Hampi

This weekend we went to Hampi (pronounced either ‘hawmpy’ or ‘humpy’ depending on who you talk to, so my guess is the true pronunciation is somewhere in between the two). Heather and I and 5 others boarded the South Central Railway at 9 pm Friday night and headed south. Trying to estimate traveling time in India by looking at the distance on a map can be quite deceptive. The distance between Hyderabad and Hampi is around 300 miles. That’s less than the distance between S.F. and L.A. To cover these 300 miles it is a 12 hour train ride. They don’t have an interstate highway system like we do in the States so driving a long distance takes a ridiculously long time. And the railways aren’t much different. Although India has a very extensive system of railroads that can get you just about anywhere in the country, they have, as with most things in India, gone for quantity, not quality. So this extensive railway system is serviced mostly by rusty dilapidated trains, pulled by clunky, old, first-generation diesel engines along rusty dilapidated tracks. Because everything is so old and questionably maintained, the trains cannot travel faster than 30 or 40 miles an hour, even in wide open flatlands.

Our tickets were ‘sleeper class’ which was the best class you could get on this line. I had never ridden in a sleeper car anywhere. I’ve always seen them in the movies and imagined myself strolling down the carpeted aisle of a gently rolling train past well dressed conductors to my semi private berth where I would drift off to sleep while watching the water colored sunset swirl past the window outside, like in Strangers on a Train or Some Like it Hot.

Instead I found myself desperately trying to find someone to help us figure out the dewey decimal system berth numbers, shimmying sideways down a metal-floored rusty tin can as it bucked unpredictably throwing me randomly into the creaky, cramped bunks. It was more like Das Boot or The Enemy Below. On the up-side, it only took about 5 or 6 hours for my olfactory senses to acclimate to the pungent smell of formaldehyde which seems to be the main ingredient in all industrial cleaning products in India.

There have been a lot of studies done in the last few years about the effects of too many antibacterials being used in the U.S. They say all these soaps and dishwashing liquids are creating resistant strains of bacteria and viruses. The sponsors of these studies will be glad to know that rather than kill the germs here, the Indians have decided to go in completely the other direction and preserve them using formaldehyde on every floor, countertop, and fold-out train bed.

After convincing one of the slack-jawed conductors to stop staring at us and lead us to our beds, we stowed our luggage, stuffed ourselves into our tiny beds and let the soothing sounds of other passengers gaseous expulsions lull us to sleep.

I may have slept for a total of 5 hours that night. But poor Heather slept a total of about 2 hours. Her bunk was not only cramped, but since it was made by lowering the backs of two seats that were facing each other, it had a wonderful ridge that ran straight across the middle. No matter how she tossed and turned it was either stabbing her in the pelvis or the spine. I’m guessing she got more sleep when it was in her pelvis.

Just before dawn I was awakened by the feeling of sweat dripping down my face. The car we were in was an A/C car, but it is turned off whenever the train is standing still or needs more power to climb a hill. As I awoke I wasn’t sure how long we’d been standing still, but it must have been a long time because it was absolutely sweltering. After a few more minutes at a stand still and a few more degrees rise in temperature, we began to slowly creep forward. The A/C still didn’t come on. The sun was beginning to rise now and the rapidly rising temperature was accompanied by the sounds of the train’s metal walls heating up and expanding. The train belched and groaned, I sweated, and we crawled through the morning corn fields for about an hour more before I decided to just give it up and get out of bed.

The sun was well into the sky but I couldn’t tell it inside the train because the windows were either chipped, filthy, or both. I made my way down the compartment to the more open area between us and the next car. There was an open door there and I could watch the countryside roll by as I stood in the fresh air. This was by far the best part of the ride. The first thing I saw was the fluorescent beetle you see in this picture. Then, looking out, I watched corn fields, rice patties, endless herds of goats, water buffalo, and one tiny village after another. At one point I saw what looked to be a nuclear power plant being built out in the middle of nowhere. I’m glad I won’t be around when they try to fire that thing up for the first time.

A few hours later we pulled into our station, took some rickshaws to the hotel, dropped off our bags, and headed out to the ruins.

I learned three things during this trip I’d like to share with you:
1. Indian train beds are very small.
2. I don’t really care for touring ruins.
3. Monkeys are even cooler in person than they are on TV.

Hampi is a series of cities built sometime in the early 1500s and spread out over nine square miles. Now, don’t get me wrong, I was glad we went and we got some great pictures of some very beautiful things, but I found myself very bored after the first 30 minutes. I would have been more interested in how these people danced or what their music sounded like. As for architecture, a few of their temples were still standing, but everything else was made out of wood, and was burned to the ground back when the Moors invaded.

Our tour guide, whose name I have forgotten, was a short, round man, with barely intelligible English, and a bad attitude. Looking back to when Heather and I went to Golconda Fort the tour guides were very pushy and became indignant when we finally convinced them we didn’t want a guide. This guy was no different. At our first stop, the giant stone Ganesh, he yelled at a group of school kids who were part of another tour group because they were being too loud. This was the last time he would yell at anyone other than us.
“Please listen! This is very important information I am trying to tell you, here!”

“You will now have five minutes to take pictures!” he would bark after finishing his spiel at each new temple or monument. Some of us would take some pictures and mill around while others would wander off into the surrounding ruins and explore.
As people finally returned to the truck he’d say “You must not take so long. We have no time for this!”

