Adventure and Disillusionment in Karnataka

The bus ride over the mountains into the neighboring state - Karnataka - was spectacularly beautiful and unbearably painful. The simple novelties of Indian transportation are beginning to lose their romantic appeal: buses without doors, shocks, and as far as I can tell - brakes, the continuous blast of horns on every road (apparently car horn replacement is included in routine maintenance - can you imagine ever having to replace a horn??), the unpaved and once-paved roads that now appear about as smooth as the surface of the moon, the hawkers that storm stopped vehicles screaming at you for not buying samosas and masala cucumbers, and the overwhelming chaos of Indian roads. I'm beginning to feel nostalgic about Chinese drivers - and that says a LOT.

After spending an exhausting morning crossing the mountains, we were let off the bus at a small junction/town called Kabbinakad, where we met up with a jeep that took us to a remote coffee estate guest house called Honey Valley. The four km ride up a bumpy dirt road through a lively jungle and coffee-covered hills was a good reminder of how far we were from civilization. The climate was much cooler here, and the colors of the flowering plants surrounding the cozy cluster of red buildings nestled in the crook of the valley was a refreshing relief from the array of burnt browns and mute greens of the lowlands. We were shown to our rooms by the owners, who might be the kindest and most peaceful souls in India, and guided down the hill through vine covered trellises and beds of drying coffee cherries (which smell fantastic). After settling in and relaxing in front of our cottage room with a view of the jungle and valley, we enjoyed a fresh vegetarian dinner made from plants and herbs grown in the house garden (we've been eating vegetarian food for most of the trip - the hearty meat dishes that we are used to in Indian restaurants back home are characteristic of northern Mughali/Punjabi cuisine - the south is mostly veg.) And to add to the tranquility of this already ideal location, the stars that night were the most spectacular that I have seen since western Xinjiang in China, which has almost no atmosphere to distort the starts anyway (not a fair comparison).

The next day, we went on a seven hour trek (the only thing to do in these mountains) through miles of coffee plantations, virgin jungle, local villages, and cool mountain streams up to an enormous ridge of cliffs and peaks overlooking both states - Karnataka to the east and Kerala to the west. We hiked through a mountain pass used by traders between the two regions, following the ancient Salt Road. After climbing to the peak of one of the hills on the ridge, we stopped at a particularly scenic outcropping of stones over the cliff to eat lunch (which our hosts had thoughtfully packed for us). Yet even in this remote location, tens of miles from anything you could call civilization, a gang of young Indian guys came out of nowhere and decided to eat their lunch right next to us and blast American rap music, ruining any chance for us to enjoy the solitude of our peaceful spot. -- Typical, India. Typical...

After lunch, we ran back down the hill to the mountain pass. Invigorated and energized from the cool mountain air and the strong, high-altitude sun, we decided that it would be a great idea to climb to the peak of the nearest mountain. (The one conveniently in front of us with the steep, dusty cliffs looked just perfect...) We raced about half way to the peak before slowing the pace down a bit to navigate the tangles of low shrubbery and hitchhiker-nettles. We paused briefly to decide the best route to the peak, trying to determine the least steep route. We continued on for another 25 minutes before I had a change of heart. Cameron had climbed up ahead of me, and a small stone that he had nudged loose with his foot began to slide down the hill, gaining momentum with every bounce. It sailed by my head, and I turned to watch it plummet all the way down to the base of the mountain. It hadn't occurred to me until now how steep the incline was below us, and that it would be nearly impossible to get back down from the top. We were probably only 20 meters from the peak, a good 90% of the way there, but I couldn't continue. My better judgment kicked in, and I saw that the climb ahead of us was only getting steeper. I could easily have made it to the top, but the thought of shimmying back down the slippery hillside with nothing to keep us from sliding all the way down and meeting the same end as that rock persuaded me to give up the climb. Humbled and discouraged, we climbed back down to the base. (Cameron would like me to point out that I had to drag him down the mountain kicking and screaming.)

The hike back through the woods and coffee plantations was leisurely compared to the mountain climbing. Sunburnt and exhausted, we found our way back to the stream, where we hiked up to a swimming hole at the base of a small waterfall. We dove into the ice-cold pool and let the stream wash away the day's accumulation of dirt and grime.

