A Tale of Temples and a Jumble of Jungles - Pt 1

Mysore Spice Market

Leaving Bangalore after the wedding I was probably not in the soundest of minds to attempt my first non-AC carriage train ride. For a start there are no designated seats, after you purchase your ticket it is every man, woman and child for themselves. And believe me they know it. There were two stairways down to the platform but one of which had collapsed about five feet from the bottom. Not keen on making the jump down onto a bed of jagged rubble with all my bags, I decided to cue to use the other stairway like a civilised person. Unfortunately civilisation seems to have skipped India in certain places. Instead of people lining up to go down, a writhing, wriggling ball had formed at the top of the stairs. Men pushed kids and all out of their way, feeble protests drowned out by the shouting they were doing into the mobile phone glued to their ear. Women indiscriminately swung the big burlap sacks balanced on their heads like wrecking balls to clear a path in front of them. I almost felt sorry for the kids being pinballed about and trampled underfoot until one of them accidentally/on purpose kicked me in the shins trying to get past. As the momentum surged backward and forward I was lifted me off my feet on more than one occasion by the flood of people on the stairs. And of course all hell broke lose when the unstoppable force of people going down met the immovable objects of people trying to get back up.

Street Cricket

The compartments of the train were laid out with two benches of four facing each other and two luggage racks running parallel overhead. An aisle ran between those benches and the two further single seats that faced each other. It could have fitted fourteen comfortably, maybe eighteen at a stretch but certainly not the thirty people who piled in on top of me. I was pushed closer and closer to the window until I had to open it just so that half my body could lean out. Kids were standing between my legs, guys climbed onto the luggage rack to sleep on top of my bags and about six people squeezed onto the edge of my seat in a perverse game of tetras. That was before the water sellers and other vendors pushed in, adding to the discordance of noise with their own bellows of prices. But once you got used to the clammy claustrophobic press of bodies it was actually quite an interesting experience. The views were spectacular as we cut through part jungle part pastureland and there was no shortage of wildlife to look at. The kids played games to pass the time and even though I had no idea what they were saying their squeals of joy were infectious. Once the train started moving, wind streamed in through the window grills to cool the cabin down until it was quite pleasant. And at 75p for a four-hour ride it was easy to put any discomforts aside.

Magnificent Mysore

My next stop was Mysore, a city famous for its palace, its handicraft and its dhosa. Keen to see all three I went to the Palace first. It was a huge royal complex and is rated as one of the finest in India. The old wooden structure of the palace had burned down during a feast but the new stone building built in its place at the turn of the 20^th Century was lavishly restored with no expense spared. I took an audio tour of the place, which offered a trove of information to match the treasures on display. Unlike some of the other tours I have done it didn’t getting bogged down in complex genealogy trees that would require a pen and paper to even begin to follow. Packed with an amazing assortment of antiques from pre-Colonial and Colonial times, there was something to see in each room. The highlight was definitely the Durbar Hall used to hold court. True to the divisive customs at the time, every caste and gender had their own position in the room. The Raj’s throne was centre, with his closest nobles and advisors placed beside him according to rank, a gallery for guests and invited dignitaries and a balcony for the royal women. Through the pillars that supported the roof the front was completely open to the parade ground where common people stood to observe proceedings. In the vast grounds of the palace there were a number of temples and other buildings previously used by the royalty and it took the best part of the morning to see it all.

The Durbar Hall

On the way out, a local struck up a conversation with me and decided he was going to take me on an impromptu tour of “the part of Mysore that isn’t in your travel guide.” First we went to a market used pretty exclusively by locals and packed with bowls of spices, bags of vegetables and ghastly hooks hanging sheep and chicken. The stench from the slaughter yard was pretty overpowering but I could help but stare with grim intrigue as the butchers expertly hacked them down sizeable into chunks for customers.

After that we were on to slightly more pleasant odours when he took me to the incense and oil shop. Here I watched a woman rolling sticks through a mixture of charcoal, sawdust, water and oils. These were left to dry in the sun for a couple of hours before being coated in their fragrance powders. She would roll 7,000 of them a day by hand, sitting in that room, making rolling cutlery back home in the Wellie look like a gift.  The oils were all natural remedies that would do everything from clearing asthma, to ridding of rashes, to improving your sexual performance. They were adamant that their water lily oil would stave off mosquitos for up to ten hours and was a lot better for your skin than Western DEET based repellents. But after a night of getting terrorized by mosquitos I think my tasty Irish blood must have ben just too tantalising.

