Through the middle of India I dragged myself, pollution and dust in my clothes and in my throat. In the last week I’ve passed through 4 big cities, all with populations bigger than New Zealand, all offering little except the promise of a connection onwards. For the first time in 6 months I wondered if I was exhausted from traveling, or if it was just fatigue from trudging alone through these energy sapping cities.

Off the plane in Chennai, I shot to the Central Station keen to avoid another night there, and had the fortune to book the last sleeper berth to Bangalore. Bangalore has a reputation as a progressive Indian city, where couples hold hands, an IT industry booms, and where designer labels can be bought along the more affluent MG road area. Yet I found little to inspire. Bangalore’s minor attractions, the Fort and Tippu Sultan’s palace, were very average, though the Botanical gardens were an impressive retreat from the usual madness.
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I could paint my experiences of Chennai with colourful language, or I could just call a spade a spade. After 5 months on the road I think I’m qualified to call a city a shithole when I see one. Its not even an interesting shithole. So why don’t I leave? I think I will. I’m off to Sri Lanka tomorrow.

Auto-rickshaw’s run this town. They hang in packs and price fix extortionate rates for foreigners – forget the meter. Distances are too great for foot, and buses just aren’t practical to cover this mad experiment of a city. Of course I’d have to want to go somewhere first… I gave a few places a try. The Fort museum (not like a fort anymore) holds a stale collection of colonial relics. The Government museum, with its institutional green paint flaked walls, brought alive only a sense of death in its Zoological section. And its scraggy plastered up ruins are an example on why carvings shouldn’t be hacked off their original supports and displayed out of context in a museum. The Contemporary Art Gallery – what can I say – where was the art? All this for a cool Indian 5 rupee / Foreigner 250 rupee, entry fee.
Sunday on Chennai’s wide beach attracts a huge crowd and a carnival atmosphere. Rides, Flute and drum sellers, food stalls, and general junk – its all here. Families hang out by the shore and the men only jump in for a swim in the chop, despite the health warnings. The stupidest attraction, naturally a hit, was the cardboard cutout film stars waiting for you to grab them for a photo.

St Andrews Church, with its genuinely beautiful classical style and 55 meter steeple, was having its Sunday service in the evening. I flopped along in my beach jandals.

jandal (plural: jandals)
1. (New Zealand) an item of footwear, usually of rubber, secured by two straps mounted between the big toe and its neighbour.

Synonyms
• flip-flop
• thong (Australia)

I sat among my suited Indian brethren to hear the Word Indian style (a fair balance after all my Hindu temple visits). It was funny; Indians talk in circles anyway, but you’d think they could just spit the Word out.

Its not the hopeless poverty, with its hollow calls of ‘llo mista’, or even the city layout and dud attractions, that depressed the place. I’ve got to say it – It’s the people. There’s little sense of fun in anyone, even Indian to Indian. No-one is satisfied with agreed prices, Auto-drivers push to take you ‘shopping’ along the way, and Indian security guards press for Baksheesh (a bribe? Nooo, Baksheesh!) when taking photos in the grounds of attractions.

Indian bureaucracy deserves a special mention. I set aside special Indian administration days from time to time and practice yogic breathing. Sometimes I fail. Why, TP, pray may I ask, do Indians effectively bar foreigners from buying foreign currency in India? Or Travellers Cheques? Some banks don’t even know what a cash advance on a credit card is (duh it’s like buying money) so I wanted to buy some backup Travelers Cheques. Thomas Cook helped:

‘The most we can offer you sir is 10000 rupees (200 US)’
‘That is the most?’
‘Bank of India Policy for… for Foreigners. You sir’
‘Ok, Ill buy 10000 with my visa card
‘Sir, (head bob, bob, bob) we need an encashment certificate from you. From when you changed foreign money to rupees at the airport’
(I didn’t have that with me, from 2 months ago) ‘To buy money?’
‘If no Sir, not possible’
‘Ok, can I buy rupees now on my visa card and you issue me a certificate so I can buy some (bloody) Travelers Cheques?’
‘Possible’ (bob, bob). ‘I need to see your departure tickets’
‘??? My flight tickets to withdraw money from my Visa card?’
(I had changed the date on my original ticket, confirmed with Qantas but not had my ticket revalidated yet. I’d also stupidly told them I was going to Sri Lanka)
‘Sir, this date has passed, I need to see your Sri Lanka ticket’
‘I have an onward ticket, with printed email confirmation, what is the problem?’
‘Not possible’ (bob, bob… bob, bob) ‘Buy your Sri Lanka ticket and come back’

