Mumbai

Mumbai; Bustling metropolis where slum children rub shoulders with millionaires and the polluted sea laps up against Colaba beach under the shadow of skyscrapers. Black and yellow taxis swarm around and shoeshine boys offer to buff you up for 2 rupees. A city where you can stuff yourself on 70 rupee Thalis in one joint and pay about 150 for a small coffee next door.

The gateway to India

Men try to sell adults giant inflatable balloons under India gate whilst shady looking fellows slip from shadow to shadow offering ‘Good marijuana and opium’. Everywhere security is beefed up due to the recent bombings. The Taj-mahal hotel is patrolled by armored trucks whilst guards with machine guns loiter outside Leopold’s cafe (both these places have been subject to terrorist acts in the recent past).

My friend Rachael hit the nail on the head when She described Mumbai as being a little bit like all of India dumped in London. Cosmopolitan yet homily, welcoming yet dangerous, polluted with beautiful sea and harbor views. The homeless wash their hair in the pouring rain whilst Film stars and business men drive by in their air-conditioned luxury cars.

Ideal hotel....hmmm. Really?

I arrived there and threw down my bags in a cheap room with plywood walls. “Ideal Hotel” wasn’t as its name suggested and I soon found myself arguing over the extortionate rate the porter was trying to charge me for my underpants to be washed.

The first thing I needed to do was find an acceptable double room to share with my friend Rachael whom I would be hooking up with the following day. I checked a few out with harbor views but could tell by the suited up guests sipping tea in the lounge that they would a little too flash for my jobless ass.

The Taj Mahal hotel

In the end I inadvertently booked us in a room which is supposedly famous. Gregory David Roberts apparently chronicled his stay in Mumbai, in the opening chapters of his Indian epic Shantaram, whilst dossing in it.

The hotel staff were happy to name drop him as I filled out the requisite forms with my passport and visa details. I finished writing and glanced to the smartly dressed fellow who was stood to my right. I hadn’t noticed him before but he was grinning at me. I grinned back. “Now then.”

“Would you like to be an extra in a Bollywood film?” He asked handing me his card. It read ‘Amjed Khan, Bollystars; Casting agent for foreign models’.

“Err…yeah,” I told him, not quite knowing if it was a windup.

“I’ll pick you up from here at 7Am tomorrow morning. The shooting will finish around six O’clock. You will get breakfast and dinner, transport there and back and your fee for the day will be 500 Rupees.”

“Sounds good,” I told him reaching out a sweaty hand for him to shake.

Mumbai

Anjuna: We promise to pickle your head within the hour

From October Anjuna is a happening hippie haven perched upon a rocky cliff face, overlooking the sea.

This time of year its a ramshackle collection of boarded up huts and closed down restaurants. A few places open, but the stacked up tables in the corner and the plastic sheets over the windows (and the fact your, more often than not, the only customer) distract a little from the ambiance.

When I arrived there was a half arsed market taking place around the bus stand. Everyone’s eyes lit up when the rich westerner stepped off the bus and they all started vying for my attention.

“Come look.” “What is your name?” “Hello Sir, rickshaw?” “You need room?” “Nice shop Sir, come look.” “You buy?”

By the time I’d walked not 20 metres I was getting tired of politely refusing to look at people’s wares. I managed to escape the crowd and quickly picked out a hotel perched upon the cliff edge. The 100 rupees I got knocked off still left me feeling I was paying a little too much though, due to the fact there was blatantly no-one else staying there (mind you, the wave on rock action was kinda worth the admission price).

My boarded up beach shack

View from my hotel room

After dumping my stuff I decided to have a relaxingly slow walk along the cliffs to take in some salty sea air and get a feel for the place. As I looked up the wet, pot-holed road I noticed a small gang of women amassing in the distance. They could see me coming and were gearing up to pounce; No doubt preparing to use every trick in the book to try and part my hard-earned rupees from me.

I tried to look intimidating but alas, they struck as soon as I approached, swarming around me, each one bombarding me with compliments,questions and the odd eyelash flutter.

“Nice T-shirt.” “Whats your name?” “Where you from?” “First time India?” “You like?” “How old?” “You married?” “Girlfriend?” “Your age?”

The three of them wove in and out of each other, blocking my path here, nudging me there, slowly trying to redirect my route to what I presumed would be one of their shops. All the fake chit-chat was quickly becoming tiresome. In a bid to help them drop the pretense that they were really interested in me I asked, “Right, which shop shall I go to first then?”

“You look, My shop.” The first one said all excited.

