It’s Sunday morning – maybe my favorite time of week since I can usually drink as much coffee, do as many crossword puzzles, read as many books and magazines, and sleep as many hours as I want. This particular a.m., I’ve been reading Smithsonian and National Geographic magazines from the past few months (thanks, Aunt Susie and Uncle Jack) and drinking delicious Columbian coffee (thanks, Mom and Dad). I’ve learned that Western lowland gorillas (which inhabit valleys and swamps in Congo and Rwanda) often have red hair sprouting from their scalps (and I thought my ancestors were from Scotland), that Polish mountaineers are the very epitome of bad-ass-ness (it’s not enough for them to conquer the world’s highest peaks – they do it in wintertime), and that Andrew Lloyd Webber may do a musical version of The Master and Margarita (I enjoyed Cats and Phantom as much as the next girl, but I’m not sure how I feel about one of the best books I’ve read in Kyrgyzstan being turned into a song-and-dance spectacle. Also, how crazy are Lloyd Webber’s eyebrows? Like giant sinewy caterpillars, they are.). I also read about ancient cave art in India, which reminded me that I have neglected to finish my India Chronicles. I believe I left off at the close of our time in Mumbai, which brings us to the Goa/Hampi section of the trip:
When you think about religion in India, you probably think about bindis and Buddha and flowers and temples and a veritable pantheon of Gods. This is, on the whole, a correct assumption…unless you’re in Goa, the tiny former Portuguese colony on the coast of the Indian ocean. Visiting here after Mumbai felt almost like taking a trip to Latin or South America – the Spanish colonial architecture in the steamy, jungle-like environment makes Panaji and Old Goa seem more like towns in Costa Rica or Brazil. Goa actually didn’t become part of the modern Indian state until 1961, fourteen years after independence from the British, and retains a character very distinct from that of other Indian states. Here, for example, you’ll find a significant population of Catholics and discover the area’s culinary knack for seafood dishes. In Old Goa, the now mostly uninhabited former capital, stands a cluster of striking basilicas, monasteries, and churches. What’s believed to be the largest church in Asia is here. And like their European counterparts, these holy buildings are just as impressive inside as out, teeming with intricate carvings and paintings meant to inspire piety and humility. Inside one sanctuary, though, I was sharply reminded that I was in what was considered a “heathen” land: at the feet of one of the life-sized statues of famed Catholic proselytizers lay a severed, turbaned head, a not-so-subtle reminder of the uglier aspects of the colonizers’ work.
After a couple of easy days in the Goan cities, we boarded what I would come to think as the demon bus to Hampi. In order to reach the other-worldly capital of the Vijayanagar Hindu empire, we had to endure an overnight, 12-hour journey perched atop narrow, bunk-bed-like berths. Remember the night bus from Harry Potter? It was pretty much like that. As the double-decker bus bulleted down the bumpy roads of the Indian Interior, swaying this way and that, its crew shouted and upbraided one another like a pack of swarthy sailors. This, coupled with the increasingly nippy temperature, made sleep the fountain of youth to my Fernando de Soto.
Haggard and bleary-eyed, we finally made it to Hampi and were promptly wrangled by an enterprising young guide named Patrick to stay at his guesthouse. As we enjoyed yet another delicious Indian meal in the open-air rooftop restaurant, Patrick also managed to convince us to take him on as a guide for our 2 ½ days there. His brother owned a rickshaw and would drive us everywhere we needed to go. Taking Patrick up on his offer ended up being an excellent decision – the ruins of the bazaar, temples, and royal center cover some 20 square kilometers of boulder-strewn, monkey-populated terrain. As a bonus, our rickshaw appeared to be the only one in the area equipped with an impressive sound system…thus all of my memories of the awe-inspiring place are backed by a soundtrack of Indian techno-hip-hop (yet another example of the fantastic Indian mish-mashedness).
The city of Vijayanagar was founded in 1336 and, until it was sacked by a confederacy of sultanates from the surrounding Deccan plateau in 1565, served as a center of international commerce and culture. As you’ll see in the pictures, the place is full of incredible temples and buildings, all made of stone carved to represent various deities and myths from the Hindu canon. The Vittala temple was particularly impressive with its “musical” columns (they make tonal murmurs when tapped) and large stone chariot at its entrance. In the Royal Center stand the Lotus Mahal (a really nice fusion of Hindu and Islamic architectural styles with its curved, lotus-shaped domed roof) and the great elephant stables (at these, I couldn’t help but muse that Thomas Jefferson would’ve adored the symmetric diversity of the domes).
One of the best parts about Hampi was that, despite its designation as a UNESCO World Heritage site, it allowed visitors to climb all over the place – into temples, up stairways that now lead to nowhere, down into underground passages, and around the countless buildings that never got tiresome. Patrick led us up several craggy hills (one proved to be more of a monkey-scamper than a climb; I did it barefoot, as Rainbows – though beloved by Wahoos and Californians – aren’t known for their traction). One climb he reserved for the very early morning. As we watched the sun rise over the landscape of precariously balanced rocks (the work of an odd kind of erosion), we fed bananas to the monkeys who poured out of one of the temple towers and marveled at our good fortune of being able to take such a trip.
After another bus trip of doom, we headed to Palolem, one of the Edens dotting the Goan coast, to spend our last few days in India lolling about on the beach alongside fishermen, tourists, and – this was India, after all – holy cows. After five glorious days laying on the sand, swimming in the Arabian sea, drinking mojitos, and eating fish caught mere hours before consumption, we sadly made our way to the airport. I can’t say that the 97 degree temperature drop from the tarmac in Mumbai to the airfield in Almaty was particularly welcome.
But India wasn’t quite finished with us just yet…some kind of parasite seemed to have feasted upon our feet in Palolem and so I spent the next month literally itching to go back.
And so concludes this account of a trek to India. Hope you’ve enjoyed the ride.
Terri
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