Hampi

Francisco put the phone down a little incredulously. He laughed, “So the bus is skipping Bandra because they got stopped by the cops.”

We were confused. We still are. The point is, we took our tiny taxi to Sion, the next stop down the line, to catch the Volvo Sleeper bus down to Hampi: a 15 hour odyssey of the Indian road.

We boarded the bus, and settled into our beds. Yes, dear reader, you read that right. No seats on our journey south; we lived in the lap of luxury, and got beds. On a bus. Lukas and I got top bunks, which are not for the unbalanced. There are no bars holding you in, and a tight turn could transform comfort to free fall. Not to fear though, because there’s a plug to keep my phone charged, right?

No.

Alright, who needs technology anyways? At least I have a reading lamp so I can read my book.

Doesn’t work.

So began the 15 hours on a stiff bed, elevated on a bus, thundering through the world’s most dangerous roads. In complete darkness.

With bad things come good things, though, and my dismay quickly disappeared when I parted the blinds of my little window as we left Mumbai. We were on the Mumbai-Pune highway to begin, and that meant climbing up in elevation. It was dark outside, but the lights of the cars lit up the road as it snaked up the hills and wandered across the valleys. The veins of the city pulsed life out to the hills, and the light-blood glowed yellow as it snaked away. From the arteries of Navi Mumbai, to the veins of Pune, then finally the capillaries of Maharashtra, eventually we left the light behind us.

After about two hours on the road, we stopped for a late dinner. There was a small shack on the side of the road, with three large tour busses towering over it. Ours stopped, and all the men rushed out. They spread themselves on the side of the building, peeing en masse along the entire shack. After relieving those organs, we refilled others with food. The options were limited, but the three of us sat down in the middle of the small dining area. In silence, we dirtied our fingers with dal tadka, Szechuan rice, and veg mix. Old men stared, but continued to eat. All our eyes spoke of exhaustion: weary travelers, sitting in the dust on the side of the road. It was night in India, and the cool air fell roughly on our crusty eyes and shirts.

13 hours later, we reached Hospet, the bus stop. At least, we were pretty sure. The announcements for the stops were abrupt, and so were the stops. Hindi-only instructions made it more difficult, but thankfully we had Francisco as our local translator. We got off the bus around 8am, and the sun hadn’t risen to warm everything yet. A string of men were waiting outside, asking if we needed rides to Hampi. Partly because we were still waking up, and partly because we didn’t know exactly where we were or where we were going, we fumbled through negotiations.

“Rickshaw? Rickshaw?”

“Um.”

“Go to Hampi?”

“Yeah, but I think we need a taxi. Lukas, we need a car right?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Car, no”

“Yeah, we need a car.”

“No, you’ll fit in rickshaw.”

“Uh”

“Yeah”

“Francisco?”

“Uh”

Hindi ensued, and soon we were headed to Hampi in two rickshaws. I was the ass, and rode with the bags.

To get to Hampi, we had to cross the river. The rickshaws dropped us off by the river, and we walked down ancient crumbling steps to get down to the ferry. Curiously unmotivated to cross, we sat on the steps and enjoyed the scene. A small family was bathing in the river, and others were playing in it. There were a surprising number of white people having some kind of life-changing revelation in the water. We struck up a conversation with our rickshaw drivers, Francisco played some guitar quietly, and Lukas fed a dog with leftover biscuits from the trip.

Eventually we made it across the river, and into Hampi. Straight up the hill, then the first right, then over the fence, and it’s a straight shot through the rice paddy to the Goan Corner: our temporary home. Everything looked perfect, but all the spiritual travelers seeking nirvana seemed to congregate here, and it felt more like Boulder, Colorado than India. All these foreigners, all in love with India.

But she’s my love, I thought. You can’t love her like I do.

“Yeah I hate Mumbai. It’s too much man,” they would say.

Of course you hate it. But that’s India, and much more real than this compound you’re living in. But one can’t say such thing to strangers.

We lazed around camp for a little bit, then hit the rocks to do some bouldering. Hampi is filled with a vast array of huge boulders, conglomerated in thousands of stacks. Giants must have once played here, throwing, tossing, and balancing rocks like kids in a sandbox. And we ants decided to climb their toys. Amit had joined, so there were four of us now. Donning climbing shoes and chalk, we started to ascend.

My forefingers curved inward to form a backward “c”, as the tips kissed a small jut of granite. My toes, already curled inside the climbing shoes, jumped up to stand on the side of the rock like a mountain goat. I was officially on the side of the rock, but the goal was to summit. This meant moving up, towards the heavens. First, a foot would move up, and find a higher piece of rock. With complete balance on my tip toe, I lifted up to grasp higher. The rock curved away, making a visual handhold difficult. My fingers had to feel around the rock, looking for an imperfection large enough to hold my entire weight. What a curious thing. I was stroking the side of a rock in India, with the unforgivingly simple goal of: climbing. Slowly, my body rose to the top, and on the ridge of the boulder, I stood victorious.

