Flying Solo Part II

Laura was the second person, and unrelatedly the second Brit, I’ve befriended while seemingly alone in India. The first encounter was in the hippie Mecca of Hampi. Hampi, however, unlike Goa, is quite magical and a place I would be happy to visit again. I took the night train from Bangalore (stay tuned for my section on why I love train travel in India, even with its occasional hiccups) and while I was squished between two old Indian men, this guy, the Brit, asked if I wanted to sit by him for a bit in the section next to mine as there were a couple empty seats. I refused at first, figuring I would be going to bed soon, but was somehow propelled to go over there after all. I plopped myself down amidst three Australian women around my age and him, a 25 year old Brit, that had a tinge of a hippie flair but had not yet reached unacceptable levels of hippiedom. We all chatted for a bit until the other people in that section started making the beds ready to sleep. The way 2nd class sleeper cars work is that when the person on the middle or lower bunk wants to sleep, pretty much everyone has to as converting the seats to beds leaves no seats. I went back to my section figuring that perhaps I would chat with the others tomorrow, perhaps not.

The next morning the Brit (who I should probably give a name, why not his given name, Dave) was fast asleep, but I had a nice continuation of our conversation with the Aussies. When we arrived to Hospet, the girls needed to buy return train tickets so Dave and I set off to find accommodation. (On second thought, I like calling him The Brit. Going back to that). Little did I know that he had possession of the magic card, a business card given to him by his good friend Luis, a photographer from Spain who had befriended the whole family of the guest house we were now searching for. This guesthouse was off the beaten path, always a plus, but easily walkable at about a mile away from where the boat dropped us off. However, I wasn’t counting on the Brit’s Tibetan singing bowls to hinder our movement. As we, or he, trudged along, we were summoned by many guys on motorbikes offering their guesthouses and transport to them. But the Brit had faith in his friend Luis, and was keen on upholding his promise to make it to Lovely Garden Guest House, the promised land of guest houses. Just as the Brit was wrestling with the singing bowls’ own personal suitcase, which had been bought cheaply in India and had already started to come apart (the suitcase, not the singing bowls), the umpteenth guy on motorbike flagged us down and offered his guest house. Per usual, we told him we already had a place and he asked for the name of our destination. When we told him he perked up. That was his guest house. Do you have a card, he wanted to know. It was a bit strange that someone who was just about to convince us to come to his guest house would ask to see the card, as if it were some secret society. The Brit rummaged through his things talking about how his friend Luis had told him about the place. Just then, he yelled, you know Luis?!? Come, come, any friend of Luis is a friend of mine. Man, this Luis guy had some currency.

Naga, who introduced himself as we had now been inducted into the secret society, motioned for me to get on his bike, promising to return for the Brit and his singing bowls. After we all had made it up the hill, past the stone bridge, to the Lovely Garden, he gave us two adorable rooms, complete with hammocks, and left us to get settled. Just then, a shy but inquisitive Trisha, Naga’s wife, came over and started pointing to my hair. I’ve never gotten so much attention for my hair before coming to India. I must be a bizarre sight to see. Preferring to don kurtas and other traditional garb, when I cover my hair, I often blend in, especially with my newly pierced nose and my bangles that have melded with my arms and have become a part of me since that day 10 yrs ago I put on my first ones and decided to never take them off. When I travel alone, I always cover my hair, chameleoning myself amid the bright and imposing colors that are the very fabric of India. But as soon as the headscarf comes off, it is as if I have decloaked, making myself an easy target for both wanted and unwanted attention usually decided by the gender of the person passing the attention to me. The number of old ladies who have come up to me and have shook my hand is quite shocking, but cute. The number of old men (Viejos Verdes as they were called in Spain) and their penetrating stares are usually not as endearing. Anyway, with many of the ladies, I have had full conversations in languages I can’t even name about how my hair works. Is it real? Do I wash it? How do I wash it? Can I brush it? How long have they been like this? The concept of dreadlocks is completely foreign to the older generations. Only a couple of people have flat out told me they don’t like it. A smaller number have said they love it but would never let their daughters wear them. No matter what people’s opinions are, my dreads are the perfect icebreaker and almost always a VIP pass into gaining local trust. The best is when they ask me if they can take a picture with me. I still haven’t figured out why they want to be in a photo with a complete stranger with no star power but I usually concede, amused. Anyway, as is often the case, I began to talk with Trisha, who then brought over her sisters and cousins, and pretty soon I was shuffled into the family’s house, offered tea, dotted with a bindi (to adorn my forehead) and asked to tell about my homeland.

