Coffee and Cardamom

Outside Madikeri-

Werner is the major player here, the guy that runs the joint, ex-late hippie, 1980 hippie, came to Goa/Bombay first time back then, dropped acid, chilled in opium dens where there’s one large long pipe for four users on bamboo mats, sharing the smoke with little wooden headrests, but no smoke no stay, This is not a flophouse, and it’s bad shit says Werner, never again, and then the power snaps back on again in his living room and his eyes are red, moustache twitching, he looks ten years older in the electric light, he’s telling us in his Germano accent about these electric times on LSD, the planning and preparation, agreeing on the music and the mood beforehand, valium at the ready in case of a bad trip, how he had such a bad trip one time he took all his valium to get off it- lucky he had only three left, and the smoke is being passed around, rolled from his giant Medusa-head looking growth and he’s telling us how it’s lonely living alone but it’s hard to find someone who’d adapt to this plantation lifestyle, out here on the retreat amongst the crickets and the tea leaves and coffee leaves and cardamom and giant tadpoles and little poisonous green snakes that coil up in balls when something’s coming and bite something if it steps on it so you gotta carry a torch at night on the paths to see your way, don’t step on those little guys, no way.

Crickets or cicadas, rice paddies and tea plantations, stillness and peace- it’s a different kind of India miles out here, my body is still vibrating from twenty hours of bumpy, spine-busting bus-riding, my neck is practically in traction. We got to Madikeri, but didn’t last long there- dust and noise and scummy hotels and “rooftop garden restaurants” which are dining room attics attached to open urinals. We made a few calls and came out to the Silver Mist Retreat, quaint cabins overlooking rice paddies frequented by elderly British couples. Whatever. K’s not well enough to go trekking for three days like we planned, and the Tibetan village we wanted to see now requires a permit, and we definitely weren’t staying in Madikeri. It’s beautiful serenity here- how I imagined Kerala, actually. Too bad I was so starving and all they had left to eat was toast. And cheese though. Smiley.
Our overnight bus stopped in Hubli for the half-hour break. I clambered down from my sleeper to look for a pisser and a friendly Indian man, late thirties, skinny, went to temple today, asked me, What country?.. We started talking, I was in a friendly mood and I knew he wasn’t trying to sell me anything, he was just on my bus. We found a piss alley, then he offered to buy me a beer from the standing bar. He took a tiny bottle of whiskey with some water and threw back the whole thing in one shot. Then we went around the corner to scrounge out some food. He told me how he worked in mining, managerial business side, traveled lots, and told me that it was an ancient volcano that gave Hampi its crazy Flintstone rock formations. He bought me some gobi and rice too, refused to take any money and threw back another of those tiny whiskeys. Now his eyes were red, and I can see why he likes to travel for his job. I tell him how all the Indians I’ve met in the past while have been trying to sell me something and it’s so wonderful to experience this amazing hospitality again, and he starts to go on about humanity and how it’s the only thing that matters, and he’s not really making sense any more, but who cares. I’m smiling. This is why I like Indian people. I remember again.

Home Away From Home (away from home)