Back at Honey Valley, we had another great dinner, met some Israelis, and enjoyed our first hot showers in over two weeks (of course by shower I mean a bucket of boiled water that you pour over your head). The stars were once again breathtaking, and the sounds of the jungle made a soothing soundtrack for a solid night of sleep.

We had planned on staying another day to trek to the top of another mountain, but we were WAY too sore and exhausted, and my sunburn was killing me. (Never use Banana Boat sunscreen!!) We said goodbye, with promises to return, and we got on another series of buses to Mysore - a popular city with backpackers who go to enjoy the grand palaces and pleasant atmosphere. But when we arrived in Mysore, it was getting late, and we had already seen the main palace from the bus window, so we decided to continue our voyage. We got on a train to Bangalore, where we planned to immediately buy onward train tickets to Hampi - another famous site for tourists in India. However, when we got to Bangalore, we had missed our connection to Hampi, so we found a hotel and spent the next day enjoying some great food and wandering leisurely around the parks and grand buildings of the state capital, known as the Silicon Valley of India. (This is where all of those American tech jobs are getting outsourced to.)

However, as we fought our way out of the Bangalore train station - tired and grumpy - I finally reached my breaking point when it comes to the frustrations of travel in India. I shall list my grievances:

1. Ruthless rickshaw drivers hawking and harassing ignorant travelers. They congregate outside of bus stands and train stations waiting for European faces. They all pounce simultaneously and demand that you get in their rickshaw, asking where you want to go. The all-too-common line is "first time in India?" which, translated into English, means "How much can I rip you off?" If you answer that this is your first time visiting, they will bump up the usual rate to double or triple the standard price. Rickshaws all have meters to ensure that you don't get ripped off, but finding a driver who will turn the meter on is impossible. Negotiating a fare becomes even more difficult because the drivers form a cartel, and all agree to support each other's prices. Therefore, the "okay, then I will just find another driver who will give me a better price" ploy is completely ineffective. Once you get in the rickshaw, you have to be vigiliant in guiding the driver to the hotel you want to go to because if you lose focus for just one minute, they will take you to a hotel that will charge you extra to pay the rickshaw driver a "comission" for giving them business. Often, once you arrive at your destination, the driver will double his fee claiming that the 50 rupees you agreed to originally was actually 50 rupees per person and per bag. Needless to say, I have come very close on numerous occasions to forcefully removing vital organs from satanical rickshaw drivers.

2. Hawkers and beggars in general. Any location that can be considered a tourist site will attract hundreds of hawkers trying to sell drums, coconuts, hotels, taxi rides, flutes, chillums, marijuana, necklaces, rocks, pieces of string, air, and even conversation. These people are just as relentless as the rickshaw drivers and will do anything to guilt/shame you into giving them money. At a beach, two young girls did a cartwheel in front of a group of sunbathers and then went from person to person sobbing and begging for money, claiming that "you watched, you pay". At temples, locals will come up to you to tell you an interesting fact about something you are looking at. Apparently this entitles them to use you as an ATM, because that little tidbit will be followed promptly by a demand for "twenty rupees, you give me." It is truly a shame. It ruins any chance of casual dialogue between travelers and locals. It destroys all trust, and it leaves many travelers with a severely negative impression of the country and its people.

3. Pollution and lack of sanitation. At times, it seems that littering is mandatory in India. The streets are covered in garbage, and it stays there indefinitely until someone gets tired of the smell or animals that it attracts, and they burn the pile of paper, old food scraps, and toxic plastics. (The air in the big cities seems worse than Chinese air sometimes - the burning of garbage doesn't help.) I was sitting at a restaurant once, and my napkin blew away. I went to reach for it and was immediately scolded. "It's garbage! Don't pick it up!" The country also seems to lack any organized system of trash disposal. Public garbage cans are almost nonexistent, and when you do find one, it is overflowing with uncollected trash. Garbage cans in restaurants and private shops seem to be emptied onto the streets anyway, so there is no real way to avoid littering. It is frustratingly common on buses, trains, and ferries to see people throwing bottles, food, newspapers, and anything they don't want out the window onto the street, tracks, or water. It amazes me that the country isn't plagued with rampant disease more than it already is.

