R was a very large black man, a porter at Bar 625 when I worked there several years ago. He was a simple dude, none too bright, but a nice guy who had the ingenuous enthusiasm of the completely guileless. We invited him to join our pool team, and he hung out with us occasionally when we'd gallivant about the Quarter. He also loved to play frisbee golf after we took him out to LaFreniere the first time. So one morning I finish a graveyard shift a little after eight and we all pile into S's Jeep and drive on out to throw a round of frolf, S, J, R, and me. Well I've been up about 24 hours at this point, and it's the sticky wet guts of summer in New Orleans, and we're not five minutes out of the open-air ride before I'm sweating like the proverbial whore in church. A few holes later and it's just pouring off my forehead, running in thick rivulets over my chest and belly and soaking my shorts. R espies me in my fit of schvitz and, with a note of genuine amazement, informs me that "Gollee, Nate, but you sweatin' like a brotha!"His observation has been on my mind this week, as I've not ceased my Wringing Human Sponge routine since we arrived in Gokarna. Greetings from the other side of the world, folks. It's humid.
But we know all that, right? Here's the crux of my previous aside: I wanna talk about people.
We left Goa a couple of weeks ago, rode inland aboard a train to Hampi, site of Vijayanagar ruins and amazing, megalithic boulders strewn about like they spilled from a Titan's marble pouch. Gorgeous place. We arrived just prior to the tourist season there, which begins in earnest during a cultural and music festival held in early November. The people were eagerly anticipating the influx of tourists and rupees, polishing their spiels and giving the hard sell on every transaction. Every rickshaw you passed on the street would offer a ride, regardless of the fact that you turned down the last ten offers along the row of parked vehicles (or that you and your girlfriend are riding bikes at the time). Every child in town had a stack of postcards or a map of the area to sell you, often running in packs, each vying to be the first to thrust the same map in your face that you didn't buy the first time. When I stopped one morning for a shave on the way into town, the barber offered me a dozen other services and when I declined and asked how much for the shave, he refused to name a price but instead asked me to pay him an amount of my own choosing commensurate with my approval of the job he'd done. I paid too much, even for a good shave.
But a few rupees here or there ain't no shenanigans. The people of Hampi know their market: tourists taking a break from the scene in Goa, short-stay travellers looking for cheap souvenirs to carry home. Everything and anything was for sale, from fine Gujarati rugs to hand-carved marble figurines to coffee-table books and tailored clothing.* And the salespeople were irrepressible. It was a chore to even price an item, because "We're just looking" was taken universally to mean "We are actively haggling at the moment." "Best prices" were reduced 60 and 75 percent, sometimes to the point of hostile assertions that no profit could possibly be made on a number we didn't even throw out, for an item we didn't even want. The bazaar vibe was hectic, and everybody knows that the foreigners--whether they're looking for ruins to scope or souvenirs to buy or a dry change from the muggy coast--are essentially only there to spend rupees. That's at the bottom of every interaction. Here's a little story:
We were staying the last four nights across the river from Hampi proper, in Vipapuragaddi. This narrow dirt lane between the river and acres of paddy had eight or ten places with huts and bungalows for rent at rates cheaper than the guesthouses in town. To get across the river, one had to take a motorboat across the narrow river, as the nearest bridge was 45 kilometers away. This meant lugging all one's belongings into the boat--not a problem if you're travelling as light as we are, but remember that Hampi has boulders. There was this Swiss dude, wiry and dreadlocked and carrying a backpack and two bouldering crashpads, who boarded the last boat across with us one evening. He had enlisted the help of a local kid to carry the larger of the two pads, still a sizeable burden, for a small sum. Upon arrival at the boat, the boy told him that he wouldn't be taking the boat across, but that they could square their debt and one of the kid's friends would meet him on the other side to carry the pad up the bank and to wherever the guy was staying, for a nominal extra fee. Swiss lightheartedly objects, saying he could carry the weight and that the kid needn't bother, but then the kid tells him, without missing a beat, "No worry about money. Money not important, life is important." The way these words of wisdom rolled off his tongue had us all in guffaws. He continued, saying that it was "good business" for him, "good business" for the dreadlocked Swiss boulderer, "good business" for his buddy across the water. This idea of "good business" was all over Hampi, the point being that a few rupees don't make no nevermind to a tourist benefitting from a bitchin' exchange rate, but can make a world of difference to the families touched by the outlay of even the paltriest sums.
