey home carved out of a mountain. Very impressive. I can't really describe it. I'm unable to compare it with anything else I've seen to date, except for a couple of small temples in Mamallapuram. The artisans didn't build up from the ground, they just chipped away at the side of the massive rock face, moving inwards and creating doorways, lintels, brackets, celing and floor panels, all without a trace of mortar. Not a single join.

It reminded me of building sand castles as a kid. After finally collecting enough shells to decorate the fortified wall, you decide to add crenellations. These collapse. Unperturbed, you begin to build a little bridge over the moat, and as you excavate the hole to allow the water to flow, this collapses too. A touch irked, you commence a tunnel through the castle's ground floor. The entire structure breaks down. Exasperated, you also smash your sister's sand castle and return to collecting washed up jellyfish.

Actually, not sure where I was going with that ... lost my train of thought. I'm blaming it on the elevated concentration of heavy metals in the atmosphere.

There are four caves in Badami with varying degreees of decoration. They overlook an enormous green tank the size of a the Sydney Cricket Ground where women go about the daily chore of washing clothes. A few temples lie scattered about the base of the artificial lake. But guess what? I spot a fort on the other side of the hill.

I never tire of forts. This one was in a state of disrepair, but has the saving grace of a dramatic setting. You need to climb through a succession of narrow chasms, the rock face towering high above you with enough room for perhaps two people to walk side by side. Down for a bit, then through a doorway in the rock, down again to a clearing. Up a rocky outcrop, and the fort is yours to behold. It's good to be the king ...

The architect who designed this little number stronghold has my respect. He created all this without the help of Lego models; quite an achievement. It's just a shame that I was up here all alone (as usual) with no one to play with. I felt a little silly running about the place by meself - it's very hard to be the emperor, soldier and prisoner all at the same time.

Luckily a few imaginary friends came to my rescue. We had a great afternoon.

Tuesday, July 19, 2005

Hubli to Hospet to Hampi

I'm tiring of the larger towns. Mangalore is off the list. For me, they are less cities and places of civilisation that an agglomeration of ordure. Without exception, the large Indian town is polluted. For the time being, I'm down-sizing (now there's a term I loathe).

Time to see Hampi, sine qua non, I am yet to come of age as a backpacker. My third visit to the subcontinent and I am still yet to visit the seat of the former Vijayanagar kingdom, the last great Hindu empire and mythical home to Hanuman, a major player in the Ramayana.

Getting there was like sitting through a reality TV show. Excruciatingly dull and painful. On the train, loads of people in close proximity. But we just had nothing interesting to say, possibly no common tongue. I took an overnight express from Mysore to Hubli, and fell off the platform at 05h00.

Three and a half hours later, I shook off the rigor mortis and boarded a passenger train that took five and a half hours to cover 138 kilometres. Trying to keep me entertained, a gaggle of Muslim women draped in black tents took it in turns to slap every child within reach. Strangely frightening. I gave extra points to the woman sprawled across the bench, who, at one point, slapped me across the legs when you she missed a/her child. The whole carriage erupted with laughter.

I have great legs. Why wouldn't a woman want to touch them? No reason for such mirth.
Tired as I was, I wept inwardly and for some reason, began to sing 'Care for Kids'. Anyone who remembers this song must be over 30 and Australian, and I hope you have it stuck in your head for the next three hours, like I did.

[It was just like that taxi driver in Mumbai. When his taxi reversed, you got a few bars of Britney Spears' - 'Oops ... I did it again'. He moved backwards unnecessarily several times. I think he did this to antagonise me].

When I arrived in Hospet I was still half an hour from Hampi. I negotiated half-heartedly with a rickshaw driver and let him live out his Michael Schumacher fantasy while I dozed off completely. Good man that he was, he deposited me at the door of a cheap hotel. I slept for a few hours, and awoke to find myself covered in familiar looking red welts. Made mental note to self: mosquito net is not sheet, use appropriately in future.