After the burning sun stained our skin red, we decided to come down from our rock castles, and hit the open dirt roads. We rented tiny little 50cc TVR Scooter/Mopeds. Francisco and Amit shared one, Lukas towered over another, and I scooted along nicely. We sought after the lake, so we could go cliff diving and cool off our sweaty climbing backs. We drove past field after field of rice, greener than heaven could paint, and by crumbling stone structures that looked like Greece had once invaded. A couple of wrong turns later, we climbed the hill to the top of the dam, and looked across the lake. It was beautifully still, and the red evening horizon skipped over the top, and glowed the surrounding rocks. Then, a rusty sign said, in a hand painted message,  “Warning: Crocodiles. Swim at Own Risk”

Our hopes of cool water were chased away by these hypothetical crocs, but we cooled off by traveling along the lake road, feeling the cool air as it left the water. Eventually, we made it back to our Goan Corner. A nice cold shower with the little soap I had brought did a nice job of washing the crust away, and we sat down to dinner cooled off and clean. We talked over some spoiled beer, then chai. We talked until later in the night, then transitioned to watching some climbing videos Francisco had. A little disappointed that our skills were novice compared to these monsters of climbing, we crashed in a shared room with more European nirvana seekers. Apparently our casa was their casa. Sharing is caring, man.

The next morning, the “little dude”, the 10-year old son of the owners of the Corner, wanted to play football. I told him where to hold the laces, and how to throw a spiral, and he was a natural. His first throw was a perfect 10. I graduated him from the basics, and we went straight into play calling. He ran a perfect slant route, then a perfect button-hook. He even did a fake step in, then bursted down for another slant. The perfect “F” play. Look out Manning and Brady. The little dude from India is a threat to be reckoned with.

It was the day before the Superbowl.

Later, Lukas and I took the scooters out again, but went further into the interior. We both wanted to escape the micro-Europe of the Goan Corner, and get out into the country. We passed through a few villages, and saw the tractors transition from mostly Massey Fergussons to mostly Mahindras. We even stopped to take a picture, much to the confusion of the woman of the property, who stared at us with a cautious eye. I would too. Who were these idiots taking a picture with my tractor? Eventually we reached a village 30 minutes or so outside Hampi, and stopped for a drink and to turn back. I got a Sprite and a bag of chips. The lady behind the counter smiled warmly, and spoke about her sister-in-law in London. She hopes to visit someday. A man came up to ask for a cigarette, and couldn’t believe Lukas only had one. A small boy walked casually by, then had a double-take of the ages, and stared with an open mouth at these two sunburnt white kids. Refreshed, we hopped back on the scooters and roared around lumbering trucks on the way back to Hampi, and our rocks.

For dinner that night, we had a grill-out. Two tiny little grills and about 10 pounds of coals, with a box of matches and a congregation of climbers. There were about 20 people standing around the “grill”, trying to light the coals. When, for want of lighter fluid, someone poured cooking oil on the charcoal to no protest, I decided it was time to leave the effort to its own devices. I wanted to help, but I figured the best thing to do for everyone’s sanity would be to get the heck out of Dodge. Upon my return half an hour later, the food was ready, and everyone was calm. I ate my chicken and veggies in relative silence, looking at the stars.

After dinner, we went back up to the rocks, in the dark of night. We crossed the small levees on the rice paddies, the dirt illuminated by our iPhones. We climbed up to the top of the outcropping, where there was a large flat stone face, and laid down to gaze upon the heavens. We identified Orion quickly, and shifted from star to star in our thoughts. We threw around questions like, “Are we alone?”, and despite the clichéd nature of the questions, our minds romped in the novelty of the answers. The moon was low on the horizon, and only a sliver was showing. It was yellow, and looked like the dirty toenail of God. The mosquitoes buzzed down amongst the rice, so the air around us was clean, cool, and fresh.

That night we slept outside, and the stars moved over us, rotating at a cosmically slow pace. We woke in the morning, and another cold shower wiped away the crust we had again built up. It was our last day in Hampi, and it was temple day. We crossed the river again. I had an orange juice while waiting. On the other side, we changed the pace and rented bicycles. They were pink, but we were proud. We hit temple after temple, and like a pinball, bounced around ancient history on a scale hard to comprehend. The last temple was the greatest.

There was a grand entrance, with carvings of gods and man covering every inch. There was a story here, but its narrative was lost on me. Only whispers remained: a cobra and a rabbit, a woman, a god. The courtyard was similarly massive, and in the center was a large vaulted room. We entered, and found it went deeper into darkness. Again equipped with our iPhones, we pushed forward. At first it was unimpressive, just an empty room.

Then we found a doorway. Off to the left and right, there was an opening as black as night. We directed the light, and saw steps that quickly descended down and to the right. We slowly entered the doorway, and illuminated the stairway. The stairs fell down so far our light couldn’t reach the end; it was swallowed by the darkness. I rotated the light up towards the ceiling, interested in how high it was. As I did, hundreds of bats suddenly appeared, hanging upside down and slightly twitching. My light had disturbed them. 

“Oh shit!”

“What?”

“Holy crap!”

And we ran back to the safety of the Hampi sun. Let Indiana Jones handle that temple of doom.

Our pink bikes led us back down the hill, back to the rickshaws. We rode back to Hospet, and after a two hour delay, re-boarded the sleeper bus back to Mumbai. 13 hours later, we had re-entered the arterial city.

The climbing shoes are now sitting on my floor as I’m writing this. I put them on just to feel my toes curl again. There’s something insatiable about climbing for the sake of climbing, driving for the sake of driving, and exploring for the sake of exploring. It’s adventure in its truest form. Why do we do it? Well, more than our stomachs get hungry, and every once in a while, it’s good to feed your eyes. Your nose. Your ears. Your fingers. Your body aches for something new, something else to remember. Go feed it.