Tabletops 

The last workshop I visited was definitely the most amazing, with Mysore’s carpenters renowned throughout India. They showed me the whole process starting with a plain tabletop and cutting out the designs using a stencil. They do not use any paint throughout the entire process but instead build the inlays through different types of wood. The different wood types provided the full palette of colours they needed for their designs. These were painstakingly carved and sealed into the tabletop. Next the whole table is sanded down and varnished. Then legs are intricately carved and fitted following a similar method. Overall it can take the team of ten men up to a year to make one of the larger banquet tables and would cost in the region of ten to twelve thousand euros. They have quite a long waiting list so get your orders in now!

Dhosa

The dhosa in Mysore is famous in southern India for its authenticity, with some of the restaurants dating back a couple centuries. Slathered in ghee (Indian lard) it had the greasy feel of a good takeaway. The restaurant had five tables of four but each seat was filled. As soon as someone stood to leave another took his place. The waiter came out with an endless stream of the savoury crepe like pancakes and dished them out to whoever had an empty plate. Dhosa after dhosa, until I too could take no more and was replaced at the table by the next guy.

ConAirBus

The evenings in Mysore were mostly spent chilling on the hostel rooftop with the owners looking out over the city. The Zostel guys gave me a great tip for my next destination, Bandipur National Park, as well. Rather than pay £25 for a 4x4 to take me on a two-hour tour they told me to stay overnight with a local at a converted hunting lodge for £7.50 a night. The owner had built his own watchtower and from there you had as good a chance as any to see the wildlife up close. On the way there two police officers flagged down our bus and got on with a third man. The two police officers sat down while the third man remained sheepishly standing. My exact thoughts were could he be? No surely he wasn’t a prisoner, who in their right mind would bring an arrested person on to a public bus. But before I could begin to admonish myself for being so silly, one of the police officers reached over and opened the other man’s previously concealed handcuffs and then the man himself cuffed them to the rail overhead. Certainly one way to balance the books on the policing bill back home!

Unwanted Hitchhiker

The bus I had taken was actually the main bus ride between Mysore and Ooty, two big towns in the south of India. The incredible part was for forty-five minute of the journey it runs through the national park. So people on their ever day work commute will drive past a plethora of peacocks, a deluge of deer and manic monkeys stealing food from anywhere they could get it.  At the checkpoint between Karnataka and Tamil land, an unfortunate truck driver was unaware that a monkey who had climbed on top was pilfering his cargo of onions. Eating his fill and throwing the odd piece down to the waiting troop when he needed a breather. The buses were quite old fashioned, rickety, metallic contraptions. People were packed into them like the proverbial tin of sardines only I think that tin would have had a better suspension system.

The first day at the lodge I saw pretty much everything from the watchtower that overlooked a small manmade waterhole; wild boars bathing, more monkeys cavorting, stags charging and clashing heads. A peacock spread its feathers in a majestic display of defiance to ward of an approaching mongoose. It looked so regal and brave, but then ruined the moment when it flew (did not know they could do that) to a tree branch. The long wedding dress of plumage it carried behind it was so ungainly that it looked unbalanced in the air. This time more drunkenly majestic, like your friend at the end of the night falling over but managing to keep his kebab intact.

Watchtower view with boar and deer

At night as I watched a biblical thunderstorm play out in the towering mountains nearby the hostel owner joined me. He was an elderly man and had been working there since he was a boy and when it was still a hunting lodge favoured by British hunting parties, a very different set up to the eco-tourist business he ran now. I had really wanted to see a wild elephant or tusker as he called them, as so far I had only seen work elephants in India, always chained up whether it was for tourism or heavy labour. The next morning the owner delivered and one of the workers jumped me on to his bike. We sped off into the jungle in search of an elephant that had been spotted there earlier. I had heard before that Indian elephants where very aggressive when compared to their African cousins. They were known to have trampled tourist vehicles and now long trenches had been dug between the road and the bush to offer some protection, but the driver told me if the elephant wanted you bad enough it would still get you. We searched for twenty five minutes before he pulled the bike in and killed the engine. Walkeing back a hundred yards up the road he pointed through some branches. And there it was across the safety ditch but no more than fifty yards away. A big bull elephant busily stuffing a half shredded plant into its mouth, the powerful shoulders were haunched as if it was ready to spring off at a moments notice. Its head was down while it chewed but as soon as I took out my camera it paused eating. Whether it could see me or not or merely decided I was no immediate threat it went back to the task at hand. We sat for half an hour or so watching him eat his fill before he moved off deeper into the bush and I was still exhilarated after as we rode back to the lodge.