4. Public urination. Just to make the filth situation even more appealing, there are almost no public restrooms in India. Men are expected to alleviate themselves along the side of the road, or basically where ever the urge may arise. Women must find a toilet - not soo easy. In effect, the smell on the streets of human urine and feces transcends everything else. Don't expect to go to a fruit market to enjoy the wonderful fragrances of ripe mangoes.. It will - without a doubt - smell like piss.

I don't want it to seems like I am just an arrogant American casting my cultural judgments on a very different society. I normally have a very high tolerance for uncomfortable cultural situations, but the overwhelming nature of daily life in India goes beyond anything I have ever experienced.

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Done venting - back to Bangalore -- As we were walking around the colonial district, a man approached me and told me about his life as a farmer. He lived in the neighboring state of Tamil Nadu, and had left his wife and children to seek work during the severe drought that is going on. (I knew that he would eventually ask me for money, but I was curious about his story.) His father wouldn't let him get an education because he felt that farming was more important. Seeing the fault in this logic as he grew older, he has made sure that all of his children take their education very seriously. Taking the advice of his neighbors, he learned English from his children and came to Bangalore to seek out work in the Tech Boom City. Whenever he would meet a potential employer, he would engage in a nice conversation until he mentioned that he wanted a job -- the employer would look at his sorry physical state and dirty, unwashed clothes, and pretend that they couldn't speak English in order to make him leave. He had been searching for work for weeks, sleeping in train stations and on park benches, without any luck. Now he was completely out of money, and had given up. He was about to begin his journey back to his hometown --- by foot --- over 300 miles. When he asked us if we had anything he could eat, we gave him a bag of train mix and a little money for food and coffee -- this was the first person I had encountered who I actually felt justified in helping out. He didn't beg or plead or demand or yell or tell me that he was entitled to my wallet, he told me a story of sincere ambition and need, and when he did ask for help, he asked for food - not money. Normally, giving charity in India puts the traveler in a very difficult position - there is a constant stream of beggars trying to get you to help them out, all in different stages of death and suffering. The dilemma - how do you choose whom to help??? My decision was to help those who needed it truly, didn't try to scam me, and treated me with respect. I do not give money to children who beg for their parents benefit because this is a corrupt institution which I refuse to support. I do not give to people who demand my money because I do not wish to support the sentiment of entitlement. Morally, this visit has tested the limits of my capacity for charity and empathy. Do not come to India unless you are willing to undergo some serious self-evaluation.

That night, we boarded a train to Hospet - the transportation junction for Hampi. When we arrived in the morning, we were told that the city of Hampi was closed. At first we thought it was some lie by the rickshaw drivers who all wanted us to stay in their hotels, but as it turns out, the president was visiting and it really was closed! No one was allowed in or out! We waited around all day for the buses to start running, and we got to the city in time for dinner.

The next morning, we set out to explore the ancient city nestled in an arid landscape, very similar to what I described in Tiruvannamalai in Tamil Nadu, but more dramatic -- expanses of scrubby desert plains with mounds of enormous boulders piled on top of each other. We wandered through banana plantations, temple compounds (got blessed by a temple elephant who smacked me in the head with his slobbery trunk), local villages celebrating with religious parades, mobs of kids wanting their pictures taken, swarms of rickshaw mafia gangsters, and world heritage sites in various stages of disrepair. The atmosphere of the old city and historic bazaar was far more relaxed than our past week, so it was a nice change of pace. We ate a few tasty meals along the boulder strewn river, and followed the stream up toward another group of remote temples. We strayed from the tourist trail and climbed up one of the boulder mountains where we found an abandoned temple - a perfect place to spend the afternoon relaxing, reading, and enjoying the blissful serenity of the lunar landscape.

Just before dinner time, we hopped on a bus back to Hospet to catch a sleeper coach to Goa. Until recently, these sleeper buses left directly from Hampi, but thanks (no surprise here) to the rickshaw mafia, the bus companies have been banned from Hampi so that the rickshaw drivers can overcharge tourists to take them to Hospet to catch their bus. (I hate them....) The bus had beds, which seemed very appealing. But when you put a bed on wheels and then drive it down Indian roads, there is NO possibility of sleeping.

Overall, Karnataka was beautiful and well worth the detour from our original route. And despite having an India meltdown, I'm still loving this place.