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.
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