Interesting, Colourful, Different – suitably ambiguous words to describe the masala mix of Indian culture. These are Taja and Romana’s swerving answers, so not to bruise a gentle Indian pride, soft like a cream egg, to the question ‘How are you liking India?’ The words ring true; for me the delight and the challenge of a country that continues to defy definitions, and refuses my old logic. ‘Interesting, Colourful, Different’ is a happy jingle that loops in my head as each day spins into the next.

Where was I… Ah Ooty. Ooty in Tamil Nadu state. Ooty with a silly name – not its real name (Udhagamandalam) – that children might toot and hoot in the back seat because it feels funny to say in your mouth. My first foray into these parts passed through Bandipur National park with bouncing spotted deer and common monkeys. My first morning in Ooty, while eating breakfast opposite the lake, I was approached by some guides offering horse riding in the surrounding hills. Now I’m no Johnny tight pants, and Suze, you’ll remember the last time I went riding in Pouto. But happily, this white skinned tourist on a lovely white haired mount (that even obeyed my left-right-go-stop commands) trotted through the fields and forests for 3 hours, bruising my butt for days to come.
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I continued to bowl down the middle of Karnataka to Madikeri, in search of some crisp, fresh air in the Kodagu Mountains. With an organised group I set out on a 2 day trek among plantations and green expanse – quite a break from the India I am used to. After our 13km day 1 trek we stayed nearby in a local village, put up by the good hospitality of a local retired politician. The cool night air had a real punch to it but the Old Monk (rum) kept us warm.

No thanks to the Old Monk, we still steamed up 1700m Tadiyrendamol the next morning. Our reward -outstanding views from the highest peak in the region and a great dry curry and Chapati lunch wrapped in banana leaf. No wild elephants, but I did spot a big rattle snake slinkin around a banana tree. Back in Madikeri town I went a little up market and savored the novelty of a room with hot water and television.

Next evening I arrived in Mysore by reliable government bus. Gareth (a fellow trekker) and I oriented ourselves as a festival featuring cow painting was wrapping up. That’s right, the wandering beasts, omnipresent on any street in India, now glowed with brushed on powder pigment.

Gareth spotted a photo opportunity – ‘take a picture Rog, me and the cow’. As I framed the shot Gareth moved in to wrap an arm round the black and yellow Friesian as if it was a Taranaki teammate. Maybe he was wearing the wrong colours – the cow was having none of it and swung its boney head around planting Gareth with a top dead leg. A queue of TukTuk drivers folded over in hysterics. Sorry Gary, I missed the shot. Take 2?

Mysore’s Devaraja Market is a colourful affair full of Fruit and Veg vendors, and others selling bright pigments, and aromatherapy oils. The usual chimes of the Indian locals – ‘what is your name’, ‘where are you from’ – rang around but at least these superficial introductions were useful for taking some good photos.

Next morning I met up with some cool Slovenian girls, Romana and Taja, after an evening’s chai the night before. Chamundi Hill features, you guessed it, a Temple. It was Sunday and this hill of pilgrimage was overflowing with Indian tourists. The shanty walk down the 1000 steps passing a 5m Nandi (Shiva’s Bull vehicle) and overlooking Mysore city was more pleasant than the bustling Chamundeswari Temple court.

Mysore’s main attraction is the grand Maharaja’s palace, completed in 1912 after an earlier one burnt down. The palace graces the central city skyline and its grounds, free to roam around, are a nice place to chill out. The Indian aesthetic, indefinable so many ways, is at its kitch best on Sunday nights when the palace and temples in the grounds are lit up by thousands of ordinary light bulbs and incandescent fairy lights. Pretty.

Walk the streets and India will come to you. Things happen. Down by the main palace gates a Hare Krisna festival kicked off one evening, complete with a couple of decorated elephants and camels, and float with entourage. The float made its way down the main street tailed by a truck giving away free food. A wave of people scrambled for the truck, hungry for the giveaways and delighted to receive, like kids in a lolly scramble. Next morning (same place) I came across the most orderly student protest, demanding enforced internships at the end of their Diplomas be dropped.

Romana, Taja and I left India altogether the next day when we arrived at the Namdroling Monastery, A Tibetan Refugee Settlement. 5000 mauve robed monks live around the Sera Village in the rolling hills between Hunsur and Madikeri. Although a permit is officially required from Delhi to visit, the few visitors usually avoid the Indian bureaucracy and just turn up. Like us. The village has a special feeling – welcoming, peaceful, spiritual. And clean. Nearby, the immaculate Golden Temple housing giant golden Buddha’s was a wonder to behold. A place to be still.

Mr Thunder put on a one man circus outside the monastic university in the village. Like a true performer he delighted with his antics, adding icing to his so-so tricks. It’s a special, humbling experience walking through the settlement lanes, the only foreigners, among countless robed Lamas. And I can’t describe the dizzying feeling of being called up into the show by Mr Thunder, encircled by 200 Lama’s with deep, knowing eyes. I was supposed to fail, I was supposed to make Mr Thunder look good. I had fun failing, playing up on my incompetence to juggle rings and catch them on my neck and other tricks. Romana said the Lama’s loved me. I loved the little Lama who the next day sat down and told me I was funny, and had curiously observed that I was left footed…

I realised there how much I missed the humanity of Buddhism since my time in SE Asia. Outside of the petty dishonesty and sometimes outright lies I get spoon fed by touts and tuktuk drivers each day, filtered by my honed bullshit radar.

