A climber’s heaven on Earth
The bus came to a stop at Hospet at 7:30 am Sunday morning. I slept fitfully for the previous eight hours, to say the least, having sat up-right while the bus rumbled over less than adequate roads at greater than appropriate speeds. No matter, removed from air conditioned taxis, hotels, and offices, I feel I am finally experiencing India.

From Hospet, I engaged the first auto rickshaw that caught my attention, negotiated a price, and set off for Hampi. The rickshaw driver took me to the Suresh Guest House, a hotel/restaurant owned by his uncle B. Nagesh, neatly placed half way between the market and the river. Quiet, safe, inexpensive, and with good food, it was a pleasant stay.

Hampi is a climber’s paradise. A small tourist town of 2,500. Hot, relatively dry, interwoven with a network of rivers and streams and granite boulders for miles and miles and miles, literally from horizon to horizon. I never imagined anything like this could exist. Ten lifetimes of climbing.

I have met so many incredible people on this journey, in Japan, and now in India. But only when I slow down and make time to talk do I engage and get beyond handshakes and smiles. I have enjoyed conversations with hotel employees, guest house owners, travel agents, and some travelers like myself. The locals in Hampi are very personable, beyond the interaction of sales. They seem truly interested in those who pass through their shops, hostels, and homes. They learn your name and do not forget. They wave on the streets. They smile, if you smile first.

In particular, I have spent a lot of time with a rickshaw driver Veerish. My first day in Hampi he helped me find am elderly, toothless man who rents crash pads for climbers. I learned that his son, a climber, had died a few years ago, the gear he rents formerly that of his son. Initially I engaged Veerish as my guide, but we quickly became friends. While he was rather useless as a climbing guide, having never actually guided climbers before, we had a great deal of fun looking for climbing problems with a dismally poor map, afternoons spent swimming at the reservoir. He taught me about the local area, and I helped him with an improved swimming technique.

Veerish has diabetes and must spend 170 rupees ($4.25) each day for insulin. When I mention him to the locals, they know of his situation, shaked their heads, and say he will never marry because he is “diseased” and has difficulty making a good living. But he is in fact getting married in just twelve days. Veerish is the son of a farmer and while not impoverished, is quite poor by Indian standards. If he misses his shots for just one day, his skin boils and becomes infected. A travel agent’s brother used to store his medicine in the soda fountain fridge, so I gave him my contact info asking that he ever misses insulin due to lack of money, to contact me. I know there are millions like this in India, and the government helps where it can, but they do not always come through.

The owner of my guest house was upset at me this morning because last night I did not come home. He looked all over for me and called several times, but my phone did not work, reception switching from an emergency only network to a valid connection every other dozen meters, depending upon my elevation and direct line to the horizon.

I crossed the river with the last ferry at 6:30 pm, gave a slide show of the American Southwest, and then stayed at Veerish’s house across the river. I got up at 5:30 am to climb before the heat, then came back around noon. He was not pleased. Yes, there is a penalty if I am hurt and the police find I was staying with him, but this was more personal. I had been self-centered, he was truly concerned for my safety. A cultural lesson learned.

I enjoy watching people bathe in the river, morning to night. A time for men, women, and children to play as much as they do wash. Elephants too, their human companions small in comparison and yet masters of their movement. The monkeys are a bit aggressive, likely encouraged by careless tourists. But monkeys really do go ape-shit over bananas, swiping them from your hostel room, unattended hand bags, even directly from your hands if you are not careful, barking their discontent if you do not contribute on demand.

Tonight I must return to the chaos of Bangalore where 40,000,000 manage to live in relative harmony. I yet struggle to comprehend the numbers, my engineering mind racing to visualize the water, sewage, electrical, and phone systems required to support this many humans. I am flying to Chennai again Thursday morning. This weekend or Monday to Delhi. Next Friday or Saturday to Singapore to meet with IBM, Xilinx, and a university animation lab. Wednesday the 23rd to the Philippines to meet with education administrators. The 26th, finally, to Kenya, the same week I was originally to have come home.

Welcome to the Jungle.
When I called Karthik from Japan three weeks ago, stating I had boarded my plane for Chennai, he said cooly, “Welcome to the jungle.” And a jungle it is.