Wild Elephant v Work Elephant

The only downside were the local tourists at the lodge. Most of them didn’t appear to have any interest in seeing any wildlife, instead most of them seemed to want to be seen seeing wildlife. They spent most of their time in the watchtower taking selfies, answering phone calls or playing music off their phone. They talked loud enough they could have been heard back in Mysore and certainly loud enough to scare away any animals. With me the gora or foreigner, I was sadly more exotic to them than any tiger or leopard ever would be. While I was sitting there they would try to ask me every question from favourite colour to what my star sign was. Part and parcel of coming to India for sure and each day I'm definitely now waving at more random people than the Pope and Queen combined, but when out to see wildlife it does start to grate. Realising I wouldn’t see any more with them there I organised for a 4x4 to take me back to the bus stop. If I expected any difference here I was sorely mistaken as we ricocheted our way from pothole to speed bump. These drivers are employed to work in the national park but instead they drive like they are rallying on the Isle of Man. He used his horn in place of his brake for every blind corner, meaning we were more likely to hit a wild animal than see one on the way back!

Gulmohur/Peacock Flower Tree

Goa Have a Good Time

The Life of Reilly/Saol an Bhó Bháin

Getting to Goa meant getting a slight respite from the heat with the sea breeze. And as long as you avoided being out during the hottest part of the day it was all pretty bearable, despite the locals’ constant complaints about the soaring temperatures.

A Taste of Goa

A former Portuguese colony, Goa was the last part of India to be retaken after an invasion by the Indian army in the 60s. It has still kept much of its Southern European characteristics, in Panjim the capital, cobbled roads are lined by terracotta tiled terrace houses, with worn wooden balconies and a plethora of catholic churches to rival that of any Mediterranean town. Goa’s reputation was built on sandy beaches and psytrance parties bur unfortunately the high season for the festivals is around New Year. Most hostels were only ever half full and a few bars had already closed before the coming rains but there was still plenty to do.

Holy Houses

Goa is Electrifying!

First up was Old Goa, the old colonial capital city that previously boasted a population greater than both Lisbon and London. Since it’s heyday as the ‘Rome of the East’ it had been decimated by cholera and was now home mostly to ruins and churches. There were churches everywhere, from basilicas, to cathedrals, to chapels, to convents, you name a religious institution and it would probably have a building in Old Goa. In a global leaderboard of churches per population, I think it could have given even the Vatican a run for its rather sizeable money.  All of the buildings were in such spotless condition too, with immaculate stonework and sprawling green lawns, no mean feat to maintain in that stone splitting heat. The tick-tick-tick of the sprinkler seemed to be counting every rupee spent here rather than on the rest of the town, which lay in various states of disrepair. Crumbling walls lined every road and where covered in a pale hay like creeper, resembling an old man’s whispery, whiskered beard. Even the weeds had dried out, as all water was commandeered to sate the thirst of pristine parochial lawns. Time had caved roofs, rotted boats and grown up so thick upon buildings that they now housed more animals than a cottage with Snow White singing in it. A sad fall from grace for any place. 

Holey Houses

All aboard!

Getting between the towns though was easy, with a spider’s web of buses linking most towns. The buses chug along with the driver wrenching them up and down through the gears. They were small school buses, decorated with a wide-ranging collection of religious ornaments and keepsakes, covering everything from Christian to Hindu deities. Rounding corners at speed would indiscriminately topple bags and standing ladies a like and send them sliding down the aisle. Most journeys resembled the Knight Bus from Harry Potter, racing through gaps that weren’t there before and bouncing over potholes in the country roads that jolted every passenger out of their seat toward the well-cushioned ceiling. The drivers preferred to just slow down rather than stop completely when passengers were embarking or disembarking, maybe out of a fear of being unable to restart the engine. But overall at 20p a ride you couldn’t really complain.