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I tried some lime and betel nut flavored chewing tobacco. All the Indians chew on it. I spat it pretty quickly.

I might return a diabetic. I’m addicted to Indian sweets, which are more like little cakes. You can buy them on the corner of Sandringham and Mt Albert Rd in Auckland. But here they are only 4 rupees. I’m addicted to Chai too. With an Indian sized spoon of sugar.

In other news: the dates and venues have been announced for one of the sporting events of the year – India vs Pakistan – 3 tests and 5 one dayers. That’s cricket folks, a religion in these parts. I’m just hanging out for the tickets to go on sale.

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Ps. Sorry to my avid readership for the long break between posts. Internet services are poorer here than in SE Asia. That, and I’m too busy living India to be writing about it bi-weekly. I’ll still be posting at least weekly.

I backtracked to the western coast with Magdalena, dropped off by the bus in Gokarna town at about 5am. Slurping chai through sleepy eyes, eight of us sat on the beach under the stars watching a surreal, uncoordinated display of drunken Indian Volleyball. At light the tuktuks approached us for a ride to the remote beaches of the North Karnataka coast.

Om beach (‘Om’ the sacred sound of the universe vibrating) has a happy amount of sand, little waves and grass huts to close your eyes under. The crowd here were pretty cool. Chess, Hacky, Carrom, swimming, lazing, drums and bonfires, whatever. We caught a boat back to the main beach after 2 days, leaving Gokarna on a bus for Jog Falls.

The day’s attempted travels did not go well. A cowboy Indian (I like how that sounds) driver careered down the line to Kumta where we were to take a connecting bus to Jog. But I got bamboozled by a bum time tip and kicked myself that I did not cross check the information as usual. That was the first bus/train/boat I’ve missed in 4 months. We returned to Gokarna town (much more palatable than Kumpta) with the same, now suspect drunk, bus driver.

Next morning we left on another bum tip bound for Jog Falls the longer way around. Jog Falls, the highest falls in India, dribbled like a sad showerhead. We looked at each other to see who would laugh first. Neither of us cracked. We stretched our legs, slunk down the 1200+ rough rock cut stairs and refreshed by the pool at the bottom. Then we moped back up. Down the road we stayed the night with some sweet kids and their mum. Like a faulty siren the mum droned tirelessly at the kids, driving us to spend as little time there as possible. Magda and I had time only for a too brief goodbye as my bus bowled up the next morning. Back solo I headed south, Magda north.

By evening I reached Hassan having passed through small Karnataka towns that aren’t worth naming. Hassan is one of those towns. Its only grace is its equidistance to Belur, Halibid and Sravanabelagola so I used it as my base. Belur and Halibid are the home of 12th century Hoysala temples. The condition and artistic detail in the Hoysaleswara temple’s black granite walls at Halibid arrested my attention. Two fine carved bulls of Shiva stood in the outer bastis. Black robed men, followers of Sai Baba, loved introducing themselves. It was a nice day trip and my extremely cheap bus connections were working like clockwork again.

The Picture Palace opened its gates at 7:30pm in Hassan for a Sunday screening of the latest Karnatakan blockbuster. I walked up, was spotted, given the VIP treatment and shown to my row where some friendly locals jostled for seats next to me. The plot: Chauvanistic, arrogant Fashion designer (but hero of this story) seeks model. Random womens group protest, police bust up protest, designer spots talent in the crowd. In hospital the girl refuses designers demands to be model. But then agrees when he near burns down his studio. And wins contest. Meanwhile other girl that hangs out with rich bad dude trys to get even for not being his chosen model and attacks designer hero and hot girl model. Bad henchmen throw acid viles at model girl but Designer turns ninja and kicks ass… ok that was the first half hour. I left sometime after the intermission when the movie (no idea of the title) left the weird charts completely. Did I mention the dancing? I love the dancing.

I took another day trip today to Sravanabelagola via Channarayapatna which were a little more difficult to pronounce. I read my book ‘The God of Small things’ in a half shaded temple corner under the serene smile of the 17 metre Jain statue of Bahumali, a Buddha like figure, atop Vindhyagiri Hill. I met some other travellers and ate the biggest and best Thali of my trip, ambled around some other ruins and returned.

I’m well through with temples for a while. Tomorrow I’m planning to leave for Madakeri to do some trekking in the Kogadu region. Im getting quite good at eating everything with my hands. The method for rice and curry is to roll it into a small ball and with thumb push it into your mouth. Right hand only remember, the left one is for cleaning your butt. And I quite like the clumps of green pea like pod things that everyone eats on the bus (and spits the husks of on the floor).

7 times the earth revolved on it’s axis since I beamed into Hampi. Yet I’m quite sure that time hasn’t moved at all. Hampi breaths slowly and deeply, Shanti Shanti.

Hampi Hampi! ‘Wake up’, prodded the furry eared bus attendant. Sleepily gazing out the window I might as well have still been dreaming. Low lit ruins graced the side of the road. As we pulled into the bus station my eyes fell on a small town that lives amongst its history.
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