Sometimes, when you travel alone, you are destined to keep on that way, alone. You can't control all the odds around you, so the choices we make along the trip might get us to were we want to be, or not. They might make us feel good, or just a bit more lonely than we already are. What makes us strong however, is how well do we endure those lonely times. After my time in Bundi relating mainly with Indians, I was fond of some tourist company.
My runny nose on my arrival to Varanassi was followed by a slight fever that kept me in bed most of the three following days. Not feeling good enough to step outside the bustling city, my few excursions were only to go to the Internet and nearby restaurants to eat.
My guest house was right next to the main street, but far away from the tourist beat. Not really far away, but not in it. I depended mainly on the people I could get to meet on the streets, restaurants and my own guest house. But as I said, I didn't make a good choice in choosing it.
90% of the guests there were Israelis. That fact automatically prevents you from making any relationship within the hotel. You might try as hard as you want, but if you don't speak Hebrew, forget about it. They'll acknowledge you, but ignore you. Why would they want to talk with someone of another country if they feel in their own country when surrounded by their people? The only other foreigner I got to see was American, and he just wanted to be alone. So the only choice in meeting people was in restaurants.
The restaurants nearby weren't really crowded with foreigners, and it wasn't until I recovered from my cold that I discovered the tourist beat. It was in the Old City. The area I had discarded for two reasons. Jimmy, and eighteen year old Indian boy I met in Kudle beach recommended the Assi area, and the Lonely Planet didn't precisely recommend the Old City area, so it made sense. What a huge mistake!
Once discovered, I spent most of my time between the ghats and one of the restaurants, one of the many German Bakery's. There I wrote, I draw and I observed the people coming in and out. The usual costumers and the first timers, the foreign tourists and the Indians, the hippy dressed and "normal" dressed. The street outside was busy, not as much for the quantity of passers by, but for the narrowness of the street. Carts, motorbikes, cows, water buffalo's, tourists and locals tried to get their way, sometimes jamming the shaded streets for a couple of minutes.
But still there I wasn't lucky in the action of meeting people. I relied on getting seated with other loners as me, but generally couples seated. On one occasion I tried to make conversation with a Japanese couple. Extremely complicated. Their English was really bad. So I generally consumed my time, and myself, on drawing. Sometimes, actually, ignoring those who seated with me at the table.
I remember a night I invited to the table a couple of Spanish girls and an Argentinian man. Conversation was fluent and interesting. The guy from Argentina was dressed as a Baba. He had long dirty dreads and a dense grey and black beard. He called himself an artist, selling things wherever he went. His next destination was Italy. One of the things that shocked me the most was his stubbornness when talking about image. His image, is well-known, isn't liked in westernized countries. In his own country, he said, people look at him with repugnance. And he talks energetically and repudiates the high concept of the image in these countries. He felt good and safe in India. But he didn't realize, and didn't want to realize, for more I insisted, that he was using his image to feel that way. He depended on his image to survive in India without a coin. He got in trains for free, or got food and beverages from other Indians, just because they venerate him as a Baba. What he looked like. His tanned skin was obviously an advantage. Babas, saddhus or Holy men are at the center of Indian spirituality. They don't work, and hardly have any possessions. People give them money, food, or whatever they need. They are the wise men in Indian religion. It's amazing how hypocrites can we get to be. Repudiate a concept when it doesn't favour us, but ignore it when it plays to our advantage. How far away was this guy from the image he was giving. A kid was definitely wiser than him, at least if it's for the innocence a kid see things.
So days past by, without any new interesting acquaintances, until the time to go to Nepal.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
A ride in the track lanes II
7:30 a.m. - I arrive to the Nizamuddin Railway Station, 3 kilometers from the New Delhi Railway Station. I start conversation with a foreign couple looking puzzled at a map. They had just arrived to India that morning, and were heading to Rajasthan from that station later on the day. They were there just to know where the station was, though, they had no clue where they were. So the three of us head outside for a rickshaw driver. They were heading to Connaught Place and I was heading to New Delhi Station, so I bargained a rickshaw for the three of us.
It was a hard bargaining. I wanted to pay only 30 Rs. He wanted 100. We ended up paying 60 because the other couple went for it. So they payed ended up paying 40 Rs. asking me if it was enough. Of course it was, I was going further away. I felt as if I was ripping them off 10 Rs.
Once in the station, I wanted to double check on my train ticket. It was just a printed piece of paper. It wasn't a complete sheet, it had been cut from the middle. The face of "What the fuck were you thinking of" when they saw my torn paper said I needed the whole sheet. So I start to panic. I had paid 500 Rs. for that ticket. I call Immy and tell him to send me the whole ticket to my email account. They try, but nothing comes out. After several unsuccessful tries, I gave up and decide to get in the train with what I had.
At 15:15 I get in the train. A fat guy with what appeared to be a mixture between a burlesque and a grotesque face started conversation with me. It was a long trip, so I had to keep it on. The worst thing you can have in long journeys are enemies. So just try to be always nice and patient. He offered me peanuts, and I took them. Only 5 minutes later a group of people sat in front of me and also started conversation. One of the first things one of the guys tells me is: "Don't accept food or drinks from anyone." I knew this. I've always known this. Tourists travelling alone have been robbed of all their belongings after they accepted a drink or food that would put them to sleep. I was starting to relax, to get confident. My experience in Bundi had served just right, or maybe the other way round. I was back in India, and I felt comfortable with it, more than I had felt in my almost two months in Goa and surroundings. On that train, on that moment, I realized I was going to miss it, I was going to miss India on my stay in Nepal. The rest of the trip went on, with new faces coming and going until a whole family occupied the rest of my compartment with bundles and bodies of kids and grown ups.
I had been reading about Varanassi in my Lonely Planet. I was getting freaked out. I had just read the "Dangers and annoyances". If you don't really want to go there, just read that section and your mind will be cleared on not going. No doubt at all. But I was already going. I had to go. I wanted to go. It couldn't be that bad.
And finally, after a 16 hour journey I arrived to Varanassi at 7:30 a.m. The train had been too cold. Not even my sleeping back was enough. I had a runny nose that came from my journey from Kota to Delhi and that would keep on with me for the next 3 days in Varanassi.
I stepped out of the train thinking I would find thousands of Indians trying to get me into a hotel, a taxi or a rickshaw. I was ready for the battle. But only one person came. He got me to the Pre-Paid rickshaw stand and I paid 70 Rs. There was nothing to bargain, nothing to argue. That seem too peaceful for me despite of what the guide said.
Finally, after checking out three guest houses near the Assi Ghat I stayed at the worst option possible. Staying near the Assi Ghat had been already a bad decision. But I would not know about that until later on. However, before going for a decent sleep I had some breakfast on the rooftop, where I talked with an Indian guy working in Zurich as a waiter and visiting the Holy city on holidays. Strange I thought. But that was just a preview of what Varanassi can get to be. Actually, that was insignificant to what Varanassi really is.
At 9:20, finally, I go to sleep.
It was a hard bargaining. I wanted to pay only 30 Rs. He wanted 100. We ended up paying 60 because the other couple went for it. So they payed ended up paying 40 Rs. asking me if it was enough. Of course it was, I was going further away. I felt as if I was ripping them off 10 Rs.
Once in the station, I wanted to double check on my train ticket. It was just a printed piece of paper. It wasn't a complete sheet, it had been cut from the middle. The face of "What the fuck were you thinking of" when they saw my torn paper said I needed the whole sheet. So I start to panic. I had paid 500 Rs. for that ticket. I call Immy and tell him to send me the whole ticket to my email account. They try, but nothing comes out. After several unsuccessful tries, I gave up and decide to get in the train with what I had.
At 15:15 I get in the train. A fat guy with what appeared to be a mixture between a burlesque and a grotesque face started conversation with me. It was a long trip, so I had to keep it on. The worst thing you can have in long journeys are enemies. So just try to be always nice and patient. He offered me peanuts, and I took them. Only 5 minutes later a group of people sat in front of me and also started conversation. One of the first things one of the guys tells me is: "Don't accept food or drinks from anyone." I knew this. I've always known this. Tourists travelling alone have been robbed of all their belongings after they accepted a drink or food that would put them to sleep. I was starting to relax, to get confident. My experience in Bundi had served just right, or maybe the other way round. I was back in India, and I felt comfortable with it, more than I had felt in my almost two months in Goa and surroundings. On that train, on that moment, I realized I was going to miss it, I was going to miss India on my stay in Nepal. The rest of the trip went on, with new faces coming and going until a whole family occupied the rest of my compartment with bundles and bodies of kids and grown ups.
I had been reading about Varanassi in my Lonely Planet. I was getting freaked out. I had just read the "Dangers and annoyances". If you don't really want to go there, just read that section and your mind will be cleared on not going. No doubt at all. But I was already going. I had to go. I wanted to go. It couldn't be that bad.
And finally, after a 16 hour journey I arrived to Varanassi at 7:30 a.m. The train had been too cold. Not even my sleeping back was enough. I had a runny nose that came from my journey from Kota to Delhi and that would keep on with me for the next 3 days in Varanassi.
I stepped out of the train thinking I would find thousands of Indians trying to get me into a hotel, a taxi or a rickshaw. I was ready for the battle. But only one person came. He got me to the Pre-Paid rickshaw stand and I paid 70 Rs. There was nothing to bargain, nothing to argue. That seem too peaceful for me despite of what the guide said.
Finally, after checking out three guest houses near the Assi Ghat I stayed at the worst option possible. Staying near the Assi Ghat had been already a bad decision. But I would not know about that until later on. However, before going for a decent sleep I had some breakfast on the rooftop, where I talked with an Indian guy working in Zurich as a waiter and visiting the Holy city on holidays. Strange I thought. But that was just a preview of what Varanassi can get to be. Actually, that was insignificant to what Varanassi really is.
At 9:20, finally, I go to sleep.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
A ride in the track lanes I
8:30 a.m.
"Knock, knock."
"Yes?" My sleepy voice said.
"Hot water."
Hot water on a bucket. My 100 Rs. room hat hot water on a bucket, but it had to be delivered to my room before 9:00 a.m. Otherwise, there was no more hot water as electricity didn't come back until 5 p.m. So more than once my door was knocked at 8:30 when I would start my days at Bundi.
