Full power, 24 hour!

Sat, 13 Sep 2008 17:09:20

Full power, twenty-four hour!

Communal breakfast at Durga’s, Dorien orders up momos – a Tibetan vegetarian dumpling affair that takes some preparation. It transpires that everyone knows the plan from the off, so I must have been concentrating on my food last night when the itinerary was hatched. Always the last to know….We’re not halfway down the high street with the living temple Virupaksha as our backdrop when we stop for coffee – turns out Eyal is an afficionado – and this is the only place that does a proper espresso – he has pictures of real coffee and cakes stored on his camera from somewhere up north – to remind him of when he found the cake oasis in the coffee desert. Strange fella. I haven’t drunk coffee for twenty years because the stuff gave me insomnia for over a decade and that’s a long time…..when you want to sleep; still, I’m not bitter about it. I settle on a maaza – bright orange pseudo-mango ‘juice’, mix it with a bottle of soda water and spark up a fag. My body is a temple. Its been a half-hour so I head back to pick up the now-ready momos, trundle back and off we set – maybe an hour behind an ideal schedule but still timely for a full days derring-do.

Quick trawl up and down the ceremonial procession to Ackyuta-Kaya temple, see if the millipede is still there….that’s one of the big dark brown ones, not the fluffy cute ones, with the segmented exoskeleton that you don’t want to find underfoot. They’re pretty big, impressive in a horrific sort of fashion and in all respects rather disturbing. (Two years ago on Arambol I accidently cut one in half with the door – took him nearly five minutes to die. Buried him with full honours, apologised to God, felt like shit for 3 days and couldn’t stop worrying about his big brother coming for revenge at 4 in the morning. Arambol is that kind of place.)
He wasn’t there so instead we smelt the bat urine, cogitated on the stonework and the heaviness thereof, and made no end of wholly uninformed speculations about the blatant madness of the long-gone Vijayanagar Empire. How they loved their stone!

Up the rocks with no name – no major struggle but gaining height quickly through exertion, and the occasional skirmish with what ***n calls ‘undue vegetation’……thats ‘undue’ as in ‘ever so slightly bothersome!’ We take a smoko and water-guzzle near the top, admire the view, admire each other, get the cameras out and collectively decide that life is OK, and we’re pretty damn cool. With higher to go and the bit between my teeth I steal a march – the going is pleasingly energetic – not challenging, just a straight trade-off: you want more height, you pay with energy. Got to the front edge of the 2nd highest rock before the rest saw me, and from there I could see the highest rock was also manageable. Effectively a very large boulder, topped with a ridge like a gently-inverted ”v’. One foot either side of the ridge, I shuffle to the front and am at the highest point In Hampi this side of the Elephant rock summit and Hanuman (monkey) temple in the middle distance. Much whooping and encouragement from the crew, so I breathe yet more deeply, and crouching till now, legs shaking, I stand up and straighten my legs.

The view is exhilarating, life-affirming – and sphincter-tightening! It’s a long way up. Having locked my knees, the fear has transferred from the legs to the breathing: I pause on an exhale, call to mind yoga teacher #2 (Ishwara Kaur): “allow the breath to regulate itself”, calm down a bit and relax both the knees and the breathing, then suck in the panoply laid out before me, slowly twisting from right to left and back. I suspect a major photo opportunity so whilst Dorien and Zorge have the cameras out I treat them to an alfresco Tai Chi/ Chi Kung mash-up. Sensing that this is what the psychologists call a ‘peak experience’, and in this case literally, I ham it up good and proper, the girls clicking away to my ego’s content. Fan-tastic!
No way is Zoja going to take this lying down, so up she clambers, me transferring to the 2nd rock to make way – because….’there can be only one’.
She and I get down, reconvene with the others and head to the back end of the ridge to take stock, gauge distance and plan stage 3 –barely reached a consensus and the girls are off, haring down the rocks making the route up on the hoof – there’s no holding them back! We descend – at a somewhat foolhardy pace – to sunken temple point (Purandara Dasara mandapam), pause for a breather – it’s not just energetic, it is very very hot. Splash the feet, watch kids piss in the river, and take an allegedly refreshing sugarcane drink (revolting, but….you know? – authentic). Indian families picknicking….much staring.Too tired to stare back.

Zoja joins in the haggling for a coracle to coracle point, we pile in and enjoy the ride – five of us plus daybags and the oarsman, a little adventure in its own right. I hunker down in the middle, trying not to get my arse wet in the two inches of bilge at the centre. Land – not far ’til we can have some lunch – past no-name temple being renovated, (allegedly – there’s little sign of industry!) across the granite stepping stones, up the incline to Hanuman guest house, where ***n and I lunched a week or so ago. No lunch today though….nor cold fizz (bit early for beer)…no tanda pani either – nothing, in fact. We sit and regain strength, Eyal and the girls investigate the 60 day old cow in the garden – the family are feeding her up on the best grass, and already she looks a cut above the rest. I indicate the well where the wife or her girl does the dishes – she nods, I draw water from the hand pump and drink deep from a tin ‘matka’ – just as good!
***n is not joining us for the Hanuman temple trek – he’s ‘been there done that’ – but it surprises me, given the opportunity to lead a climb – because there’s no way these girls will settle for going up the steps, they have revealed themselves as Amazons, and Zoja likes to lead from the front. I wonder what he’ll do, given there’s no lunch in the offing and we’ll be gone for 2-3 hours. Not till later do I suspect he’s going for a sneaky traverse to find the northeast passage or backtrack to the Elephant rock’s arse-end and the presumed ‘spinal ascent’.