To cut 2 hours short, I bought my fricken Colombo ticket and went through the ‘normal’ window to window to window shuffle and purchased the travelers cheques with the rupees I had just bought with my visa card after buying a new flight ticket for Sri Lanka. Oh, this isn’t new. I need an encashment certificate with me if I ever want to change Rupees back to foreign currency, or even to purchase a train ticket, a train ticket, with Rupees. You should read the newspapers here (full of expert opinions) to me the country’s administrations run like a circus. At least it has a free press, unlike Nepal, with the kings suspension of constitutional rights and freedom of speech…

I need a drink. Scott, Mark and Rob, some lads I met in Maderai and I tried to find a club on Saturday night. Aside from a smokey, blokey hotel den, where Indian men (only) have no shame rather gaily dancing off to Michael Jackson, the city was empty. Nothin. Oh, we did stumble upon a Muslim parade in some random backstreet.

Tamil movies are pumped out in Chenai’s studios (Tamil the local language). I checked one out in a happening theatre. I expected a nonsense plot, but not the total indiscriminate street style violence, which made even less sense. The theatre was packed – families, children, teens, and a drunken muppet next to me. I didn’t even last the first hour. If you’re ever flying in to Chenai, before you land, check for an exit.

I said goodbye to Romana as we got off the boat at Kollam after our trip through the Backwater canals from Allepy. We couldn’t afford the luxury houseboat option, but we shrewdly negotiated the only seats on the bow – perfect theatre.

Weighing up time left on my Indian Visa, I thought I could get a little beach action and catch a Kathakali performance in Varkala. The cliff is dominated by competing signs for tourist services and stalls but the sandy beach below rolls in nice surf. I caught the Kathakali show at a quaint little theatre set up. The performance of traditional Keralan storytelling was but a slice of a full show for our tourist attention spans. (Real Kathakali runs the night.) The Demoness servant of a king goes to the abode of the Devas to capture maidens for the King. Great plot, bold makeup, and a spontaneous performance to the rhythm of the background musicians.

I met some Swedish girls and some English lads over a few drinks and grilled Barracuda at a cliff edge bar with views to Madagascar. Next morning Asa, Theresa and I rose early to see a ritual on the beach where the waves carry out the prayers for the deceased. In the corner of the grounds of the nearby temple was an odd and disturbing twisted Snake Tree, hung, or rather strung, with warped plastic dolls – offerings for fertility.

Deformities, the loss of limbs and the sorry looking poor aren’t uncommon sights throughout India. Occasionally, still, an unlucky soul makes my eyes pop out – in this case, a begging leper with pussing boils from head to toe. I gave up some change and boarded my train, leaving Kerala state for Tamil Nadu. Dazed as you are on night trains, I woke up at 5:00am in Maderai and sucked back some Chai in the company of a French Canadian girl and German guy. We blasted through Maderai in a morning, visiting its impressive temple and laughing off touts, and then on to Trichy, a less intense temple city.

Buses I can work out, trains I have problems with. No E.T.A on the ticket, no platform numbers, no numbers on the inside of the carriages, poorly signposted stations. I had a problem – I overshot my connecting stop for Pondicherry and ended up in Chennai, a miss of about 100km. I backpedaled.

I hadn’t been to France until I came to Pondicherry. My inspiration for coming here was the French architecture and a little book ‘The Life of Pi’. Read it. I enjoyed some promenading along the coast and boulevards, and playing Caroms with kids on the street corners (whilst always looking out for Richard Parker). The Sri Aribindo Ashram, where I visited and thinked some thoughts, can be credited for a lot of community initiatives in Pondicherry. A few blocks back, in Indian streets again, I had a run in with my ‘Christian’ guesthouse owner, shifty and scrooging. I left for Mamallapuram.

The face of Mamallapuram is a tourist façade, frequented by the package tourist. Out on the front on the beach locals were rebuilding boats, walls and buildings, totaled by the Tsunami. Their pockets have been hit hard too; everyone is more desperate for a nibble of tourist rupees. The attraction of the area is the ancient ruins and caves, dating from the 6th Century, particularly a large bass relief, ‘Arjuna’s Penance’. I met a blind Indian gent, Saswot Souvraj, whose N.G.O. is helping with the Tsunami effort. I wrote and edited a little copy for him. Sadly, everyone is on the Tsunami bandwagon. Kids and beggars, who you sense weren’t directly affected, plead ‘Tsunami!’ with their hands out. On my bus up to Chennai I evidenced the fields of tents that affected families have been living under for 6 weeks now.