After an hour or two of this I tried to explain to him that we were not in a hurry. “But you will not see everything. Some areas will close at six o’clock.” I tried again to explain that we didn’t care and however far we got by six was fine with us. “No! It is all very important. You must see it all!”
There was no dissuading him, but we did begin to laugh at him when he got irritated with us, so it became a little more fun.

The Hampi Bazaar was originally a huge open market where jewels and precious metals were sold. I’m assuming there were other things sold there as well, but according to our guide it was only “Diamonds and golds”
He also told us that if we looked we would notice that there were no doors or windows on the old stone stalls of the bazaar “Because in those days, no one was robberies.” He told us this several times throughout the day. I guess it was his passive aggressive way of telling us dishonesty was a western import.

Today part of the Hampi Bazaar is again a working marketplace. It’s packed with tiny shops and booths where you can buy just about anything. Ironically the two things I didn’t see in any shops were diamonds or gold. Much to our guide’s chagrin, we spent quite some time at the bazaar, buying knick knacks, and handicrafts. As with everywhere you go here there were a shitload of kids begging for money or trying to sell you postcards and such. Some of them spoke English pretty well and a few of the members of our group spent some time talking with them and handed out our apples and oranges to them. I knew it was only a matter of time before they figured out I was good for climbing on. Sure enough, one of them coaxed Josh into picking her up and then they all wanted see how many of them I could hold on one arm. Anyone who knows me knows I’m not all that fond of kids to begin with so all this isn’t as fun as it might sound to you.
Once the barriers had been broken by the kids a large group of elderly men began to gather around us. Rather than the usual gawking stare, these guys seemed to be pointing at us and discussing something very serious. Then one of them asked me, “What is you weight?” Luckily this isn’t the first time I’ve been asked that here, so I figured out my weight in kilos a long time ago. If I told them in pounds it wouldn’t make any sense to them.
“145 kilograms.” I told them, and waited for a response or comment. But one never came. A few of them nodded and a few of them turned to each other and began talking and gesturing urgently again, but they all just kept staring.
I found the question a little upsetting not because I thought it was a rude question, but because my answer only seemed to spur more discussions and arguments. There seemed to be no point to the question. I wasn’t sure if they planned on making me to wrestle a Bengal Tiger or gigantic monkey. Maybe one of them had an enormous daughter he was trying to marry off. Either way I saw myself in prison or a hospital, so I became a little anxious.
Then one of the men asked me, “What is your age?”
Now it looked like I was definitely being sized up as a potential groom. I wanted to leave. We had to wait for some more of our group to finish buying their hippie wall hangings or hookas or whatever so I just had to sit there with the old guys staring at me and their children climbing on me. No great cage match was announced and no weddings proposed we just stared at one another for a few more minutes until our group was ready and we all headed for the truck.

Our guide hurried us through the rest of the major sites and we got some great pictures at the last stop. The sun was just setting and as you can see in the pictures the light through the columns and on the carvings was amazing. Heather has a great Eye for that sort of thing so most of these shots are hers.

That night we had a decent dinner at the hotel restaurant, a decent nights sleep, and the next day we went back to the ruins, this time without a guide, so we could wander around at our leisure. We scrambled on rocks and shopped at the bazaar some more. We had a great day.

At one of our stops I got to spend some time watching a troop of monkeys. There were about twenty or so, and I found them fascinating. They were eating some type of seeds or fruits up on a rock and getting very frustrated that they couldn’t keep the crows away. I’ve never seen monkeys up close before, but they kick ass just as much as I thought they would. I’m going to see about smuggling one home in my baggage.

As evening approached we went to a restaurant called The Mango Tree. It was just that. A tiny restaurant situated under a HUGE mango tree which sits high above a big brown river. There are two tables inside. All the seating is outside on the ground above the riverbank. It was beautiful. To get to the restaurant you have to walk for about 3 or 4 minutes down a thin winding dirt path which crosses a field and then passes through a grove of banana trees. If there was one reason to go back to Hampi I’d say it was this restaurant. The food wasn’t spectacular, but it didn’t need to be. (Although Sara thought the veg. noodles were the best thing she’s had in India.) About halfway through our meal the wind started to blow HARD. Everyone scrambled inside and got in just as the rain started. It dumped down out of the sky until a few minutes before we were ready to leave. We made it out of the banana grove and back to the hotel with no problems, and had a few hours to kill before our train left.

We killed those few hours rather brutally by watching Rocky III. It’s been a long time since I last watched that film, and I can tell you the one thing missed when I watched it as a kid was the blatant homosexual relationship between Sylvester Stallone and Carl Weathers. If you don’t own a copy, and I’m guessing you don’t, go rent it right this minute. It is worth the $3 Blockbuster charges to see two grown men frolic shirtless in the surf, and get oiled up wearing brightly colored codpieces. For Christ’s sake, there’s one scene where Stallone is wearing short-shorts, a headband, and a cutoff tank top, a la Jamie Lee Curtis in Perfect Ten.

The train ride back was just as nightmarish as the one there, but this time I slept about 2 hours because some fat slob in the bunk across from mine was snoring like something was wrong with him. Then every 2 hours or so he’d get up and turn on the overhead light so he could find his sandals and go to the bathroom. He was your basic run of the mill inconsiderate, fat fuck.
But a mere 12 hours later we were back in Hyderabad. All in all a good weekend.