Hampi is beautiful. For the first time I cursed the little bugger who stole my camera. Not gifted enough to describe this place in writing, it might be a good idea to check it out on the Internet. A landscape of boulders and giant rocks, the tiny village is dwarfed by the magnificent Shiva temple. Ruins of temples and other buildings litter the surroundings. It's the first place I've been since Angkor that deserves the epithet 'magic'.

Out in the main street, a broad avenue lined with colonnades, I met a young rabble of kids. Jiri, Santosh, Imran, Devaraja, Chidananda, Santu and Prakash soon roped me into a game of cricket. Not sure what position I played, but they christened me Adam Gilchrist (think it might be the ears). As an Australian, I could do no wrong in the game.

It was great fun playing among the ruins, though I wasn't keen on collecting the ball when it ended up in the runnels brimming with the ubiquitous Indian dark 'liquid'. Other than this, Hampi is remarkably clean and tidy. Unusually so. We finished the seventh series as the sun fell, and somehow I had promised to buy new bats and balls for the entire team.

I spent a number of very peaceful days here, riding my bicycle among the banana plantations, fighting off mosquitoes and visiting the numerous, varied ruins. Hampi is extraordinary, and I hope to return one day. Especially since I am major sponsor of the recently-formed under 10s Hampi Cricket Team, Karnataka Division. I'm so proud of them.

Hubli to Hospet to Hampi

I'm tiring of the larger towns. Mangalore is off the list. For me, they are less cities and places of civilisation that an agglomeration of ordure. Without exception, the large Indian town is polluted. For the time being, I'm down-sizing (now there's a term I loathe).

Time to see Hampi, sine qua non, I am yet to come of age as a backpacker. My third visit to the subcontinent and I am still yet to visit the seat of the former Vijayanagar kingdom, the last great Hindu empire and mythical home to Hanuman, a major player in the Ramayana.

Getting there was like sitting through a reality TV show. Excruciatingly dull and painful. On the train, loads of people in close proximity. But we just had nothing interesting to say, possibly no common tongue. I took an overnight express from Mysore to Hubli, and fell off the platform at 05h00.

Three and a half hours later, I shook off the rigor mortis and boarded a passenger train that took five and a half hours to cover 138 kilometres. Trying to keep me entertained, a gaggle of Muslim women draped in black tents took it in turns to slap every child within reach. Strangely frightening. I gave extra points to the woman sprawled across the bench, who, at one point, slapped me across the legs when you she missed a/her child. The whole carriage erupted with laughter.

I have great legs. Why wouldn't a woman want to touch them? No reason for such mirth.
Tired as I was, I wept inwardly and for some reason, began to sing 'Care for Kids'. Anyone who remembers this song must be over 30 and Australian, and I hope you have it stuck in your head for the next three hours, like I did.

[It was just like that taxi driver in Mumbai. When his taxi reversed, you got a few bars of Britney Spears' - 'Oops ... I did it again'. He moved backwards unnecessarily several times. I think he did this to antagonise me].

When I arrived in Hospet I was still half an hour from Hampi. I negotiated half-heartedly with a rickshaw driver and let him live out his Michael Schumacher fantasy while I dozed off completely. Good man that he was, he deposited me at the door of a cheap hotel. I slept for a few hours, and awoke to find myself covered in familiar looking red welts. Made mental note to self: mosquito net is not sheet, use appropriately in future.

Hampi is beautiful. For the first time I cursed the little bugger who stole my camera. Not gifted enough to describe this place in writing, it might be a good idea to check it out on the Internet. A landscape of boulders and giant rocks, the tiny village is dwarfed by the magnificent Shiva temple. Ruins of temples and other buildings litter the surroundings. It's the first place I've been since Angkor that deserves the epithet 'magic'.

Out in the main street, a broad avenue lined with colonnades, I met a young rabble of kids. Jiri, Santosh, Imran, Devaraja, Chidananda, Santu and Prakash soon roped me into a game of cricket. Not sure what position I played, but they christened me Adam Gilchrist (think it might be the ears). As an Australian, I could do no wrong in the game.

