From Sand to Stone

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Bush is in India and the newspapers are filled with antagonistic articles and reports of demonstrations throughout the country. A message from the US Embassy greets me when I check my mail warning travellers to keep a low profile (right, that's easy.) Meanwhile, a fight breaks out on the main road in the sleepy little town where I'm staying--the run off from a local border dispute in Goa. The majority of public fights and demonstrations between opposing factions here are media manipulations staged by their leaders and at the end of the day, most of those very leaders sit down for cocktails together. Corruption imbues all levels of Indian life. You just learn to live with it, massage it, watch for it, and play the game. Though itching to move on, I'm content enough where I am and really prefer not to relinquish the details of my identity to the next guesthouse should I leave now. So I stay put for a day to plan my next move.

Heike wants to travel with me but she's dead set on going to Rajasthan. Everyone's goes to Rajasthan now before it gets brutally hot. Having abandoned the yoga course in Trivandrum, which I reailze would be redundant after two years of teacher training, I'm bound only by my own persistence to travel off the beaten path and see India away from the tourist circuit. Heike's in holiday mode and her travel plans are shaped more by her quest to meet her vacation lover in Udaipur than anything else and as I sit on the balcony of my little coco hut on the sea, my gut says "go to Hampi." My instincts have yet to fail me.

Lesson No.1 in Indian travel: Corruption is rampant. Always ask twice.
I consult three travel agents in search of passage to Hampi, a 15th century ruined temple city about 10 hours inland, and get 3 different prices for the sleeper bus. Rail prices are fixed by the government according to the travel distance. Bus prices however, are not and can charge whatever they wish while agents try to get every last rupee out of rich tourists. I arrive at the fourth travel agent thoroughly fed up, but maintaining a calm and ladylike demeanor. Dignified persistence gets results; fighting fire with fire does not.

After extensive inquiries questioning the price variations, Ravi, the Honest Abe of Goan travel agents, explains that he's licensed while the other two-bit shops are unlicensed swindling hacks. Adjusting his posture, he confides in me as few Indians, especially men, usually do. This sort of thing happens to me all the time which is why many of my friends affectionately call me "the vault".

Ravi wanted to be a police officer and actually passed all his exams. Upon presenting his scores and application for a position, the captain dismissed formality and demanded 10 lahk rupees (1,00,0000) to give him a job in law enforcement. No negotiation possible. So, Ravi's a travel agent, not a cop. No wonder Indians tell me not to expect help from the local so-called law enforcement. Well, I'm registered with the Embassy, I've got a host of people from North to South carefully tracking my whereabouts and I've got my trusty mobile with pretty reliable reception. Luck comes down to nothing more than preparaton and chance. I've done the former and have run into the latter many times already.

I have a final solo romp through the villages off the beach, a last bilingual supper with my European friends and catch a ride to the bus station. Among the small crowd of luggage-laden travellers waiting for the delayed bus running on Indian time, I can guess with fair accuracy where prople are from. The ghastly neon backpacks large enough to fit a dead body and a dog are the Europeans. Israelis sport the Black and tan rucksacks thoroughly worn from months of post-army travel. They always have food and a guitar and feed everyone, fledgling little Jewish mamas that they are. Though they've a reputation for intimidating and antagonizing the hell out of Indians, they've helped me out plenty of times along the way. The Americans are wearing shorts, the Brits either wear stupid cloth hats or puff on a handrolled fag, and the French have bedhead and a Marlboro hanging out of their pouting mouths.

I spot a tall auburn-haired woman speaking German peppered with the occasional word in semi-American english. I think I'll go stand next to her. She and her fair skinned, raven-haired Schwabisch friend are thoroughly delightful and we wind up chatting about everything from the EU to India, hydropower to hypochondria. Americans and Canadians waste no time getting right to the heart of an issue, dispensing with banal banter within the first few minutes.

I climb into my bare bones compartment on the night bus-- a cell exactly as large as the two single rock hard beds that I share with an Israeli girl who, of course, keeps me fed and hydrated the entire 10 hour journey. The bumping gyrating rhythm of the bus lulls me to sleep and I crash for most of the journey. Well, there were the half dozen times when the ride was so rough that I was airborne for a good 3 seconds, hovering about 5 inches above my bed (and I sleep on my tummy. ouch!)

We arrive in Hampi at 6am. The sunrise is breathtaking for about 3 seconds and then the rickshaw wallahs show up like a pack of hungry hyenas, surrounding our group, shouting over one another, shoving, grabbing bags and thoroughly overwhelming most of our group. Most towns run a commission racket whereby rickshaw drivers take tourists to a "Better" hotel where they receive as much as an 80% commission, which the hotel charges you, for every day that you stay.

I can't think when people are yelling around me. I can barely read when there's music on in the background and I have no problem telling people to piss off so I can think. So, I yell at them all to go away. "Go away" is by far the most useful phrase here, especially when I'm travelling alone. While the rest of the Lonely Planet crew consults their bible, I set off in an autorickshaw for Hampi market with my two new German friends. And thus begins my most memorable experience so far, my favorite place in India--a 15th century ruined temple town from the very last Hindu Empire where monkeys sit beside me for tea and lizzards accompany me to the shower.
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more later. i owe you much much more. i wish i could say i wish you were here, but the freedom and vulnerability travelling alone is absolutely incredible. nothing teaches you more about yourself than solo travel. nothing.

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