So from Hampi we took a long-ass state bus trip up to Bijapur, which couldn't have been further removed from the traveller-friendly (if commercialized) atmosphere we had gotten used to. We were the only foreigners and we sat at the back of the bus, and with every stop along the seven-hour journey we saw more faces and fewer backs-of-heads. It was clear that we were getting off the beaten path, and I liked it. We smiled at the children and nodded at the adults and, more often than not, got big smiles in return. Between the friendly, curious folks and the beauty of rural Karnataka, I had a really good feeling about the place we were headed. We got down in Bijapur just after dark, walked through the smoggy city to a hotel recommended in the Lonely Planet as "basic, but comfortable." The room was okay, but homeslice manning the desk at Hotel Tourist** acted like he'd either never met one (a tourist, that is) or never liked any of the ones he had met. He was curt and standoffish and seemed utterly offended that we'd want to patronize his establishment. But the price was right and we were tired and hungry and we unslung our packs and went in search of a cold beer and a hot meal.
That was our first mistake. Nowhere in the books did it warn us that a restaurant serving booze in that part of the state would likely be a dingy drinking den, an all-male crowd of boozers gathering in really seedy surrounds for guy talk, bro time, manly shit like cricket and such. But neither did the folks running the joint seem too perturbed that a woman (gasp!) would want to have a seat and sip some suds. It was a weird atmosphere, but it was okay enough and the beer was cold.
So on around our third beer, by which time we've established with our server that--regardless of what it says on the decades-old unbound English fare card--no food is currently being served, (and probably hasn't been since Gandhi was in short pants) the power goes out. It's a fairly common occurrence throughout India, we've found, and we paid it no mind. The staff brought out candles and we were just leaving anyway. But after I've put the notes in the dish for our server to return to the cashier, something hits D in the shoulder. She thinks it's a bug, and is even more eager to leave. Then something else hits me on the back. I reach down the back of my chair and find a peanut. Then another hits the table on a trajectory that says it ain't just falling out the sky. Now we're both furious that somebody would take the opportunity, with the lights out, to act like a chickenshit and throw food at the visitors. And we're even more angry that we can't tell, in the dark, who's doing it. So we walk out scowling, scanning tables for the telltale snack dish, ready to berate the perpetrators in all the colour and flourish that English has to offer, with maybe some Kitchen Spanish thrown in for good measure and its colorful variations on hijo de puta and chinga tu madre en su culo. We get back to street level and collect our wits, just wanting a bite before we retire for the evening, and we get bum steers from everyone--including homeslice at Hotel Tourist--when we enquire about any open restaurants. The lights are still out, so we don't know that the restaurant at the hotel (!) is still open, but we chance it after walking up and down the main drag and not finding anyone still serving. Sure enough, it's open and delicious and all the fuckstain behind the counter would have had to do, in reply to our query, was point one bony, dirty finger across the lobby.But he didn't, and we went to sleep that night dreading the next day. We had paid two nights in advance (a bad idea, it seemed then) and felt okay about skipping out early and calling the 165 rupees an asshole tax. But we woke up and decided to see what we came for (the Islamic architecture) and just get off the street before dark. It was a good decision. In fact, that would be an understatement. Bijapur (pictured above left) during daylight hours was like another city, full of friendly hellos and warm smiles and genial curiosity as to our provenance and how we are finding their beloved India. Children ran up to us on the street with open amazement, shouting Hello! like it's their mother's name, and older kids practiced their few nice-to-meet-you-what-is-your-good-name English phrases. We said "America" more times that day than I ever had in my life, as everyone was wondering where the foreigners had come from, so far off the tourist trail. Parents handed us their babies so we could pose for photographs, and families asked to snap our picture to show to their loved ones back home. It was a bit like being a movie star, but for our utter anonymity***.