My last day in Bundi, I wanted to take a hot shower before my long trip to Varanassi. On my arrival to Kota I tried to get a train directly to Varanassi, but it was impossible. There was only one train a week to do that journey, and it was on Friday's. So it was either too early or too late to get it. My solution was to get a train to Delhi, which I booked directly at the Kota train station. Unfortunately, I couldn't book a train there from Delhi to Varanassi, and the girl wasn't being very helpful anyway. So I didn't even asked about the possibility.
Once in Bundi I managed to book a train from Delhi to Varanassi through an agency. It turned out to be a total rip-off, but what to do? I could have tried to book it on my own through the Internet, but I went for the easy and sure option. I liked the guys that had sold me the ticket, they were honest, as honest as an Indian businessman can be, but the guy that actually booked the ticket, oh, I didn't liked him nor his expensive commission of 200 Rs. The excuse given was the use of Internet and telephone calls. What was he thinking, that I was new in India? I resigned though, cause I thought it was too late to try it for myself. Should've tried it for myself on the first place.
The day went on slowly talking with the guy from the grocery store and many of his friends who invited me to chai and some snack I can't recall it's name, Immy and Tanny from the Internet place, Deepak, whose mom did the best rice I've ever tasted in India, Yug and other artists, and at Ringo's Restaurant playing Carom.
Immy advised me to leave at about 7:30 p.m. And at about that time I was saying goodbye to all my new friends. Indian friends, not a single tourist. On my way to get a rickshaw I bumped into J.P. whom I'd met at Ringo's. I didn't trust him, but he was fun to be around. He was learning Spanish from a notebook he had and practiced with it whenever he was with me. From his talk I would say he was a trickster. He said he owed money to his friends, all of them tourists. He dressed and acted as a tourist wearing a backpack wherever he went. Immy talked about him with a bit of disdain.
I finally get to bargain a rickshaw for 20 Rs. to go to the bus stand. Once in Kota I bargain a rickshaw for 30 Rs. to go to the train station. They laugh at me, or with me, I can't tell. Again they wanted 60 Rs. but I wasn't up to paying more than what I had payed for the same journey on my arrival to Kota. And I won again.
9:00 p.m. - I'm waiting outside the train station for a train that is not leaving until 11:40 p.m. eating some biscuits and smoking my rolls.
10:30 p.m. - My train is delayed 40 minutes.
10:50 p.m. - A kid asks for money while I talk with an Indian fellow who is going to Delhi in a train that leaves in front of my bored face. The kid keeps on asking until he gets bored and punches my arm. I don't even bother about it.
11:30 p.m. - I go outside to smoke more cigarettes and more snacks.
12:20 a.m. - I go inside to wait. I'm the only tourist in the whole station. I get stared, talked about, but I can't say what they are saying. I think to myself how important it is to learn the foreign language and I promise to myself I'm going to study again my Hindi notes. I didn't, at least in Varanassi.
12:30 a.m. - My train is delayed 10 more minutes. I don't know where to look, how to sit, what to do.
1 a.m. - I finally leave to Delhi coldly cuddled in my sleeping bag, one eye asleep, one in my belongings.
"Knock, knock."
"Yes?" My sleepy voice said.
"Hot water."
Hot water on a bucket. My 100 Rs. room hat hot water on a bucket, but it had to be delivered to my room before 9:00 a.m. Otherwise, there was no more hot water as electricity didn't come back until 5 p.m. So more than once my door was knocked at 8:30 when I would start my days at Bundi.
My last day in Bundi, I wanted to take a hot shower before my long trip to Varanassi. On my arrival to Kota I tried to get a train directly to Varanassi, but it was impossible. There was only one train a week to do that journey, and it was on Friday's. So it was either too early or too late to get it. My solution was to get a train to Delhi, which I booked directly at the Kota train station. Unfortunately, I couldn't book a train there from Delhi to Varanassi, and the girl wasn't being very helpful anyway. So I didn't even asked about the possibility.
Once in Bundi I managed to book a train from Delhi to Varanassi through an agency. It turned out to be a total rip-off, but what to do? I could have tried to book it on my own through the Internet, but I went for the easy and sure option. I liked the guys that had sold me the ticket, they were honest, as honest as an Indian businessman can be, but the guy that actually booked the ticket, oh, I didn't liked him nor his expensive commission of 200 Rs. The excuse given was the use of Internet and telephone calls. What was he thinking, that I was new in India? I resigned though, cause I thought it was too late to try it for myself. Should've tried it for myself on the first place.
The day went on slowly talking with the guy from the grocery store and many of his friends who invited me to chai and some snack I can't recall it's name, Immy and Tanny from the Internet place, Deepak, whose mom did the best rice I've ever tasted in India, Yug and other artists, and at Ringo's Restaurant playing Carom.
Immy advised me to leave at about 7:30 p.m. And at about that time I was saying goodbye to all my new friends. Indian friends, not a single tourist. On my way to get a rickshaw I bumped into J.P. whom I'd met at Ringo's. I didn't trust him, but he was fun to be around. He was learning Spanish from a notebook he had and practiced with it whenever he was with me. From his talk I would say he was a trickster. He said he owed money to his friends, all of them tourists. He dressed and acted as a tourist wearing a backpack wherever he went. Immy talked about him with a bit of disdain.
I finally get to bargain a rickshaw for 20 Rs. to go to the bus stand. Once in Kota I bargain a rickshaw for 30 Rs. to go to the train station. They laugh at me, or with me, I can't tell. Again they wanted 60 Rs. but I wasn't up to paying more than what I had payed for the same journey on my arrival to Kota. And I won again.
9:00 p.m. - I'm waiting outside the train station for a train that is not leaving until 11:40 p.m. eating some biscuits and smoking my rolls.
10:30 p.m. - My train is delayed 40 minutes.
10:50 p.m. - A kid asks for money while I talk with an Indian fellow who is going to Delhi in a train that leaves in front of my bored face. The kid keeps on asking until he gets bored and punches my arm. I don't even bother about it.
11:30 p.m. - I go outside to smoke more cigarettes and more snacks.
12:20 a.m. - I go inside to wait. I'm the only tourist in the whole station. I get stared, talked about, but I can't say what they are saying. I think to myself how important it is to learn the foreign language and I promise to myself I'm going to study again my Hindi notes. I didn't, at least in Varanassi.
12:30 a.m. - My train is delayed 10 more minutes. I don't know where to look, how to sit, what to do.
1 a.m. - I finally leave to Delhi coldly cuddled in my sleeping bag, one eye asleep, one in my belongings.
One photo
There are some phrases Indians learn by heart. "Name?", "Which country?", "Are you married?", "Boyfriend/Girlfriend?" are the interrogative ones. "School pen.", "Rupees."or "Chocolate." are the demanding ones, and usually said by kids.
As I have said, there is nothing much to do in Bundi. A couple of palaces and bazaars are it's main attractions. But for some time now, I've been searching for something else that I can't find in it's temples, palaces, bazaars and castles. I've been searching for that part of their lives specially dedicated to Indians. So against logical safety advices, which I think are nonsense, I venture myself into the residential areas, as I did in Udaipur, Diu or Bundi.
Adults usually look at you with a weary eye, but kids, their open hearts and interested innocent minds, run to you pronouncing all those demanding sentences I listed before. But, if they see you with a camera on your hands, they will forget all those phrases, and ask directly for "One photo". Young and adults indistinctively. A photo you have to show them once you have done it. Sometimes they get a bit aggressive, and you have to straighten them up before you show it. Too many hands try to grab you camera at the same time, it turns into chaos if there are too many. Sometimes they give you their address so that you post them the picture taken. I still have to post a couple.
Their poses are many. From postures taken out of their favorite Hindi movies to the strangest face they can put, twisting their faces in ways I find impossible, or with the saddest face imaginable. In these cases, I generally wait a lot until they laugh about the situation and loose concentration on the picture that's being taken. Those, I think, are the best. Sometimes I do a stupid face myself so that they can laugh.
Unfortunately, I'm not too good at taking pictures of people, but I'm working on it. I think this defect might come because I'm really not too good with people. I am harsh when I have to be soft, and say things in too a clear way that I end up offending those I love and care about. My mouth generally goes faster than my brain, without realizing I'm hurting my family and friends. However, they are always there, and I'm grateful for their patience and love.
As I have said, there is nothing much to do in Bundi. A couple of palaces and bazaars are it's main attractions. But for some time now, I've been searching for something else that I can't find in it's temples, palaces, bazaars and castles. I've been searching for that part of their lives specially dedicated to Indians. So against logical safety advices, which I think are nonsense, I venture myself into the residential areas, as I did in Udaipur, Diu or Bundi.
Adults usually look at you with a weary eye, but kids, their open hearts and interested innocent minds, run to you pronouncing all those demanding sentences I listed before. But, if they see you with a camera on your hands, they will forget all those phrases, and ask directly for "One photo". Young and adults indistinctively. A photo you have to show them once you have done it. Sometimes they get a bit aggressive, and you have to straighten them up before you show it. Too many hands try to grab you camera at the same time, it turns into chaos if there are too many. Sometimes they give you their address so that you post them the picture taken. I still have to post a couple.
Their poses are many. From postures taken out of their favorite Hindi movies to the strangest face they can put, twisting their faces in ways I find impossible, or with the saddest face imaginable. In these cases, I generally wait a lot until they laugh about the situation and loose concentration on the picture that's being taken. Those, I think, are the best. Sometimes I do a stupid face myself so that they can laugh.
Unfortunately, I'm not too good at taking pictures of people, but I'm working on it. I think this defect might come because I'm really not too good with people. I am harsh when I have to be soft, and say things in too a clear way that I end up offending those I love and care about. My mouth generally goes faster than my brain, without realizing I'm hurting my family and friends. However, they are always there, and I'm grateful for their patience and love.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Carom
20 chips, 10 black and 10 white. 1 red chip, a big white one and a squared board with four holes at each corner. The Indian pool. As in pool, you use the big white chip to move the other ones into the 4 holes. All 21 black, white and red chips start at a circle drawn in the middle. Each side of the board has a line from where you will throw, with your fingers, the big white chip.