“My shop. You come, Promise?” said the second pulling my arm.

“You come. I show you,” the third chipped in.

“Just because I am coming to look….” I began, trying to make eye contact with them all so they knew I meant business, “….doesn’t mean I am going to buy anything,OK? I have everything I need.”

“Ok, look is fine. Come, come,” said the dumpy one hurrying me along. We walked up to an abandoned shack where we stopped suddenly and I got pulled inside. They sprawled out a plastic sheet and beckoned for me to sit.

As soon as I sat down they surrounded me.  Three more women seemingly teleported out of nowhere and after a small pause for breath they all dived on me brandishing their bags full of cheap tacky trinkets.

One lady began to lay out wooden bracelets on my left leg whilst another handed me various necklaces. One proceeded to pull out mirrored pens, travel ashtrays and carved wooden miniatures of deities. One of the ladies to my right was getting her small daughter to lay out silk pashmina’s on my right leg. The few women who couldn’t quite fight their way in maliciously eyed each other and hawkishly lingered for an opening, with huge sacks gripped eagerly in there emaciated hands.

At first I felt obliged to appear interested, even though I knew from the off that I wouldn’t be purchasing anything.

“Look, nice bracelet,” one of the ladies said draping a simple friendship bracelet on my left arm.

“No thanks,” I said. “I don’t wear jewellery.”

“This ones nice.”

“It’s fabric. It’ll get wet in the rain and start smelling foisty.”

She passed me a silver one.

“It’s too small.” A bigger one.

“I don’t wear jewellery.”

Someone handed me an ornate ashtray. “I don’t smoke.”

A diary encrusted with fake jewels. “It’s too girly.”

A pen wrapped in coloured fabric. “I have two pens.

Another bracelet. “I don’t wear…….”

“A gift for sister.” She interrupted me.

“I don’t have a sister.”

“For girlfriend.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend.” I was starting to wonder what I’d gotten myself into. This went on for a very uncomfortable 5 minutes before I shattered there illusions and told them, “Look. I don’t need any of this. I travel light. I only buy things I need.”

“Please Sir,” said one of the women to my left who had a huge brass bangle hanging from a hole in her nostril. “I need to eat, only 50 rupees,” She said motioning her hand to her mouth.

“You said it was ok to come just to look,” I said a little angrily. “I’m looking and I don’t want anything.”

“Please Sir, just enough for food,” She said. The rest pressed a little closer. “We need to eat.” They were laying the guilt trip on thick and fast and I was in no doubt they were poor; I still felt I needed to stick to my principles, even though it made me feel like a cunt.

“I’m sorry. I don’t want anything.” I was covered with different items which I quickly stated to remove.

As I passed them back one lady begged for 30 rupees. I shook my head. “20 rupees Sir, please.”

I felt a little ashamed knowing I had enough money in my wallet to feed these people for a year. I felt mean also because I’m stubborn and they were never going to get anything. As I started to rise one of the women gave me a vehement look and appeared to curse me in Hindi. Another stated muttering in broken English, “you come to India with lots of money, you wont even buy….”

I had no rejoinder and even if I did I couldn’t be arsed explaining that I need to be a tight fucker to travel for as long as I want to. I pushed my way past them and headed out of the hut.

As I was walking away with my head bowed one of the first ladies to accost me ran over. “You promised to see my shop,” She asked pulling me back by my arm.

“What?? That wasnt your shop?!?”

“No,this way,” She said, and presuming I would follow started walking off through a grove of palm trees off the road to the left. I made a mental note to self not to promise anyone anything ever again and miserably plodded along in a sulk behind her. She took me to her home; It was a basic one room hut which she shared with her husband and three daughters, who were all present. Again she made me sit down and stated to drape me with her wares, which included cloths,T-shirts,shorts and bags.

I felt a little worn out at this stage and decided to buy something cheap just so I could escape back to my room. I intimated that I could maybe use an extra bag as my other two are packed to bursting point. Hardly had the words escaped my mouth when a pile of different bags was thrust into my arms. Green bags, black bags, chequered bags, bags from Delhi; Kashmir, Bombay; Bags with elephants embroidered on, Tibetan prayer bags……

I looked at a simple black one and decided I would take it for no more than 150 and wouldn’t budge because I didn’t want it anyway. “How much?” I asked looking casually uninterested.

“Give me your price,” She asked.

“60 rupees,” I told her as she feigned shock and stated to laugh.

“450,” She told me. “Very good price.”