Off we head, stony track veering right – couldn’t get a rickshaw down here – rice paddies, banana tree fields and a nameless village: in lieu of lunch, bottles of mango juice (mango-ish), tanda pani and peanut cookies. Then on to the prize in the distance, past fields so green, man, it was like being back in ‘Naam *. Onwards to the base of the hill, and much entreaty to buy the obligatory coconuts – to offer to the monkeys we think, but these things are a little fuzzy round the edges, – as are monkeys. Coconuts also, come to that. There’s an irrigation affair running round the base – in ye olden days we would prolly have called it a moat (moat-ette maybe– it doesn’t look too defensive). We head left, looking for a footbridge (or bridg-ette), but after 300 yards its looking ‘negatory’ as the Marines used to say….(Semper Fi, dude)** so it looks like we’re going to get wet.
There is however, a tree…with a rope – no tyre, but still ‘baha acha’. Shoes-offage and chucking, toe-dipping and trouser roller-upping ensues, followed by a liberal dose of Tarzan impressions and photo-opportunism. We’re across. I forge ahead, seeking the path of least resistance, wondering if I’ve assumed leadership because the opportunity has presented itself, or because I’m still a slave to the tediously Neanderthal imperative to impress the girls.
Wish I was sexy instead of just deep.
Jumping from rock to rock – this is not mountaineering, not ‘freeclimbing’, not really achievement – but balance, judging distance and gradient, trusting your footwear and your grip – is hugely pleasing. It has been said little things please little minds – well so be it. The others soon catch up, Eyal if off to the right, finding his own path, the girls will brook no leadership – on fire once again.
If it had been a race there’s no doubt Eyal would have been ‘king of the castle’ – whilst quietly spoken (yeah I know, Israel – are you sure?) – he displays some gazelle-like qualities. Truly, only in the wild can the majesty of such a creature be seen (c.BBC). In truth its easygoing – upward progress, no real danger – always aiming for the ‘saddle’ atop which sits the sole tree acting as a beacon. From afar, if it weren’t for the monkey temple itself, you’d call it ‘one tree hill’. That this tree should find root directly above the path of least resistance is one of those happenstances for which there is neither rhyme nor reason. There maybe, but you’ll burn a circuit trying – so don’t.
There’s a final surprise as we negotiate a quarter-ton stepping stone that doesn’t look like it balances on a fulcrum..…but does – wibble wobble but don’t fall down – then no more than 30 minutes from Tarzan point we crest the plateau, bang in line with the tree. Well done us, top marks!
It’s rarified. We individually go about circumambulating the plateau, no real need for words. I look South backwards towards Hampi, clocking the summit of Elephant rock, the top tier of the Virupaksha temple mantapa, the desolate junior monkey temple on Mathunga hills (which I will scale several days hence), and Chi kung photo point. I think we are now clearly higher, but unless you know your arc and azimuth from your zenith and degree of elevation – it’s not easy. Trained observer.
You can however see for miles, and the seemingly haphazard distribution of banana plantations and rice paddies, seldom square and rarely symmetrical, is a wonder to behold. Here and there the greenery is interspersed with a minor outcropping of the stone which, in its billion different bizarre manifestations, forms the overwhelmingly most impactful aspect of this geography. It stretches for as far as the eye can see – and up here, that’s a big stretch. Sandpit of the gods.
After privately slapping ourselves on the back, and a smoke, we break out the momos, complete with bags of an unidentifiable dayglo red sauce so rich in additives its radioactive. being a health-conscious kind of guy, and having forgotten to take breakfast, I dunk mine like depth charges, and swill them down with water that’s now hotter than you’d have your tea. Such relentless suffering! The monkeys entertain us by their little rock pool, sipping, fighting, picking each other’s bums and eating the proceeds. No shit; – well, some shit obviously…….
Its hard to leave but time waits for no man – so I get itchy feet, possibly more aware than the rest that we must make ferryman point by 6 – but its hard to leave. At least twice everybody goes for an individual last look at a view that is not only unique, but that may never be seen again. A voice in the head says….suck this in, and deeply – because chances are you will never be here again. Ferryman point or no, thats a hard voice to ignore. From a previous life the field commander stepped in, I chivvy everyone along and we run the ‘baksheesh gauntlet’ (Rs10, we got away cheap!) – not quite sure why one should get paid for living at the top of a hill, but hey-ho!