There are variations on how to play the game. The way I spend hours and hours playing in Bundi consisted on getting as many chips in the holes, either white or black. Black chips were worth 10 points whereas white chips were worth 20, and the red one 50 points. Condition was that if you got the red one in one of the holes, you were obliged to put another chip in on your next shot. If you didn't get one in, the red chip would go back into the center of the board. Same would happen if any chip would be thrown out of the board. When the big white chip gets into a whole, we had to put back in the board a 10 point chip. You could get change if you only had 20 point chips.
At the end, if the red chip is one of two chips remaining in the board, and you get the other chip in first, you loose all your chips putting them back in the board.
Having finished the first round, you can play again, but only betting the lowest amount won by one of the players, i.e. the amount of the player with less points. And so on until one of the players has all the chips.
An easy game were skill is necessary, but that it's gained with practice. I played this game several times at Ringo's restaurant with locals and foreigners. Locals were harder to beat.
I remember all this Tibetans playing this game constantly at a shack back in Mc Leod Ganj. I wondered why, and now I understand. I wanted to play and play. In many cases, people bet money. I had already lost money playing poker, and I wasn't up to loosing more. But I have to buy this game!
There are variations on how to play the game. The way I spend hours and hours playing in Bundi consisted on getting as many chips in the holes, either white or black. Black chips were worth 10 points whereas white chips were worth 20, and the red one 50 points. Condition was that if you got the red one in one of the holes, you were obliged to put another chip in on your next shot. If you didn't get one in, the red chip would go back into the center of the board. Same would happen if any chip would be thrown out of the board. When the big white chip gets into a whole, we had to put back in the board a 10 point chip. You could get change if you only had 20 point chips.
At the end, if the red chip is one of two chips remaining in the board, and you get the other chip in first, you loose all your chips putting them back in the board.
Having finished the first round, you can play again, but only betting the lowest amount won by one of the players, i.e. the amount of the player with less points. And so on until one of the players has all the chips.
An easy game were skill is necessary, but that it's gained with practice. I played this game several times at Ringo's restaurant with locals and foreigners. Locals were harder to beat.
I remember all this Tibetans playing this game constantly at a shack back in Mc Leod Ganj. I wondered why, and now I understand. I wanted to play and play. In many cases, people bet money. I had already lost money playing poker, and I wasn't up to loosing more. But I have to buy this game!
Back to India
Goa, Hampi and Gokarna were mere tourist bubbles that made me feel like in holidays. In them, I had lost, momentarily, the meaning of my trip, which I was just recovering. I wasn't either seeing India nor doing progress on my search for environmental conservation work.
Mumbai was a must stop to get sunglasses, useful in Nepal I thought, and which I did not have. And though another India, it wasn't the one I was missing. Mumbai was the India of fancy clothing and faked American accents. It was the India of showing off the best you had. It was the India of the unexisting American dream.
In Bundi I reached happiness again. I made peace with travelling. With myself. I got acquainted with some locals and walking within the residential areas were all smiles and invitations to this and that. Play cricket, take me to the lake, give me useful directions. All friendliness and helpfulness. And that was great. I didn't need other tourists, I had India again.
There is really nothing much to do in Bundi, and I still missed a couple of places. A blueish town crowned by a rocky palace that looks as if hanging from the cliffs. It gives the place a weary sensation during the day, like if count Dracula were to come out of it at night and haunt you down. But at sunset it provided the town with a magical romantic sensation. As most monuments in India you pay too much to get in for what you finally get. The concept of conservation doesn't seem to have been introduced yet, and thus, you ask yourself, where does the money go?
A nice trek to the hill allows you to discover a magnificent view of the town and the nearby lake. Blue houses fuse with the blue sky as if the town was an extension of the vast horizon, and thus came from the clouds itself. For me it could as well been like that, cause my stay there gave me a sense of freedom and serenity it had gone long ago.
Most of my time I spend it taking pictures or chatting with locals at their businesses, the artists, the Internet guys or the grocery guy. With them I had the best time and one of my best experiences in India. My other hobby was playing Carom.
Mumbai was a must stop to get sunglasses, useful in Nepal I thought, and which I did not have. And though another India, it wasn't the one I was missing. Mumbai was the India of fancy clothing and faked American accents. It was the India of showing off the best you had. It was the India of the unexisting American dream.
In Bundi I reached happiness again. I made peace with travelling. With myself. I got acquainted with some locals and walking within the residential areas were all smiles and invitations to this and that. Play cricket, take me to the lake, give me useful directions. All friendliness and helpfulness. And that was great. I didn't need other tourists, I had India again.
There is really nothing much to do in Bundi, and I still missed a couple of places. A blueish town crowned by a rocky palace that looks as if hanging from the cliffs. It gives the place a weary sensation during the day, like if count Dracula were to come out of it at night and haunt you down. But at sunset it provided the town with a magical romantic sensation. As most monuments in India you pay too much to get in for what you finally get. The concept of conservation doesn't seem to have been introduced yet, and thus, you ask yourself, where does the money go?
A nice trek to the hill allows you to discover a magnificent view of the town and the nearby lake. Blue houses fuse with the blue sky as if the town was an extension of the vast horizon, and thus came from the clouds itself. For me it could as well been like that, cause my stay there gave me a sense of freedom and serenity it had gone long ago.
Most of my time I spend it taking pictures or chatting with locals at their businesses, the artists, the Internet guys or the grocery guy. With them I had the best time and one of my best experiences in India. My other hobby was playing Carom.
Back to budget
On my third day in Mumbai I go to Victoria station to book a train to Bundi. After a lot of looking and asking around in the big old rusty terminal, I get to the tourist reservation window totally unprepared. No form to book and not knowing what the train number was. On the other hand, a Canadian guy in front of me, who had arrived just the day before to India, was totally prepared. He had a spare form and had just bought the "Trains at a Glance" booklet. Very useful to get your way within the complicated Indian railway system. He gave me a form and let me use the booklet. I booked my train.
Out of the train station, for some unknown reason that impulses you to check twice and thrice on things, I doubled checked the ticket. Why would I do that? I had checked it back at the counter. What was the need? Something deep inside said I had to. And there is nothing worse than not following your instinct. I had booked the train for the 14th. What was I thinking of? I wanted to leave on the 7th! Back again to the window and a new cue. I waited.
My turn. I explain everything to the lady. She was laughing, oh I knew she was although she would politely only show a shy smile. "Oh, you are going to have to pay" to change my ticket. Shit! I thought. How much I was wondering. If it be too much or if it wasn't possible to change, I needed a second plan. I couldn't spent one more week in Mumbai, I would be ruined, not only of money, but of motivation to keep on. I had already thought of an alternative plan while queuing. The best option seemed to go to the Ajanta and Ellora caves and get the hell out of the 300 Rs. shithole I was in. "20 Rs." was her answer. Relief. That wasn't that bad, I could pay that amount.
I got to Kota train station with some change and plenty of 1000 Rs. notes. Unconsciously, I decided to use the change in buying my next ticket to Varanassi, which was not possible. Instead, I had to buy one for Delhi. But more on this later on.
So I suddenly found myself in the middle of about 10 rickshaw drivers offering me to get me to the bus stand for 60 Rs. Out of all the change I had, I was only left with 50 Rs. and plenty of 1000 Rs. notes the smartest ATM in India had given me. No problem with those notes in Mumbai, but go to India and tell me about it.
I had to go to the bus stand in order to get a bus to Bundi. And I had to pay the bus as well, which could not be more than 20 Rs., or at least I hoped. So I had to bargain those 60 Rs. to 30. I later learned that 30 Rs. would have been Indian price and that tourist price was 50 Rs. I got it for 30. My bargaining skills had clearly improved.
Once in Bundi, I had no more money for rickshaws, so I had to walk to the guest house area, about 1km from the bus stand. Nothing much, other that I was tired and hungry. The first room I was shown was a big double bedded room with hot water and a kind of grill in the floor that allowed you to peek downstairs, and so, be peeked at. Good price, but I didn't like the idea. And besides, I had to recover from my expensive days in the city. I needed something cheaper. Another 200 room which I tried to bargain to 150 without success. Finally, a 100 Rs. room with hot water on a bucket. That would do.
I was back to budget, except that food and Internet were pretty expensive, but I would manage it eating little and just twice a day, as I had been doing in Mumbai. If for any reason I would wake up so early I needed some breakfast, I would just stick to the 5 Rs. biscuits at any stall and the 5 to 10 Rs. chai at Indian restaurants.
I stayed in budget everyday I was in Bundi, except for the day I had to call my sister, as she had had an inflammation on her spine and could not move her arms. But the call was worth leaving the budget aside. An extra cost more meaningful than all the beers I've had so far. Not one of those drinks have been worth the money used. This call was.
Out of the train station, for some unknown reason that impulses you to check twice and thrice on things, I doubled checked the ticket. Why would I do that? I had checked it back at the counter. What was the need? Something deep inside said I had to. And there is nothing worse than not following your instinct. I had booked the train for the 14th. What was I thinking of? I wanted to leave on the 7th! Back again to the window and a new cue. I waited.
My turn. I explain everything to the lady. She was laughing, oh I knew she was although she would politely only show a shy smile. "Oh, you are going to have to pay" to change my ticket. Shit! I thought. How much I was wondering. If it be too much or if it wasn't possible to change, I needed a second plan. I couldn't spent one more week in Mumbai, I would be ruined, not only of money, but of motivation to keep on. I had already thought of an alternative plan while queuing. The best option seemed to go to the Ajanta and Ellora caves and get the hell out of the 300 Rs. shithole I was in. "20 Rs." was her answer. Relief. That wasn't that bad, I could pay that amount.
I got to Kota train station with some change and plenty of 1000 Rs. notes. Unconsciously, I decided to use the change in buying my next ticket to Varanassi, which was not possible. Instead, I had to buy one for Delhi. But more on this later on.
So I suddenly found myself in the middle of about 10 rickshaw drivers offering me to get me to the bus stand for 60 Rs. Out of all the change I had, I was only left with 50 Rs. and plenty of 1000 Rs. notes the smartest ATM in India had given me. No problem with those notes in Mumbai, but go to India and tell me about it.