That curiosity and the warm welcomes given us by the locals extended to our next stop, Badami (pictured above right), where we were less of a novelty. Even so, changing buses in Bagalkot en route I was swarmed by fifty or more boys and girls up to 17 or 18 years old while waiting for D to find a ladies' room. I introduced myself to one kid with the fuzzy beginnings of what will surely one day be a great Indian moustache, and he asked me to autograph his school notebook. He showed me the last page, where a traveller from Belgium had signed a simple message of greeting, and I did the same. He thanked me and the crowd was smiling and staring and nobody was saying anything. Overcome for a moment, I just started laughing. I must have looked like a madman, the sweaty white dude in the Indian threads and wraparound shades, laughing with his whole body until his eyes misted, because the kids started laughing in return. We fed on each other's amusement for what was probably only a handful of seconds, but it was a strange and foreign and beautiful exchange that I will remember for the rest of my days. D found me behind the throng of giggly onlookers and signed below my autograph for Fuzzstash and we waved goodbye and boarded our next bus, which didn't leave for another five minutes, and the kids outside were still standing and staring and whispering outside our window until the bus pulled out of the station.
So from Badami to Gokarna, back to the beach, where I'm sweating like a turkey at the end of November. We're staying 2 kilometers over a rocky headland from the main town beach, and it's like another world. Gokarna proper is a pilgrimage site, where Hindu devotees come to worship before one of the most famous shivalinga in all India, after cleansing themselves by shaving their heads and bathing in the sea. Kudle Beach, our home base for the moment, is populated almost exclusively by dreadlocked, painfully skinny stoners from Israel and England and Continental Europe, all refugees from the high-season tariffs up north in Goa. Om Beach (pictured), the next beach south from Kudle, is the new home of a luxe resort served by the only road south of town. This being a prime holiday spot during what is apparently a (just ending) holiday season for Indians, Om has been swarmed by roving bands of single men who wear matching "Goa Es Haven" shit-shop gear and stare at every inch of exposed white female flesh. There's even a sign on the steps leading down to Om politely requesting that Indians not photograph the tourists sunbathing, with or without their permission. It addresses the issue as a matter of upholding India's character in the eyes of foreign tourists, and it hasn't been entirely effective. The Indian Olympic Gawking Teams still cruise the beach in their matching getups until it's time to take a dip in their tighty-whiteys and sidle up alongside the women who have taken to the water to avoid their terrestrial prowling. Chalk it up to curiosity or horniness or just plain poor manners, but the stares are exponentially more unnerving than those from the kids in Bijapur and Bagalkot and Badami. The men have the vacant look of the terminally unlaid, and might as well be wearing t-shirts that read "I'd Rather Be Masturbating--Seriously, I Would. You Don't Even Know. Whew." It's almost enough to spoil the good vibe we got from all the eyes on us everywhere else, but I guess there's assholes wherever you hang your hat. Some folks just don't know how to behave themselves when there's company over. Oh well.There it is, the nutshell reduction of the lives we've walked through in the past couple of weeks. Next stop, Bangalore. We leave after a couple more days on the beach for our first Couchsurfing experience in India. Looking forward to it, and to seeing what an IT boomtown in a developing nation looks like. More to follow.
*: We did avail ourselves of this last luxury, outfitting ourselves with custom-fitted travelling gear that wears better in the heat and humidity than our Western gear. Total expenditure for handmade clothes (2 men's shirts, 1 pair pants, 1 camise): $23.75
**: --for fuck's sake!--
***: Nobody here can pronounce the sounds in my name, so to prevent confusion and promote easier exchanges, I'm "Bob" in India. D bounces between "Jane" and "Frieda."