Trapped in Hampi, more Hebrew than Hindi here, and I’ve never slept so much in my life as these last two days. We got the food poisoning again, K. worse than me. She was in high fever last night with painful leg cramps. We’re supposed to be in Madikeri by now, but we had to re-schedule. It’ll be a relief to get to London in a week- I’m tired of the backpacking trail, Hampi made me tired. I’ve discovered that backpacking in a place like India is a strange phenomenon. People come here to backpack presumably because they want to experience a different culture, try new things- yet the main backpacking centres are constructed to be a cheaper version of home. Here in Hampi, you walk down the guesthouse strip and you’ll see only white people, some dressed in the baggy riding pants and colourful loose scarves and dredlocked hair which is considered “Indian” by these travelers, but I’ve been here six months and have never seen an Indian dressed like that. Anywhere. Some of these neo-hippies will even accuse you of not having been here very long- “I can tell by your dress”, which makes me want to flick turmeric in their eyes. These same backpackers eat in the guesthouse restaurants where the first half of the menu is Israeli salads and humus & pita; then pizza and pastas; then burgers and fries; and the back page might have some daal and rice options, but I never see these ordered. Then in the evenings. these same culture-seekers watch Hollywood blockbusters- walk down the strip and every guesthouse is showing its own movie, dredlocked heads gathered round the glowing light. If they opt not to watch Pulp Fiction, they’ll most likely smoke hashish and compare notes with fellow countrymen on the bargain they got on their Om t-shirt, while Pink Floyd tunes blare from their shoddy i-pod speakers. Meanwhile, in modest rooms on the ground floor, Indian families try to sleep, another day of serving the argumentative foreigners at an end.
You will see Indians when you walk around here, but they are all trying to sell you something- the closest most of these backpackers get to a relationship with an Indian national is arguing with a rickshaw driver over a ride to Hospet, or ordering another side of fries in the guesthouse restaurant. This is the strange world of Indian backpacking; get high, dress hippy, fuck a German or a Texan, (you know, something exotic)-meet a monkey, take lots of digital photos and go home and tell everyone about the wonderful mysticism of India. It’s bullshit.
I am so glad I spent my first few months here meeting only Indians. In the first cities we visited, we’d scream, White person!! as if we’d seen a tiger when we spotted a goora. We made many friends from Chennai, Mumbai, Bangalore, etc. We experienced incredible Indian hospitality first-hand, learnt what they thought about their country, its pros and cons, first-hand. So it was a shock to hit the tourist trail and to suddenly have to be wary of the locals we met in the street- we had experienced such kindness everywhere else, even from complete strangers. I miss this. I miss Ladakh, where I was alone outside the tourist season and couldn’t help but make local friends. I miss striking up a conversation with a local without wondering if he has a guesthouse room he wants to sell me for the night. And sure, it’s been nice to watch a movie and eat a pizza and hear some Pearl Jam again, but I’m ready to get back to India. I’m ready to get the hell out of Hampi.