It was my turn to seem shocked. “450!!!! I could spend 2 night in a hotel for that. I’ll give you 70 and that’s still too much.” And thus the bartering commenced. I got the bag for 160 in the end, giving her 10 rupees more than I wanted because I was getting sick of arguing. I told her that I didn’t give a shit if I bought the bag and was only buying it because my head had been pecked to death and I felt sorry for her. She looked sad but took the money anyway saying that the first sale of the day was auspicious and then offered up a prayer to Lakshmi (The goddess of wealth).

I quickly escaped and headed back to my room to mentally unwind. My poor head was battered and I’d only been in Anjuna just over an hour. After a cold shower I sat down to read my book. My backside touched the seat and I simultaneously heard a light tap on the door. “What now?” I thought. When I opened the door I was greeted by a small cheery man with half of his left foot missing. He was a leper. He told me about his travels around India, securing funding for his leper colony in Kerela.

He hobbled away looking rather sad after I informed him that he had no chance of parting me from my money. I did offer to pop into the colony and volunteer in some capacity but to no avail. I shut the door and let out a huge sigh, feeling the need for a nice chat with someone who wasnt just after my bloody money.

Cliffs above the predominately catholic Anjuna.

Close encounter on 31st January Road

It was raining heavily when I first arrived in the Goan capital of Panaji. It soon cleared though, leaving the air heavy and moist. I made my way in the clammy air towards 31st January Road, where I was hoping to find a half decent budget room ( I roughly knew the way having semi memorized the local map).

“You’re a sex bomb!” a man behind me suddenly shouted.

I could only presume he was talking  to me so I turned around and glanced at the slightly boyish looking man who was quickly walking towards me. He smiled. “Thanks very much,” I said. “Nice shirt.”

It wasn’t a nice shirt. It was an outrageous iridescent pink shirt with high pressed collars. I felt like I had to return the compliment though.

I could tell he was after something when he offered to walk me to my destination, stating he was going that way anyway. ‘Yeah right,’ I thought whilst trying to figure out what he was after. I can tell you now that all conjecturing on my part was way off the mark (At this stage anyone who is easily offended might want to look away).

After once more complimenting me on my good looks the very forward young man looked straight into my eyes and asked me “You want me to lick your dick?’

Shocked, I giggled nervously a little before composing myself and, puffing out my chest, told him,”No thanks mate.” Just my luck that the first person in a long time to chat me up happens to be a rent boy.

“Why not?’ He asked fluttering his eyelashes.

“Well, there are quite a few reasons,” I told him as he gazed at me all doey eyed. “And the biggest one is I’m not gay.”

He shrugged and replied, “So.” He had that cynical view that some gay men adopt that everyman is a little bit gay, some are just a bit to shy to admit it. “Doesn’t mean we can’t fool around a little.”

“It does mate.”

He proceeded lavishing praise upon my looks once again as if flattery would melt my stony heart and lead me to his bedchamber. “Look mate you have good taste but it’s not happening.”

“What?” He asked looking confused, obviously not getting (or agreeing with) my good taste remark. He also didn’t seem able to grasp the obstinate stance I take on my sexuality. At one stage he even offered to do it for free, which I thought was very charitable of him. I was having about enough of him badgering me for sexual favors so I decided to be firm.

‘Look,” I told him in a slightly more authoritative tone. “It’s all very nice of you but no matter how much you ask I’m not going to sleep with you.”

“Really!” He told me looking all coy and coming on with the pretense he may even cry.

“Yes. It’s a little unfortunate for you but I really enjoy having sex with girls.”

He seemed to relent. “OK,” He said, “Just one question then.”

Thank fuck for that. “Yes, what?”

“How big is it?” He impudently asked, nodding towards my crotch.

I never thought of myself as a prudish English gentleman before but nevertheless managed to come out with the line, “That’s a very intimate question to ask somebody you’ve only just met.” It was clear this sex pest wouldn’t bugger off without an answer so I lightened the mood by telling him that if he didn’t leave me alone I’d beat him to death with it. A bout of hearty laughter ensued. He then shook my hand, gave me one last look up and down and turned around to mince off up the street.

He’d at least managed to get me to my destination though. I gave my head a little shake and walked off up 31St January road to look for a room.

A bum at the seaside

The seaside town of Palolem in Goa is mostly closed down for the season. The rusted shutters are pulled down in front of shops. A few scattered restaurants open their doors to patrons but show little enthusiasm. The heart of such a town is the tourism and once the rains start in July the beating centre of everything leaves with the holiday makers. An eerie quietness permeates the air. Wandering around the streets I feel the experience is not dissimilar to how I felt whilst mooching through Hampi’s ancient ruins. You can sense that something vibrant and alive used to happen here, it haunts the air, but you can’t quite touch it.