I had to go to the bus stand in order to get a bus to Bundi. And I had to pay the bus as well, which could not be more than 20 Rs., or at least I hoped. So I had to bargain those 60 Rs. to 30. I later learned that 30 Rs. would have been Indian price and that tourist price was 50 Rs. I got it for 30. My bargaining skills had clearly improved.
Once in Bundi, I had no more money for rickshaws, so I had to walk to the guest house area, about 1km from the bus stand. Nothing much, other that I was tired and hungry. The first room I was shown was a big double bedded room with hot water and a kind of grill in the floor that allowed you to peek downstairs, and so, be peeked at. Good price, but I didn't like the idea. And besides, I had to recover from my expensive days in the city. I needed something cheaper. Another 200 room which I tried to bargain to 150 without success. Finally, a 100 Rs. room with hot water on a bucket. That would do.
I was back to budget, except that food and Internet were pretty expensive, but I would manage it eating little and just twice a day, as I had been doing in Mumbai. If for any reason I would wake up so early I needed some breakfast, I would just stick to the 5 Rs. biscuits at any stall and the 5 to 10 Rs. chai at Indian restaurants.
I stayed in budget everyday I was in Bundi, except for the day I had to call my sister, as she had had an inflammation on her spine and could not move her arms. But the call was worth leaving the budget aside. An extra cost more meaningful than all the beers I've had so far. Not one of those drinks have been worth the money used. This call was.
Gadget's
My new thoughts had depressed me a bit. And as anyone that's depressed I could only do two things, eat chocolate, which I don't like, or go on buying. I went on the buying option. I was in Mumbai, if I had to buy anything, that was the place. They would try to rip me off, and I would try to get the less ripped off possible.
One of the things I decided to buy was a compact digital camera. So far, I was depending too much on other peoples photos. Mainly in situations I decided not to carry with my own camera, because it was too heavy, because I could loose it, because it could get stolen. It turned out that while my camera was cheaper than in Spain, the compact one was more expensive. I had seconds thoughts about it, but I went for it.
Taking photos was getting bored. Indians do the same things everywhere. Whether they are in Mumbai, Pondicherry or Varanassi, they sell in bazaars which are practically all the same, stand around stalls eating deep fried food, and, in general, seem to be doing nothing all day long. This is a very vague and simplistic characterization of Indian people, but it works for my purpose on this post. So in order to regain my pleasure in taking photos, I decided I had to reinvent myself. For which purpose, I needed a tripod. Something small and handy.
The last thing I bought wasn't going to settle up my thoughts, but it was a must. My shaving machine had died back in Hampi. I had to change my beard for a while cause I couldn't shave properly. Those who know me well, can understand. I needed a new one.
I had new toys. My bag was heavier and I was in a new trip. New people to meet, new friends to have, new emails to loose and use. It was a new trip, but as well the end of my first stay in India.
One of the things I decided to buy was a compact digital camera. So far, I was depending too much on other peoples photos. Mainly in situations I decided not to carry with my own camera, because it was too heavy, because I could loose it, because it could get stolen. It turned out that while my camera was cheaper than in Spain, the compact one was more expensive. I had seconds thoughts about it, but I went for it.
Taking photos was getting bored. Indians do the same things everywhere. Whether they are in Mumbai, Pondicherry or Varanassi, they sell in bazaars which are practically all the same, stand around stalls eating deep fried food, and, in general, seem to be doing nothing all day long. This is a very vague and simplistic characterization of Indian people, but it works for my purpose on this post. So in order to regain my pleasure in taking photos, I decided I had to reinvent myself. For which purpose, I needed a tripod. Something small and handy.
The last thing I bought wasn't going to settle up my thoughts, but it was a must. My shaving machine had died back in Hampi. I had to change my beard for a while cause I couldn't shave properly. Those who know me well, can understand. I needed a new one.
I had new toys. My bag was heavier and I was in a new trip. New people to meet, new friends to have, new emails to loose and use. It was a new trip, but as well the end of my first stay in India.
Personal thoughts V
I'm tired. Tired of travelling with no fix idea. Tired of wondering around without the impression of doing something useful. Something useful for me, for my experiences through life, for my professional interest.
On my stay in Goa, Hampi and Gokarna I hardly took out my camera. I wasn't even picturing my idea of places I was seeing. I was totally loosing track of my purpose in India. It's true I had a fixed destination, Nepal, to renew my Visa. But I wasn't sure of how much did I want to spend there. The idea of going in and out as quickly as Indian bureaucracy would let me was getting stronger and stronger. I needed to do something. Just wanted to get to Pondicherry and volunteer. To work? I really hope is not that, but yes, why not see it that way also. Travelling had become holidays and I couldn't get out of them. And I wanted to get out of them.
Ideas started flowing into my mind. Business ideas. That only happens when you're tired of your job and you're looking for a way out. I wasn't even working!
Would getting out of Mumbai, heading to hectic Rajasthan change my mind? Everything was doubt. How could I enjoy Bundi if I didn't seem to want to be there? It was just a transit point to make my trip to Nepal easier, lighter. Was I prepared to the travelling again when I felt so much apathy towards it? Nothing seemed to be sure. Nothing is sure in India. Only what you have already lived, and even that, sometimes, feels like a dream. Was that it? Was I just living a dream inside an unsure reality? I had to change my attitude. Regain the patience that made me survive my first week in India. I would at some point regain balance, again be sure of myself, again in the track.
On my stay in Goa, Hampi and Gokarna I hardly took out my camera. I wasn't even picturing my idea of places I was seeing. I was totally loosing track of my purpose in India. It's true I had a fixed destination, Nepal, to renew my Visa. But I wasn't sure of how much did I want to spend there. The idea of going in and out as quickly as Indian bureaucracy would let me was getting stronger and stronger. I needed to do something. Just wanted to get to Pondicherry and volunteer. To work? I really hope is not that, but yes, why not see it that way also. Travelling had become holidays and I couldn't get out of them. And I wanted to get out of them.
Ideas started flowing into my mind. Business ideas. That only happens when you're tired of your job and you're looking for a way out. I wasn't even working!
Would getting out of Mumbai, heading to hectic Rajasthan change my mind? Everything was doubt. How could I enjoy Bundi if I didn't seem to want to be there? It was just a transit point to make my trip to Nepal easier, lighter. Was I prepared to the travelling again when I felt so much apathy towards it? Nothing seemed to be sure. Nothing is sure in India. Only what you have already lived, and even that, sometimes, feels like a dream. Was that it? Was I just living a dream inside an unsure reality? I had to change my attitude. Regain the patience that made me survive my first week in India. I would at some point regain balance, again be sure of myself, again in the track.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Bombayites
Indians in Mumbai are something else. Another vibe is going on in here. Hard rock, sex and drugs are on the main scene. Specially sex. On my Bollywood extra adventure one of the Indian girls could not think in anything else other than her Brazilian holiday lover in Goa. Her friend, an openly Indian gay could only think in sex and MDA. We talked, among other sex related topics, about penis sizes of different nationalities. He was the expert. According to him Spaniards had it very big, while Indians was very short. I pointed out a survey I had heard that said Indian average size was smaller than the world average. He agreed.
Another day, at Leopold's, a girl had made up this paper man were you could pull a huge penis out of it. Origami it's called. Lust was evidently in the air. The sexy Bombayites at the Bollywood movie chose very carefully the girl they would be dancing with. That was their girl and they were their man. The others didn't have a right to dance with them in a shot. Even if the woman in charge ordered it, they would swap after a couple of minutes and appear as supposed in the film. If they appeared at all.
Mumbai language is also totally different. Do they learn Hindi in school I ask myself. Or do they learn to talk from movies? A mixture between Hindi and American movies. I would say they speak Hindglish. Like Spanglish in Puerto Rico or in the latin quarters of New York. Either because it's cool, it doesn't exist in Hindi or just common expressions that have grown to be popular. English is used in every sentence. In Goa, Bombayites talk in English to the waiters of their same country.
A totally different specimen of Indians.
Another day, at Leopold's, a girl had made up this paper man were you could pull a huge penis out of it. Origami it's called. Lust was evidently in the air. The sexy Bombayites at the Bollywood movie chose very carefully the girl they would be dancing with. That was their girl and they were their man. The others didn't have a right to dance with them in a shot. Even if the woman in charge ordered it, they would swap after a couple of minutes and appear as supposed in the film. If they appeared at all.
Mumbai language is also totally different. Do they learn Hindi in school I ask myself. Or do they learn to talk from movies? A mixture between Hindi and American movies. I would say they speak Hindglish. Like Spanglish in Puerto Rico or in the latin quarters of New York. Either because it's cool, it doesn't exist in Hindi or just common expressions that have grown to be popular. English is used in every sentence. In Goa, Bombayites talk in English to the waiters of their same country.
A totally different specimen of Indians.
A Bollywood extra
Tommy had left, and I prepared myself for a night on my own in big Mumbai. I hoped to meet some kind faces while eating at Leopld's with no luck. I was placed with a couple on their late fortie's that did not mind my presence in the table, but neither them or myself seemed to look forward to talk with each other.
I tried the bar upstairs that had some music going on. I was alone enough to try to approach some hot Indian girls that were looking in my direction, but I had run out of rolling paper for my cigarettes and, what is most important, money. I had only 20 Rs. left. No point in being brave.
So on my way out I run up into Sagim, one of the Zipi-Zape Israelis I had met on the bus to Diu. He invited me to join them at the Sports Bar. So I went to my place in search of more money and some rolling paper. I was on again for a Mumbai night, which really sucks if you're not nicely dressed and have a girl. It doesn't have to be a girlfriend, but it's your contribution for the Bombayite girl-hunters. If you don't give, you can't get anything.
On my way from my guest house to the bar I ran up with Madu. He is a thin tall struggler in the film industry. He is a recruiter of foreign travellers for Bollywood movies, TV-serials or soap operas. I would have to deal with him the rest of my stay in Mumbai, and he would turn up to be a real pain in the ass.
I should have said no, but I was bored, and decided otherwise. So he recruited me for being an extra in a medium budget film. I had heard mixed opinions about being an extra in Bollywood, so I wasn't sure what would turn out.
8 a.m. in front of Mc Donalds, I was late. I saw a group of foreigners at the other side of the street and had second thoughts. The I realize that if I don't go, Madu is going to be a real haemorrhoid. I didn't know he was going to be one anyway.
