Setting Fire to Cows

28 March 2013

We are slowly heading north through this vast country called India. After our disappointment of the lack of animals or actual entry into a national park, we were to be further let down or adventurous, depending on your comfort factor, with a bone-jarring bus ride through the Indian countryside of forests and red earth, to Mysore, which is a city, not a prelude to any kind of chancre.

Mysore is to some considered the hub of South India, and it is noticeably different to the rest of the region, especially in cleanliness, where citizens actually place their rubbish in the municipal bins provided. The rubbish of course makes its way back onto the streets and pavements thanks to hungry cows foraging through the silos of plastic, but that’s beside the point. The city even has its own local “Clean Up” day, so it’s refreshing to be reminded that there are some Indian folk who care about their immediate environments. As for the cows, well the sooner this country ignores their holy significance and starts eating them, the better. The local farmers markets have had to erect bollards to keep the potential steaks out and from buffeting on fruits and flowers.

Cows. Traffic hazards

The quicksand would son swallow up the tourists

Our real beer drought ended and the shambles of the Fosters of Fort Cochi was put behind us, as we settled into a bar for a good old night of icy cold draught Kingfisher beer to relieve us from the high thirty temperatures of a night time. Each frothy mug complemented the mouth watering tandoori chicken we feasted upon. We went home very full and happy, and then Kylie got sick, which of course a runny tummy is always expected every few weeks in these lands so she was just being true to expected form.

Fortunately, we had a very nice hotel to rest a few days in, with a nice swimming pool to boot. Unfortunately, the pool attendant wasn’t up to speed on safe levels of chlorine to use, and the toe tip to test temperature still has my foot burning to this day. So some days were spent lying in bed watching the latest episode of Aussie cricket embarrassment, as they were again beaten by a far superior cricket team.

The burning pool. 

The cheeky snake was not welcome.

The city itself has a few enticing sights, one being the opulent Maharajah Palace, the theatre of dreams for many a royal family over the ages. When you enter palaces in India, footwear needs to be removed and left at the entrance. More often than not its still there and hasn’t become part of a local hobo’s repertoire. The placement outside is generally not a problem, except for this day, where the temperature was something similar to the surface of the sun, and walking on paved palace grounds was excruciating, to say the least. After sprinting to the safety of carpeted entrances, the security guard then informed me my camera had to be stowed in the baggage lockers (how dare anyone take any photographic memories away), and that would involve another Usain Bolt style sprint across the courtyard on hot coals. And back. The temples were rather impressive though, despite the scalding.

Instructions at the Zoo were pretty specific

Another night, and another horrible and uncomfortable overnight bus experience. This time from Mysore to some deserted bus station somewhere in India, before we connected to our final destination, Hampi. Hampi is very unusual on first sight. It’s essentially a bunch of rocks and boulders and impressive temples in what is seemingly the middle of nowhere. Then, as you delve further inside this mysterious place, you discover rice paddies of the most nourishing green, a gentle flowing river cutting the town in half, and dozens of relaxing and inviting guesthouses with swaying hammocks moving with the breeze on their wooden porches. Its quite a backpacker magnet too, a known enclave of travellers swapping tales and making further plans. It also attracts large numbers of hippies, who are favourites of mine, as we know.

Hampi. Hot.

Hampi. Green, and hot.

There are a number of activities and sights to keep you occupied in Hampi and surrounds. One of them is a visit to the Sloth Bear Animal Sanctuary. Apparently its good, but we didn’t actually make it, because we took directions from an Indian, which we have realised, you should never do. We had a motorbike for the day, and such is the lack of road signs and street name signs anywhere in India, you simply turn the key in the ignition and go. Normally if you have a rough idea where you want to go, you will stumble into or onto it. But don’t ever, ever ask an Indian on the side of the road or field which way it is. It’s not that they are entirely hopeless; they just have a natural desire to be as helpful as possible even though they don’t have a clue where A and B is. One crossroad and wrong turn too many, we had stopped by a local village and asked a local man where the park was. Within seconds glitterati converged on us, gathering around in interest to offer us opinions on directions they had absolutely no idea about.

So we missed the park, and spend an unplanned day motoring through tiny villages, past excited schoolchildren and loads of cows.

It was getting hot. Damn hot. So, time for the beach. We are goin’ to Goa!

This time, by train, and we decided on AC second class so we didn't have to share our bed or cabin with forty six other people. Still, it didn't stop people from wandering in and grabbing the spare seat, which wasn't spare at all.

The authorities would investigate why there was only one person in the train carriage

Nestled snugly on the West Coast of India between a few ugly places, Goa is pristine, and a haven for relaxation. We found a lazy beach shack in the town of Palolem run by local Goans Roy and Johnson, who’s motto for their joint was “Full Power” and even used the Black Power symbols of yesteryear as their own, simply for travellers to recognise that there was access to 24 hours of electricity in these parts. They were proud of that fact, and should be, as memories of rotating power blackouts in Hampi while sweltering under imaginary rotating fans were all too fresh.

After considerable research, the boats decided they would fare better in water.

Days were simple. Wake up mid morning to lunch time, have some food, swim, eat, sneak a few beers in at one of the beach bars showing the cricket, swim, relax, make fun of the Russian tourists, and do it all again the next day.

Russians are quite populous in Goa, in fact they make up for 30% of foreign tourists according to the local rag. The local businesses hate them. Something about them all being rude and pointing and shouting to get things. Heaven knows where this idea came from! There are parts of Goa where Russians are so overwhelming, where even the street signs are in Cyrillic.

Occasionally we would stare into the twilight, admiring the stunning sunsets India was hosting. Never have we seen the sky on fire like we did in Goa for all of those nights.

The hungry umbrellas would do anything for a free meal

For the first time since the culinary delights of Argentina, we had steak. And not just any old pieces of leather either. You see, beef is unusual in India, as the cow is the holy symbol and hence gets to behave, as it likes wherever it likes. But there we have them, on our plates, at the odd beach restaurant, juicy and tender, fillet steak. The kind of thick cut that robber restaurateurs back home would charge a kidney for, but here, only five bucks. Drool.

Walking across water was old school for new age Jesus 

It was sad to depart Goa, especially since the waters were so warm, the locals so friendly, and the beer so cold. The day we left was Holi Day, which is when the kids go nuts on cheap plonk and everyone covers each other with coloured flour, creating wild and vivid scenes played out on each others faces and ruining the white shirts they regretted wearing on the 27^th March. Even the airport staff, we noticed on our way out, were getting into the spirit and decorating each other’s faces. They were promptly fired.

The blindfold drinking competition may have a fiery end