The Hills Are Still Alive - Darj Continued

Trek up to Tiger Hill
Took some unbeaten paths and so managed to escape the tourists and the crowded viewpoint. Just found my own.

Lotus Temple

On The Street

Mall Sunset

Vyethye Beach

Located 5kms from my village Adivare, Vyethye is a true virgin beach. Not a soul steps on these sinewy, sinking sands, other than a multitude of tiny crabs scrambling for cover and the occasional white belied sea eagle. With the Arabian Sea emerging from the little water inlets in front of you and a forest of swaying giants holding fort behind you, you'd be right to feel like a monarch.

Sunrise, sunset

Masinagudi

Masinagudi

Masinagudi

Mumbai

Masinagudi

Mumbai

Hampi

Masinagudi

Masinagudi

Masinagudi

.....and who knows which is which...

Sunset time

Sigh, Back to those Bangalore Skies

:) :) :)

Goaahhh

The flimsy frame of the Maruti Van was hurting down a picturesque Goa road, blurred visions quaint old Goan homes barely registering in our minds. Vincent, our driver was controlling the steering wheel with his right elbow, to leave his hands free to flip through his CD wallet, "I have Konkani, Russian or Himesh songs, which you want?" We settled on Konkani. Although this time was my tenth visit, I've never been to Goa for New Year. I had images of street parties, raves at every corner, oceans of humanity, basically more than my nature boy instincts can handle.

Luckily, we were relegated to a cosy corner of South Goa, near a tiny town called Varca that basically revolved around its spanking white church, recently given a facelift. Staying at the Colonia Jose Meninho, a stone's throw away from the secluded Zalor beach, it was a reintroduction to the word peaceful. There was no Euro trash, no extended families of middle class India tasting the surf in their salwars, no lines of shops attempting to sell you everything and the elephant.


Just an endless stretch of untouched sand playing kissing games with an almost blue ocean. A 500m walk along the beach and I would find myself completely alone with the sound of the sea, sometimes not encountering any human beings for a couple of hours. I spent a lot of time meditating in my own little alcove, drinking the cool air in greedy gulps, experiencing a steady calm.


This beach is so untouched that tons of sea creatures can be spotted, drawing in the Sandpipers for a ready buffet. Starfish, many species of crabs, a huge pile of fish eggs, clams and oysters burrowing into the sand, even the occasional dolphin sighting, their shiny bodies reflecting the sun as they jumped over the waves.


There were occasional visitors, each with a story to tell. The HUGE buffalo, kept in check by Mark, was fresh off a victory in the bull fighting tournaments that they have around here. No matadours, its bull against bull. Cruel yes, but try telling Mark that as he bathes Bonny in the sea with the pride of a prizewinner.


No such luck for Rakesh the fisherman. He moanfully tells me that he has been casting his net all night and all morning and has only managed a to snare a few crabs. He's afraid he'll have to go hungry. I quickly pulled out all the small notes I have and pressed it into his palm, over riding his protests. His eyes well up with tears as he proceeds to tell me the story of his life. Apparently he was the eldest brother in a rich landowners family in Bihar. His two younger brothers wanted the lions share of the spoils and started plotting to have him killed. They even tried twice before Rakesh decided to escape to Goa. He worked at a beach shack for a while before resorting to fish for a living. It isn't in his blood and he usually struggles, especially since the local fishermen aren't very keen on sharing their know how with an outsider. But he ploughs on like so many millions mulling everywhere.


At the behest of my young cousin from the US we celebrated New Year at a five star resort, shelling out a mind numbing amount of money. If it wasn't my favourite aunt and uncle I'd have a lot more to say about this but it was a first even for them, so lets let it lie. The buffet spread was extensive with 30 kinds of salad, 6 different cuisines and over 40 different deserts. Unfortunately the entertainement in the form of ungraceful dancers and a Goan uncle band that was horrible to say the least. The worst thing for me was the wastefulness and opulence. Foriegners piled their plates with food only to waste it after a couple of mouthfuls or just a taste. I couldn't help thinking of poor Rakesh and so many others who would have gone hungry as the New Year dawned. It made me lose my appetite.