Down, down, down the 572 steps or however many to the base, admiring them old devil-eyed goats blithely chomping away halfway up as we descend. ***n has pitched up at point zero, gesticulating about the time and indicating the rickshaw he has arranged – the owner of which is now everybody’s best mate – bless him. Can’t remember why it was essential that I pay for ***n’s coconut but I’m a good little boy and do as I’m told. We pile in and off we go – but pitstop at the village with no name for tanda pani, Rs50 bottle of the ‘maa’ (maaza same same) and a tin of kingfisher for Eyal. It’s a 5-seater, kinda, and the girls opt for what is really a parcel shelf at the back – much better view though, apparently. Truly poetic – until it becomes the bumpiest rickshaw ride in history. The view becomes strictly academic when even at 3kph the girls are hitting their heads on the roof, hitting their teeth on the water bottles, Eyal’s beer is going everywhere except his mouth and everybody’s best buddy Johnny 4foot, rides shotgun like a monkey singing bollywood blockbusters – its all so authentically chaotic my balls ache. Class ride.
Looks like we’d given up on ferryman point because we ended at Hanuman guest house – cross the semi-submerged granite stepping stones, past the temple under renovation and thence to coracle point. no coracle in sight – this side or the other. We have to get Zoja back because it’s her last day – she’s to be on the train from Hospet at 9. We wave and whistle to no avail. In time, and we’ve not much to spare, two old biddys finish their collecting up of fishing nets in their coracle and take her over to landing point – we wave and agree by shouting to meet at chill-out for dinner should she have time, and to send the biddys back for us…..which doesn’t happen. I lie myself down on the flat warm stone and warm the belly….which is not unpleasant.
***n Eyal and Dorien choose to swim whilst we wait for a coracle. I guard the bags and calculate no more than 30-40 minutes of daylight left. I could have been Victorian and averted my gaze when Dorien stripped down to undergarmentage to reveal a lithe yet bounteous physique – but I didn’t…..doesn’t make me a bad man – shit, I’m guarding the bags ain’t I? Warm the belly some more.
The clock is really ticking but a family pitch up with a coracle on their heads. Uh-huh. The tireless trio decide to swim it – that’s my kind of swim, and I feel a pang of regret that I’m not in there with them. I negotiate for myself and the bags, load them in and step into the coracle, watch them swimming as I’m rowed across. At landing point the oarsman naturally decides that the previous negotiation was merely preamble and that I should pay for each bag as a complete passenger. From some angles fair enough – but it’s not what we had agreed. How unpredictable! I dispatch him using ‘voce gravitas’ because more serious things are afoot. Even ***n struggles tho he has taken the best line, and his advice to Eyal and Dorien to counter the current seems to have gone unheeded. It may well look placid but this is still the Tungabhadra that comes down from Sanapur dam, splits 2 ways to the west of broken bridge and turns Viruppa Gaddi into Hampi island.
Dorien is making slow progress, ***n and Eyal are faring better but are clearly knackered. She’s not floundering, but if she can’t counter or get beyond the current it will sap her strength while she just keeps station. We will soon be where the right thing to do is dive in and bring it to a conclusion – ***n and Eyal have landed, but are wholly spent, strength ebbed to nothing. Something tells me the time is not yet – I have seen her climb and forge ahead……. at the moment it’s only worrying, not serious. With a running dive and the current in my favor, I could be with her in 4 seconds. If she needs me she will wave, and if I move too soon I’ll deny her the victory, and look bloody silly into the bargain.
She makes it, they dry off, I shoulder the bags and we hotfoot it for the 600 yard traverse across user friendly rocks to the Kobandarama temple. The bloody things get everywhere. The light fails just as we get off the rocks and we’re back on familiar territory – through the monkey tunnel, ignore the semi-saddhu who thinks its his tunnel (baksheesh gauntlet reprise) – and double time it back to our respective hovels for a quick shower and fresh duds, to reconvene at ‘Chill-out’ .
Fresh, flushed, scrubbed up and pumped, over milkoffee, chai, banana honey pancake or dall fry and chapatti, we recount individual perspectives on the 8 phase day’s adventure. Zoja pitched up with her backpack the size of a Bergen, sick as a green thing that she didn’t also get to swim across coracle point. We do the photo review and email swap thing, tell each other again, ‘you were great man, you DID that!’ , all to the secretly rapt attention of everyone there who hadn’t…..planned their day in advance.
All things must pass, and Zorge is off to meet a friend flying in to Bangalore, thence to Cochin. After hugs all round she tells us she’s had a blinding time and that ‘its people who make places’ – which I’d never heard before, but if true is probably why I’ve been in Hampi for three and a half weeks.

Adam x

* bit of a lie actually, – wasn’t in Vietnam. Too young, they said.
** wasn’t even in the marines.

‘this is where the rubber meets the road!’