“Billions” was given a new sense of galactic immensity by Carl Sagan and his counting of the stars when I was a child. Some twenty odd years later I yet have difficulty comprehending one billion (let alone billions), where one hundred twenty million more than this call India home.

My experience of India was unfortunately, primarily limited to airports, taxi cabs, hotels, and a variety of private and government offices in Chennai, Bangalore, Mumbai, Pune, and Delhi. Karthik and I conducted a whirlwind tour of his country, literally flying to two or three cities each week for three weeks. This was ungrounding for us both, but necessary in order to establish the desired new relationships within time and financial budget constraints. I also enjoyed a few days at Hampi and Varanasi, which I will write about in subsequent entries.

While my passenger window view of India did not grant a great depth of experience, I proactively captured moments, freeze-frames in my mind, which when assembled are for me, now, pieces of a larger montage. I found contrast in these sometimes harsh, sometimes confusing, sometimes beautiful images. I will attempt to share them with you here, both in words and photos.

A place of contrast.
Dusty bare feet, brown with beautiful golden anklets that jingle upon each foot fall. Sarees the colors of herbs and spices, fire and water, neon green and earthen brown, both bright and faded blue. Seemingly no two alike.

One of the world’s largest slums juxtaposed to four star hotels and the Mumbai (Bombay) airport on at least two sides, plywood huts pressed against barbed wire fences. As in Kenya, the land which often holds the poorest people is worth the most. It is only a matter of time before it is fully developed, and someone, from a private or government organization will be forced to reconcile with this disparity.

Coca-cola and Sprite, chai and sweet milk, coffee late at night. Pizza Hut, Subway, and MacDonalds. Cows lying in the middle of the street, reprimanded with the sticks of rickshaw drivers to no avail, unconcerned for they know they will not find themselves between those famous sesami seed buns.

Freshly squeezed mango juice, milk, and yogurt. Samosas, breads, and spicy curries. Pastries, ice cream, watermelon juice with mint sold along every street. A vegetarian’s paradise. Bolts of fabulously colored silk and cotton lined the walls and floors of hundreds of stores. A travel agent’s glass office juxtaposed to several trinket shops, a street cart selling face paints, and an auto parts stores.

Shop owners unable to talk for the amount of chewing tobacco in their lower lip, teeth stained yellow and red. Shop owners recall your name instantly, waving each time you walk by. Indians playing cowboys in modern day Bollywood westerns. Glamor magazines showcasing the clothing, jewelry, cars, and lifestyles of actors, 1950’s Hollywood but on a much larger, faster scale. But what I really want to know, When will the Indians finally kiss on the big screen?

“Where you from?! Hey! Where you from?! You Canada?”
“No, from the U.S. … America.”
“Oh! President Bush?” (smiling)
“No comment.” (smiling in return)
“Obama? Clinton? Which one will you pick?”

Old women sit in front of Nike and Jean brand retail stores, the neon signs and florescent lighting a spotlight on the imbalance of this equation in all cities, but amplified here where begging girls carry toddlers under arm. In alley ways they exchange the child as a shared commodity, counting earnings before moving out again for another round. Children tap on the glass of idle cars, pointing to their mouths and stomachs until the traffic light changes, their fingers sliding off the glass as the car rolls ahead. I stole a glance but could not maintain eye contact. Something snapped inside and I turned away, uncertain why. I have money, but not enough to feed them all. So which one? Or fifty? Or one hundred million? Overwhelmed, I froze, and did nothing.

Women in colorful sarees work construction sites, barefoot, alongside filthy men. Giant muscular men with turbines and wicked, curled black mustaches smile with illuminated eyes, bowing slightly as one enters their protected domain, a hotel, bank, or restaurant. Teenagers demonstrate independence in dress, jobs, and style. Men bathe in rivers while talking on their cell phones, an elephant spraying its master near by. And yes, monkeys really do steal bananas, from a rickshaw, your hotel room, even your hand.

Hundreds, sometimes thousands of straight-A students compete for a single position in a university. Climbing to the top requires cutting to the front of the line. Too many people to just be average, if you want more. Too many people to be just another number. An intelligence exodus unfolds when the line is too long, and other countries offer a better life, faster.

Yet this is the birthplace of yoga and so many forms of meditation, massage, and ultimate, sexual bliss. What an incredible, harsh, and beautiful contrast which I will never fully comprehend.