In search of a Schedule
Hampi was a city of Ancient ruins, banana groves, holy ghats, massive
granite quarries and utter confusion. Upon arrival we heard murmurs
of the President’s plan to come to town to visit the holy temples and
pilgrimage sites. Our rickshaw driver, a pushy little man with orange
henna hair forewarned us that due to her visit security would shut
down the boat that would take us from the city to our hotel across the
river. Feeling like seasoned travelers at this point, we chalked it up
to be a ploy to make us stay on,”his side of the water” where he
promised a room in his friend’s hostel and far fewer,”drunk Israelis
who like to punch each other.”
Feeling savvy and undeterred by this shifty character, we made our
way to the charming “Shanti Guest House” to settle in after an
exhausting travel. Over the next few days the buzz about the president
continued, though not one person in town could give us an answer as to
what effect this would have. The new rumor was that all travelers
would be exiled and the roads to town would be cut off. After many
conflicting predictions and a couple of false declarations, we were
told to return to our hotel to make plans to leave Hampi the next day.
The President would be arriving and all tourists had to leave for the
duration of her stay. Panic struck from the Rasta Guest House all the
way down the road to Hotel Namaste, where travelers frantically packed
up their genie pants and their copies of Ghandi’s biography and ran to
secure a seat on one of the buses out of town.
Just as we were about to get on our dreaded overnight bus to Mysore,
we were notified that, this time for real, the President would come,
but tourists could stay nonetheless. Confused and unsure who to trust,
we left Hampi and its fickle bureaucracy behind. Waking up in the
morning in Mysore, Cassidy, Adam, Emily Mike and I decided to continue
on with our travels to reach Connur by nightfall, where we could catch
an all night dance performance only performed in this particular area
in Kerala. The 5 hour bus ride to Connur would leave in half and
hour, so Emily and I were sent on snack patrol to gather rations for
the group. Returning with only a soggy crumpet-like dosa and a bag of
oranges, we found the bus to Connur pulling out of the station. In
our un-rested state, we had missed our ride, but one of 20 bus company
men dressed in khaki and idly standing around the platform assured us
that the next one would come in one hour. Turns out, the next bus was
“a little late,” and would arrive at 12pm. At 12:30pm the same men
in khaki bobbled their heads and said 1:25pm; at 1:45pm they promised
me 3pm. By 5pm, we decided to throw in the towel and spend the night
in Mysore. Sweaty and disappointed, Cassidy bought a box of Keralan
sweets and a strong Kingfisher and we spent the evening watching
horrific Indian music videos in a dank hotel room lit by a bare
fluorescent tube. India is teaching me to let go.