It was great fun playing among the ruins, though I wasn't keen on collecting the ball when it ended up in the runnels brimming with the ubiquitous Indian dark 'liquid'. Other than this, Hampi is remarkably clean and tidy. Unusually so. We finished the seventh series as the sun fell, and somehow I had promised to buy new bats and balls for the entire team.

I spent a number of very peaceful days here, riding my bicycle among the banana plantations, fighting off mosquitoes and visiting the numerous, varied ruins. Hampi is extraordinary, and I hope to return one day. Especially since I am major sponsor of the recently-formed under 10s Hampi Cricket Team, Karnataka Division. I'm so proud of them.

Monday, July 18, 2005

A lack of taste

I had planned to visit Kochi and Kozhikode in Kerala, but despairing of a long wait at the station, I boarded the bus to Mysore.

This city is the site of a particularly over-the-top palace. The Maharajah had it built in the first years of the twentieth century. Designed by an Englishman. Constructed with materials imported from across the planet. It may well be the epitome of European opulence combined with the boldest of Indo-Saracenic. It's bizarre. It's tacky.

The exterior is a riot of arches, turrets, covered walkways. The interiors of certain rooms reminded me of the Palacio Real in Madrid. This is not a good thing. Many rooms are based around the colours of the peacock. Which, naturally, look great on the bird. Not so good on the walls of the reception hall. It is Versailles on the cheap, but I think Imelda Marcos would approve. Indians do not believe in the old adage 'less is more'. There is no such thing as a 'surface' in India. Pleasant enough to look at once in a lifetime; living in it would produce a permanent migraine. I think Italians might like it here though; it resembles the some of their more outrageous baroque churches. Three otherwise bored guards attempted to exchange piles of Australian twenty cent pieces with me. Sure, just what I need. I politely declined. They didn't like that so much.

Another building on the grounds promised a peek at the Maharajahs personal possessions. With reticence, I entered. Indians do not do museums well. Bit I was not disappointed. I may have been the only visitor this century. It was pure Caravaggio claro-oscuro. Nice in a painting, less rewarding when you are trying to make out what you are staring at. Is that a full set of European armour? A wax replica of the Maharajah? In fact, it's a guard asleep on his feet. Why can't they ever get the light right? It's either over zealous flickering neon tubes or a thirty watt bulb for an entire stadium.

Hilarious. Every guard I encountered in the dusty twilight of the building was dozing. Rip Van Winkle, caretaker of the Crown Jewels. To play silly buggers, I climbed over a roped-off display and relaxed on a solid silver chaise-lounge. It felt very decadent, very fin-de-siecle. The attendant didn't budge. I though perhaps he might be dead. I delved into my notebook, only to be rudely interrupted a few moments later by curmudgeonly North Americans. They stared disapprovingly at my lounging in a verboten area. I stared disapprovingly back at their outfits, all Bermudas and Aloha shirts. I pretended not to speak English, sucked my cheeks in and tried to look French. I think it worked. The Aloha shirts withdrew. The attendant still didn't budge. I think he was dead.

Sated with tasteless displays of wealth (the Palace, not the North Americans), I ambled about the market and purchased scissors of the 'finest quality.' Yes, I'm sure they are. You see, in a moment of pique, the searing heat and rotting coconut oil in my hair got to me, and despairingly, I had raced to the barber's. After almost two years of almost uninterrupted growth, I cracked. It had taken a very long time to pass the bouffant stage, and several more months until I stopped looking like a 70s German porn star. But looking like a cross between Davids Hasselhoff and Lee Roth had taken its toll, and it might have been a good idea to have at least washed my hair more than once in four months.

Like the hairdresser said, 'Your head smell very bad, hair very dirty'. 'Yeah, well, I'm not paying you $1.10 for your nasty comments, so just get on with the job at hand'. I now sport a No. 2 crew cut. I fear I might resemble Rove. This is not a good thing.

I look healthier, less sleazy. But the grey hairs are back, hence the finest quality scissors. Long hair had disguised the little bastards, but now I was going to have to battle with them. As anyone turning grey knows, grey hair grows faster, and perpendicular to your scalp. Along with shampoo the hairdresser had also suggested a henna dye. If you saw some of the follicle fiascos plying the streets of India, you'd wisely say no.