All the tourists get into a taxi. The recruiters or organizers get me one for myself. We stop in front of the Churchgate train station I think. After some minutes of waiting a small well built guy comes to me and directs me to another guy inside the station. He scans the foreigners and picks up a Korean girl to go with me. We didn't know what was going on, until we are suddenly seated in a third class suburban train for 8 Rs. Can't say it was horrible, but curious to see. People really packed in the compartments, not leaving their selected place to stand. the same way you could be driven out of the train from the multitude, you could as well be driven back in from the entering crowd, thus missing your stop. People jumped of the train when it was still going. Windows had bars so that people would not try to get in through them. I had seen scenes like this in Hampi. People getting in the bus through the windows. Crazy, really crazy.
After a rickshaw ride we get into the Film City. Nothing seemed very professional. Not even the security. We went in without questions being asked or explanations being given. The guard not even lifted his eyebrows.
Jonas, the other male foreigner, a tall big Swedish, was given a suit that was too small for him, while I was given a jacket that was too big for me. Though it was obvious from a distance, this was the choice of the costume assistant or whatever he was. I had to stick with the suit, composed of a black jacket, a pink shirt and a tie that did not match quiet well with the shirt, but it was of a similar color. I could wear my newly brought Levi jeans for 40 euros, as the pants provided were like 10 sizes bigger than me.
The filming lasted until 5 p.m. though we didn't get back to Colaba until 9. No apparent rehearsal had been made, so we were used as dummies while the main actors learned their dancing and performance. The Indian girls were beautifully dressed, combed and made-up, while foreign girls would only be combed if playing an important part in the background. Boys in general were not considered at all. Not even their dressing. Only I was told to take out my cap. It obviously did not fit in the movie. We were supposed to be in a ball room where they main actor danced around the dancing floor and between the guests totally drunk until he fell in front of a stunning couple. Another scene would show him and his mistress dancing and singing around this couple. While the male character would stare fixedly at the woman, the female character would mock at them and take his man away. Another scene still would show the drunk actor recovering to his feet and arguing with the male character of the couple. The woman, though she was the most beautiful of all, did not say a single word.
While the Director kept on performing scenes for the lost actors and shouting "Silence!", even when nothing was being shot, you had the feeling that there was too much people involved, and more than half doing nothing. A woman decided which extra would appear on each scene, and the 2 foreign guys had the bad luck to be chosen for most of them. Only in one occasion did the Director addressed an extra, a 16 year old blond Swiss girl in a red dress. She was to lean on a column in what was meant to be a sexy and evocative position while talking to an Indian guy.
Jonas and I agreed on one thing, how much were we regretting getting into this. However, I left the place not having spent a rupee, but 400 Rs. richer. On the other hand, a struggler, had lost its struggle. He had not get paid. He was the tea man. It didn't matter for the rest of the crew. It didn't seem to matter for us either, we just wanted to go back and rest. It would just matter for him. All his shouting and weeping would only be for him, cause when he went back to his house, probably a slum, he would have nothing to give to his family on that day, but he would have to stay strong for another day's struggle.
I tried the bar upstairs that had some music going on. I was alone enough to try to approach some hot Indian girls that were looking in my direction, but I had run out of rolling paper for my cigarettes and, what is most important, money. I had only 20 Rs. left. No point in being brave.
So on my way out I run up into Sagim, one of the Zipi-Zape Israelis I had met on the bus to Diu. He invited me to join them at the Sports Bar. So I went to my place in search of more money and some rolling paper. I was on again for a Mumbai night, which really sucks if you're not nicely dressed and have a girl. It doesn't have to be a girlfriend, but it's your contribution for the Bombayite girl-hunters. If you don't give, you can't get anything.
On my way from my guest house to the bar I ran up with Madu. He is a thin tall struggler in the film industry. He is a recruiter of foreign travellers for Bollywood movies, TV-serials or soap operas. I would have to deal with him the rest of my stay in Mumbai, and he would turn up to be a real pain in the ass.
I should have said no, but I was bored, and decided otherwise. So he recruited me for being an extra in a medium budget film. I had heard mixed opinions about being an extra in Bollywood, so I wasn't sure what would turn out.
8 a.m. in front of Mc Donalds, I was late. I saw a group of foreigners at the other side of the street and had second thoughts. The I realize that if I don't go, Madu is going to be a real haemorrhoid. I didn't know he was going to be one anyway.
All the tourists get into a taxi. The recruiters or organizers get me one for myself. We stop in front of the Churchgate train station I think. After some minutes of waiting a small well built guy comes to me and directs me to another guy inside the station. He scans the foreigners and picks up a Korean girl to go with me. We didn't know what was going on, until we are suddenly seated in a third class suburban train for 8 Rs. Can't say it was horrible, but curious to see. People really packed in the compartments, not leaving their selected place to stand. the same way you could be driven out of the train from the multitude, you could as well be driven back in from the entering crowd, thus missing your stop. People jumped of the train when it was still going. Windows had bars so that people would not try to get in through them. I had seen scenes like this in Hampi. People getting in the bus through the windows. Crazy, really crazy.
After a rickshaw ride we get into the Film City. Nothing seemed very professional. Not even the security. We went in without questions being asked or explanations being given. The guard not even lifted his eyebrows.
Jonas, the other male foreigner, a tall big Swedish, was given a suit that was too small for him, while I was given a jacket that was too big for me. Though it was obvious from a distance, this was the choice of the costume assistant or whatever he was. I had to stick with the suit, composed of a black jacket, a pink shirt and a tie that did not match quiet well with the shirt, but it was of a similar color. I could wear my newly brought Levi jeans for 40 euros, as the pants provided were like 10 sizes bigger than me.
The filming lasted until 5 p.m. though we didn't get back to Colaba until 9. No apparent rehearsal had been made, so we were used as dummies while the main actors learned their dancing and performance. The Indian girls were beautifully dressed, combed and made-up, while foreign girls would only be combed if playing an important part in the background. Boys in general were not considered at all. Not even their dressing. Only I was told to take out my cap. It obviously did not fit in the movie. We were supposed to be in a ball room where they main actor danced around the dancing floor and between the guests totally drunk until he fell in front of a stunning couple. Another scene would show him and his mistress dancing and singing around this couple. While the male character would stare fixedly at the woman, the female character would mock at them and take his man away. Another scene still would show the drunk actor recovering to his feet and arguing with the male character of the couple. The woman, though she was the most beautiful of all, did not say a single word.
While the Director kept on performing scenes for the lost actors and shouting "Silence!", even when nothing was being shot, you had the feeling that there was too much people involved, and more than half doing nothing. A woman decided which extra would appear on each scene, and the 2 foreign guys had the bad luck to be chosen for most of them. Only in one occasion did the Director addressed an extra, a 16 year old blond Swiss girl in a red dress. She was to lean on a column in what was meant to be a sexy and evocative position while talking to an Indian guy.
Jonas and I agreed on one thing, how much were we regretting getting into this. However, I left the place not having spent a rupee, but 400 Rs. richer. On the other hand, a struggler, had lost its struggle. He had not get paid. He was the tea man. It didn't matter for the rest of the crew. It didn't seem to matter for us either, we just wanted to go back and rest. It would just matter for him. All his shouting and weeping would only be for him, cause when he went back to his house, probably a slum, he would have nothing to give to his family on that day, but he would have to stay strong for another day's struggle.
Another kind of tourists
Goa's tourism had not given me a very good impression. They were mainly rude and unsociable, with few interesting things to say, and, generally, with a bit of sense of superiority. I was once in Arambol and went to find Matt. With him was a friend of his, can't say if from the states or from the beach. I stated how hot it was. His response alluded to how a draught causes famine in so many countries, but here a breeze can spoil paradise. Well, if Arambol was his conception of "Paradise" he definitely had to review his priorities. He considered himself an artist. Artists, I say. He is involved in "The Burning Man", an event everyone considers to be the best party in the world. No, no, not a party, the best communal congregation. Thousands of people living of art, trading, without worries of money, however being very expensive. The only thing you can buy is ice or coffee, the rest is up to you or the kindness of the other congregants. He is also involved in many other similar artistic congregations. Maybe because of this he was suddenly raised upon a higher level of knowledge than me and noted out my sinful mistake. Bullocks, it was hot, Arambol is not Paradise and the fact of considering yourself an artist doesn't imply you are closer to the world surrounding us, and so you can understand it better than the rest. Fuck off, I would have said.
Mumbai tourist were even more arrogant. They didn't care about the slums, about the poor people wandering and sleeping in the sidewalks. They wanted to be treated as tourists, but got quickly tired of the hassle the status of tourist provides you in India. They were also rude, to Indians and to other tourists. They wanted to be considered the only tourists of Mumbai, all the attention for them, but please don't bother. As in Goa, it was all about partying and hunting girls. A loner like me wasn't well seen in groups of girls and desperate guys, and any try of conversation was quickly shut. I couldn't say that this attitude surprised me, after all, most of these tourists were heading to Goa or came from there ready to go back home after their 2 week vacation package.
None of the tourists I met was heading north. Everyone was looking forward to head south, to the sun and the beaches I was fed up with, or feeling sad about going back home. None seeked establishing new relationships, they would do that in Goa. Mumbai was a transit point, nothing else.
I must stop generalizing though. I met some nice people, like Tommy. Magnus was a student in Delhi and had gone to Mumbai for a film festival. We would probably see each other in Varanasi. Ruth had just arrived, and though she was heading to Goa as many others, she was really sweet, always smiling and happy. It was contagious. Through her, I met a very nice couple residing in Hawaii. She is from the States and he is English. I have their contact email. A contact in Hawaii. What for? You never know.
However, I wasn't used to this Hi and Goodbye of tourists. It was kind of depressing not getting new contacts heading in your same direction. But one fact among all was the one that depressed me the most. I had said my last goodbye to everyone I had met. They all were either going to be moving around in a different part of India or simply heading to some other country, probably their own. Maybe, I would still see Matt. But chances were I had to start again. It was a new trip all together that had started already and I hadn't realized.