Fort Kochi lies off the mainland of Ernakalum, with silly cheap ferries shuttling between it and the other nearby islands. All the European colonialists had their time running the show here at some time, leaving a legacy of European architecture, churches and restaurant menus. I played some cricket with local kids in the park, willing me to hit the ball ‘like Chris Cairns does’ over those trees and football in the evening. At the barber I got my hair buzzed as Indian men popped in and out for a mo trim. Chinese fishing nets that need 4+ men to operate pull in catches that are served up at the seaside.

I smiled on the inside when I read Romana’s email – she’d not unusually changed her plans and was in town. And not unusually again, we walked straight into the middle of a festival at the Shiva temple. Music and dance and fireworks (of minumum beauty but maximum bang). 3 giant tuskers were the centrepiece, cloaked in gold headresses. Close enough to be sneezed on. Close enough to be trampled under. Beautiful. Fueled by sweet Chai for the pigrims and sugarcane for the elephants, the procession continued on past 3am.
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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.

***

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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I’m alive and well in Hampi, a small town south central India. I haven’t been affected by any of the devastation and tragedy that has affected so many thousands. I’m thankful that friends in Thailand and Indonesia are all accounted for also. I should make a small apology for not posting this earlier, thanks for all the emails of concern. Internet connections are hard to find here and power only runs for a few short hours of the day.

On another note altogether, Ive disabled comment submissions to my posts until Moveable Type resolve the comment spamming issue that has beset sites running this blogging system. So just email me or click the ‘contact’ link for the meantime, as many of you do anyway.

Take care
cheers, beers and happy New Years
Rog

I had a fever and got no sleep the night before. I stumbled onto my early morning train anyway knowing I could lie down and sleep to Goa. I met a pretty cool, but similarly sorry looking crew of 4 on the train. We perked up by midday and I got off the train with them destined for Anjuna.

Kamal (Aus), Ross (Can), Ronan (Isr) and Becks (Eng) are all good sorts. We’ve rented a basic house, hired some scooters, and dropped some beer in the fridge. Sorted. Anjuna, an ex-Portugese colony, is an unashamed hippy hangout but a little quieter than some of the other nearby beaches where the parties bang on all night.

With the beach just a stones throw away we’re not doing a lot else in the daytime. And all of us still seem to have our health in the balance, a reason to take it easy on the brewskies. As the beaches here are a bit of tourist mecca I’ve reverted back to eating seafood – all you can eat seafood buffets for 200 rupee ($6nz) or the good Tandori Tuna I had the other night.

I wasn’t content just vegetating so on day 3 I took a day trip to Panaji and Old Goa, the capital and old capital of Goa. The crew all decided the fieldtrip was a good move and came along too. We unwittingly timed local buses to perfection and stood among the other armpits to Panaji. It was an interesting look around, if just to see a different India with Portugese styled architecture and Catholic chaples. Old Goa was different again, dominated by markets with all sorts of plastic religious paraphenalia and a number of European style Chapels.

By chance on display was St Francis Xaviers body (the patron saint of Goa), that is bought before the reverent masses once every ten years. He died in the 17th Century and supposedly his body would not decompose – a miracle. The miracle is over now- standing behold the body is one thing, watching believers kiss his decomposing feet (through the perspex) is quite another.

Anjuna is known in these parts for its Wednesday flea market, a big, colourful atmosphere with some cheap buys if you play it right. From the beach Ronan, Ross and I caught a boat over to Baga, a much more packed beach with more Indian tourists than Westerners. As the evening draws closer parties at the beach bars flair up and pump into the the small hours.

Christmas eve and the hilarious sight of Indian Christmas carolers stumblingly through ‘Stary Night’ inspired a Christmas spirit. Or Spirits. We headed out to a dance party at the Hill Top and took to the cheap vodka triples. The music was relentless, mindless, thumping trance crap but we stayed, met some cool people and shot the bull.

And when I woke up it was Christmas! Becks had bought us Santa hats filled with goodies and Christmas bindies. We gorged on a great improvised Christmas breakfast of Camenbert, Tomato, Salmon, Olives, Crackers and Pawpaw. The Vodka didn’t leave the fridge.

After some family phone calls around the world we chilled out on the beach and soaked up some sun until the pink disc sunk. To those of you who thought I’d be spartan and have a curry for Christmas dinner you couldnt have been more wrong. We tucked away the best seafood dishes in town – King Crabs and Giant Tiger Prawns. Yummo.

Boxing day is boxing day – eating leftovers. Im leaving Goa tomorrow for Hampi on a night bus, so really Im back on the road solo and back into the real India. This post stops here, I have to run to the Drop Dunny.

Merry Christmas to all, Rog