Henna comes from a plant. It turns black at first, but then fades quickly to russet-brown. There are countless men in Indian towns sporting orangey-rust hairdos and beards, with ample grey re-growth. It's the Indian version of the Mediterranean comb over. It's a big fashion faux-pas. I'm sticking with the grey hairs, even if I need a few weeks with my finest quality scissors before I resign myself to it.

Sunday, July 17, 2005

The monsoon cometh.

Rain. Water. Finally, the clouds building up these last two weeks dumped the first of the precious monsoon rains. The heat turned humid, the skies darkened and the heavens opened. The dusty streets became waterways, the downpour creating rivers carrying an endless parade of garbage and detritus. And the water level rose quickly. In the time it took to walk the kilometre from the Madurai train station to a hotel, I was ankle-deep in a turbid chocolate broth. Lovely.

I climbed the steps to the hotel and brought a small water feature with me. My room was depressingly small and dreary; tired as I was, I wanted to visit the much venerated temple of this city.

Madurai is the classic south Indian temple town. The town itself lives and breathes within the walls of the complex. Far removed from the tranquility of Christian and Islamic places of devotion, the Hindu temple is less sanctum sanctorum and more over-populated bazaar. It is pandemonium. In some way, it reminds me of a shopping mall on Saturday afternoon, all colour and movement.

After pondering the significance of a giant aviary full of resplendent noisy green parrots, I admired the small shrine to the left and wondered whether the chrome, gold and silver laminate had been inspired by some bad 70s schlock romance starring Joan Collins.

I peered nervously at the Lotus Pond to my right. In India, any body of water makes me nervous.

[It has to be said. Water in India is a tricky business. The Ganges at Varanasi, holiest among the holy, is a putrefying mélange of fetidness. You meet the odd Westerner who has bathed in it. Why? Clearly these people are desperately seeking credibility within the backpacker scene. Perhaps by wallowing in this quagmire will they obtain the requisite number of points and be admitted to the League of the Cool.

Test your own traveller credibility rating. Take a bucket. Defecate and urinate. Add the remnants of bin juice from the garbage can. Spit and gob several times into the bucket, try to add something large and dead. Rotting vegetables or those cold cuts in the fridge are a good start. Run a bath, add the bucket-concentrate. Mix. Dive in, fully clothed.

If you remain in the bath for longer than five minutes, you are way, way cool. But I still wouldn't admire you. And you'd be pretty unlikely to get a pash from me either]

Anyway, I slid past the lurid green lotus-less Lotus Pond and down a dark corridor. A few people sat worshipping sculptures with couple of extra heads and limbs; one woman was supine before an orange-stained Ganesh. I arrived at what I had come to see - the Thousand Pillared Hall.
The entrance fee was one rupee (I mean, why bother?) I sprang up the steps and stood amazed. The structure is magnificent, there are literally a thousand carved pillars (but you'd expect that from the name), some plain, others alive with gods and demons. The path to the main shrine is stunning, and you can well imagine the power it has over the believer.

However, someone saw fit to install a museum here. Among rows of silent stone columns sits the saddest exhibition of nonsense I've seen for some time. A collection of bronze deities languish in dusty plastic display cabinets; poorly lit scenes illustrate some story in thousands of miniature paintings. It's like trying to watch a movie when the tall guy sitting in front of you won't stop fidgeting. You spend your entire time angling for a better view, but leave a little irritated. Still, the temple is wonderful, and it's only a matter of time before most of the exhibits collapse into a pile.

I walked among the stalls of the temple selling every type of religious artifact. Talismans, beads, offerings for the gods. Everything orange and gold. Sandalwood and incense. But I wouldn't like to be the temple elephant. His keeper called me over for a blessing and an offering. The poor animal. His ears, trunk and forehead are decorated in gaudy floral and organic patterns. Imagine his dismay at the monthly Pachyderm Piss-Up. His mates with proper jobs in the rice fields and jungle would have a field day. Let's face it; you are the Tammy Baker of the elephant world.
I decided to look for a bird's eye view of the complex. Out in the street I entered a Kashmiri Emporium. Never heard of it? The Kashmiri Emporium is to Indian travellers what fried food is to people in the north of England - you want to avoid it, but you are faced with it three times a day. The shop is a vast depot of every imaginable item from the subcontinent. From a half-inch soapstone replica of the Taj Mahal to an original hand carved mahogany folding screen with mother-of-pearl inlay, you can get it here.