Mumbai tourist were even more arrogant. They didn't care about the slums, about the poor people wandering and sleeping in the sidewalks. They wanted to be treated as tourists, but got quickly tired of the hassle the status of tourist provides you in India. They were also rude, to Indians and to other tourists. They wanted to be considered the only tourists of Mumbai, all the attention for them, but please don't bother. As in Goa, it was all about partying and hunting girls. A loner like me wasn't well seen in groups of girls and desperate guys, and any try of conversation was quickly shut. I couldn't say that this attitude surprised me, after all, most of these tourists were heading to Goa or came from there ready to go back home after their 2 week vacation package.
None of the tourists I met was heading north. Everyone was looking forward to head south, to the sun and the beaches I was fed up with, or feeling sad about going back home. None seeked establishing new relationships, they would do that in Goa. Mumbai was a transit point, nothing else.
I must stop generalizing though. I met some nice people, like Tommy. Magnus was a student in Delhi and had gone to Mumbai for a film festival. We would probably see each other in Varanasi. Ruth had just arrived, and though she was heading to Goa as many others, she was really sweet, always smiling and happy. It was contagious. Through her, I met a very nice couple residing in Hawaii. She is from the States and he is English. I have their contact email. A contact in Hawaii. What for? You never know.
However, I wasn't used to this Hi and Goodbye of tourists. It was kind of depressing not getting new contacts heading in your same direction. But one fact among all was the one that depressed me the most. I had said my last goodbye to everyone I had met. They all were either going to be moving around in a different part of India or simply heading to some other country, probably their own. Maybe, I would still see Matt. But chances were I had to start again. It was a new trip all together that had started already and I hadn't realized.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Iron Maiden
What a surprise! Iron Maiden is playing in Mumbai on the 1st of February? Apparently so, according to 3 US kids with Indian origins studying in Bangalore. I had to check it out. The ticket cost no more that 1600 rs. Would i go? I seemed decided to do so, but then i backed up.
Once in Mumbai, I had only met Tommy and his intentions were far away from going to the concert. Going alone back in Spain would have not been a problem. I would know a cheap way to get to the concert. I would be secure, most important, I would feel secure. I would be able to go to the concert felling free to do so. Here I felt I needed someone else in such a city like Mumbai. And I wasn't willing to pay all the expenses of transportation by myself.
I must admit I wasn't fond on going to see Iron Maiden, I was keen on checking out Mumbai youngsters dancing and jumping to the beat of hard rock. So far I had only seen them dance Bollywood music or foreign music like Shakira, Ricky Martin or Reggeaton.
But Mumbai wasn't the India I had seen so far. It was a different India, India's future? I hope not.
Two bars were key to see in the Colaba area, Leopold's and Mondegar. Both full with backpackers, groups of locals and couples of lovers. The second had a jukebox. On my first time there I sat close to it, but I hadn't noticed it. while enjoying my beer I saw some coins on the tables were some locals were eating and chatting freely in that mixture of Hindi and English. With curiosity, i asked them where were the coins from, I had never seen them. they point out to the jukebox. A jukebox?
a minute later one of them gets up in its direction. And I'm suddenly enjoying my beer with Aerosmith, Guns 'n' Roses and Pearl Jam rocking the place. I felt like in home.
Once in Mumbai, I had only met Tommy and his intentions were far away from going to the concert. Going alone back in Spain would have not been a problem. I would know a cheap way to get to the concert. I would be secure, most important, I would feel secure. I would be able to go to the concert felling free to do so. Here I felt I needed someone else in such a city like Mumbai. And I wasn't willing to pay all the expenses of transportation by myself.
I must admit I wasn't fond on going to see Iron Maiden, I was keen on checking out Mumbai youngsters dancing and jumping to the beat of hard rock. So far I had only seen them dance Bollywood music or foreign music like Shakira, Ricky Martin or Reggeaton.
But Mumbai wasn't the India I had seen so far. It was a different India, India's future? I hope not.
Two bars were key to see in the Colaba area, Leopold's and Mondegar. Both full with backpackers, groups of locals and couples of lovers. The second had a jukebox. On my first time there I sat close to it, but I hadn't noticed it. while enjoying my beer I saw some coins on the tables were some locals were eating and chatting freely in that mixture of Hindi and English. With curiosity, i asked them where were the coins from, I had never seen them. they point out to the jukebox. A jukebox?
a minute later one of them gets up in its direction. And I'm suddenly enjoying my beer with Aerosmith, Guns 'n' Roses and Pearl Jam rocking the place. I felt like in home.
Following a book
Tourism with Tommy was really helpful. He had already been in Mumbai and so he knew what he wanted to see and showed me in the way some interesting places worth visiting. Not to mention how handy it was for my economy to share expenses. Not only the room, but taxis.
Among those places to visit where some places mentioned on the Shantaram book. The story of an Australian guy who had been in prison in Australia for robbery, escaped and lived in India for 10 years. A film is being made with Johnny Depp as the main character.
On his arrival to Mumbai, he stayed at the India Guest House, just below the hotel I was staying at with Tommy, and where I would end up staying for 300 Rs. a night. A shit hole. A bed and a square meter space was the only thing available. The upper parts of the walls where opened to the contiguous rooms. Music, coughing, whispering, the pass of pages while you read, sex, everything was heard. There was no privacy. But when you stepped into the hall, there was no sense of lack of privacy. Everyone acted as if the walls were of concrete and soundproof.
Leopold, a bar where the Shantaram guy, Gregory David Roberts, used to go, and that apparently, still goes, was second on scene. It was been repainted to Tommy's displeasure. The charm was lost. That charm wrecked old places have, with its usual costumers, creating an atmosphere of nostalgia of old times that will disappear the moment you step out in the bustling city. I went there almost every night. It was a good place to know new people as you were seated where available. If you occupied a table alone, it didn't matter, it would be fitted with other totally alien costumers.
Another of the places that appeared in the book, and that, of course, we visited, was a restaurant with a hanged photo of Madonna in the restaurant. Tommy just wanted to seat there while having a Lassi. Ok then.
And so, as if when in Paris taking a glimpse at the places that had appeared in Dan Brown's "The Da Vinci Code", here, we were doing the same with Shantaram. And I hadn't even read it. Yet.
Among those places to visit where some places mentioned on the Shantaram book. The story of an Australian guy who had been in prison in Australia for robbery, escaped and lived in India for 10 years. A film is being made with Johnny Depp as the main character.
On his arrival to Mumbai, he stayed at the India Guest House, just below the hotel I was staying at with Tommy, and where I would end up staying for 300 Rs. a night. A shit hole. A bed and a square meter space was the only thing available. The upper parts of the walls where opened to the contiguous rooms. Music, coughing, whispering, the pass of pages while you read, sex, everything was heard. There was no privacy. But when you stepped into the hall, there was no sense of lack of privacy. Everyone acted as if the walls were of concrete and soundproof.
Leopold, a bar where the Shantaram guy, Gregory David Roberts, used to go, and that apparently, still goes, was second on scene. It was been repainted to Tommy's displeasure. The charm was lost. That charm wrecked old places have, with its usual costumers, creating an atmosphere of nostalgia of old times that will disappear the moment you step out in the bustling city. I went there almost every night. It was a good place to know new people as you were seated where available. If you occupied a table alone, it didn't matter, it would be fitted with other totally alien costumers.
Another of the places that appeared in the book, and that, of course, we visited, was a restaurant with a hanged photo of Madonna in the restaurant. Tommy just wanted to seat there while having a Lassi. Ok then.
And so, as if when in Paris taking a glimpse at the places that had appeared in Dan Brown's "The Da Vinci Code", here, we were doing the same with Shantaram. And I hadn't even read it. Yet.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
City of strugglers
A cold journey on train before Mumbai was the least I needed. Our train was stopping about 20 km from were I wanted to stay, and yes, it was stopping in the city. A huge city. As I learn later on, a city of strugglers. People not only struggle to survive everyday in the city, the slums, their works, their love lives, they first have to struggle to get in. I had to struggle to get in.
I was trying to know what to do with two Italian girls I had met in the train. Well, women. Whether to try get another train or get a taxi. Tommy came in our rescue. He not only saved us from not knowing what to do, but he saved me from having to search endlessly through the busy streets of Mumbai south in search of a cheap room.
He first sorted out a taxi for a very good price for the four of us. Then we shared a room at Sea Shore Hotel where he had been 2 years before. Thanks to that, we had what we thought, a discount.
Sea Shore Hotel was at the fourth storey of a building in Colaba, in south Mumbai. Most tourists stay in this area. The storey underneath was another guest house where the hero of the book Shantaram stayed at when he got to Mumbai for the first time. I haven't read the book yet, but for what I heard, he also had to struggle in the Indian version of the US. People come here to see their dreams come true.
I was trying to know what to do with two Italian girls I had met in the train. Well, women. Whether to try get another train or get a taxi. Tommy came in our rescue. He not only saved us from not knowing what to do, but he saved me from having to search endlessly through the busy streets of Mumbai south in search of a cheap room.
He first sorted out a taxi for a very good price for the four of us. Then we shared a room at Sea Shore Hotel where he had been 2 years before. Thanks to that, we had what we thought, a discount.
Sea Shore Hotel was at the fourth storey of a building in Colaba, in south Mumbai. Most tourists stay in this area. The storey underneath was another guest house where the hero of the book Shantaram stayed at when he got to Mumbai for the first time. I haven't read the book yet, but for what I heard, he also had to struggle in the Indian version of the US. People come here to see their dreams come true.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
And Kudle was the last
Again my trousers got wet while loosing a flip-flop, hug Gill and Matt goodbye and get my huge rucksack out of the moving boat that had taken me from Paradise beach to Kudle beach for 50 Rs.
I entered the first guest house to check for a room to see a smiley face looking straight at me. I know him, I think. I know I know him, but from where? It didn't matter, it was a friendly face. I should act as if I knew who he was. It didn't come out very well. Michael, an Israeli who was with him noticed my confusion and confessed me later on how lost I looked when he was talking to me. However, I placed the guy a minute later, in Diu! It was Roy, though his name I would know later on. I don't think I ever learned his name before that. Always with his guitar, never singing.