The Hump to Hampi

It’s a post-sunset slow river in a Flintstone movie set from the 16th Century, huge tan boulders impossibly stacked, huge tan temples dirty, blending into the landscape. It’s Hampi. The last boat to our side of the river just came in, straggling tourists climbing up the last hill for the day. It’s quieter over here, away from the bazaar and the major temples. Something about a slow river makes everything around it a little slower, a little lazier. People take their cues from their surroundings.
We just arrived here after an odyssey. It shoulda been: one-hour bus, Gokarna to Kumta; wait 3 hours. Then 8-hour bus overnight, Kumta to Hospet. Get in at 8am and rickshaw it to Hampi. Instead, it went like this..
We scramble for the one-hour bus to Kumta; leaving an hour earlier than they told us yesterday. Catch it barely, ride to Kumta, then have four and a half hours to kill in the dirty little town. We find a dingy little backroom bar, and start in on the Kingfishers, the four of us, me and the three girls (Nooshin and Rebekah). Ceiling fans stirring the thick air, all the men in shock to see three women in their watering hole. We drink and drink and laugh and laugh till they boot us out at 10:30, then we wander down to whosever restaurant is open to eat something and drink some more. Quarter to 12 we decide we better head back to the bus stand, to be safe. There they tell us the bus won’t come until 12:30. So we settle in. 90% men, gawking at the three white girls who are too liquored to take it quietly and throw out a few good, Can I help yous??- a crazy beggar woman befriending Rebekah, a huge and injured German shepherd befriending Nooshin; I keep thinking how it’d be a lark to get my guitar out, but I don’t really want that much attention. Another big joint burns down. Stale urine on warm breezes, all eyes on us- I fucking hate bus stands. 12:30 comes; so does a bus- it’s not ours. Then another. And another. And still another. Katya’s pleading with the office man, Where is it?!One o’clock comes. And then finally so does our bus. We’d hoped for front seats, but we’re stuck in the middle again. Katya and I try to get comfortable on a 3-seater, but the bumps make your teeth chatter, and the driver takes the turns like he’s experimenting with bus wheelies. I’m getting the spins; too much drink, too much swerving. I’m so tired, and my eyes are closing slow like curtains, but backstage it’s all black spinning until I’m reeled awake again. Try to breathe. Eyes closing. Spinning. I fight like this for almost an hour. Then I get the telltale shot of hot saliva in the back of my mouth, and I slide the window open.. I’m really gonna join em- all those Indian school-buses I’ve seen with the long brown streaks beneath every window; I’ve always wondered what it’s like. I jut my head out into the rushing cold air as far as I can, watching for oncoming trucks. And then up comes fried gopti and rice and beer, spattering the speeding asphalt, the window beside me- I don’t want to think what the passenger behind me is seeing. I clench my teeth, and heave again. And again. Window splattered, my mark left on the night highway somewhere. I fall back into my seat and slide the window shut. Katya is snoring, she slept through the whole thing. I feel much better.
Sometime later we arrive at a stop and most of the bus disembarks- all four of us claim three-seaters for ourselves. By god, we are going to get sleep on an Indian bus! We start off again, but I soon realize that the driver is keeping his window wide open to stay awake, and the air is absolutely frigid. I’m still in my shorts and t-shirt from the beach, trying to fit every inch of me under a thin blanket, huddled down on the seats. But drafts find their way into every space between blanket and body. I can’t get to my pack till we stop again, so I steel myself and think warm thoughts, shivering for an hour.
Finally we stop, and I get the cosies on. We start off again and I manage to drift in and out for half an hour, but then the sun’s coming up, the same fuzzy peach I saw dip below the waves from a motorboat twelve hours ago on my way out of paradise. We must be getting close, so I just sit up and wait.
Pretty soon we pull into a bus stand- Is this Hospet? Hospet? Bustle, confusion- the bus clears. This must be it. But the conductor is saying something to Nooshin about switching buses… What?! This is not Hospet. Then someone else says there’s a traffic jam,
no-one’s going anywhere. But we can walk to the train station and reach Hospet from there. So we march.
Train tickets are cheap, and the wait’s only fifty minutes. We settle on a bench, all eyes on us, all beggars on us, dried puke only on me. After fifteen minutes people start clambering down off the platform and crossing the tracks to stand on the other side- there’s no other platform though. They tell us it’s where we have to stand for the Hospet train. So we struggle with our luggage down to the tracks, stepping over sun-baked human shit and other delicacies to bake ourselves in the morning sun, standing on the tracks for the train.
It finally comes. We settle in for half an hour and then grab a rickshaw into Hampi from Hospet, bedraggled and exhausted. But maybe it was all worth it.

Man-cubs, Millipedes

In the station a dirty monkey hunches in the rafters, enjoying bath-time and lunch-time at the same time- the old pick n’ chew. Occasionally throwing a careless glance down to his crazy relatives, the man-cubs and washer-women, the rainbow sari splashes and suitcaseheads, milling like millipedes, busy like ants. Greasy rats crawl through wet corners, and kids-at-work in the station smile bright white through dusty faces, asking for ice cream. Families stacked on suitcase stacks in package circles, sharing nuts and sweets, parked on the dirty floor; babies snore on shoulders as trains roll through on other platforms. Calm before the storm. Hindi, English, hindi, English, the constant loudspeaker updates are indiscernible in any language, but they’re going for quantity, not quality- and then the chai seller’s voice cuts through them all, high and nasal- Chaaii-ii-i!- as he pushes the steel cart between squatting families and forlorn holy men. Finally, the gazelles at the watering hole hear the warning cry, whistle shivers down the track, and entire family clans are on their feet in seconds; lanky porters are already pushing through, huge suitcases on their heads; backpackers are turning this way and that, Is this the right train, is this the right train?! And then a sudden gloom swallows the station as the snake slides in, and jostling groups try to predict where their door will stop. Finally, the whole apparatus sighs and jolts to a halt, and the disembarking passengers start to push from the inside out- they get about forty seconds grace to squeeze themselves out of the coach doors, then it’s toothpaste back into the tube- the mass of sweaty shirts and hairy arms grappling, trying to become liquid as it surges itself up a steel step and through a tiny door. Just put your head down and PUSH! No women first, children follow bread crumbs through the forest of legs, just PUSH, and you pop through the entrance, bag and all, until you’re carried down the human river to your seat. And the monkey in the rafters glances up when the steel snake trundles off, crunches down another bedbug snack.