12th Dec - 14th Dec 2014
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| The lane we would take to avoid the dusty main road |
I have been in the little village
of Hassan for just under a week now, and although there is little to do here,
so far I quite enjoy the relaxed routine to ease me into my Indian adventure.
Of course after a month here my brother, Chirag, is itching to leave and get
back to civilisation. Our days go a little like this: wake up and have
breakfast at the canteen – despite the spicy food burning my mouth to a crisp,
read a little and occupy myself while Chirag goes to lectures, lunch at Mayur
(local hotel restaurant), more busying oneself as there is no where else to go,
then dinner and a drink or two at Suwarna (a slightly upmarket local
hotel restaurant… the term upmarket is used loosely when in a village; the
toilets are of the hole in the ground variety).
I’ve had an Ayurvedic consultation during my time here to sort
out all my bowel issues. I must say it is working a treat. The entire treatment
including medicines cost a fiver, and I even had complimentary extensive yoga
lessons to boot. In fact those yoga lessons proved to be a rather interesting
hour of my life. After showing me all the complicated poses and praising me as
her star student due to my flexibility, the yoga teacher proceeded to tell me
about her life; that she had lost a lot of weight over the last couple of years
(she showed me her post-marriage fat pics) due to a leg injury. I thought I
would return the favour and teach her a few abs and ass moves to tone up. I was
rather surprised when she struggled to perform some simple squats and plank,
considering that she could fold up her body backwards so her head touched her
feet.
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Environmentally friendly
car-sharing |
So for our last day, to break up the monotony of village life,
we have decided to do a spot of sightseeing. Only half an hour away, in the
nearby towns of Belur and Halebidu, stands a collection of intricately carved
Hindu temples built over nine centuries ago. About an hour late, again with the
lack of urgency in this village, the car arrives to pick seven of us up. This of course means we haven’t had time to
eat lunch, thinking that we’d already be on our way by noon.
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| The front view of Kedareshwara Temple |
We’re finally on our way, driving past droves of goats,
worker-men packed tightly into the back of trucks swaying in unison with each
bump in the road, and dodging potholes. Lots of potholes. The first stop out of
four is Kedareshwara temple, one of the smaller, quieter shrines, built
in the 12th century. Perhaps because there were no other people
there compared to the overcrowded larger temples, or because this was the first
place we visited with a fresh attitude and not yet imploding with hunger, but
this one was my favourite. As is customary in any place of worship in India, or
any temple or mosque for that matter, we remove our shoes by the door and are
free to roam the small, soap stone temple upon a well-maintained lawn. There’s
something about my bare feet on the warm, holy stone that makes me feel
grounded and instantly at ease. You can walk all the way round and take in all
the sculptures, no two carvings the same it seemed, of various animals and
episodes from the Hindu lore. Neither of us feels the need to engage in
conversation as we stroll at our own pace round the temple.
Unfortunately the tranquillity is short-lived. I begin to feel
mighty impatient as we go from one crowded temple to the other; not bothering
to take pictures what with the tens of hundreds of visitors tainting the scene.
I’m in and out in ten minutes, but of course the problem with travelling in a
large group is that there is always a few who want to faff about for hours.
Before we even enter the famous Hoysaleswara temple peddlers and hawkers
bombard us outside the gates. Chirag and I almost get away scot-free on account
of our brown skin, whereas the group we are travelling with are mostly white and
hassled even further. The hawkers push useless trinkets onto us at with the
utmost persistence. No definitely doesn’t mean no with these guys:
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| Hoysaleswara: Trying to escape the crowds and bloody whistles |
“Madam, small Shiva statue.
Madam, flute. Sir, postcards, sir just ten rupees. Sir, map of Karnataka,
Kamasutra book, look at all positions. Sir, you need, sir.”
These lot aren’t quite as bothersome as the ridiculous shoe-guy
at the front of the temple. It is apparently temple policy to leave ones shoes
with the shoe-guy at a cost of two rupees, which of course I refuse to pay and
discreetly slip my flip-flops into my bag. I’d have gotten away with it too if
Chirag didn’t decide to do the same and then insist I put his shoes into my bag
with the subtlety of a peacock’s mating ritual. Of course shoe-guy clocks us
and tells us off, demanding we pay the two rupees. It’s not about the cost,
which is a mere 2p in our money, but the very principle that this guy is making
a profit for a completely unnecessary service and that too in a place of
worship. How very dare he! I give him a tenacious glare and slip away while
Chirag pays for his shoes, victorious that the bad tempered sod didn’t fleece a
penny out of me.
The scolding doesn’t end there, unfortunately. If I hear that
stupid whistle one more time, someone is going to get it! I go to sit on the
edge of the temple… PEEEEP!! Try to take a photo on top of the statue… PEEEP!!
I look around to see if any of these plain clothed guards are around, and only
then proceed to climb a ledge to get a good shot when I’m positive that there
aren’t any in sight but alas… PEEEEEEEEEPPPP!! They are absolutely picking on
me, as around me the locals seem to get away with worse. Next time I shall just
smile, wave and continue on.
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| Manju helping me get my hurr did |
A few of us tire of the overcrowded temple quickly, having to
wait for the others as they hire a tour guide to take them round. I can no
longer ignore the rumble in my stomach and go in search of safe, peel-able
fruit that won’t wreak havoc on my intestines. I spot a fruit stall with
bunches of ripe, bright yellow bananas and head towards it but before I reach
another fruit seller lady calls out to me. Although I have already decided on
the other fruit stall, the way she beckons me to hers in an over familial,
friendly manner as if she was waiting for my custom all morning, I can’t help
but smile and comply. This feisty, little woman with a loud, nasal voice is
called Manju, and already refers to me as ‘Anni’ as she asks me questions and
asks to take a picture with me. I purchase a few bananas and a string of
jasmine as I’d been eyeing up the local ladies’ hair decorations all day. I
know she quotes me the higher, tourist price for the two items at first, but
after tying the jasmine around my hair herself, taking a picture together and
engaging in conversation, her in broken English and I in broken Hindi, I think
she feels a bit bad for overcharging me. She breaks me off some juicy satsumas
and hands it to me as a gift, free of charge.
By now there’s just one more temple left to see and I’m
beginning to get a little irritable seeing as the fruit didn’t fill the hole in
my stomach at all, in fact it just made it growl louder. I’m tempted to stay in
the car for the last one, but after realising this meant that cows and beggars
would hover near the car window looking for food or money, I decide to endure
another twenty minutes of being ‘whistle-warned’ by the temple caretakers,
pushing through crowds, posing for yet more pictures and dreaming of the meal
that we were about to attack right after
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