The once calm blue ocean has become a dirty, aggressive force, sending angry waves crashing onto the deserted beach. Seemingly venting its amassed anger accumulated during the summer to unleash upon the ghostly promenade at monsoon time.

All my clothes are soaked and in the humid air it is impossible to get them dry. They have a sickly sweet vinegary smell to them which is fast becoming my new scent. I will be push up north and see if Goa’s capital Panaji has a bit more going on. I almost crave the English summer I have left so far behind……but not quite.

One of the few times it wasn't tanking it down

Shipwrecked?!?

My cabin by the sea

The accommodation is the simple kind I’ve being acquiring quite a taste for. The red walls are bricks made from local mud, which is shaped then baked in huge clay ovens. The effects on the surrounding environment from quarrying this mud is most noticeable on the slopes surrounding Kudle beach, where a large red section of stone blights the expanse of green scenery. There is an ugly red scar which distracts somewhat from the scenic ocean view.

My cabin is roofed with wooden beams and interwoven brown palm leaves. It keeps out the rain but unfortunately not the mosquitoes (of which there are many).

From my room I can hear the Arabian sea roaring not 50 metres away, the beach literally in the back garden. From the restaurant at the rear of the hotel, this is accessible via a half collapsed wooden bridge. The days have been peaceful. My time is divided between contemplation, reading, sunbathing and eating (usually the fresh local seafood). I go for the occasional swim but the sea is rough, and  more than one tourist has drown recently by being dragged away by the strong undercurrent. The water is also very dirty. The more it rains the more everything gets washed down into the ocean from the surrounding hills. Still, the bursts of rain aren’t as bad as I expected them to be, and the climate hovers somewhere between cool and warm. I should make the most of it because August rains continuously and is very heavy.

Om beach

Upon arrival the idea of doing the whole ‘Robinson Crusoe’ thing seemed quite appealing. The lack of backpackers made this secluded spot seem ideal. I didn’t count on the Indian holiday makers though, who come here in their droves.

There are lots of crazy young guys braving the hazardous waves, splashing

Me and Om beach

around in their underpants. The rowdy shouting occasionally dragging me back from my perpetual state of reverie. On one such occasion I glanced up and noticed one chap squatting down taking a dump on the shoreline not 5 metres away. Temporarily transfixed I managed to avert my gaze just as he was beginning to wash his backside with seawater. Having lost my delicate sensibilities a long time ago this became one in a long line of amusing incidents.

I spend the nighttime here sitting around with the hotel staff who tell me different tales of Hindu mythology whilst smoking chillums. They always offer me a go and seem a little offended when I turn them down. “I’m on a journey,” I tell them”. “These things I’ve left behind me.” Trying to make it sound spiritual to make the locals understand more and hassle me less. But it’s hardly the real reason. I suppose it must seem strange on a seasonal seaside resort to come across an Englishman who doesn’t drink alcohol, use recreational drugs or smoke. I tell them coffee is my vice and now and again I’ll treat myself to a strong one. By the look on there puzzled faces I can tell they think I’m taking the piss. But I find it easy to sway the conversation away from me. I just ask another question like, “So is Krishna more powerful than Bhrama?” or “Whats the name of that sexy snake goddess?” I’m always granted a very informative, if not stoned and meandering, response.

Pleasant walk to my cabin

'OM' The beach is so called because it's curve reassembles this ancient symbol

My Journey to the Coast and Subsequent Search for Fish

I was sat aboard the first of what would be three buses heading west to the Karnatakan coastal town of Gokarna. As we smoothly drove along the surprisingly well tarmac’d road I lazily gazed out of the window, letting my eyes imbibe the very English scenery.

India or England? You decide

Mile after mile the road wound its way through green crop land and farmers fields,some of which contained the odd spotted black and white cow. This was the first journey in a long time where I had a full two seats to myself. The seats still had the plastic covers on from the factory, no doubt in a bid to keep the already battered bus in a semi-presentable state. Judging by the dried tobacco spit stains running down by the window I thought this task was maybe a little futile.