Vagator Beach and Fort Chapora

Vagator Sunset

Up the coast things got a bit livelier. The beaches in Vagator were packed with people and no wonder with the Arabian Sea being bath warm here. It wasn’t quite as peaceful though when, at shin deep, waves were rolling in already towering above my head. On more than one occasion my swim shorts were being pulled towards my knees before I managed to get a hand there to yank them back up. Being caught with your shorts down in India mightn’t in itself go down too well, as due to traditional modesty both men (sometimes) and women (all the time) were wearing knee length trousers and t-shirts amongst the waves. However it was made stranger to see these groups of teenagers in their Victorian Era swimwear whilst some of the little boys playing nearby were sporting more Stone Age counterparts. My Indian roommate explained to me this was due to the intellectual caste these kids came from rather than a naked flouting of convention. With him I discussed everything from karma and life to vegetarianism and gender equality, and although we didn’t always see eye to eye it was really interesting to hear his traditional perspective and debate the details. He also helped me with my first foray into the mad world of Indian cuisine, onion and banana bhajis in particular being a roaring success.

Goan Brekfast, Spice Farm Lunch and Fish Thali

The food in general was pretty amazing, extremely cheap and very flavoursome. In Panjim in particular I fell in love with one restaurant, Viva Panjim, eating lunch and dinner there every chance I got. The kingfish vindaloo and a chicken xacuti were two of the stand out meals. Thalis, think tapas platter, are common everywhere in India with each state having their own flavours and offering meat, fish and vegetarian options. The hostel I stayed at also offered a traditional Goan breakfast in the morning, a mild chickpea and potato curry with a sweet bread and samosa. The samosas too, everywhere fried and crispy samosas, if you are what you eat then I must certainly be a parcel of spiced vegetables folded in golden pastry because I was eating them morning noon and night.

Arpora Night Market

Fine Feni and cashews

Although the season was in its last death throes the Saturday Night Market in Arpora was a surprisingly good night out. Not only did it have the usual crowd of dealers selling knickknacks and trinkets but it also had at least six or seven stages blasting all kinds of music. Nothing like taking a break from your weekly shopping to bop one out in the corner with a load of spaced out hippies. Stalls held a rainbow of spices most of which I didn’t recognize let alone have a clue how to use. Wanting to know a bit more about what I was eating I headed inland to Ponda for a tour of a spice farm. The guide was a cookbook of herbal mixtures each with their own medicinal qualities. She listed so many and so quickly that I had little or no chance of remembering the half. I do remember that nutmeg and mace for pepper spray comes from the same plant, as does cinnamon and bay leaves, crazy I know. I was amazed to see cashews growing each attached to its own apple. The apple although not ate raw was fermented to make a liquor called Feni, used to stimulate the appetite. But rather than pique my hunger it picked the hairs up on the back of my neck as it went down.

Palolem Beach

Having admitted defeat in my quest for a proper Goan party I decided to chase after Goa’s second most sought after treasure, the Goan beaches. In the sleepier south of the state, soft white sand beaches dotted the coast. Nestled between rocky outcrops, the headlands flank the beaches on each side enclosing them in its own secretive embrace. A forest of palm trees line each sandy expanse giving it that Robinson Crusoe/Castaway feeling of total seclusion on an untouched beach. Palolem the busiest of the beaches has a Noddy Town of wooden beach shacks, restaurants and shops propped up and painted in strong primary colours. A sort of Utopian community living there throughout the season, who’d shunned the city life for a life of sun. 

Agonda Beach

Agonda a 3km long strip of sand a scooter ride to the north was a quieter if equally beautiful break. Trekking through the heat along the inland road south, I made my way through a few of the villages before rounding a headland to find a shoal of fishermen fixing their nets and boats. Cutting out on to the beaches I walked the whole way home along the deserted Rajbag and Patnem beaches, where it was only the waves and I. Like the north though those waves were something else. Lazing about in the water was only possible between the lulls in the big breakers, which catapulted you through the air or rolled you under depending upon which way they hit you. Still, at times it felt like I was the only one there, floating on my back, bobbing like the flotsam of a wrecked ship washed up onto the beaches of a New New World.

Sunset in Palolem

Leaving Goa the tranquility I had been enjoying was shattered in miserable Margao. With nothing to see in that squalid town, its only importance was as a transit hub for travellers, and even there it failed miserably. After two days of cancelled buses and phantom trains, arguing with officials and lugging 15kgs of backpack through the heat, I finally managed to slink my way into a cupboard under the stairs style cubbyhole/bed aboard a bus to Bangalore with wedding bells ringing softly in the air.