I used Kudle beach to shanti, shanti, even a bit more. My last outburst still worried me, and for what came ahead I had to be relaxed. I wrote, read and run. Walked along the beach several times to realize the amount of wildlife wight in the shore, under our noses. Tiny crabs everywhere weren't a novelty anymore. Crabs in beautiful snail shells were something else. One of them was in an orange and white coloured shell like if being a relative from the clown fish.
With low tide, ponds of salty water were created within the rocks and nice little fish were stuck in there. If you stayed long enough, fish be encouraged to go clean your feet, tickling you on the way.
Along the beach, from time to time, you could see stars shaped on the sand. I saw a crow eating a starfish. I had to see one as well, though I wasn't planning to eat it. On the next sight of a star shaped on the sand, I started digging to find a blueish starfish. After having it a while with me I returned it back to the sea. Couldn't keep it I guess.
While collecting shells, you could see also little rays that came very close to the shore helped with every wave. They got scared at any little movement and disappeared straight away in the light brown sea.
But Kudle beach was to surprise again, in another way. Out of nowhere, on my last day, Jim stepped into my guest house. He had just arrived that morning.
All good sensations before a busy Mumbai.
I entered the first guest house to check for a room to see a smiley face looking straight at me. I know him, I think. I know I know him, but from where? It didn't matter, it was a friendly face. I should act as if I knew who he was. It didn't come out very well. Michael, an Israeli who was with him noticed my confusion and confessed me later on how lost I looked when he was talking to me. However, I placed the guy a minute later, in Diu! It was Roy, though his name I would know later on. I don't think I ever learned his name before that. Always with his guitar, never singing.
I used Kudle beach to shanti, shanti, even a bit more. My last outburst still worried me, and for what came ahead I had to be relaxed. I wrote, read and run. Walked along the beach several times to realize the amount of wildlife wight in the shore, under our noses. Tiny crabs everywhere weren't a novelty anymore. Crabs in beautiful snail shells were something else. One of them was in an orange and white coloured shell like if being a relative from the clown fish.
With low tide, ponds of salty water were created within the rocks and nice little fish were stuck in there. If you stayed long enough, fish be encouraged to go clean your feet, tickling you on the way.
Along the beach, from time to time, you could see stars shaped on the sand. I saw a crow eating a starfish. I had to see one as well, though I wasn't planning to eat it. On the next sight of a star shaped on the sand, I started digging to find a blueish starfish. After having it a while with me I returned it back to the sea. Couldn't keep it I guess.
While collecting shells, you could see also little rays that came very close to the shore helped with every wave. They got scared at any little movement and disappeared straight away in the light brown sea.
But Kudle beach was to surprise again, in another way. Out of nowhere, on my last day, Jim stepped into my guest house. He had just arrived that morning.
All good sensations before a busy Mumbai.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Adventurous mood
I splashed in the water on getting out of the boat that had taken me from Om beach to Paradise beach after 2 days at Om. My trousers got wet. Matt and Gill were at the beach. I was supposed to share a room with them, and didn't know where the hell where they. Fortunately, it turned out easy.
The rest of the day consisted in ordering food and drinks, that would take literally an hour to get, while getting stoned. We slept.
On the next morning Carro and Kobi showed up to move to Paradise as well. A weird guy with dreads and dressed in purple, probably Italian, greeted us good morning. Some strange shouting projected from his throat every time he had a taste of his non-stopping shylums. Or was it when he passed it? Whatever.
On our useless day before, I had agreed with Matt to go exploring the mountainous surroundings of Paradise. But we forgot all about it, and I spent my morning playing Carom (Indian pool) and Shithead (popular card game between travelers in India). When we remembered we didn't even look at the watch and we went for it after I finished my second chess game with Kobi.
Making it easy following the paths created wasn't fun or challenging, we wanted some adventure, though, avoiding snakes. A wobbling drunk Matt lead the way most of the time until we finally got to a road that would take us to a village. We bought some snacks. People in the village seemed nice and happy, and the surrounding was very peaceful.
Not knowing what time it was, turned out to be a handicap. I had left my cell phone at the room, which not only served to show me what time it was, but I could call in India, and it was my alarm clock and torch. We decided to go back based on the sun's positionbut we would take another road to go back.
Our adventurous mood had not vanished yet. We got to some cliffs and instead of going back, we decided to go along them to see if could get to the beach, which we saw on the distance. Too dangerous, I at least still had a sense of danger. Matt wanted to keep on that way. I saw ourselves ending up swimming to get to the beach. And that is the nice version. Crashing our heads to the rocks below also came in mind.
Sun was already fusing with the misty horizon and going back to our original track was equally dangerous. Night would fall on us and we didn't really know how we had got there as we hadn't followed the established path.
This time I took the lead and headed across camp up the mountain until what seemed to be a path cried our attention. There was no time to loose or think if that would really get us to our destination. A quick decision had to be made, no second thoughts allowed. We took it.
The path was really narrow entering into the woods a couple of meter from the cliffs we had tried before. Which meant, we were higher. A bad step could be crucial. At some points it really went along the edge of the cliffs, were looking down wasn't appealing at all. On occasions it just seemed to disappear blocked by bushes and darkness. However, it seemed to carry us on the right way.
The only thing we had to do was hurry up, but terrain wasn't easy. Flip-flops decorated my feet and constantly grabbing to trees was the only way not to fall into the bushy darkness that led to the sea from my constant slipping. Suddenly, the path divided into two, or that is what I thought. Which direction to go? We were inland enough for no light getting through the dense thick trees.
We went on one direction but a big bush blocked the way and it was too dark to see beyond it. Went for the other alternative just to blocked by a huge tree. After it, there was nowhere to head. It couldn't be true. The path couldn't fail us at that point. We were lost
No we weren't. That path had to lead somewhere and if not we would do so. Went again for the first choice and crawled under the bush. The path did keep on, but it got more and more difficult to follow. We made it. A photograph with Matt's camera had to be taken to celebrate our victory. We would worry about all the scratches the following day.
The rest of the day consisted in ordering food and drinks, that would take literally an hour to get, while getting stoned. We slept.
On the next morning Carro and Kobi showed up to move to Paradise as well. A weird guy with dreads and dressed in purple, probably Italian, greeted us good morning. Some strange shouting projected from his throat every time he had a taste of his non-stopping shylums. Or was it when he passed it? Whatever.
On our useless day before, I had agreed with Matt to go exploring the mountainous surroundings of Paradise. But we forgot all about it, and I spent my morning playing Carom (Indian pool) and Shithead (popular card game between travelers in India). When we remembered we didn't even look at the watch and we went for it after I finished my second chess game with Kobi.
Making it easy following the paths created wasn't fun or challenging, we wanted some adventure, though, avoiding snakes. A wobbling drunk Matt lead the way most of the time until we finally got to a road that would take us to a village. We bought some snacks. People in the village seemed nice and happy, and the surrounding was very peaceful.
Not knowing what time it was, turned out to be a handicap. I had left my cell phone at the room, which not only served to show me what time it was, but I could call in India, and it was my alarm clock and torch. We decided to go back based on the sun's positionbut we would take another road to go back.
Our adventurous mood had not vanished yet. We got to some cliffs and instead of going back, we decided to go along them to see if could get to the beach, which we saw on the distance. Too dangerous, I at least still had a sense of danger. Matt wanted to keep on that way. I saw ourselves ending up swimming to get to the beach. And that is the nice version. Crashing our heads to the rocks below also came in mind.
Sun was already fusing with the misty horizon and going back to our original track was equally dangerous. Night would fall on us and we didn't really know how we had got there as we hadn't followed the established path.
This time I took the lead and headed across camp up the mountain until what seemed to be a path cried our attention. There was no time to loose or think if that would really get us to our destination. A quick decision had to be made, no second thoughts allowed. We took it.
The path was really narrow entering into the woods a couple of meter from the cliffs we had tried before. Which meant, we were higher. A bad step could be crucial. At some points it really went along the edge of the cliffs, were looking down wasn't appealing at all. On occasions it just seemed to disappear blocked by bushes and darkness. However, it seemed to carry us on the right way.
The only thing we had to do was hurry up, but terrain wasn't easy. Flip-flops decorated my feet and constantly grabbing to trees was the only way not to fall into the bushy darkness that led to the sea from my constant slipping. Suddenly, the path divided into two, or that is what I thought. Which direction to go? We were inland enough for no light getting through the dense thick trees.
We went on one direction but a big bush blocked the way and it was too dark to see beyond it. Went for the other alternative just to blocked by a huge tree. After it, there was nowhere to head. It couldn't be true. The path couldn't fail us at that point. We were lost
No we weren't. That path had to lead somewhere and if not we would do so. Went again for the first choice and crawled under the bush. The path did keep on, but it got more and more difficult to follow. We made it. A photograph with Matt's camera had to be taken to celebrate our victory. We would worry about all the scratches the following day.
Extreme Frisbee
After a morning in Gokarna town taking photos and sorting out the train to Mumbai, I got to Om beach to see Matt and his friends playing what they called "Extreme Frisbee". In plain words, it was something like rugby, without the inconvenience of having to throw the pink plate backwards.
On one of runs on the right wing I was thrown, or better said, smashed to the hard sand floor tackled by Matt. And to everyones' attention, he is not a small guy. I would even say he is twice my size. Fortunately, 7 years of intermittent judo helped absorb the shock.
This day was complete, not only had I done some sport, if we can call extreme Frisbee a sport, but I had taken pictures in the town, settled my leaving date with a train ticket, and took advantage of a nice sunset with some clouds, to vary from the monotonous Indian sunsets, to take some more pics.
But the night would still give me another surprise, not as good in this case. I lost 300 Rs. at poker. Not only I never play poker, but I never bet money on card games, so it was totally a stupid thing to do. And so, I will not play again in such conditions.
A short swim completed the day and only one thing would have done it entirely perfect, and would have been spotting spotting some dolphins.
On one of runs on the right wing I was thrown, or better said, smashed to the hard sand floor tackled by Matt. And to everyones' attention, he is not a small guy. I would even say he is twice my size. Fortunately, 7 years of intermittent judo helped absorb the shock.
This day was complete, not only had I done some sport, if we can call extreme Frisbee a sport, but I had taken pictures in the town, settled my leaving date with a train ticket, and took advantage of a nice sunset with some clouds, to vary from the monotonous Indian sunsets, to take some more pics.