After 5 hours on these babies your back is a little sweaty

Five and a half hours later I changed buses at Hubli. although slightly busier I found myself with two seats yet again. Stop after stop the vehicle slowly filled and I was surprised to find myself still with the two seats. Did I smell foisty? Had the inability to dry my clothes properly in the monsoon affected my bouquet? Had the Indians, who usually go out of their way to chat to me, suddenly come over a little shy? Unfortunately the answer eluded me as I found myself (after a rather pleasant four and a half hour journey) waiting in Ankola for my final bus to Gokarna.

It was apparent from the off that this time my foisty smell wouldn’t yield me some extra seating space, or as it turned out any at all. A gang of rowdy people was forming around the bus stand, gearing themselves up for the inevitable scramble to gain a precious seat. They ominously started to close in around the newly arrived bus.  Like the calm before a sudden thunder-storm a scarcely perceptible feeling of doom hung inauspiciously in the air. They waited. The bus pulled slowly over, they edged forward, the doors creaked open. Before anybody could disembark the frenzied crowd started forcing its way onboard. I stood back and watched as an old lady almost got trampled to death and a student girl gave up fighting and luckily escaped the mass of writhing bodies with both arms intact, her school bag wasn’t so lucky.

I decided beforehand I would have no chance with my portly rucksack. I waited patiently, cramming myself in nice and cosy once everyone else was tightly squeezed on-board.

I was way too late to have bagged a seat. I was unable to move. I tried to position myself as best I could so as my crotch wouldn’t be rubbing against the mans arm who was seated in-front of me. I didn’t achieve this goal and my maneuvering around caused my crotch to rub against his arm all the more vigorously. Needless to say he appeared a tad uncomfortable. “Oh well.” I thought. “Probably the only action I’ll be getting for a while.”

Arriving in Gokarna a good hour after sunset it wasn’t long before I was being guided along through the dimly lit streets by a fellow bus passenger (whose only luggage appeared to be a really long wooden beam. I was somewhat perplexed as to how he’d actually got this item on and off the bus). Unable to ask him anything, as he spoke not  a word of English, and not quite sure where he was taking me, I slipped away.

After a couple of failed attempts I managed to secure a rather nice room with a balcony view of the nearby beach. It was slightly over budget but I capitulated to the asking price as it was getting rather late. I took in a lungful of salty sea air and, throwing down my rucksack set off back into town (for what I hoped would be a fish supper).

Some of the more pleasant Gokarnan coast

Finding the seasonal town mostly shut down I took a chance on one of the few deserted restaurants. It contained one row of soulless cafe tables and cheap plastic chairs. From the off it became apparent that the restaurant only sold one thing. I endeavored to ask the scared looking waiter what it was.

“Pistali.” he told me.

“Whats in it?” I asked.

“Pistali,” He told me again.

“What is pistali?” I asked slowly, making useless gestures with my hands.

After a couple more failed attempts to have him yield anything else except the word ‘pistali’  he went into the kitchen and got the chef out for me. The chef was wearing a vest covered in stains. He looked at me and mumbled “Fish thali.”

Must have been the other guys accent. “Nice one,” I thought. “Yeah, I’ll have that.”

It arrived on a huge tin plate. A mound of boiled rice was accompanied with the requisite dollop of lime pickle, a large dish containing a day- glo orange, very fishy sauce and another full of watery cabbage stew. On a small separate plate was a small succulent fish encased in a black, spicy batter. As far as I’ve gathered the general idea is to mush everything together and eat it with your fingers (which ever since adopting this style of devouring food whilst scoffing biryani in Hyderabad, has fast become my preferred method of eating).

Temporarily sated after two huge portions I slowly walked back to the seafront with a fishy orange stain around my mouth.

Adventures in Hampi ‘Realm of the Monkey Gods’

Is Hampi the paradise I have so long been searching for. Throw in lots of beautiful, easy women and it just might be.

Huge boulders are piled high all around, vast plains of stone are bordered by lush fields lined with palm trees. Banana plantations and rice paddies as far as the eye can see. Giant abandoned temples, relics of a bygone kingdom, now occupied by gangs of marauding monkeys. Restaurants serving delicious veggie curries overlooking fast flowing rivers.

hidden mossy temple

Hampi used to be one of the largest Hindu empires in Indian history, where it was then named Vijayanagar in the kingdom of Kishkinda. Some nasty Deccan Sultans put an end to the thriving metropolis by all but destroying it in 1565, leaving behind lots of empty temples and crumbling ruins.

I spent my first night in a room costing 250 rupees. After speaking to a stone mason called Abdul, who plies his trade among the ruins, I was advised not to pay more than 100 as it is the low season. Soon the monsoon will hit and the hotels fight for the scanty few travelers remaining. I went out searching and found an out-of-the-way hotel right in the middle of a banana plantation, with giant rocks on one side and the river on the other. I secured a cottage made from bamboo for 100 rupees (Just over a pound).