Ahh, my homeland, another reason to make me smile. After 8 years of telling everyone I was Brazilian in attempts to avoid having to apologize yet again for my president, I can now say with a sense of relief that I’m American. My friends’ here have gotten a kick out of telling everyone we see that I am Obama’s cousin. In fact, if they keep this up, I might have some explaining to do to the US Secret Service. But I will leave reflections on nationality and identity for a later time.

The afternoon was spent exploring Hampi. The Brit and I decided to rent a motorbike and explore the surrounding areas. I think we ventured to a part of Hampi that no Westerner has gotten to. We went the opposite direction of the touristy places and happened upon several villages. Everywhere we went, little children would ask for American coins. My bag of coins for just that purpose was stashed away in Bangalore, and I was kicking myself for not bringing the quarters I had saved up for one last clothes washing in California and that I never got around to, as always. Void of coins, I was then asked for pens. Pens are very easy to come by but if a child can say they have an American pen or a European pen, or a South America pen, that pen appreciates in value.

We ended the afternoon with a brilliant but unassuming sunset before finding a Nepalese restaurant to wind down the day. The Brit had spent quite a lot of time in Nepal and when the waiters learned that he had picked up some Nepalese, we became star clients. Two and a half hours later we lazily returned to our little haven at the top of the hill and traded music until late in the night.

The next day began with yet more affirmation that I’m dead inside. Anthony would appreciate this as he has been telling me for years that I am dead inside. Not as bad as it sounds, it just means that I have a cold cold heart, that while capable of loving friends, family, and not your run of the mill animals like iguanas, squirrels and goat-sheep, it is impervious to things like falling in love. Anthony has the tendency to exaggerate but perhaps he has a point. While I ignore most things Anthony says about me , could both the Tibetan singing bowls and Anthony be wrong? Curious by the Brit’s cargo, I told him he could practice on me. Lying down on the porch with a small audience, he placed a bowl at my head, another at my feet, and the third at various points on my torso. My abdomen and solar flexes were normal with the bowls singing clearly and water splashing out at acceptable intervals, but when he put the bowl on my heart, it was as if the earth stood still. No movement. No singing. In the time he was learning to work the bowls, he nor his teacher had seen anything like this. The teacher had mentioned that occasionally old bitter people would see no movement for the heart, but never someone my age and with my generally positive experiences and grateful approach to life. Could it be? Could Anthony be on to something. Actually, the Brit’s take on this was that because I spend too much time loving others, that I don’t spend enough time loving myself. I’m supposed to work on this for the next time he brings the singing bowls out, possibly in Rajasthan, if our paths cross again. Does this mean daily affirmations à la Stuart Smiley: I’m good enough, I’m smart enough and gosh darn it, people like me?

The rest of the day consisted of the buffalo incident mixed in with several temples, both Hindu and Jain. The soundtrack of the day was Nina Simone’s greatest hits, kicked off by the herder’s repetitious “Go Slow.” With Nina’s “Mississippi Goddamn” triggered by that one line, we sang all the other Nina songs we could think of, piecing together the lyrics in a joint effort and humming the rest of the tunes. You can take Nina anywhere, even to Hampi, and Nina has a calming effect, good for overcoming close brushes with death by buffalo. However, we ignored the go slow warning when I learned that the last ferry across the river was 6 pm. If I were to catch my train, I needed to make it from the guest house to the ferry a couple kilometers away on unpaved road in 7 minutes. This is India in a nutshell: relaxed one moment, running like no tomorrow the next.