The time spent with the family was wonderful though, and I got a few more stories out of my uncle who has seen Bob Marley, The Police and a whole load of jazz artists live in the 70s.

It wasn't the typical Goa trip but it was definitely the most peaceful one.

MORE GOA PICS

Hampi Utsav

'Shalom, mallaca,' nods a smiling little boy, waving his hands in my direction. Beleaguered from the long, bus-hoping journey, I looked at him semi-deliriously, believing for a moment that I had stumbled on the Middle East in search of the elusive Hampi. But it turned out that the boy's name is Raghu (every second male member of this population is called Raghu or Ravi). When I answer him in my 'street' Kannada best, I'm eyed with suspicion. Then suddenly, he turns to his companion, a still smaller boy and says, 'Kannada goththu,'(he knows Kannada) and in the same breath, looking up at us, 'Where you from??' his eyebrows forming worried crevices on his forehead, 'Bangalore,' I answer with a sigh. The dynamic duo left without much ado.

The sizable Israeli population that resides in Hampi has ensured that kids like Raghu have become cunning linguists, jumping tongues from their native Telugu, to Kannada, to Hebrew and finally accented English, like the Israelis. They're everywhere, communing with friends and family, flower children with their children, nature starved corporates, youngsters just done with their compulsory army duty, all drawn by the call of a land free from laws, a land free from societal norms, a veritable Valhalla a foreign land called India where they treat everyone with qualm.

That isn't to say that the local folk are ravenous foreigner-chasing wolves. They reserve a special place in their resorts and hearts for anyone who will smile and address them in respectful Kannada or English. In terms of acco, across the river, Shanti in particular offers a primo view of paddy and the dare I say it, mighty Tungabhadra. There have been rumours of croc visitation and even nesting but I haven't seen one, through several daylight and stumbling nighttime jaunts to the riverside. Among the rest (save a few who will try and con/wiggle/beg/semi-demand money from you) there are people who will smile at you, their white teeth shining at you from two hundred meters away, as you whiz on by on some speedy Gonzalves TVS Luna, people who will wave you down and politely offer a seat at their son's modest wedding table, people who will reach out and shake your hand, tiny tykes screaming 'hello, hello' with glee. People who will make you smile, chuckle and laugh.

Then you have the monuments, some crumbling, some recently refurbished, some showing strains of their many moons under the baking Hampi sun. The Vithala Temple Complex and the Queen's Bath in particular are worth their walks in gold. The alluringly named Concubine Bazaar leads up to the slightly spicker and spanner Achyuta Temple Complex and is a desolate walk. The constantly bustling Bazaar street with the imposing Virupaksha Temple complex towering over one end, is a source of cheese, history and food and the occasional procession. The ruins aren't particularly ancient in comparison to even Delhi but have a good 700 years on me.

If all this excitement hasn't got you scrambling to call your travel agent (we wish), then let me introduce you to the bounding, gravity defying, stupefying array of boulders, some eerily forming the shape of Hanuman's head (Monkey Hill). The temple topped peak is an easy climb even if your last bout of guilty exercise was back during the Cold War. The view from up top is tear jerking. The rhesus monkeys are best ignored. The venerable Baba of the temple will bring out the chi if he's in the mood.

Deliciously tarred roads snaking through endless green paddy fields connecting the Anegondi (Hampi’s old capital) road to the humungous many-laked reservoir. Here, pray that you run into a resourceful teenager called Raghu/Salman Khan (he likes to keep changing his name) as he will willy nilly procure for you chips, beer, biscuits and huge rubber tubes that you can float on in the vast reservoir. It's also good for a swim, if you have the suit and the confidence. The reservoir is trippy as hell, on a full moon night but be warned that on a sweltering day, there is little shade hereabouts to give you welcome respite.

There is also an aspect of Hampi that brings out the closet ornithologist in me, screaming out bird names like a frothing maniac while my companions look disinterestedly at me, politely nodding at my more frantic appeals. Yes, kind patrons, Hampi is also for the birds.

And beasts, and semi-humans, and simians, and humans, and hippies and everyone with a mind for seeking magic. It took me 23 years to get here, it’s going to be a while before I can say goodbye.

MORE HAMPI PHOTOS HERE