My bamboo cabin

Feeling adventurous I decided to hire a motorbike, which with petrol cost me about 4 quid for the day.

“You ride before?” asked the bike man.

“Err, yeah,” I replied

“You have license?”

“YES,” I told him trying my best to look like I wasn’t lying.

“You need lesson?”

“No man, I’m good,” I said pointing to the bike. “This one is the brake right?”

The bike and I

I swerved off under his watchful eye hoping to god I didn’t run anyone over. After a few near misses I got out onto the road and found myself racing under the palm trees through the temple strewn landscape. I got the hang of the bike very quickly, remembering what I’d observed watching Allan in Hyderabad. These were also the most peaceful Indian roads I’d seen to date.

This was the first time I’d rode a bike since I was around 18. I’d forgotten how much I loved it.

I spent all day on the road. Enjoying riding much more than anything I’ve yet done on this trip. The road went on for miles. No towns or shops, just old monuments and temples. I felt like I should turn back but somehow couldn’t bring myself to do it. I’d only bought 2 litres of petrol and didn’t have a fucking clue how far that would get me. The bike didn’t have a petrol gauge so I stopped and rattled the tank. It seemed full enough so I pulled back the throttle and sped off. The endless dusty road was surrounded by lush fields, rice paddies, rocky hills and ruins.

Hidden monkey temple

rocky temples

A huge snake slithered out across the road and I slowed down to watch it disappear into the tall grass. I passed endless expanse of green, wet cropland. Children at the side of the road stopped playing cricket and waved. A girl carrying a basket on her head gave me a cheeky smile. I winked back under my sunglasses. I must admit I was starting to feel pretty damn cool riding this thing.

I passed through my first small village. The road started getting a lot more bumpy after  this. I juddered along, dodging potholes, bikes and aggressive buses. How long had I been riding for? Seemed like forever.

The next village I pulled over and shook the petrol tank. It sounded a little light. I decided to finally head back. It had seemed like I’d been riding for hours in a daze and I’d not seen any petrol stations. Continuing at this stage wouldn’t be a wise move.

I turned around and sped back towards Hampi. About a mile into the return journey I went over a bump and the back tire exploded. The rear end of the bike spun out from side to side and I squeezed on the brakes, managing to pull over to the side of the road. “Fuck!”

I looked at the tire. It was as flat as a fart.

“Fuck!” I was in the middle of nowhere, road stretching endlessly in both directions.

“Fucking bastard twat!!!!”

I flagged down the next biker who told me I’d find a mechanic just over 1km away in the nearest village.

“How much to repair puncture?” I asked.

“20 rupees.”

“Thanks man.”

Pushing the bike in that heat it seemed like I walked a lot further than one kilometer. All the way getting lots of  attention. I wasn’t enjoying it as much now I was pushing the bike instead of sat on it, and I certainly didn’t feel ‘cool’.

“Hello, how are you?” the children asked giggling.

“Really good…..thanks,” I sarcastically replied.

I found the garage eventually, sweating profusely. The mechanic pulled a huge nail out of the back tire with a pair of pliers, which had punctured the inner tube 5 times. “I can fix but tire no good.” He asked if the bike was rented, I told him yes.

“You give back tomorrow.”

“I’ll give it back tonight if I can make it back on that tire.”

“Yes, possible. but don’t use tomorrow.”

I sat chatting to some local guys while he sorted the tire out. They liked my tattoos and were surprised I was 31 and not married. I got a laugh when I asked them if they knew and single Indian girls.

The way back was uneventful. I tried not to go over any big bumps. I decided to make a quick stop off to get some lunch only to be led away on a long trek through thick jungle and over barren landscape top look at a waterfall.

I eventually gave the bike back and haggled with a man around the corner to get another one cheaper for the following day. Walking home I bought a bunch of bananas and then settled down in my bamboo cabin to the soothing nighttime hum of a thousand crickets.

 

 

Since I left Hampi over 2 months ago I was sad to discover that the government has decided, after years of dispute, to kick all the residents off Hampi’s land, thus leveling all there homes, shops and restaurants; All because it is holy land?!? Go figure. Everywhere I ate or spent time is now gone. My thoughts go out to those now without home or livelihood. 17th August 2011

trek through jungle to find waterfall

 

One of the thousand of monkeys who mooch around the temples

banana plantation