India

Today we braved the sun and heat to wander the boulder-strewn ruins of Hampi.


The kind of sun that turns white skin red in under an hour. A sun that seems to stall at midday for 4 hours. But what a sight. Being Sunday we found ourselves joining the trail of Indian pilgrims making their way from ruined temple to ruined temple.

Mostly older folk, with hunched over spines, wrinkled faces and white stubble on dark chins. We passed Saddhus, orange material wrapped, orange strokes marking their foreheads; sharing coca cola beneath bouldered shade.
We passed masses taking holy dips at the fast flowing waters edge. Materials were dunked and flown upon the breeze to dry, creating brightly coloured sails flapping and fluttering.

Past coconut sellers;along unshaded, dusty paths; past red-faced monkeys munching on bananas.
We ended another day in Hampi on our verandah swing seat. The sun played out a bold drama in a dazzling orange costume, while the frogs began warming up for their dusk til dawn opera. The lush green reeds that carpet our view beyond palm trees and river to rocky hills were still and proudly erect. They are rich in colour and kissed by blinding golden sun daily, serenaded at night and danced with by the breeze that carries the chattering birds home at dusk. They are not daunted like us, by the devastating midday rays as they are permanently feet-dipped in cool water. All is well in the paddy field world. And all is well on our swing seat with thatched roof, delicious warmth on our skin, heavenly outlook and blushing sky bidding us good night. Shoobh ratri.

We're trapped! Locked inside the clean homely walls of a warm, overbearing religious homestay. When Ali tried to point out the finer details of OHS measures with major electricity faults (most towns have blackouts for between 1 and 5 hours at a time, daily) we were lectured frantically on the safety of the house - NOBODY could get in, don't worry. After 15 mins Ali escaped to the bathroom as 'Uncle' toured Michelle around the establishment - bars on every window, key turned to deadlock us in.

"What if there is a fire, an electrical fault, we can't get out" we point out.
"No madam, no problem, portable light near bed" Uncle flapped. Screaming on the inside, we were left in our homestay jail to switch off all power at the source.

Our purpose for trekking back inland was to visit Wayanad Wildlife Sanctuary, jeep ride and tiger spot. A 5am, 30km, bus ride had us engulfed in a cage of rust, concertina shutters down. With no other view for distraction, the stares were plenty though softened by the haze of the early morning lingering in dark eyes. Glimpses of outside through the back door, showed us a matching soft cloud of fog hanging in amongst the trees as we flew past. Trees and mist, trees and mist, clearing as the light crept through.

We alighted. Excited.

PARK CLOSED.

We wasted no time in returning to town to collect our things. On to another rust bucket bus bound for Mysore. Surrounded by forest that looks as though it's come through an Aussie bushfire season, dusty, dry, crunchy at the floor, leaves heat-bleached and the colours of sunburn, we came across a massive steel billboard, rusted over every inch into the colours of Uluru and gold with the ghostly whisper of faded white lettering welcoming us to Karnataka. Darker print pushed an even darker irony "...enjoy the lush green forests..."
Perhaps the sign should have just said "4WD ONLY"
But there was us and the bus and with no hesitation down the road we went, like rocking through a million miniature moon craters. The bus tipped 45 degrees each way and elevated us so far from our seats that we were instantaneously standing only to crash back down onto our bony, malnourished butts. Dust swirled in through the gaps in the seams, the windows ratatatering themselves open and closed. And of course the passengers pile on and off and on and on and on. Bounces, jiggles, jolts, hammering, thrashing, swirling, rattling, sledging. It wriggled the ridiculous from every crevice and up and out of Ali's small frame, bouncing in high pitched childish giggles, mounting to an hysterical gaffaw, to the amusement of peering Indian eyes. A revelation: Mysore... now we know why it's called that. Cause when you get there all you can say is "my sore arse, my sore head, my sore arms, my sore legs...!"

Our arrival in Kannur proved to be one of those fortunate successes that feel so rare these days. After arriving frazzled and exhausted from another train journey, the thought of rising at 4am in search of the mysterious ritualistic theyam was excruciating. It's as though the mere thought of movement via any sort of public transport in India, creates an extreme form of emotion-sickness.
Kannur had many angels wandering around the dirt, shit-smelling streets waiting to help us. After a few questions we found a theyam that had just started only a few minutes walk away.

A man, face painted red, bells jangling at ankles in time with the beat of six sweating drummers. Speed progressed with swirling time until the divine spirit had entered and people approached one by one for advice, guidance, blessings.

The ceremony is based around the Hindu goddess Kali, who is the destroyer of all things evil. A baby, naked but for the nappy cried terrified protests as it was handed over to the possessed being, to be weighed against a bag of rupees on a large old-fashioned scale. The baby was being balanced we were told, the coins a gift to the gods.

Atop our house boat, a constant luxurious breeze, details of the fluffy chest of tiny birds visible from their close-flying proximity. Our pathway is lined with palm trees, leaning eagerly in to greet and bow to our passing. That's because we feel like queens in our plastic thrones upon our floating palace.

Bird song abounds, rippling pictures on the water's surface and faint sounds and glimpses of village life amongst the endless alleys of canals. Today's heaven is Kerala's backwaters. The setting of the sun through the palm trees, spilling it's most dazzling shades of pink, purple and orange over a glistening surface. Birds sweep, dive and dart before us, like fluttering eyelashes, making their last work and play dance before racing the sun home.

How wonderful to leave far behind the horns and engines and road noise, to let the buzz of a thousand insects lull us into a further calm. Kerala, India has you to thank for our worshipping your beauty.

Fort Cochin is a place which understands tourism and is thriving off it. Aside from the fishermen, working their sail-like chinese fishing nets, Indian daily life is scarce. The wide clean dirt streets are lined with resort style hotels; pristine open air restaurants serving international cuisine; Ayervedic massage clinics; air conditioned internet cafes; and theatres specializing in choreographed costumed "traditional" performance tailored to please rows of attentive fascinated tourists.

India if you want to pamper us, we are lying oiled up and sliding around like seals on ice, beneath the firm hands of your butt slapping Ayervedic massage women. If you want to entertain us, we are eyes-popping, camera-clicking and hands-clapping the applause of your professional artists.
And if you want to nourish us, we are dining beside middle aged couples appreciating the live classical music provided as a background accompaniment and carefully savouring the explosion of flavours off white plates and clean silverware.
We are doing all of this as though we are not wearing clothes that are sweat-stained and dirt-dusted and that our heals are not cracked and patched up with muddied mortar. It is a far cry across a narrow bay from the India we have gotten to know and develop our love hate relationship of turbulant interactions with.
We visited the shore at sunset to watch the action of the men pulling up their chinese net from the water to retrieve their catch. We were given the opportunity to take part, yanking at the ropes with all our body weight like ringing an ancient church bell. When it came up empty, one man explained it was the off season - they were there for our photos, hence a small donation please. We nearly forgot where we were!


Our slow hot strolls, relaxed approached to touts and easy dining experiences lulled us into a forgetful state of joy.