But the night would still give me another surprise, not as good in this case. I lost 300 Rs. at poker. Not only I never play poker, but I never bet money on card games, so it was totally a stupid thing to do. And so, I will not play again in such conditions.
A short swim completed the day and only one thing would have done it entirely perfect, and would have been spotting spotting some dolphins.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Beaching
Five beaches form Gokarna. Gokarna beach, which almost anyone goes to because it's full of Indian tourists; Om beach, of which it's said to have the form of an Om sign, and the first I visited; Paradise beach, full of hippies, where a bonfire would light every night with musicians and juggling of different kinds; Moon beach, to where I did not go; and Kudlee beach, the closest to Gokarna, and where I went completely on my own.
By the way, apparently, Paradise beach was famous for being a nudist beach, but news is that Indian tourists heard about hot naked Swedish girls, and they all went away. Damned Indians! I missed them.
Beaching is just a term to say that I was on the beach, but I actually did not all in the 7 days I was there. However, I enjoyed the beach in other ways.
By the way, apparently, Paradise beach was famous for being a nudist beach, but news is that Indian tourists heard about hot naked Swedish girls, and they all went away. Damned Indians! I missed them.
Beaching is just a term to say that I was on the beach, but I actually did not all in the 7 days I was there. However, I enjoyed the beach in other ways.
Outburst
Unexpectedly, on our way to Gokarna, the sleeper bus made a halt were we would have to get down and wait for another bus. Noone had told us this, and people weren't happy about it.
Did I had enough of India? I don't think so, but I exploded in anger towards the situation. Forced the bus to stay, not allowing the bus controller to get my bag out. This only happened when the bus driver finally decided to leave, and so, we had no choice.
My outrage surprised me. I wasn't prepared for it. And when a rickshaw driver stood staring at me, I was everything but nice, until the point some foreigner criticized my attitude describing it as disgusting. And it sure was.
I've been looking for an answer to such behavior. The only explanation I can think of is that all occurred due to accumulated tension from my last week with Carro. I must insist, she is a nice girl, as I described her, angel disguised as a demon, but also point out her annoying manners when asking for things as if she had the right to demand whatever she pleased. Also, sometimes a contradictory girl.
However, this is just an excuse I reckon.
Did I had enough of India? I don't think so, but I exploded in anger towards the situation. Forced the bus to stay, not allowing the bus controller to get my bag out. This only happened when the bus driver finally decided to leave, and so, we had no choice.
My outrage surprised me. I wasn't prepared for it. And when a rickshaw driver stood staring at me, I was everything but nice, until the point some foreigner criticized my attitude describing it as disgusting. And it sure was.
I've been looking for an answer to such behavior. The only explanation I can think of is that all occurred due to accumulated tension from my last week with Carro. I must insist, she is a nice girl, as I described her, angel disguised as a demon, but also point out her annoying manners when asking for things as if she had the right to demand whatever she pleased. Also, sometimes a contradictory girl.
However, this is just an excuse I reckon.
And back to friends
Not feeling like going north yet, I went to Gokarna for some more sun and beach. Matt said he was there, but I wasn't sure whether he was still there or he had left. Matt and Gillian were supposed to be at a 3 day party, and I didn't know if they where going back to Gokarna after that, and the only thing I knew for sure was that Claire was in Mumbai.
Carro wasn't sure on what to do, and I was hoping to go to Gokarna on my own. She came. And brought Kobi with her, an Israeli with no Israeli accent she had met our last day in Hampi. I liked the guy, and he would turn out to be very useful.
When I got to Om beach I found out Matt was still around and by then I already knew Gill and Matt were there as well. It was nice to have them around in a less partying atmosphere.
Once in Om beach I really felt like having a place for myself and so Carro ended up sharing a room with Kobi. I was at the other side of the beach and regained the sensation of traveling alone.
Carro wasn't sure on what to do, and I was hoping to go to Gokarna on my own. She came. And brought Kobi with her, an Israeli with no Israeli accent she had met our last day in Hampi. I liked the guy, and he would turn out to be very useful.
When I got to Om beach I found out Matt was still around and by then I already knew Gill and Matt were there as well. It was nice to have them around in a less partying atmosphere.
Once in Om beach I really felt like having a place for myself and so Carro ended up sharing a room with Kobi. I was at the other side of the beach and regained the sensation of traveling alone.
575 steps
Though I wanted to leave before 7 days, I also wanted to see the famous sunset from the monkey temple. Days passed and I didn't seem to be motivated enough to hire a bicycle and go for it. It wasn't until my last day that I went the cycling, forced by the bus ticket I had already bought.
My last attempt of cycling, back in Diu, had not been pleasant. My knee could not stand the pressure on going to the beach, which was like 5 Km away from town, and Xavi had to ride it back while I went on a moped with Jim.
On this occasion, my knee lasted all day until the 575 steps. To get to a magnificent view of the surroundings you had to be high up in the rocks, and the best place to be was at the monkey temple. 575 steps would get you there, not without taking your breath first. However, the view provided was far more than impressive.
Though everyone goes there to see the sunset, the light an hour before amused me much more. It was then when total equilibrium between colors and forms existed and, so, when sensations where at its peak. Sunset afterwards was a perfect aftermeal just to relax and go back.
The pain going on my knees going down the steps was terrible, but I had to get back before total darkness. Without a proper torch, no reflector, and Indian driving ways, it was too dangerous to cycle in the night. Moonlight, almost full, helped, but wasn't enough. And mosquitoes didn't do the ride much pleasant. Finally, I had to walk the bike as the knee couldn't take it no more and it was too dark to ride anyway. Safely home, I could only rest.
My last attempt of cycling, back in Diu, had not been pleasant. My knee could not stand the pressure on going to the beach, which was like 5 Km away from town, and Xavi had to ride it back while I went on a moped with Jim.
On this occasion, my knee lasted all day until the 575 steps. To get to a magnificent view of the surroundings you had to be high up in the rocks, and the best place to be was at the monkey temple. 575 steps would get you there, not without taking your breath first. However, the view provided was far more than impressive.
Though everyone goes there to see the sunset, the light an hour before amused me much more. It was then when total equilibrium between colors and forms existed and, so, when sensations where at its peak. Sunset afterwards was a perfect aftermeal just to relax and go back.
The pain going on my knees going down the steps was terrible, but I had to get back before total darkness. Without a proper torch, no reflector, and Indian driving ways, it was too dangerous to cycle in the night. Moonlight, almost full, helped, but wasn't enough. And mosquitoes didn't do the ride much pleasant. Finally, I had to walk the bike as the knee couldn't take it no more and it was too dark to ride anyway. Safely home, I could only rest.
Templing
I said Hampi was about 5 things. Till now I've mentioned 4, but I'm missing the most important. The small town of Hampi is situated in the middle of hundreds of ancient Jain temples.
The architecture perfectly combines with the rocky formations, as if the rocks had eroded to form beautiful figures Ganesh, Shiva and company. You can spend hours and even days sightseeing the temples, or as everybody says, "templing".
They never seem to finish and sometimes you have to go a long way. Though I only dedicated one day to this activity, I heard that the most impressive and free temples to visit are nearby the touristy area. Without a doubt, worth taking a look.
At the end, all this perfect combination provide a sensation of peace and harmony that makes it difficult to leave the place. However, I managed to stay only for week, but I assure you it's possible to just lay back and stay forever.
The architecture perfectly combines with the rocky formations, as if the rocks had eroded to form beautiful figures Ganesh, Shiva and company. You can spend hours and even days sightseeing the temples, or as everybody says, "templing".
They never seem to finish and sometimes you have to go a long way. Though I only dedicated one day to this activity, I heard that the most impressive and free temples to visit are nearby the touristy area. Without a doubt, worth taking a look.
At the end, all this perfect combination provide a sensation of peace and harmony that makes it difficult to leave the place. However, I managed to stay only for week, but I assure you it's possible to just lay back and stay forever.
Ricefields and Banana plantations
Hampi is about 5 things. Overall, shanti, shanti. Once you have that, the rest will come sooner or later. Not that there's nothing to do, but it's very hard to do something. Or in other words, it's very easy to let time pass away without a pinch of movement. So when you wake up in the morning active enough to think on doing something, and an early joint in the way, don't get it, do not succumb to it. If you reach that point, you'll be able to wonder the surroundings full of strange rock formations, ideal for climbing, apparently.
I met Carlos who had been in Hampi for almost 4 months doing precisely that, climbing. He had rescued a little mangy dog which he called Kingfi, for King Fisher, India's most popular beer. He was planning to take the dog to Spain, though he needed an identifier chip and a passport for the animal. A passport? Can't tell if he made it. He was also sharing room and other intimacies with a beautiful Finnish girl called Maria, and whom I would briefly see in Gokarna later on.
There is also what everyone calls "The Lake", which is nothing more than a dam. Nice, but not impressive at all, unless you want to feel the excitement of throwing yourself from a 20 meter high rock.
Rock formations look like if a kid were making mountains out of balls of wet sand. Like piled in total disorder, however, providing an orderly atmosphere. Strangely, every rock seems to be in its right place, to perfectly combine with the green surrounding of rice fields and banana plantations that extend until stopped by the orange rocks. Green and orange seem to fuse in one only purple color at sunset when seen from the monkey temple.
Something beautiful!
I met Carlos who had been in Hampi for almost 4 months doing precisely that, climbing. He had rescued a little mangy dog which he called Kingfi, for King Fisher, India's most popular beer. He was planning to take the dog to Spain, though he needed an identifier chip and a passport for the animal. A passport? Can't tell if he made it. He was also sharing room and other intimacies with a beautiful Finnish girl called Maria, and whom I would briefly see in Gokarna later on.
There is also what everyone calls "The Lake", which is nothing more than a dam. Nice, but not impressive at all, unless you want to feel the excitement of throwing yourself from a 20 meter high rock.
Rock formations look like if a kid were making mountains out of balls of wet sand. Like piled in total disorder, however, providing an orderly atmosphere. Strangely, every rock seems to be in its right place, to perfectly combine with the green surrounding of rice fields and banana plantations that extend until stopped by the orange rocks. Green and orange seem to fuse in one only purple color at sunset when seen from the monkey temple.
Something beautiful!
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