The hippy chicks will have to wait…..

Sat, 30 Aug 2008
The journey was mildly discomforting, the aroma of the days 1st shit overpowering, the station at Gotankpal arid and threatening, the bus station beggar women the most tenacious ever seen, the bus ride Dante-esque and Hospet an anal haemorrhage in an oasis of shit. Got the picture?

Thats all behind us now, and for the princely rent of Rs50 am staying in a bamboo,mud and banana leaf construction that is popularly referred to as a ‘hut’. After nearly a week of drinking and fighting with ***n, we’d just about had it up to the back teeth with each other, and thrashing him resoundingly at ‘A to Z’ was no longer the fun it had once been.
He was on a solo mission to Hospet to check his freshly-sent ATM card worked, which was a pretty good cover story for what was in fact a military scale rum run. I was still recovering from the previous nights’ bout of his arsey drunken cantankerousness, and thats how I met ‘Honey’* – she of the curly hair and lovely mouth, scouting the island to escape the relentless commercial clamor of Hampiside.She took a hut. You know what they say about Israeli women……they’re from Israel.
Rum and cokes, joints and games of chess ensue, she and her friend, ***n and I…..she lasted 2 days and shipped out, saying she didn’t wish to ‘live in a pub’. Weak.
***n has to go on another 3 day covert mission to ^^^^^^, leaving me as pretty much the only Pharang on the island to slug it out with the laughing Buddhas fridgeful of Kingfisher. Bastard. I’m now on 1st name terms with whatsisface, ‘the rum man’ – last house on the island. The 800 yard trek to replenish my supplies of ‘Old Monk’, afternoon rock climbing notwithstanding, is my 3 or 4pm ritual, in addition to the 10am and 6pm river check – because the river has risen a tad in the last couple of days.
On 2 outings we have made 4 attempts to scale ‘Elephant Rock’, wholeheartedly at that, and each time have been rebuffed convincingly with the silent disdain that is the preserve of the prim and haughty, hulking fat sow that she is, dominating the skyline….nay the very psyche of Hampi island (or Virupappur Gaddhi as the local authorities have vainly renamed it.) The Elephant rock – so named because from every perspective save one it resembles a….very large pile of big rocks – is happy enough for you to truffle about in her petticoats, but she doesn’t allow just anyone to plough her furrow…..
Its low season – apparently they don’t gear up here till January – and its all very ‘shanti shanti’. For me, a bit too shanti. I pop over to Hampiside every so often, you know, to pick up on the vibe because man, I am just so down with that hippie groove…..but have to be back on the island by 6pm. Why? – because the ferryman says so. Thinking that mebe I’m missing out on some of that hot-rocking Hampiside action (Dig?) I ask Ojo to tot-up the bill, I repack the bag and prepare to de-camp the next day – Ahs’a gonna make me some lurve with some mighty fine pantaloons-wearin’ anklechain janglin’ backpackin’ womans.
Up bright and breezy, all chipper with the scent of fresh misadventure and the promise of what salacious iniquities i can mire myself in next, I pay the bill as Ojo tells me the river has risen…..
If by risen you mean overnight turn a 30 yard babbling brook into a (insert hugely impressive figure here) 200 yard wide billion gallon raging torrent 35 feet(ooooh at least) higher than it was,submerging the whole valley plain (well valley-ish), trees and all, including the 1st 2 levels of the Mango tree restaurant, that the police will allow neither ferryboat nor coracle to cross because 2 years ago a boat capsized at high river and 8 people died….then yes, the river has risen.

Borrocksh! I hotfoot it to the broken bridge (rum man) end – you know, just to check that water does find its own level (abstruse physics joke, might have picked it up in the navy) – the rum man’s courtyard is 18 inches above the big wetness. There’s a semi-paved road out there – i walked it 3 days ago, that’s now 35 feet(oooh, at least) underwater. there’s a copse of trees to my right thats now doing its annual seaweed impression. We are stranded.
I ain’t goin nowhere – and neither’s anyone else, including the rum man, and we can safely conclude his supply chain is forseeably suspended. Little voice at the back of my head suggests I check out the health of his stocks. I put my ‘Chinese Gordon’** hat on, paid the requisite rupees, and laid in a private stock of 7 bottles.
I mean, SHIT! – times like these a mans gotta think ahead.

Adam x

* er….not her real name.
** Gordon of Khartoum, leader of the British garrison at the ‘Siege of Khartoum’

‘this is where the rubber meets the road!’