It is, quite simply, the nec plus ultra of gift shopping. Backgammon and chess sets, jewellery that would please Ivana Trump, enough bonbonieri for any Greek, Italian or Turk wedding. Need a three hundred square foot Afghan carpet? A life size statue of a dancing Shiva? Tibetan prayer bowls? A pregnancy test kit from some Proto-historic Indus settlement? It's on the shelf. American Express is, naturally, accepted, and your goods arrive home faster than you, via DHL. Possibly in better condition.

I like Kashmiris. They are generally Muslim and [if this sounds racist, it's not meant to], they make a pleasant change from the niggling immaturity of most Hindu males. Muslims, in my opinion, are a more serious people, and I can relate to that. You can have an interesting conversation with them. This particular young Kashmiri, Gavoor, took me up seven flights of steps for a view of the temple. It had started to rain, but Gavoor wanted to talk.
He was twenty three, far too handsome for his own good, but with sad eyes. He was far from home (at least three days on the train), missed his family and girlfriend, and didn't like the dirty Hindu temple and town. He worked every day of the week for twelve hours. And he was going bald.

He seemed sadder still when he learned of my marital status.

'Man is not perfect without woman' [Yep, I'm sensing the flow of this conversation already ...]

'It's OK, really. I quite like my life.'

'I recommend marriage and children.'

'Do you want to get married?'

'No.'

'Well then.'

'But I have to get married. Man is not perfect without ...'

We had gone full circle and I could feel but little sympathy for him. What is it about kids in their twenties? You look your best, you have few responsibilities, and you worry about a few hairs falling out. I have grey hair and wrinkles. I cannot be empathetic.

I left Gavoor contemplating his weary existence and receding hairline, and promised to return tomorrow to purchase something glittery and in bright colours.

Out in the street I was accosted twice. My first assailant was an inebriated wretch, barely a man. He lunged at me like the Canterbury Bulldogs at the local girls' school sports day. The next ten or so minutes were painful. Sidesh told me many times over that he was a tailor. He reeked; of sweat, of dampness. Yesterday's drink leached from his pores; today's from his breath. It was an unwelcome guided tour in a mist of Johnnie Walker. I eventually made it back to the hotel, spouting outrageous lies. 'Of course I'll come tomorrow and let you make me an outfit'. Don't know why I didn't suggest it earlier. The thought of him measuring my inner leg is too much to bear.

Still, no sooner that repulsing the repulsive, a corpulent figure almost flattened me with his motorcycle.

'Vous etes francais'.

'Non'. [I just look miserable at the moment because I'm over it today]

'Mais alors, tu parles francais'.

A very Louis Bunuel moment. And one of the odder evenings of my life. Within an hour I had visited his travel agency, met his brother, collected his laundry from a neighbouring shop while he padlocked the office, and sat in a restaurant munching idlys, puri and dosa.

The conversation flowed easily for a while, we talked about this and that; at least we shared a certain francophilia. He showed me his poems in French. He was disappointed with my poor German. Barely noticeable at first, he grew agitated, turning sullen at moments, silent, staring at the far wall of the room. I'd resume the conversation, pick up where we had left off, or perhaps start a new train of thought. In stages, he became morose. A bit spooky. He seemed to be sulking, brooding over something. Maybe it was my new haircut. I've known people to get jealous over my hair.

It had been a rather singular day. I was tired. The forlorn Francophile requested the bill, and the exhausted Australian paid it. It was a quiet ride back on his motorcycle to the hotel. On parting, he handed me the latest review of 'The Indian Society of French Studies'.

Laying in bed, I pondered the 'Teaching of French in Pondicherry since the 1950s', and wondered at what point in my life it had all gone horribly weird.